Drift Reality

Wild elephants still roam throughout Sri Lanka but with humans increasingly encroaching on their viable territory, their numbers have dwindled substantially.

Pinnawela is located West of Kandy on the Colombo highway and hosts the largest elephant orphanage in Sri Lanka, accounting for around fifty elephants at any given time.

Most of these elephants were orphans who lost their parents to poachers or as a result of simply being left behind by their herd. Many were badly wounded when found, and I even remember one female elephant who had lost her eyesight as a result of a poacher’s gunshot.

This elephant could not go to the river to bathe and play with the other elephants. For whatever reason, one particular male elephant had developed an affinity for her, and would bring her food several times/day and keep her company.

Our first stop was the elephant orphaniage in Pinnawella. After rushing to the public restroom in a panic, Monsur, Asala, and myself walked the grounds of the elephant orphanage. After another sprint to the restrooms, the three of us found a comfortable vantage point from where we watched an amazing sight: thirty elephants stamping in a parade from the orphanage grounds to a creek, where they frolicked (as much as an elephant is capable of “frolicking”) in the water.

Although it was a breathtaking sight, my nasty case of diarrhea detracted from the experience, as would become the theme during the next several days of the trip. It would follow me into the sacred temples of Dumballa and taint my appreciation for the rare opportunity to gaze upon ancient statues and relics.

As the tour guide attempted to immerse my companions and I in the intricacies of Sri Lankan history, all I could think about was whether or not there was a public bathroom atop the mountain in Dumballa.

As he spoke, it was all I could do to emit a flurry of “hmms,” “okays,” and nods as I was forced to focus the bulk of my attention on attempting to control my digestive system.

The combination of my hangover, dehydration, fatigue, and diahrrea finally overwhelmed me when we arrived at the guesthouse in Dumballa and the manager insisted that I only had a reservation for a single room, and told me I had to pay an extra fee for Monsur as well as Asala despite the fact that I saw “DR” printed next to my reservation in the reservation book and unless the “DR” stood for “Disregard Reason,” I was being conned into paying more for my room.

As I began to throw a tantrum, I had an out-of-body experience and saw myself becoming the angry American tourist. “What does it mean when you make a reservation? It means you have already agreed upon something! What does that mean to you? Blah blah blah.”

Eventually, I got the additional fee halved, which left everyone feeling pissed off. In hindsight, I realize it was pretty stupid of me to make such a scene, seeing as how the fee I was arguing upon amounted to the equivelant of about 5 dollars.

I spent last night in a cycle that involved sleeping with the air conditioner on/getting too cold/waking up/turning off the air conditioner/getting too hot/etc. I awoke at 8:00 in the morning because Pat, a senior Fullbrighter, had told me about the internet facilities at the British High Counsel.

Ramyen, or at least that’s how I think his name is spelled, is one of the house servants. His realm includes the kitchen and the primary dining area, where the residents of the house take their breakfast and their lunch. There is a secondary dining area which is much more elegantly furnished that the first and it is here that the residents of the house take their dinner.

Ramyen has doleful eyes that seem watery, as though is perpetually crying. He wears a faded white sarong that is marred by slight blotches of dirt. I think that he must be in his 50s or his 60s, but it is difficult to be sure. Whenever I have a request, he responds by shaking his head as if to say “no” in a somewhat spastic motion, and then mutters abruptly, “yeas, yeas.”

While I was finishing my toast and tea, Pat came in and I showed her the itinerary that my Father had made for me the previous night. She examined it in silence for several moments, sometimes nodding her head as if to say “oh, that’s a good place.” She handed it back to me and said “that is so fantastic.”

She spread her marmite on her toast, telling me about how she had decided to become a vegetarian several years ago, and the only thing she really missed was bacon and eggs. For some reason, the combination of marmite and eggs reminded her of bacon and eggs. I had tried marmite when I was staying in London and a shiver ran through my spine as I remembered the substantial reaction I had to its salty and acrid taste.

After breakfast, we headed to the British High Counsel. We entered the library and my eyes felt a gravitational pull in the direction of the computers, which I was delighted to find unoccupied. The allure of a high speed connection seduced me and I sat down with the anticipation of simultaneously reading the Washington Post front page, my e-mail, and the ESPN front page.

I was a little disappointed to find that the connection was about the same speed of any other prehistoric dial-up connection in Sri Lanka. With a sigh, I began to watch that stupid blue ribbon on the bottom of the screen, wave back and forth, teasing me with its dance of futility.

After about one and a half hours, I received the satisfaction of writing one e-mail that I sent out to thirty different people. I know that a general e-mail does not substitute as a response to a personal e-mail, but I did include a disclaimer which explained the slow nature of the Sri Lankan internet to all my friends and family.

We headed home in the hot Sri Lankan sun, and I met the servant who came to the house every week for the sole purpose of washing, drying, and ironing clothing. I managed to have him wash and dry my clothes for about 200 rupees ($2.00).

Did I come to this place or did this place come to me?

A hiccup in a path that was laid out from birth.

And why is it in the embrace of this setting of such beauty that I should dwell on something so far away.

It is because lighthearted, I would dance with the icons of this Earth and gaze into the light that emanated from within myself.

My face would be on the screen and become an object of admiration and desire.

My aura would drown you with its intensity, and in the glare of my greatness, you would fall in love with me.

Or maybe not.

I did well on my SATs and I made the Dean’s list, maybe I could be a doctor.

With my hands, I would place them on the bodies and minds of the sick. People would revere me, for the highest gift you could bestow upon your fellow man is life.

My will would determine other’s realities and in light of my reverence, you would fall in love with me.

Or maybe not.

I’ve always been good at arguing, maybe I could be a lawyer. In front of an audience, I could shape the past with my mind and bend the present with my tongue.

Fate would be a source of amusement for me as I would consume the courtrooms with my passion, and with the comprehension of my power, you would fall in love with me.

Or maybe not.

I’ve always dreamt of creating.

Maybe. . .maybe I could make something that would stand forever, emanating its beauty in rhythm to the eternal. Sending waves of truth throughout the heavens, filling minds and hearts with love, becoming an entity in and of itself.

And all the universe would blow its sails onwards because it would have been the one thing that I did for no other reason than to simply to have done it.

And maybe you would fall in love with me.

Or maybe not.

Later, Pat, and Khamal, who is a Zorastrian from Bombay, and I headed to a store called “Barefoot.” I was amused to find that all of the store’s workers seemed to receive Pat and Khamal as though they were long-lost friends. Obviously they had been here on more than a few occasions.

Khamal began to gush over the artistic quality of the cushion covers and table mats, saying in an awestruck voice, “Look at these colors, just look at these colors!” I looked at them and they looked interesting, I guess.

We worked our way through the various rooms in Barefoot, stopping in each one as Pat and Khamal gasped and remarked about the various table clothes, sarongs, saris, etc. My ultimate goal was to get to the restaurant in the establishment, but it was something of a walk through quicksand. The building was replete with household items that glowed of vibrant oranges and deep turquoises. There was even a small bookstore where later, Khamal tempted Pat with a book that contained pictures of various beetlenut crackers.

As we walked into the café, a petite white girl with a boyish hair cut and an aqua marine gem stuck to her forehead rushed forward and gave Pat a hug, delightedly exclaiming “I get to see you before you go.”

She had a stack of pictures from her Sister’s wedding that she showed Khamal and Pat. Oohs, Aahs, and statements like “how beautiful,” soon filled the room. I looked at the pictures also and I decided that they looked nice enough.

The white girl was accompanied by an attractive and voluptuous Sri Lankan woman with a posh British accent. She was wearing a button down with slightly flared pants, and generally looked pretty hip. We all sat down together, and Pat ordered creamy spinach quiche, Khamal ordered Aubergines with melted Parmesan, and I had a tuna fish sandwich and a coke.

As we ate, I observed a stream of ants emerge from the ceiling and parade down behind the couch was Pat was sitting, right behind her head. Like the Good Samaritan that I am, I warned her not to lean back lest she receive a baptism of ants.

I listened as the white girl spoke with Khamal about some report that she was writing about Sri Lankan art, while the attractive Sri Lankan woman and Pat spoke about the United States. The Sri Lankan was explaining that she found the United States to be beautiful, but she did not seem to care for the manner in which sexuality was either overly glamorized or overly subdued, implying that a true nature of sexuality was being somehow neglected. I listened with interest but I think that she was a bit concerned about me taking her critique personally, because she concluded her short monologue with “they (Americans) are fine. They’re fine.”

After lunch, I made plans with Pat to go swimming at the Hilton athletic club and Khamal kindly offered to show me a bookstore where I might be able to purchase a tourist book of Iran. I rode in a “took-took,” a marvelous little golf cart type vehicles which ferry people around the streets of Sri Lanka, to the Hilton. Pat had not yet arrived, and since the non-member fee was 600 rupees, I just sat near the reception desk and enjoyed the breeze for a while. Soon, Pat arrived and we swam some laps in the large outdoor pool.

I noticed a Mother and three young Asian children, who I realized were Koreans. I remarked to the woman that her children were quite cute, but I was quick to add that I had taught young children in Korea. I think that I wanted to give her some sense of assurance that I was not a pedophile. I tried to say “annyong” to the little kids, but they looked a bit scared and did not respond to me.

After a few more laps, Pat and I sat in the loungers and discussed Buddhist philosophy (which is her specialty and the subject that she teaches). It was probably the most easygoing discussion that I had ever had and I found that we seemed to agree with each other on all points.

Pat left to buy wine and French bread for dinner and I dove into the pool to swim a few more laps. I noticed that there was a cute tan girl who looked Sinhalese, swimming laps and periodically looking at me. I would swim a lap and relax by the pool edge and she would swim over and stand about five feet from me. Then she would swim to the other side and relax by the pool edge and soon I would swim over and stand five feet from her.

We continued this bizarre ritual for several minutes before I asked her if she was Sinhalese. She seemed put off by this comment and responded with a pert “I’m tan. I’m white,” and with that, she swam off to the other side of the pool. I swam a few more laps and when I stopped, I found her again, standing five feet from me.

“Yes, now that I have taken off my goggles, I realize that you are white. Just very tan” I remarked.

She laughed and we began to chat. After a few minutes, she told me that she was sixteen and I responded by emphatically blaring the word “really,” not so much like a question, but more like a statement from a high tone to a low tone instead of vice versa. She laughed and asked me how old I thought she was and I said nineteen. It was then that I decided the time had come for me to return home.

After spending a few days in Colombo, my Father and I caught a bus and headed towards Tangalla, a small fishing village on the Southern tip of Sri Lanka. It would have been relatively inexpensive to charter a minivan to visit the village, but I think my Father wanted me to experience Sri Lanka more vividly. Either that, or he was being cheap.

As I sat in the bus station, immersed in an ocean of Sri Lankans, I began to feel the earthy essence of the city flow around me. Initially, I gritted my teeth and attempted to push it and all its unpleasant attributes away from me.

All the stench from the trash which filled the streets, the sight of starving animals begging for food, the strange chatter of their language, and of course the ever-present humidity, all swarmed into one smog of quintessential muck that threatened to overwhelm me.

I had fought it since the moment I had set foot in Colombo, finding solace in the next air-conditioned oasis. I fought it off while surrounded by an endless array of strange faces and voices until I could fight if off no longer and with a sigh, I let it overtake me.

The pressure in my temples eased with the acceptance of the life around me and suddenly I felt a surge of energy rush through my limbs. A smile slowly crept onto my face as I realized the reality of the situation.

The bus ride itself was an insight I never would have been privy to had we chartered a van for the trip. Although the cramped vehicle stopped what seemed like every five minutes to drop someone off or pick someone up while my ass gradually grew numb and my bladder threatened to explode, a level of comprehension settled into me and I was able to relax and accept the uncomfortable contours of the ride.

We arrived in Tangalla in the late afternoon and found the hotel to be virtually deserted. There was an eerie hollow feeling that pervaded the empty corridors, made more obvious by virtue of the fact that it was such a stark contrast to the dirty chaos of Colombo.

There was a Jacuzzi-sized swimming pool outside, which I resolutely attempted to swim laps in although each lap encompassed all of three or four strokes.

As evening approached, my Father and I headed into the village and had dinner.

Afterwards, we were fortunate enough to stumble upon a Sri Lankan festival of some type. I became transfixed by the singer, a woman with a beautiful and haunting voice.

After we watched for several minutes, we hailed down a rickshaw and returned back to our hotel.

Walking through the streets of Colombo, I recalled a letter my Father had written me while I had been struggling to adjust to life in Korea.

“Like all things in life: evolution, change, adaptation, are all part of being a living organism. I no longer consider the things that I see here to be out of ordinary: Cows crossing the street, rows upon rows of dilapidated shacks made from discarded bits of tarpaulin, tin, and cardboard.

These ram-shackle shelters line long stretches of the streets I travel everyday.

A mass of cars, rusty buses, trucks, motor cycles, bicycles, cows, and dogs, cut through the haze of black smoke and dissonant sounds of horns, giving an overwhelming impression of human neglect, ignorance, and decay.”

The following is an excerpt from an e-Mail my Father sent to me when I was in Seoul:

This was a house recommended by the Fullbright office, so I went there and the house looked comfortable so I decided to stay there for a while.

The house had a pond, winding staircase, and large bedrooms. Outside of the bedroom area was a large deck.

The surroundings were interesting because you were sometimes waken up by the noise of monkeys jumping around and making cackling noises, which is a bit unusual.

One day, while walking in the yard, I stepped on a monitor lizard. These creatures discharge urine that is supposed to be deadly to humans if it makes contact with your skin. Fortunately, I had my shoes on.

All these homes have very tall walls. This goes to show you that they have an inherent distrust towards people who don’t have money. They try to keep poor people out and rich people inside.

Then you have a variety of vendors who go around and sell things and want to provide services, but it just turns out that they steal things. They simply don’t trust many people, that’s why they always keep their doors locked.

Mala owned a very large furniture store and had inherited large sums of money, so she was able to build her dream house.

She grew up in an area called Colombo 7, where a handful of rich people live. She was one of them and surrounded by a large group of people who were politically influential and wealthy.

Her husband grew up with the foreign minister, they went to prep school together, and they used to play rugby together.

Less than 1% of the people live in Colombo 7, and they are all well connected. They belong to the same private clubs and all the kids go to the same private school. A large number of these people send their kids to the United States and to Great Britain.

I got into Sri Lanka late last night and was greeted by my Father at the airport. We promptly headed to a beachfront hotel on the outskirts of Colombo where he had booked me a room for the weekend.

It had been nearly a year since I had seen my Father last and while navigating our way through the chaotic Colombo streets, made more chaotic by virtue of the fact that it was the night before Buddha’s birthday, I told him about my life in Korea.

After about thirty or forty minutes, we arrived at the hotel and it was not long before I was fast asleep.

The next day, my Father arrived in the early afternoon, bringing a six-pack of Heineken which he had purchased at the American embassy, the only place where you could buy beer on Buddha’s birthday. We sipped our beers as I showed him the videos that I had recorded while in Bangkok.

We had lunch and then he went to go sit on the beach and read, while I returned to my room with the intention of writing about my experiences during the past 72 hours, but found that all I could do was sit by the window and enjoy ocean breeze.

Later, I went for a walk on the beach and was approached by a Sri Lankan man who wanted to sell me a handfull of seashells for the equivalent of about three or four dollars.

I was a bit amused by how stupid he thought I was, and informed him that although I felt his shells were very pretty, I had already amassed enough shells for one day.

I’m headed to the Iranian embassy tomorrow to see whether or not I’ll be able to visit Iran. If not, my Father might fund a trip for me to visit Nepal, which would be just as exciting.

For now, I’m content to just relax and soak in the peace and quiet of this country.