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. 

 

Katharagama and Our Little Ma Chang

During my preparation for our trip to Katharagama, I go to the bathroom and see a large brown spider. Why is it that critters like this are always blocking the door or the sink or the shower, the exact thing you're meaning to use? "You don't worry about that," says Uncle as he shoos it away, or maybe he kills it. I'm not sure what people do to bugs here. After we're all finally ready, we leave for Katharagama, a religious pilgrimage site six hours away. Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, and Christians all go to Katharagama and worship in almost the same place. It's like the Walmart plaza, only with God.

The market fair outside of the temple.


The ride to Katharagama is the longest I've been on a bus in Sri Lanka yet. In fact, we take three buses. First we have to take the local bus to Matara (the driver shouts "Mataramataramatara!" as we board). I lose track of where we are by the second bus change. My body is miserable. I am sunburned, sore, and swollen. The ride is hot and stuffy. We subsist on crackers and water all the way around the south coast of the island. I read and read. As I'm reading, I realize that I'm spending a lot of time in silence on this trip. Do I want to talk more? Thinking does get exhausting, too, because I'm coming to realizations that are cleaning out the cobwebs and polishing off some of that grime. As much as I enjoy my Changchun life, it has the tendency to spin like a merry-go-round until I don't know when or where to get off. A nice thought: not only does life go on in a place without you, but you also go on without a place. Lastly, it's a twenty minute jaunt into the countryside where it's pouring rain. Bob Marley's "Jammin'" plays. Jungle rain looks like it's going to wash away all the rich colors and finite brushwork of the landscape, but in the process it's going to push the already picturesque to the level of divine.

 

People bathe in the holy river near the temple.

After we settle down at our guest house, we go to the big famous temple. I'm so impressed at the number of people and the atmosphere. It's lively but closer to the temple it's more reverent. Everyone is wearing white, which I've only ever experienced in my own religion visiting the temple. This and my own 'ponder mode' makes our pilgrimage feel very reverent. The walk from the front gate to the temple is long and we do it all barefoot. Mrs. A, Uncle, and Podi buy flowers and coconut oil as an offering. We use the coconut oil to light the prayer lamps. Then we go to the temple and walk around, putting the flowers on each of the four statues of Buddha. We sit in a corner and pray. Podi is praying for her exams to go well, Mrs. A tells me. I take this opportunity to look around, reflect, and take pictures. On the way out, Uncle tries to explain the concept of gods to me. As far as I can tell, the belief in or offerings to various gods is an ancient practice, older than Buddhism itself, and seems to be a precaution based on tradition rather than a real belief of people. Yet, then again, if you act on it doesn't that mean you believe in it a little? Does that mean that you don't in something else? 

 

We go to the fair area outside of the temple. It's a huge market place full of toys and food. I sample Bindi, a very sweet, red fried dough that I buy often throughout my trip. I find some bumper stickers with something like "Buddha bless you" written in Sinhala and buy a few as souvenirs for friends. From around a corner we hear cymbals and drums coming. A trumpet sounds. A procession passes in front of us with dancers holding arch-shaped wooden beams with red feathers above their heads and others dressed in white. Each procession has a drummer or two and a trumpeter. One procession features a possessed woman who faints, is then grabbed by an older man who helps her up and splashes water on her face. The fourth procession plays a rendition of the hokey pokey. A few seconds in I recognize the tune and dance a riff in the market place, spinning myself around since that's what it's all about. Listening to the trumpeter I'm suddenly reminded of Baloo the Bear in Disney's The Jungle Book after the monkey palace scene. "Do you want to try and egg hopper?" asks Uncle, interrupting my dance. An egg hopper is a thin piece of dough fried in a bowl, making it take on a spherical shape, into the bottom of which an egg is fried. I eat it and wash it down with a wood apple juice. Yum!



 

Mrs. A and Podi buying flowers.

The night wanes on and we return to the guest house for a late dinner. I walk into the bathroom and discover two cockroaches the whole length of my little finger. In China they usually reach the size of the first knuckle. In Arizona they are the length of two knuckles. Here in my bathroom I'm staring at TWO three-knuckle cockroaches! I yelp, race out of the bathroom and call Uncle to the rescue. He comes in only to find that they've disappeared. But he notices the frog on the wall under the shower head that, in my distress about the roaches, I had missed.

 

 

"Harmless creatures," Uncle states. He calls the owner to dispose of the frog. 
 

 

Podi lighting prayer lamps

Uncle leaves the room and I shut the door thinking, "OK, they're all gone and I can finally go to the bathroom." I hear my name called in the hall. I open the door and peak out just in time to see one of the cockroaches running across Uncle's shoulders! He begins to take off his shirt while I run back into my room on a high squeal. "Where did that come from?!" I ask worriedly. It could be that the place is infested. Then again, it's already past ten at night. Really, we've just encroached on the roaches' dinner time.

 

"It came from your bathroom," Uncle responds. I imagine a vengeful cockroach sneakily crawling up the wall just to jump down to Uncle's shoulders when his back is turned. Then again, it might have just crawled up his pant leg, an admittedly scarier thought. I just want to use the restroom, but I suddenly remember that I wanted to ask about a converter plug so I open the door yet again. Coming out from behind the curtain across the hall, and headed straight for me, is the long bugger yet again! I can't stop the scream as I waste no time in running into my room and jumping onto the bed. Uncle runs out of his room yet again with another, "Don't worry about these things."

 

After dinner, just when I think it's all safe, I again enter the washroom just to discover another stinking cockroach lurking in the door frame! This time I feel embarrassed by previous behavior and consider just skipping past it in order to shower and get ready for bed. But I hear Mrs. A and Uncle in the hall and succumb to the coward in me. This time I quietly walk outside and wait for Mrs. A to ask, "What's wrong?"

Katharagama temple

"There's another one," I declare timidly. 

 

She calls Uncle from the bedroom. He enters my room and upon seeing the big bug shouts, "Ah, ma chang!" He turns to me and says, "'ma chang' means friend!" He then chases our little buddy away again.

 

 

This time, I change rooms to one with no bathroom. I use the common bathroom where there's another frog, but shower anyway because I know that's not the worst of my problems. Uncle and the owner left my new room in good spirits thinking that the AC and no bathroom would make for a perfectly comfortable night's sleep. Lurking along the wall behind the bed, however, was yet another cockroach. I'm tired though, and especially tired of being the foreigner scared of big Sri Lankan bugs. So after my shower I settle in and listen for the sound of its scurrying. In accordance with everything Uncle has been teaching me about thoughts being magnets, thinking positive, and so on, I say one last prayer before bed. "Please let the cockroach find something more appetizing than my face," I say and fall asleep. 

 

 

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

 

 

The House in Elpitiya

 

The sunflower yellow house sits behind a recently painted wall reading Guesthouse. Its welcome mat on the small porch leads to a parlor decorated with pictures of Loku and Podi in intricate traditional dance costumes as children. I am led to the guest room. To my eyes, the house is pretty old but imbibed with a warm, comfortable feeling. I can tell it's been lived in a long time by an affectionate family, and visited by loyal friends over many years.

A narrow wooden double door opens to my room. The late afternoon's golden sunlight filters through the lace curtains and onto the bed's taught faded sheet. All the furniture is made from rough brown wood and looks like it, too, has been with the family for a few generations. Compared to the luxury guesthouse we stayed at the night before, this home is much humbler. I can't help feeling like I've stepped back in time, to the decades just after independence from England and before the war with the Tamil Tigers.





My nostalgic bedroom

After our swim in the river, the girls and I clean up. "Do you want to take a walk in a small town?" asks Podi innocently. Loku teases her. "Yes, she wants to see people in a small town. She wants to eat things in a small town, too! Next will you ask if she wants to see a small town tuk tuk?"

In spite of it being just a small town, the girls and I are going to Elpitiya's local temple tonight, so we dress up for the occasion. It is customary to wear all white, mostly white, or at least light colors to the temple. Unknowingly, I conform to the typical temple garb by donning an off-white dress my friend in Singapore gave me. 

 

The main stretch of road in Elpitiya only runs for about two kilometers. In ten minutes or less we are at a small junction, which the girls tell me, leads to their mother's best friend's home. "We are going to play a trick on her," Loku says mischievously. "Here's what you have to do."

"Me!" I practically shout. "What do I have to do with it?" 

Vintage clothes rack and mirror

"We want you to go to the house..."

"There are stairs!" Podi chimes in.

"Go up the stairs and ask for Reneka," says Loku. The last few meters she changes her mind. "No, you should say: Ayubowan Reneka!" (A formal hello). I practice over and over. Ayubowan Reneka, Ayubowan Reneka, Ayubowan Reneka. Instead of practicing making perfect, however, my nerves at the possibility of messing up are turning my tongue into a rubber band ball. 

"Ayubowan --Hey, where'd you go?" I hear giggling behind some tall brush.

"Go! Go!" I hear Loku say.

I walk up to the house. Where are the stairs? I think. I look up. People are already looking down at me from the balcony. Uh oh. They've caught me! But where are those stairs?? The women in the balcony stop talking and look at the foreigner who has just stepped inside the gate. What am I supposed to say again? 楼梯呢？The stairs?

"Reneka?" I ask timidly. I have to ask twice before anyone hears me clearly. Still they just stare. I stare back. Awkward. The woman I assume is Reneka begins talking and looking around.

"Loku? Loku?" She calls out. Everyone can hear Loku's laugh behind the bushes. It turns into a cackle with Podi joining in. Reneka breaks into a smile. I blush. A rush of Sinhala and I'm in the clear. Harmless foreigner. Good job with the trick. The girls enter the gate and take me to the stairs. "There they are!" I exclaim. I was starting to think it was me being fooled.
 



The living room and the alfresco dining area in the back.

We sit for a while with Reneka, her son, and her father, an avid Mao Zedong supporter in the early years of independence. I'm interested in this somewhat odd connection to China in this day and age. He also seems intrigued by the American who lives in China. But we don't get the chance to talk much before we all leave for the temple. It's another ten or fifteen minute walk to the temple. Upon entering the grounds we take off our shoes. It must be because I'm with a group of peers rather than just a tourist, but I feel almost nervous for the visit. Instead of just watching worshipers, I've asked what I can do and have now been given a task. I want to do it right or else face the critique (although it would be lenient) that would come afterwards through looks and words I don't understand.

 

At every temple there is a large Bodhi tree enclosed by a round wall or fence. Bodhi trees are sacred as it was under the Bodhi tree that Buddha reached enlightenment. To start out, Reneka fills pots of water for Loku and I. We take the pot of water and walk around the tree, stopping at intervals to pour some water into a pipe that will then water the tree. Only monks are allowed inside the enclosure, but I find this practice of watering the tree a friendly gesture to the universe. Loku tells me that as we walk around the Bodhi tree three times we should pray. 

 



The second kitchen.

This trip to Sri Lanka marks my first time in a year and a half to leave China. The past year has been one emotional challenge after another. Along with my relationship to myself and with those around me, it's left me wondering where I stand with regards to China. It came as a relief to leave the country for a while, even if it wasn't to go back to the U.S. But the question is what do I do when I go back? I still have two and a half years before graduating. How do I continue there while growing stronger physically, mentally, spiritually and otherwise in a place where it's so easy to get knocked down? I know I have to change and I know I need a purpose, a goal, and faith in order to do so. As I follow Loku around the tree, I pray for a path to take. It is my belief and my experience that the prayer you offer at the beginning of your travels will be the guide for the rest of the journey. So it was with my prayer at the base of the Bodhi tree that night.





On the way back to the house, we stopped for "short eats." In Chinese snacks are called "small eat," so I'm assuming that "short eats" is a similar translation from Hindi or another language, which then spread around the British colonies in the area. We buy fried bread with bits of chili and other vegetables mixed in with the dough. It's a savory donut that, if it weren't so heavy, I could eat multiple times a week. 

 

The bird's nest.

Back at home dinner is also ready. The short eats have already taken up a lot of the room in my stomach, but I go ahead and eat some of the spicy pasta and salad they've prepared anyway. Uncle, Mrs. A, Loku, Podi, Reneka, her son, and I all sit at the table in the alfresco dining room under the fan and the dim light. The conversation turns to music and they ask me to sing some songs in English and then Chinese. This is already the second time Loku has asked to hear "My Heart Will Go On," but since neither of us get tired of it (despite the fact that I can never remember the tune properly), I sing it for her again. After singing, the topic turns to religion. Over the days that I'm with the family, Uncle and I regularly return to this discussion. He teaches me some of the main principles in Buddhism and explains a lot of the other customs related to the religion. As the night gets on, however, other members of the family lose interest in the topic. Eventually Mrs. A tells Uncle it's time for bed. With a laugh, he comes out of discussion mode and says he'd better do as she tells him.

 

Nangi, the star of the show, at the next door neighbor's.

I retreat to my bedroom, protect myself against the mosquitoes, and drift off to sleep. Tomorrow we will travel to their home in the south of the island, and I just might finally get to see the ocean. The next day, it takes us a while to get going. Before we leave we visit the neighbors, literally stepping into their backyard slipping behind the wall. They have a two-year old girl who's very proficient in the art of singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." They also have a bird's nest in their home! By the time we do leave, I feel like I've gone back in time to visit my grandparents home from when I was little. Although I couldn't go all the way back to my family this winter holiday, to slip so easily into someone else's family is just the kind of rejuvenation I need.



Podi, me, and Loku in front of the house in Elpitiya.

Always a Song in Sri Lanka

As I said in a previous post, there is always a song in Sri Lanka. Most buses are equipped with three large speakers that sit on the luggage racks. Even at four in the morning you can hear the bus coming before you can see it. 

Inside the bus, the effect is something like a video game. The micro beat in every Sinhala ditty gives the whole experience a battle-like energy. You squirm your way between people. The slow cadence quickens its beat. When you see a seat open up, you dash. The chorus, in a swirl of soprano, begins its runs up the chord ladder. Two stops before you need off, you begin to wrestle your way to the nearest door. Heaven forbid you're stuck in a window seat! The key changes. The bus adds its own rapid swerves and jerking brakes. The beat speeds up and the cymbals crescendo. After all the squishing, pulling, and all-too-heated scramble, Pop! You are expelled from the bus like the infamous weasel. It zooms off again, the heavy bass trailing after.

Outside of buses, music is as abundant as the coconuts. Mrs. A, Podi, and I go to a nearby school for their concert one night. The students (and their costumes) are so lively even the music is live! The audience claps and shouts with the beat, especially when an older group does a big Bollywood-style finale. On another day, Podi and I visit Loku at her university. At her dormitory, the girls ask me if I like to sing. I tell them, I'll sing for you if you let me take a video of you singing for me. Then we sang for an hour. At the big temple in Kataragama, we see (and hear four) processions making their way through the crowds. The sounds of drums, dancers, and trumpets fill the air. One day as I'm walking to the beach, I hear guitar, drums, and singing coming out of a hut. 

Even nature joins in the symphony. Rivers crescendo over boulders and decrescendo into pools. The ocean crashes onto beaches, dragging the sand back into the sea in a long, drawn-out fermata. Cities themselves fill with honking horns, rain pattering on tin roofs, tuk tuk drivers zooming between larger vehicles, and, always, the radio. In fact, the quietest, most music-less places you will find in Sri Lanka are those where the most foreigners gather. This could be a matter of culture and/or privacy. But I personally find it rather bland. On the other hand, the quiet can be nice, too. Where would you draw the line?

I want to share a few of the songs that I now consider some of my favorites. First off is Ruwan Hettiarachchi's "Seetha Maruthe" and my personal favorite. Another artist I really enjoy is Kasun Kalhara. Here is his "Math Mal." These are just some slow ballads, but if you're interested, Youtube has a very large selection.

A Ride in the Countryside


I sit with an empty coconut shell, straw still in place, in my lap. Uncle, Loku, Podi, and I are snugly fit into the back seat of a three-wheeler. As we bump along we scan the roadside stands for papaya.

Riding through the countryside in a three-wheeler

Loku and I are still wet from our swim in a rural bathing hole. Sitting on Loku's lap is Podi, who is also wet, but not from swimming. She had been moving from rock to rock and called out to catch her dad's attention. I chuckle, remembering her crying out "Apaaaaaaaaaa!" as she suddenly slid into the water. Despite the air being cool on our wet clothing, and our hair being whipped into dreads by the wind and exhaust fumes, we are soothed by the constant, deep rumble of the motorbike and its occasional hiccuping backfire.

 

Loku and I in the bathing hole



After the bath



 

A truckload of workers passes us. A man bangs out a rhythm on the tailgate, his gold ring giving it a lively twang. The rest of the men sing and clap. We watch them careen down the road, their voices going in and out behind our three-wheeler's grumble. There's always a song in Sri Lanka. We pass three herds of water buffalo. Little children and teenage girls in white uniforms and braided pigtails return from school. 

The sun hangs low in the sky, hovering over the rice paddies like a good farmer to his ox after a long day's work. The dying sun still heats my skin while the wind rushing into the three-wheeler cools it immediately after. The only sounds inside the cab come from the engine, and even it seems to know that the cargo it carries must be handled with care.

 

 

 

 

 

"Are you tired?" Loku asks during a stop at a local market.

 

"I am," I answer. "But I'm a happy tired."

 

Water buffalo and the stream that leads to the bathing hole

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Touching Down in Sri Lanka

We touch down at Sri Lanka's Colombo airport at noon. I gather my things, looking forward to meeting my friends Mrs. A and her daughter Loku again. They aren't in the waiting room, however. I sit. I stand. I walk around. Finally I decide to change some money and get a SIM card so I can call them. The early morning departure must have made me sleepy; it takes me four trips back to the phone counter to get everything set up correctly. When the call does finally go through, I discover that they are waiting outside, just 100 meters away. 

The family consists of Mrs. A, her husband, who I call Uncle, and their daughters Loku and Podi. Last year, Mrs. A studied at my university in Changchun. During the spring semester, her daughter, Loku, came for a month-long visit. I talked to them both a few times, and eventually asked about the opportunity to visit Sri Lanka. They invited me with open arms, saying I could stay at their home and that they would even take me around to a few places. It was when they said that the best time to come is in February, which just happens to be the second month in our 2-month winter holiday, that I knew I would visit.

The five of us get into a bus heading to Colombo since the airport is still about an hour away from the capital city. We chat about China and about things to see in Sri Lanka. As the bus fills up, a young man with curly hair sits in front of us. He must have been listening to our conversation because he turns to me and asks, "You study in China?" I tell him yes, to which he responds, "I study in China, too! I live in Tianjin." What an unexpected surprise, to randomly come across another foreign student in China on my first day in this small country!

 

From left: me, Mrs. A, Loku, Podi. In front: Uncle and the curly-haired boy.

In Colombo, the family wants to eat at KFC. I don't want to decline an offer on my first day, but I'm really hoping for something curry-like, or at least homemade. I can eat at KFC in Changchun, after all. Luck is on my side, though, as we find out that KFC is closed, probably because it's Sri Lanka's Independence Day today, February 4th. Across the street we find a shop that sells rice and curry! It takes a very long time to convince Uncle that I can eat spicy food, and that I can just try whatever they have. I'll let him know if it's too spicy, I tell him, but he's rather unconvinced. The food is great! I eat with my hands, too, when I see that that's the way it's supposed to be done. The family is a little shocked, and over the next week, grow to be only mildly amused. Oh, look at the foreigner eating with her hands, I'm sure many patrons think as they see me enjoy my meal. After filling up, I wash my hands and we get on another bus.

 





Our luxurious abode

Tonight we will stay in a nearby town where Mrs. A's nephew has a luxury guest house. When we arrive, I'm exhausted and still very stuffed from lunch. I take a late nap in an air-conditioned room. When I wake up at 9 o'clock, dinner is ready and, thankfully, I'm hungry again. After dinner, I'm surprised by being able to fall asleep again so soon. It must be from the lack of sleep on my two-day Singapore binge. In the morning, we hit the road again. For the first few days, I'm seeing Sri Lanka mostly from buses, so I figure, you can too! Click here for a ride through Colombo.