Found In Ceylon

I returned to Sri Lanka four days ago, and not a moment too soon. I couldn’t wait to come back here and get my right hand dirty once again with rice and curry.

As if God had arranged the cosmos to satisfy especially me, I awoke from a jet-lag induced nap at the Beach Inns to a bustling wedding party of 250 people. When I tried to sneak out so I could go to the school, Surath, the inn manager caught me (actually he flagged down Thusharra, my three-wheeler driver, when we were already driving off), and insisted I eat lunch at the reception.

I say absolutely not. I’m not a wedding guest. No way. Surath demanded I come in and eat now.

I reconsider my position. It’s free food. I say okay. I am handed a plate for the buffet. I travel from the start to the end of the long table, stopping at each metal serving-bowl to slap down onto my plate a heaping of rice, fish curry, chicken curry, dhaal, bean curry, and papadam. At the end, I am exalted to find that there is a bowl of freshly-made brinjal curry, and this particular dish becomes the largest dollop on my very full plate.

Thirty minutes and a full stomach later, I walked through the gates of the school. I hadn’t even been back in Sri Lanka for twelve hours yet.

The first one to spot me was Udaya (now the only Udaya at the school; the other Udaya graduated last December). “ADAM!” he screamed in sign. Soon, twenty-five boys of all ages were running up the path to where I was standing, hugging me, slapping my back.

I want to write that the boys were weeping with happiness, rapturous with adoration, but that would be a vile lie created only to achieve some cheap dramatic effect. However, the feeling was definitely there, at least inside me.

“So, was it weird to be back in the States?” “Did you have any culture shock?” “What did you think of all this America stuff?” you asked.

The short answer is: A little. Not really. Fast, clean, and easy-to-buy/consume!

I realize the romantic idea of volunteering in a third-world country evokes images of mud huts, bare-breasted mothers bathing babies in plastic tubs of water, engorged bellies of malnourished children, human- and beast-powered locomotion (rickshaws, oxen carts), antiquated superstitious medicine men dancing in the middle of a ring of lit torches chanting away devil spirits.

In fact, I’m pretty sure all of this actually happens if you go far enough inland. But the reality of my volunteer experience is that I live mere kilometers away from one of Sri Lanka’s largest cities (the 8th, to be exact). Almost all modern conveniences (albeit often of a second-rate quality) are available. I can buy contact lens solution, batteries, travel packs of Kleenex, or whole USA turkeys at the supermarket. I can ride in brand-new American-, Japanese-, or Chinese-made cars. I can hop into any of a dozen clothing stores on the Dharmapala Mawatha (main street) and grab whatever shirts, jeans, or underwear I wanted. Within one day, I can get digital prints of any photograph I’ve taken. DVD rental (often with CD-writing and DVD-writing services) line the streets. If I actually felt like it, I could get a cell phone with 3G (internet and multimedia) service, and my father just sent me an e-mail saying WiMax should be installed in Matara anytime now.

The challenge is remembering who has access to this modernity and who does not.

In all, I’m not quite divorced from the modern world as one may think–both an upside and downside of globalization, I guess. What mattered more to me when I was in America for one brief week was not what was available, but to whom it was available.

But I hate to get into this mode of, “But look, you fat, greedy, bourgeois American/English/Australian, even if you’re poor, you still have so much and they have so little.” So back to the culture shock question. There were three things I especially took note of:

Dogs
I had my luggage and a two-foot-tall drum piled up on my cart at customs at the Detroit airport. Suddenly, I was aware of the presence of a creature at my foot and looked down. I almost cried out when I saw the beagle’s wide, round eyes looking up at me, daring me to touch him, pet him, play with him. Never before had I seen such a beautifully-groomed and well-fed dog. It wasn’t until I was halfway bent down to tug his ear that I noticed he was wearing a harness with the U.S. Homeland Security insignia on it.

A drug-sniffing dog! I realized. As if confirming that conclusion, he proceeded to sniff my bags, and then walked to the cart behind me.

A similar situation happened when I had the chance to cuddle with my cousins’ dog, Maizey. This large Labrador had climbed onto the sofa next to me so I buried my face in his fur, grabbing tufts of hair and ear and skin wherever I could. Soft, luxurious fur. I couldn’t see any ribs sticking out or any bald patches.

Any visitor to Sri Lanka beyond Colombo will see hundreds of stray, mangy dogs sporting deep grooves between each rib; all of them various shades of mutt brown; all their fur rough and greasy to the touch; sad looks on their faces as they nosed through polyethylene bags looking for scraps of food much like the cows do, too. In those first few weeks, I never thought I’d get used to them, but apparently, I did.

Suddenly I was met in America by healthy, happy canines. Dogs with purpose. Remarkable!

Cars
Almost everybody has a car. They all glide so effortlessly along the interstate or Woodward Avenue whether it be rainy, sunny, or snowing. I could barely make out the existence of a sidewalk on the northbound side of Woodward in Bloomfield Hills–was that really a sidewalk under the unplowed snow, or was there nothing but mud and grass?

Privately-owned automobiles have just recently become an upper-middle class item in Sri Lanka; it is indeed something if you own one, and certainly no more than one per family! I feel embarassed to see three or four cars outside homes, but being an American myself, I know it is a necessity given the vast distances in suburbia and the poor quality of public transportation. But boy, you need cars for everything.

Shoes And The Unhelpfulness Of Nordstrom Salespeople
I was in Nordstrom looking for shoes to go with my brand-new, unknowingly-purchased-in-Colombo-for-way-more-than-it-costs-in-America Cerruti 1881 suit. And I don’t know, every shoe I tried on hurt. It felt like I was walking on wooden soles barely held together by strips of leather. Why would people wear such uncomfortable shoes? I thought.

With each pair of shoes, I would walk up to my father in another part of the store and ask him what he thought. These black shoes with pointy toes–this season’s fashion–looked so alien to me–where were hell were the toes?–that I couldn’t discern if they looked good on me at all. I kept trying to ask the salesperson for his opinion, but he just nodded his head one way or another. I told him they hurt, and he shrugged.

Maybe it was from an extreme attack of jet lag or the fact that my feet were just plain hurting from going back and forth in different pairs of hard shoes, but after about 45 minutes of indecisiveness, I went into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, and started weeping. You know how sometimes you’re so dead-tired you just laugh or cry for no reason? That happened to me.

It was the stupidest thing to be sniveling over, and I didn’t even want to. What, was I now incapable of buying a pair of shoes on my own without my father’s help? But after a few minutes, I didn’t feel so tired anymore, so I left the bathroom, went up to the unhelpful salesperson and told him that I was sorry but I wouldn’t be buying a shoe today, and went over to my mother, who was also looking at shoes.

She took one look at me and asked, “Have you been crying?”

What, me, crying? Of course not! What, we’re here at a fashion-conscious adult Disneyland! No crying here, absolutely not. Okay, maybe a lit–no! I’d be embarrassed if I actually cried here, haha. Quick, talk about something else! So, what do you think of that Segolèné Royal? Ya think she’ll win or what?

I told her no, and that I was just very tired, you know, the jet lag and all. I’m curious, Mom, did you believe me?

When Liz arrived the next day, I told her what happened. As I have said before, I always know she can be relied upon as a provider of sage advice (even more in this situation because she had been to Sri Lanka), and she did not fail me this time.

“Oh, it’s simple. Nobody was really helping you, and you were feeling very alone and tired.” She pointed out that in Sri Lanka, people were just absolutely falling all over themselves just to help us cross the street or buy something at that store (preferably their friend’s uncle’s mother’s store) or being their grinning, head-rocking helpful selves.

In contrast, at Nordstrom, I had to cope with the icy stare of a middle-aged salesman, who looked at me while I was in between prospective shoes, as if to say What’s wrong with you, you dumbfuck? Don’t you know what Cole Haan shoes are supposed to feel like? Of course they’re supposed to hurt. Get your act together, good god!

So it was as simple as she said: I was just feeling alone and helpless. Thanks, Liz, for summing that up for me.

Other tidbits I noted were the astonishing variety of food and cuisines available–for better or for worse, Sri Lankans basically eat rice and curry two or three times a day, every day. Stuff–like, anything–is so easily accessible and available, something that was not lost on me as I walked through downtown Royal Oak and Birmingham. Books, pens, movies, cheese; you don’t have to be hopping among a dozen stores or sending friends to Colombo just to find that one item. People over there certainly have easier shopping experiences (with the exception of the shoe incident, of course).

So, yeah, that. No major culture shock here. Maybe it was because I knew I was going back so soon; maybe the world is really that homogenized now; maybe it works in one direction (USA to Lanka) but not in the other direction.

Who knows? All I know is, I’m so happy to be back here. I’m not finished with this country yet.

If there’s one vegetable that Sri Lanka has made me even more crazy about, it’s brinjal. To the Americans, it’s also known as eggplant. For Europeans, it’s aubergine.

Growing up, I harbored an intense dislike for eggplant. I suppose it all started when I was playing one of the best games released during the original Nintendo’s early years, Kid Icarus. It featured a winged Greek child (this is the Kid Icarus) slaying walking eggplants with a bow and arrow. Naturally, I identified with Kid Icarus and adopted his stance against the purple vegetable.

It was only in the summer of 2003 that I decided to experiment with baked eggplant parmigiana. It was okay. Then Liz and I frequently tried to make an eggplant dish, but it invariably involved tomatoes and feta cheese; no matter how many receipes we tried, it tasted, well, dull.

But in Sri Lanka–it’s all about the curry. I’ve taken to specifically requesting brinjal curry whenever I order rice and curry for dinner at the Beach Inns, and any school lunch (already a scrumptious delight) becomes sublime if brinjal is on the menu. I have loved it so much that I made sure it was a clue for Nerissa and David’s son’s treasure hunt (“What are two other names for brinjal?”).

It is with regret that I leave this vegetable behind, and everything else about Sri Lanka as I sit here in the internet cafe at the Bandaranaike International Airport. I know, I’m only gone from this country for nine days.

But today felt like some horrible preview of my ultimate departure date sometime next June. I said goodbye to the children (they all bowed down), to Thusharra my driver, to the Beach Inns staff, to my friends. My eyes were wet as I left the school even while I was thinking, “Damn it, it’s just nine days.”

I went three whole weeks without seeing the kids last month, so what’s a week and half? In this interconnected world we live in, a plane ride halfway across the globe isn’t really so different than driving into Lanka’s central highlands, right? But that knowledge didn’t make my good-byes easier.

Nerissa and David both said to me, “Please make sure you come back!” I was genuinely surprised to hear this.

How could I not? There’s more brinjal to be had here, more English words to teach, more holy sites and cities to visit, more vehicles to test-drive, more reefs to explore…

Don’t worry, I’m definitely coming back.

So yesterday, I’m reviewing one of my students’ government-issued English textbooks and find this phrase in one of the graphics: “Damnation puppies! Adorable, for sale.”

But I’m just being picky. The English textbook is actually not too bad–it is replete with vibrant colors and innovative exercises. It just goes way over the heads of any Rohana student. Never mind about that.

School started last Tuesday, 2 January. Two kids showed up: Pasan and Ishara. I wasn’t too thrilled because I was hoping to treat Liz to the sight of a bustling deaf institute, not a showing of To Sir, With Love to kick off a teacher’s discussion. Of course, it didn’t help that the 3rd was a poya full moon holiday, which leads me to just wonder what was going through the Ministry of Education’s minds when they arranged the 2007 academic calendar.

It wasn’t much brighter the following Friday when the total number of students present finally broke into the double digits only because two of the day students decided to come…after school.

About half of the students returned by last Monday, 8 January, and now I think we’re at 75% capacity seven school days after the term began.

Actual classroom instruction has yet to reach the secondary department because we’re all trying to figure out a new system of arranging our classrooms. For time immemorial, the second floor had been divided by four-foot-tall partitions into grade-based rooms – Grade 6A, 6B, 7A, 7B…11A and 11B. The students would sit tight through all eight periods while the teachers (i.e. the Sinhala teacher, the science teacher) rotated among the classrooms.

Now we’re opting for a subject-based arrangement–a Sinhala room, a Maths room, a science room, a Buddhism room, and so on. This has presented interesting challenges because now every classroom has to be able to accommodate the largest class (as of press time, it was 7B with nine students but that is likely going to change). We do not have enough desks to accomplish this, nor do we have enough blackboards or teachers’ desks for the increased number of classrooms overall. Extras have been ordered and should come sometime this following three-day holiday weekend (Monday is Tamil Thai Pogal Day).

I have been assured that normal education will start again next Tuesday the 16th. Yeah, right.

Jill and Peter, two volunteers who devoted one year of their lives to the renovation of the Rohana Special School, are returning that very day, and I am reminded of this august occassion daily. The children have gotten so excited that I had to squash rumors that Sophie was also joining them or that they were coming back to stay for another year. I, for one, cannot wait to meet those two obviously wonderful persons.

Sadly, it’ll be just for half a day because I go up to Colombo that afternoon. No, I don’t love Colombo that much to visit it for the fifth time in as many weeks, but I’m catching a flight to Detroit of all places.

My cousin Harrison’s bar mitzvah is next week and I’ve made a point of not missing this one (or I won’t see another family one for at least fourteen years!). So I’ll be back on your hemisphere for a week, and then I return to Sri Lanka 25 January.

And I’ll stay put here in Matara until next June. This decision may have been taken lightly, but the truth is I feel like I haven’t been such a great teacher the last few months with my inexperience and the steep learning curve getting in the way. I’m looking forward to being a much more effective educator the next several months and really help the children make leaps in their English education (I truly believe that they will).

Four months in Sri Lanka really isn’t enough! I can’t wait to make this number turn into nine.

The children are, of course, delighted to hear that I’m staying, and tell me that I will absolutely love April and May which are chock-full of holidays. May, and the weeks leading up to Wesak Poya Day is like Christmas for the Sinhalese. Even the sign for May alludes to the string lights that blanket this island (for a few weeks I thought they meant fireflies, which sounded so cool).

I recently received a couple of letters and loved them so much (even the holiday card from my former employer) that I have posted my mailing address in the Contact Me page. Not a subtle hint, but the message does gets across, doesn’t it?

We’re sitting on our balcony at the Amaya Reef hotel in Hikkaduwa. I will warn you that the hotel’s website is a superb example of the manipulative power of photography, but the pool is really that pretty.

I think that it’s time to write a blog, so I grab Liz’s BlackBerry and ask her what the title of this blog should be.

“What about ‘Rule of Four?’” I suggest idly. She’s reading the Caldwell and Thomason book now after blazing through four other books during the past week and half. We did have a lot of down time in our van traveling among ruins and knee-and-calf-muscle-shattering mountains so our literary thirst were more than quenched.

“I miss college,” she says with a start. The Rule of Four takes place wholly within the environs of Princeton University so it’s bound to trigger nostalgia for those good ol’ Animal House days.

“I should have tried harder,” she adds.

“Me too,” I say. “I shouldn’t have gotten that C in Technical Writing.”

“Screw you. You graduated with high honors.”

“Highest honors,” I remind her. Then I tell her I will write exactly this exchange for the blog.

After she admonishes me for proclaiming her self-admonishing words to the world, she returns to her book.

Literature becomes reality and I think how great it is that we’re sitting together in a balcony overlooking the Indian Ocean, ready to greet the New Year (by the Christian reckoning; the Sinhalese and Tamil people celebrate theirs in April) in about seven hours.

No matter where you are in the world, I hope you are all doing the same, marking this occasion with the people you care most about. As long as that’s true, you’re at home.

Happy New Year!