On My Own

Evening run

 

My host family's home is on the grounds of a primary school as Mrs. A is the principle. The school's courtyard is about 100-200 meters around. Despite my swollen ankles, or really because of them, and the the day spent sitting on a cramped bus, I run. No warm-up. No stretching. No shoes, even. My body has been craving this. After two laps I realize my spirit has, too. It rains. I gain speed, but only a little since at every corner I make a tip-toed ninety degree turn to keep from slipping. I continue running. Half the school's corridors are dimly lit and I see my shadow bouncing along, my only company as I keep pace. The other half of the school is dark. There is one long stretch of corridor where the only light comes from a street lamp behind me and the fireflies I flit between. At the end of the hall, I enter the open air and the slightly less smooth concrete walkway. It changes to a group of tiles with grass growing in between. I hop across like I'm playing hopscotch during a police chase. Soon I'm in front of the house again, its sidewalk riddled with puddles that I hop through my first few times around. After the third lap I trust my feet and balance, pushing harder but always wary of a wayward rock under my bare, sensitive feet. I don't know the length of the school, but my body says five laps isn't enough. I lose count, though, and decide I'd better start counting again. At least ten laps, I tell myself. No worries. My breath is labored, but still steady by the eight lap. The last two laps pass quickly, but a part of me wishes to keep running on this rainy night. The most recent snack, a slightly spicy corroboration, is beginning to object, however. I do a few stretches, letting my breath slow. In the tropical heat it will take much longer to stop sweating. I gather my shoes and return indoors to the cool shower. 

Morning walk by the sea

 

I skim the rocks that form a barrier between the shallow beach and the small communities just meters inland. I only have one sighting of a creature other than myself. The ocean itself is deep and clear. Its blue has the same translucent, pearly quality similar to that of Sri Lanka's famous moonstones. The water wraps its edges around rocks, ships, swimmers, and sand with tailored precision like the casual saris I see the women wear daily. Unlike those formal ensembles, bejeweled and decadent that glitter and cling sensually to various curves, these saris are made of cool rayon or a light airy silk. The material ripples over its wearer in bright, chunky prints or a two-toned flower border. In similar fashion, brown sand swirls underneath the turquoise shifts of the silky waves, and white chiffon ruffles crash into rocks and swish over the smooth sand.
 

The train to Anuradhapura

 

I wait in a station reminiscent of a Forster novel. A rampant monkey across the street crashes through trees and over rooftops while screaming his frustration at something unseen. The train comes late and is full of people, tourists and locals. The tourists have their cameras out and hang out on the stairs and in the nooks between cars. Outside of Colombo squalor runs parallel to the train tracks. Here the huts are no more than four square meters. Clothes dry on the tracks themselves. Kids run everywhere, most barefoot. I think of Woodruff. When I first caught a glimpse of poverty from the windows of a train in Thailand I felt pity. I hadn't grown up that way and couldn't imagine what their lives might be like. Then I went home after studying abroad and discovered that Woodruff is very run-down itself. Although poverty in the U.S. is on a different scale than poverty in other areas of the world, the line has been demarcated and many people I grew up around, myself included, live under it. I see Sri Lanka's population "on the other side of the tracks" and think of home again. I still feel pity. But I also think of the children in my hometown who run around shoe-less all summer, just as urchin-looking, and having just as grand of a time in their own imaginations.

Meanwhile, the train chugs along the coastline, sometimes right above the ocean itself. It's a slow seven-hour trip to the ancient city of Anuradhapura. At every bridge my heart jumps. I face backwards and never see it coming. With a crash as loud as thunder, our car crosses each bridge and a six-inch gap between my open window and the steel rail makes me think it will slice your face off sideways if you stick your neck out too far. I remain quiet, but in my head I scream every time. Although it's only 7 pm when we arrive, it feels like the dead of night. 

My first stop is a supermarket. I walk around with a package of female sanitary napkins for who knows how long before I get a basket. Then suddenly a female attendant discreetly comes over to me, places the pads into a paper sack, folds it neatly, places it in my basket, and walks away without a word. I don't know how long she followed me in order to give me that small courtesy. What a nice thing to do, I think. In the beverage isle I meet a Japanese girl who takes me to a cheap hotel she had found earlier that day. We agree to meet in the morning to go to the ancient sites. She goes to her hotel, I go for my dinner, and the night sweetly glides on to morning. My first day on my own has come to an end.