Blessing in disguise

Getting up at 4.30 in the morning is not exactly my cup of tea, but knowing there’s a journey at the other end of the ordeal makes it all worthwhile. Arriving at the airport with ample time to spare, I queued up to check in and soon found myself face to face with a girl with and admiringly pleasant attitude, considering she was working at this unseemly hour, at least I was going on a vacation/writing spree. I asked her if it would be possible to have a window seat on the left side of the plane (don’t ask!), but she was sorry (really, she was) to say that she didn’t have access to the seating system, but advised me to check with the crew at the gate.

 I went through security, stripping down to the bare necessities, and as a freak exception, was able to pass the “test” with flying colors, that is with no body- or other searches. This is not, I assure you, business as usual for me. Normally, even when I have rid myself of every tiny piece of metal, drop of liquid and other potential bomb materials, I tend to be the one picked for a random check. I know this is done by an automated system, but it has in periods made me just a tad paranoid.

When the gate was about to open, I went over to bring up the issue of my seating and was a little bit confused, because the person the lady at the check in counter had been referring to, was, well… herself.  Now wearing a heavy coat and a yellow west. Of course it conveniently spared me the bore of repeating my request all over again. She just acknowledged me with a conspiratorial grin, and started checking the system. After a short while, she indicated “mission accomplished”, and, by the way…, she had upgraded me in the process. I thanked her profoundly and wished her, if not eternal happiness, so at least a very nice day. 


I boarded the plane, and sat down, feeling share bliss; relishing lots of leg space and the prospect of free food and drinks. Little did I know that this would turn out to be a blessing in disguise...

Read more...    Blessing in Disguise

Between the lines, there is a land

Of anarchy and contraband

Where words are free to roam the text

And no one knows what they’ll mean next

It is a land of hope and dreams

Where nothing is quite what it seems

An innocent remark may well

Into a potent statement swell

A text is not a text per se

The words between the lines may say:

We will not by your rules obey

Our connotations sure will sway

from side to side, from east to west

You never should lay back and rest

But be alert, enjoy the ride

And see what in the script may hide

You are allowed to take a peek

It is a bit like hide and seek

For even as you write the lines

they twist and turn like thrifty wines

into a message loud and clear

that even you knew not were there

It is of implications fraught

The words their own true meaning sought

So be aware which words you use

They may each one become a fuse

That will ignite a fiery flame

Recasting players, board and game

Crying..

… for no apparent reason. I went to bed at 2 and woke at 6. Tried to turn on the other side, but sleep evaded me. Instead I listened to a book by an author I once swore I’d never read again. But I obviously forgot. I made the oath not because he’s a bad writer, he is not. In fact he writes exquisitely. His language, his portrayals, his storytelling compel you to go on reading till the end. It is as if you enter the main characters’ minds, sensing their joy, their sorrow, their anger, to the extent that their feelings become almost one with your own emotions. And all along, a foreboding of imminent disaster, or at least misery. Towards the usually bitter end, the story tearing you apart, and you strongly regret ever having turned that first page.

Afraid the young boy always present in the hallway, sweeping, will hear my sobbing, I pull myself together. After all, it was only a book, but one that touched me deeply, in many ways.

So maybe the wretched book is the reason for my weeping. Or maybe it’s the fact that tonight I will be leaving beautiful Sri Lanka, the blissfull warmth, both of the climate and the people.

To shake off, or at least come to grips with my feelings, I take a walk along the beach. It is yet another wonderful day. Windy, but not too much so. Perfect for the catamarans which are, as far as I can see all but one, dotting the blue sea under Sri Lanka’s steadfast sun. I enter the water, emerge myself in its soothing, soft body, take a few strokes, but feeling the strong currents, don’t venture further out. The water does me good, and conceals the tears I in vain am trying to hold back.

Most everyone I meet during my stroll, greats me with a smile, sometimes a handshake and a “How are you madam?” Should I confide in them? Tell them about my sadness? Ridiculous thought, of course.

And by the way, what do I have to cry about, anyway, privileged and pampered as I am here...

Read more: Sri Lanka Farewell

No ordinary lunch

My elderly friends, Margeret and Pascal had been staying overnight at their son’s house nearby. All three of them were going to pick me up at the hotel around 10, to take me to their lovely home, a 45 minute drive north, for lunch.

 When the car turns up, Margeret is not with them. It turns out she has taken one of SL’s overcrowded buses at 6 this morning, to buy the few things their well kempt garden doesn’t provide them with, and to get a head start on preparing the food…

When we finally arrive, she is in full swing. The cobra to be served along with the jack fruit seeds acquired from the garden and now simmering in a pot over an open fire, has already been scraped out of the coconut (also from the garden) by the purpose made scraper in the outdoor part of the kitchen.

The salad, a combination of finely chopped vegetables and fruits is standing on the kitchen counter, and the tuna resembling fish, has been marinated and is now being fried over the simple, but perfectly adequate gas stove. The amazing scents make my mouth water and stomach rumble.

Read more No ordinary lunch

Colombo

Waking up early, going out into the garden at the back of the house, finding Pascal (85) standing there in his long sarong, taking in the singing of the birds and enjoying the yet not scorching sun, were the favorite moments of my Colombo stay. The garden is small, but doesn’t seem that way, because only a meshed fence separates it from the neighbor’s vegetable plot, and beyond that are the paddy (rice) fields with grazing buffaloes against a backdrop of green hills.

The area used to be part of a jungle. It is still hot and humid, now called The Wetlands, but the rich and unique ecosystem has gradually been replaced by developed land, in the process  destroying the habitats of a variety of species, among others monkeys, a few of which are still roaming the area, living off people’s fruit trees.

The neighbor, barefoot, long haired and dressed in a brown short sleeved shirt and a shorter, and dirtier…, version of Pascal’s sarong, moves silently about, watering and tending to his plants, mainly string beans and lady fingers, a legume commonly grown here. The watering is done by using a ceramic vessel of traditional shape; a big “belly” with a narrow nozzle. Scooping up the water from the small irrigation canals, he lets it flow from his urn and onto his hands, which in turn deftly spreads the water where it is needed. He goes about his work, meticulously , but without haste. Once in a long while he sits down and drinks a brownish liquid from a plastic bottle. I find myself hoping it’s tea, and not discolored water…

To read more go to Colombo

Catamaran Adveture

When I first set foot on the beach, the day of my arrival, I was approached by a friendly, but very persistent guy, trying to persuade me to go out on what to me looked like a rickety vessel, a Sri Lankan catamaran. A little apprehensive, I warded him off with a smile and a non-committing “maybe later”. After that, every time I crossed the beach to get to the ocean, he popped up out of nowhere, following me back and forth, pleading with me.

This morning I had no plans, there was less wind than the previous days, so I was actually tempted to go when he, as was now his custom, joined me on my way to the water. I was tempted, but also a little reluctant, or to be both more honest and precise, scared. He said the conditions were perfect and there would be only me on the boat except for the crew. I didn’t like that much either: If I was going to get eaten by a shark (which they keep telling the tourists are “way out there”) or being thrown overboard and drown, I wanted to make it a social event and do it in the company of some like-minded people. I was, in not so many words, able to convey this to him, and he seemed to understand my predicament. He pointed to a group of people threading water and told me that they had just been out, I could talk with them. It turned out they were all Russians, didn’t speak any other language than their own, and my sign language did not seem to go through to any of them. If they had ever been out on a Catamaran, they had totally and completely erased the memory from their minds.

The guy then pointed in the direction of the hotel gardens, indicating a man seated at a table, enjoying his beer. When I asked him how he had liked his catamaran trip, he looked at me blankly. Oops, wrong guy. My friend down on the beach was now waving frantically, pointing towards a relaxed looking fellow, with long hair, red t-shirt and shorts, coming towards us...


To read more, go to Catamaran Adventure

Under the beautiful Skin of Sri Lanka

Outside Hindu Tempel

Pretending  to know the first thing about Sri Lanka and it’s people after having spent just a few days in the country would be presumptuous, to say the least. Having been the object of my friends’ abounding hospitality for a couple of days, living, eating, talking, walking, exploring with them, has given me a few glimpses into their world, their society, their joys and their challenges. But as often is the case when you venture into new territory, and boy, am I on new grounds here; the more you learn, the more you realize you don’t know.

And this is possibly where I should be wise enough to adhere to the words of Lao Tze: “Those who speak, do not know, those who know do not speak”. But alas, I have not reached that level of wisdom yet.

Pascal tending to his garden

Of course a lot of things here are different, and to a traveler, different is inherently good, the ultimate motivation for leaving home sweet home.

For a newcomer, a visitor of short standing, the island seems like a paradise. “Beautiful” is a word that constantly comes to mind, both when nature and people are concerned. Another is “diversity”.

Starfruit

Everywhere you turn there are new wonders to be seen; all the exotic fruits, flowers, spices you’ve  ever heard of, and many, many more, in gardens, in the wild or on display in the stalls lining the roads. People dressed in beautiful (there I go again) saris, Sri Lankan or Indian style, and more casual wear, loosely fitted pants or wraparound “skirts” for the men, mainly long skirts and light long sleeved blouses,  for the women. Places of worship; Buddhist viharas, Hindu temples, Catholic churches, Muslim mosques and other wholly places or shrines, in designs from the very elaborate and sometimes in Nordic eyes glaring, to the more modest, all give an idea of the diversity of this religious and cultural melting pot.

Paddyfields

According to “the books”, the official story and the first version given to you by the locals, all is well in the land. Tourism, which Sri Lanka is desperately dependent on, is back on track, and you can sense the almost tangible relief of now being rid of war and the constant and paralyzing effect terrorism had on people and society.

This may be the reasons why it takes some prodding to get a chance to peek under the wonderful skin of the country and its people...
To read more go to Under the beautiful skin of Sri Lanka