The Debutant

Hikkaduwa Beach

It takes until my fifth day in Sri Lanka before I get a chance for a full beach day. Most Sri Lankans would rather look at the ocean than spend a day on its wide, white beaches, and if they swam, would rather swim in the early evening than at any time when the sun is busy hammering down its rays of fire. Uncle made this perfectly clear when he first brought me to Hikkaduwa beach to show me around. We walked from the high tourist end to the local end and I watched him get visibly more at ease the further we got from the tourist side. Whereas the scene of whitish-brownish bodies sprawled on lounge chairs and the overwhelming silence held me in its familiar grasp, it must have seemed like an alien invasion to him. Why would all these people willingly face their bare backs to the sun? he must have thought. To give him credit, unlike just referring to us as the rather unfeeling noun, 'foreigner,' he used the word 'tourist' instead. In my mind as well, the two terms were practically interchangeable. That is, until we passed a small family playing in the sand. Uncle pointed to their 9-month old baby and chuckled, "Tourist Baby!" I laughed at the image of a baby being born a "tourist," as if it were a new ethnicity.

Being a member of that very visible but ultimately shifting ethnicity myself, I had come to Hikkaduwa this morning with a mind to get into the salty water, cover myself with grainy sand, at some point escape the sun by dropping into a rotti restaurant. My idea was to lie around in a bathing suit with my fellow similarly clad tourists, sunscreen being our only protection from getting branded by the sun's fiery rod. So far I was on the right track. Water, check. Sand, check. Rotti, check (one chicken and one coconut--check, check). Sunscreen, check. Sunburn, check. I even manage to add on other activities to the day, the most exciting of which is trying my hand at surfing.
 

The Almost-Surfer Girl

I pay 2000 Rupees (15-20 USD) for an hour long private lesson with a beach boy. I'm nervous, of course, especially with the too-small borrowed rash vest curling up around my middle. In the water, I practice getting balanced on top of the board. His long, artificially sun-streaked hair already soaked, my teacher leads the surf board into position, my feet pointing to the oncoming waves. Early on we discover I'm really slow. Just managing to get my balance, the best I do is to make it to one knee, feeling a lot like those animals people manage to teach to surf, except those animals stay on their feet. The other learners amuse me, the one who's happy to have made it to my knee. They are dead intent on doing this right. Some of their teachers cheer them on, while many just watch, probably wondering when they can get on the board and have their turn. My failings go on for an hour, more or less, before I tell Long Hair, hey let's just try one more time and then head out. I'd rather body surf.
 

Long Hair, me, and the rash vest. Yikes!

I return the board, go back in for another hour just to swim, and then stop by the station again for a chat. The guys tell me about the day the tsunami came. They saw it coming, but because this particular beach is so wide and shallow, they fortunately had time to run all the way to the train tracks and were spared. I look out at the calm blue and try to imagine the scene; the undercurrent suddenly and rapidly retreating as the next wave scheduled to crash is delayed by an invisible hand busy gathering the water with terrible force. By the time you notice it finally coming your way it's too late. All you can hope for is to be on a wide beach or high ground. Your only ally is the environment you happen to find yourself in.

After the rotti lunch I find myself sunbathing, fully exposed to the afternoon's furnace. One disadvantage to traveling alone is not always having someone there to lotion your back. I roast for about thirty minutes before I close my book in exasperation at the heat and tiptoe across the hot sand into the nearest restaurant. I order a Sprite and sign in to the free wifi. A group of tattooed American college-aged girls' drink and boast, their California accents and fake laughs filling the air.
 

I get a call from Loku. She's at her university, but she's calling for her mother. "There's a musical concert tonight, so you can go back to the house by five and then go with my family," she informs me. It's three-thirty now, so I take a little more time at the restaurant before going out and catching a bus back to Madampe.



The stars of the show. These girls rock!

The concert is thirty minutes away and we're running late. We all dress up, although Mrs. A looks the best in her exquisite olive green and gold sari. She's one of the guests of honor, but we're going to be a little late with traffic. The performance is at a school, I discover. We'll be watching something like their year end concert! From the very beginning, I'm entranced by the sparkly, silky saris and live music. The older kids, especially the girls, are very talented dancers. The children are adorable in their adolescent professionalism, peeking out from behind the curtain when the sword swallower makes his way down the isle of the auditorium. Here and here are two performances.

 

 

Their first performance with many more to come.

After the concert we return home. In the bright light of the bathroom I discover the reason for my growing physical discomfort. My day in the sun has my skin dry and burning. A bright brick red spreads down the backsides of both calves, thighs, and my back. At the end of the day, I ask myself where I had more fun, received the most pleasure, felt the most involved and uplifted: the beach or the concert? It's no contest. On the beach I had a couple of nice chats, tried something new (and failed), but ultimately got burned because there was one thing wrong. I had been alone. Although I didn't feel lonely at all during my day, something still hadn't been quite right. The concert, on the other hand, reminded me of my days in choir and got me thinking about community and creativity. Although I don't know these kids personally, I cheered and whooped my approval with all their friends and families. If my new identity is 'tourist,' then let it mean having the ability to backpack my way into the hearts of the people here. Even more importantly, let the architect of my own heart open up an addition. Sri Lanka is moving in.

 

 

The younger studs show off