Picture this...

I walk out onto the street at its first signs of drowsiness - the dusk's sun had not yet totally surrendered to the dark, and all motion seemed to slow down ever so slightly... I turn to cross the street and am caught into the tune of music on wheels. A young couple ride on their bicycle, the lovely lady sits on the crossbar and is guarded by her love's arms as he steers them swiftly onwards, their faces gently lit by a cellphone she holds, gingerly tuning in accompanying music...

Let me entertain you

There is not much in way of entertainment in Jaffna. As a matter of fact, there is next to nothing: two local restaurants boasting 10 page menus, that really all taste like two dishes, both of which close shortly after 9pm (people are still used to that old curfew and old habits are hard to break). There is one bar-type setting, the only one that serves alcohol (namely beer), and where patrons can plug in their own ipod for music, a bar frequented mainly by internationals, and which, coincidentally, was located at the guest house where I spent my first month here. You can understand that I’m not yet eager to rush back and spend any idle evening there. I might add that these three food and drink settings are outdoors, and the heat and/or the humidity quickly make it uncomfortable to linger too long.

As a step away from this fray, those of us here on our own (translate: internationals as this is a no-family duty station) try to break the lull of daily routine by meeting up for the occasional non-Sri-Lankan dinner or drinks at one of our houses. While I was without a home, I was on the receiving end of a few of these kind invitations, and now that I had finally put together all the main pieces of my flat, I felt it was time that I held a dinner of my own. The exact words in my invitation were “I keep waiting to make sure the flat is in good shape, and have now resolved that it is probably as good as it’s going to get”. The second part is probably what moved them into happily wanting to join “though it will be Halloween, unfortunately, the only scary thing offered will be the couple of dishes that I am attempting to cook for the first time”. Yes, I believe that must have been what tipped them to accept my invitation. My mother would be proud of that magnanimous offer of hospitality.

With those provisos in place for my biggest fears of failure, I set out to put the evening together, so to speak. On the day, I rose early in part so that I would have ample time to do the necessary grocery shopping and cooking, and in part so that I can put my mind at ease that I would be able to find some essential items for the dinner… such as a large pot and a glass casserole dish. In a town like Jaffna, I was pretty sure I would find all the food items I would need for the dinner (I had, after all, fashioned the menu around what could be found in the local produce market), but you can never know if anyone held your desired kitchen ware in stock. Though I was aware I’d need these two items for the only two Lebanese dishes I was making that night, I did not, in truth, have the opportunity to go out looking for them on any earlier day. Which brings us to that morning…

I didn’t want to waste any time walking to town (a good 40 minute stroll one way) so I called the tuc-tuc driver that one of my Sri Lankan colleagues had referred me to. Sri was a lovely older man who was my colleague’s trusted transportation when her husband was too busy to drive her around, the only problem was that he spoke no English. I met Sri and we exchanged phone numbers, he was directed to my building, and we agreed that any time I called, I would just specify a time, and hour, in which I wanted him to arrive, and he would either agree or respond with another time if he could not make it as requested. Thus our phone negotiation would simply be an exchange of numbers on a clock. I must confess that I delighted in the novelty of this type of communication that I didn’t even ask if my colleague knew any other driver who spoke English.

This system with Sri was tested on that morning. The only tiny mishap was that he arrived an hour too early, but then it was easy to communicate through my security guard and instruct him to return later. Sri would turn out to be quite a lifesaver mainly because the skies opened up to buckets of rain as I emerged from my very first shopping stop. It was where I was thrilled to find the glass casserole dish, though I suspected it might be too large for my electric oven, and made sure it was clear in every language that I could return it if that was the case. The fragility of this glass item, and the 4 flimsy wine glasses I had just purchased, now became my obsession as I waded through the quickly flooded street to where Sri was waiting. It poured as I went to the vegetable market, where the sellers became quite amused with my enthusiastic piece-meal increase in the quantities I was buying, fearing as I saw each bunch weighed that it might be too little for dinner (I was wrong, and ended up with stocks and stocks of onions, tomatoes and eggplants for the week to come). It poured as I squished into the store where I gleefully found my pot, and it stopped raining ever so slightly about an hour later as I got back into Sri’s tuc-tuc for the ride home. Perhaps I should mention that, since it was clear skies when I left the house that morning, I had gone through this day with no umbrella, but was happy to report that my new Crocs paid for themselves.

Finally home with my stocks (again, since I had to make a u-turn back to the first store because the casserole dish was indeed too big for my oven), I set out to prepare the food.

I truly wasn’t making anything too complicated, I just wanted to give the others a small taste of Lebanese cooking, so had planned to make ‘moudardara’ (since lentils were in abundance here) and an improvised dish of lightly fried or caramelized vegetables in pomegranate paste. As my guests hailed from various countries, none of them Arabic, I feared that (a) I would make the dishes perfectly, but they wouldn’t like them, or (b) that I would mess up the dishes, or (c) that there wouldn’t be enough food (nothing to do with their tastes or ethnic backgrounds, just a constant fear of mine when I entertain). So, as a backup, I had asked the cleaning lady at our office, who is an excellent cook, to make a large quantity of a Sri Lankan dish that I knew a few of my guests had not tasted before. This helped assuage my fears, and proved an amazing contribution to deflect fear (c) as I ended up with such abundant leftovers, I could have quite easily held another dinner the following day (or two).

All in all, the dinner was a great success. It’s true that I forgot to bring out the juice and soft drinks from the fridge, thinking that I would have the clarity of mind to serve people as they came in (what was I thinking?!), and it’s true that the lentils didn’t quite cook through (who knew I had to soak them the night before and not just for a couple of hours?), and it’s true that we almost ran out of plates (despite the bunch I had borrowed from the office’s kitchen)… but the rest of the food was good, the other drinks were a-plenty, and the company was quite entertaining.

I flopped into bed that night relieved that all had gone relatively well, before I felt a particularly painful crink in my back, and realized that I had absent-mindedly spent the whole day on my feet … my body retaliated and I spent the following day on my back.

Ah well, all for a good cause… and good thing I won’t need to be entertaining again anytime soon!

Welcome to My Humble Abode

Sipping my morning coffee on the balcony of my third-storey Jaffna flat, I look out onto a few red-thatched rooftops, a small grove of tall coconut trees bearing crows on their swingy branches, a chipmunk skillfully scurrying along the triangular rooftops, and a handful of dragonflies circling atop all sorts of tall green vegetation that frames my vista… I have been doing this on any morning that the weather allows it, before the humidity, or heat, or insects drive me indoors for cover. I am doing this now as I write this – welcome to my humble abode.

This quaint little Jaffna flat – the first housing option I saw when I first got here, and one that I resisted till I could find no better alternative – became the bain of my existence as I negotiated the rent, cash advance option, furniture (including my beloved air-conditioner) and, more importantly, completion date. I would feel my heart sink every morning as I walked to work, past my flat, and would look up to find that there were still no windows, or that the walls weren’t painted yet, and would try to banish thoughts of how much more work was still required on the inside. After much delay, the flat was completed in record time by the last card I had left “I will be homeless in 3 days if I don’t have the flat to move into”. This last plea to my landlord was mostly true (I had already extended my stay at the guest house more than once, and knew there would soon be no room for me), but also emotional more than logistical – I needed to unpack and move in once and for all. And so, the flat was suddenly abuzz with activity, with diligent, hapless skilled workers simultaneously working on their specific craft in every room for three days straight, and I was handed the keys at the end of the third day. I was finally home.

I was so excited to finally be in my own place that I didn’t notice that, though I had purchased cleaning supplies and plates, I had overlooked getting mugs (for my morning coffee) or toilet paper! But with the same momentum of my flat’s work crew, I would nip out during lunch hours to buy the missing bits and pieces, including a refrigerator and a washing machine, all of which were delivered and installed on the same day because, hey, we’re in Jaffna!

It has been a few weeks now, and my “I could do this or that…” engine is slowly whirring to a halt as I realize that the place has all the basics it needs, including a few aesthetic touches courtesy of lightweight artisana items that traveled with me from Lebanon, and a few small purchases from here. Besides, I like the clean minimalistic look, which is softened by the canary yellow painted walls (the bedrooms are a warm matt pistachio green)… and this perfectly offsets the garishly-patterned brown sofa set provided as part of my rent agreement. In comparison, I was almost grateful that the landlord opted for a plastic dining room set (nevertheless a wee ornate and heavy-duty).

After a few days here, I no longer noticed how small the bathroom was, which was what had propelled me to look for other houses at the beginning, and soon I also adjusted to the kitchen sink placed in the corner of the counter, rather than at its centre, and the gas cooker that had only two settings (high and higher). After a few days, I found the optimal setting for the AC and ceiling fans, which maintained a soft cool draft through these few rooms. The only thing, it seems that I have yet to get accustomed to is the myriad of switches lined up for the grid of lights scattered on the ceiling and in the corners, inside and outside, of every type; neon tubes, ceiling globe, soft yellow ‘goblet’, and so on. I wish I could recognize a pattern in the assignment of switches, and I wish I could find a simple way to tag them, but I fear that code would be too convoluted to be practical as there simply is no pattern. On a good day, I hit the right switch on the second try. On other days, I wonder how much fun my neighbours are having as they watch my outdoor and indoor lights turn on and off as I hunt for the right switch.

I guess that will be one way I’ll be known in the neighbourhood…

A few of my favourite things… Tuneful response!

Sent to me by a friend in response to the previous posting - too funny not to share!

Shiny white teeth with dark chocolate complexion

high heels on bikes whiz in every direction

foods oh so spicy that your tongue will sting

these are a few of my favorite things

(sri lanka, sri lanka, sri lanka, sri lanka --to the waltz rhythm of the strings)

full moon's a day off and no one's complaining

after one cookie the poor kid's refraining

worn out morning wall by evening in bling

these are a few of my favorite things

when the pace slows

when the fan blows

when camps drain the tap

I list by mass email my favorite things

and then i go take a nap

A few of my favourite things…

In the weeks since I landed in Sri Lanka, I have been writing about my various observations of what I considered different and/or eccentric. I think it’s time I also shared some of my favourite things about Sri Lanka, the thoughts of which normally just make me smile.

1. This really is Smiling Lanka

A few days before I traveled here, a friend sent me an article about Sri Lanka being rated as one of the happier countries in the world. I’m not sure yet if the population here would agree, but I have chosen to take on the article’s phrase of ‘Smiling Lanka’ – people here have some of the brightest and sweetest smiles. And the smiles always come as something of a surprise, contrasting a previously staid/serious expression. Let me also add something that may seem racist in our new-age realm of political correctness, but let me emphasize that it is truly being expressed in admiration: most Sri Lankans I have met, especially up here in Jaffna, have a dark chocolaty brown complexion, and when they smile, it shines through, and their eyes just sparkle. It really is a happy smile.

2. Helmets, handbags and high heels

It seems that, in a country where there is still much gender discrimination, women have picked some battles, and won. Women, young and old(er), can be seen decked out in their finest saris, whizzing around town on their motorbikes. They may be subjected to harsher social rules and such in their daily lives (gender based violence being somewhat prevalent), but I love that this doesn’t come in the way of their bright red motorbikes, and there is no question about women having access to this basic practical transportation solution. You go girlfriends!!!

3. Poverty has bred good manners

I have already been to a few activities with children from areas that are underserved/underprivileged (insert euphemism for poverty here), and I love that these children are always perfectly combed, that they find ways to entertain themselves as they wait for things to happen that might interest them, and that when the ‘Cookie Lady’ comes out with her tray of cookies, they only ever take one.

It is highly possible that these children barely have two meals a day, and they only ever take one cookie, and never come back for more. Those kind of good manners humble me.

4. This place is clean, clean, clean!

When I told a Sri Lankan I’d met at the office in Colombo that I was coming to Jaffna, the only thing he said to distinguish them from others on the island was that they were very clean. He was right. Just to give you an idea: we provide water to the IDP camps in Jaffna, and had to actually cut the supply off for a few hours a day because people were running through the water at twice the speed… because they were showering three times a day. In the interest of having enough water to last through the days, we had to cut it off for a few hours each day, restricting their showers to just two a day.

In the villages, you walk barefoot into homes and some offices, and you do so with some comfort knowing (and feeling) that the floors are constantly being swept, because here everything has an air of having just been cleaned, and for the all the heat and humidity, people smell sweet throughout the day.

5. Things happen in one day… well, most things.

Picture this: I’m walking to work in the morning and I notice a house’s outside wall has had its colour worn out, which is especially noticeable on the posts of the gate and the little statuettes on top. As I walk back from work at the end of the day, the wall has been painted and decorated (the halves leading up to the gate are painted green and white in large checkered boxes) and the gate posts have been manicured back into their original design. This was all one coat, I suspect it might be worn out again by the same time next year, but I loved the one day transformation.

6. Poya day

I have now learned all about Poya day, the one day a month of the full moon, which the Buddhist tradition signifies as a day of celebration and worship. (If you want to learn more about it, check out: http://www.mysrilanka.com/travel/lanka/festivals/POSON.HTM) This also translates into the simple fact that we get a day off every month. If you’re wondering how our organisation agreed to such a thing, apparently a very smart deal was struck: staff agreed to work 15 minutes extra every day to be able to be granted their Poya days. In Jaffna, where practically nobody is Buddhist and the days have no particular religious or other significance, they do the same and take the day off. These are people after my own heart… And even though, as expats, we still need to have some presence in the office on that day to ‘hold down the fort’, I bring you back to the basic point: one day off every month! Score!!

7. The food!

Sri Lankan food has been described as the hottest food of the South East Asian cuisines. I will happily confirm that, although I am constantly told that the food I am being offered has been tamed to a fraction of the usual spices. I would also like to go on record as saying that this is one of the more delectable cuisines I have had the pleasure to explore. My main problem is that I cannot describe any of the dishes to you as I frequently don’t know what I’m eating. I can usually make out that it’s vegetable, meat, chicken or fish, but that’s about it. I won’t know what to order at a restaurant from just the menu, I won’t know what to say to another Sri Lankan when praising their cuisine (or asking for a recipe), and one of the reasons why this doesn’t really bother me is because I have liked everything I have tried so far. And since I hardly expect to be able to cook any of my dishes here (where olive oil is sold in 250gr. Bottles – enough said!) it is such a comfort to know that I can blindly spend the year trying out a continuous array of dishes.

8. The calm… the calm…

I say this without a hint of irony or sarcasm: the slow pace, the lack of public activity, the quiet, it is all just so… calming! The heat no doubt contributes to this as well, and it contributes to the ease with which I transition into sweet afternoon naps while reading a good book, underneath a softly lapping fan and a cooling air-conditioner. And since there’s nothing else happening anywhere, nothing I need to consider or feel guilty about missing, these naps are ever so sweeter.

And the earlier the days end (and they wind down quickly after the sun sets), the earlier they start. So you slowly crawl into bed close to 10pm without a hint of the stress that used to keep me alert till midnight, feeling you’ve lived a full, long day, and that there was nothing else you could have done today but didn’t. That alone is a pretty calming thought.

Cohabitating with the bugs

There is a lush, deep, green quality to the landscape in Sri Lanka. Though Jaffna has sandy and rocky patches, the green, where it exists, is staidly present and striking. I know nothing about gardening or agriculture, but presume that part of this lush quality comes from the humidity, that seems to contain the atmosphere in pockets, nurturing a slow, full growth of foliage.

One friend, who had previously visited Sri Lanka, told me to imagine all the greenery I had ever seen in the UK, US and Lebanon, combine it, multiply it, and then I would approximate what I might see in Sri Lanka. I think he was referring to the central parts of Sri Lanka, but still, he wasn’t too far off.

What nobody ever points out, however, is that this glorious manifestation of nature does not only involve foliage, but does, quite naturally, come with an assortment of bugs, and birds, and bugs, and chipmunks, and bugs, and frogs, and did I mention the bugs?? The birds and geckos and others can sometimes create a disruptive cacophony, but are amusing for the most part. The bugs, however, are a different story. They are so ever present that I have already begun to normalize to the situation, assuming at any point in time that if I feel an itch or a tickle that it is not a fallen hair, it is not a loose string from my clothing, it is not a figment of my imagination – it is, quite simply, a bug of some sort. And acting as normal does, I no longer attempt to flail said arm or wave the bug away, a simple and effective flick or slap rids me of the insect once and for all. (I spend a lot of my time washing my hands…) I also no longer look too closely to figure out what has given me this bite or that (a true city girl, I only ever recognize the mosquitoes’) but rather marvel at how they found a path between my skin and clothing to manage that bite. Yes, I am quite easily entertained.

These bugs so belong here that they seem rather comfortable in their existence; they don’t move any faster as our footsteps and swooping hands approach, they’re just not easily scared. This brought on a happy realization: that for all the environmental speak against insecticides, over-construction spoiling natural habitats, and such, I was finally in a place where the insects faaaaar outnumbered us, and where they had their own places to live and thrive that were just as nice as mine. Thus with the playing ground equalized, I could fight back with all I’ve got! I was now free to cohabitate with the bugs armed with my insect repellent, mosquito net, house spray, and VAPE! I was free to build fences and trenches, set up traps, free to run generators, and seal all my doors and windows shut as I blast my air conditioner. Indeed, with the playing ground leveled, all was now fair in my own little war. You may say that I used to do this before – true, but not without a hint of guilt and shame at the luxury of it all. Now, these same actions come with a clear sense of guilt-free entitlement.

I can live with that!

Settling in...

As I write this piece, I am sitting in the living room of my temporary home, the guest house, watching a movie about Cuba on cable TV, tickled by a little breeze that is being encouraged by a hardworking ceiling fan, and I felt for a moment that I could be pretty much anywhere. I took that as a sign that, after a little over ten days in Jaffna, I believe I am, for all intents and purposes, more or less settled.

I probably won’t consider the process complete until I find a place of my own, which has proved to be an interesting challenge in our little town of many houses. The old and the new houses are up for rent for the same reason; the owners have long fled the war and are living abroad. That is not to say the ones that are being newly built stray very far off the usual design staples: bathrooms are generally small, as are kitchens, which do not make space for refrigerators and only accommodate the ‘stove-top’ type stoves (no ovens in sight). Once I realized this was the general style available, I returned to the first apartment I had seen when I arrived. A week in town and a few house visits were all that was needed to normalize the apartment design, which I had first thought was being made as concessions for floor space and ‘new innovations’, and certainly didn’t think it was the norm. I now have to deal with another issue: exaggerated rents brought on by newly expressed demand.

The end of the war and the re-opening of the main A9 highway linking the Jaffna peninsula to the rest of Sri Lanka has brought with it a lot of interest for business development potential; which means that there are more goods in the stores, people seem to have positive outlooks on potential job opportunities… and that companies are asking about houses to rent out as guest houses for their surveyors. Only one or two have actually rented the houses so far, but the simple presence of expressed interest after years and years of none means that landlords are multiplying their rents to see how lucky they might get. I just happen to be entering the real estate scene at this point, as the rents are vaulting, and before landlords have heard enough “That’s outrageous!” to adjust their rents back to something normal. (Just to give you an idea, my potential landlord wanted $300 a month in rent, the usual rent for a similar-sized house is $90. See why I think they’re just throwing out numbers to try their luck??)

In any case, we’ll just wait and see how that turns out. And that outcome and moving date will not only translate into the unleashing of my photos and decorations onto walls and table tops, but will also signify when I can have consistently hot showers with a newly-installed hot-water head (Jaffna’s standard bathrooms have one tap – and not a hot water one – so my showers are planned by sun-hours!), and when I can double or triple up my mattress so that I can sleep on my sides without waking up to bruises, though that has not yet stopped me from having a good night’s sleep.

In the meantime, I am slowly getting to know my new town… and it is sweet. When I first arrived, I likened it to a town I’d visited in Southern Yemen; it was hot and sticky, and the buildings and roads seemed stuck somewhere in time, an arrested development of sorts, but cable TV, mobile phone networks and internet had arrived. When I took my first walk through town and found the bus station, and the two-block-squared town centre, and heard about the extensive Jaffna University program, I likened it instead to the town my father grew up in. Just to be clear, I loved Yemen, and what could I possibly hold against the town that nurtured my father? So, yes, I am liking the tiny town of Jaffna.

One way in which Jaffna differs from both towns, however, is in its abundance of dogs and other animals that roam the streets. This is a population that is clearly gentle towards animals – I mean, I have never seen so many animals live to such ripe old ages as some of the dogs on these streets. So in the city of few cars, the true perils I face when walking to and from work each day mainly involve not getting startled (read: jump-out-of-your-shoes-startled) at some of the friendlier dogs that decide to charge towards me and accompany me (interestingly never quite coming any closer), and avoiding stepping into any of their doggy poop. The main plus from this is that I no longer hear the numerous “Hello Miss”, “Good morning” and other strained English greetings from passing bikers. As friendly, and innocent, as it all is and as quaint as I found it at the beginning (especially when some would try to indicate their additional fluency with a drawn out “Good evening” or “How are you?”), it all got a little tiresome after a while. And so I have now become one of those callous foreigners who ignores these continuous greetings, occasionally responding with a smile, and being distracted by the dogs helps ease the weight of this antisocial behavior on my conscience. The absolute peak of these experiences happened today as I was biking back from town. I had once again underestimated the distance back, was getting very hot and tired, and was focusing solely on maintaining a pedaling rhythm that would get me home faster. Suddenly, a motorbike slows down to my pace and the rider starts speaking to me. My first opportunistic (and survivalist) thoughts jumped to the possibility that this was someone I knew and I could latch on to him for speed as I had seen so many other bikers do as they chatted with their motorbiking friends. Not so. It was just young man making small talk, asking me where I was from, and then, cleverly recognizing that I must work for an NGO of some sort (what else would foreigners be doing in Jaffna?), started telling me of his time working for an NGO. I believe what followed was some form of a brief CV – I wouldn’t know as I stopped listening when I realized that he could not serve my purpose, and that I was wasting too much energy on listening rather than pedaling.

Though I must admit that I was sad to see him go in the end, if only because I could see that he reached the intersection I was aiming at much quicker than I did.

The Grand & the Not-So-Grand

Sri Lanka boasts much of its own rich indigenous history, as well as a history of colonization and development. As per the Tourist Bureau standard issue brochure, first it was the Portuguese, then the Dutch, then the British. The Tourist Bureau will naturally point to the beautiful remains of these periods of colonization, and for some reason they keep mentioning the wooden furniture, which is quite gorgeous, but would also lead one to wonder what was being designed in terms of furniture prior to this move…

In any case, remnants of these glory days can be found in various aspects of Colombo city. Though it often feels that the city, and its people, have learned to live ‘on top’ of these remnants rather than with them. Modestly-sized old houses brandishing a faded flourish here or there belie what used to be underneath the intrusively placed wooden (or neon) sign naming the place of business that now occupies that ground floor. Others seem to have aged and deteriorated along with the status of its occupying family, becoming a sad, rusted shell. These scenes repeat themselves in random order – there is no string of stores or houses of one ‘type’ or the other; a modern-type shop can be found adjacent to a worn down store (and not always of the same line of business, which makes one think of the non-marketing reasons leading to such a decision), and you can constantly find a ‘Big man’ living next to a ‘Poor man’, as one of our drivers put it. But one thing’s for sure – there is clearly room for everyone, and they will make that home quite colourful (if not structurally safe) with brightly painted walls, window frames and doors.

Then there are the relatively larger structures. One such example is the Galle Face, a beautiful stretch of shore by the ocean where giggling families can be seen crowding every available space to fly their multi-coloured kites. You are reminded in every piece of writing about the Galle Face that it was maintained by the Dutch to serve as a strategic space of clear aim for their cannons onto any approaching ships. The neighbouring Galle Face Hotel no doubt also has a story behind it, which I have not yet dug up, mainly because I think it may disturb me. The hotel is majestically positioned right on the shore, and you can sit on a rather long porch sipping one drink or the other as you look out onto a rough endless ocean. It is all sufficiently fantastical until you start looking around at the architecture, at the furniture and the set up, and you realize that it all wreaks of colonial airs, at least those that we have learned about from the British Empire. The waiters are perfectly bow-tied, vested, and white-gloved, and it barely lightens the blow that there are some Sri Lankan patrons as well. Here was the Sri Lankan staff still serving some ‘white’ person from here or there. Granted I hardly hail from a colonizing power of any sort, but the whole scene just left such a bad taste in my mouth that I could not wait to finish my drink and leave.

I am told by others that a few such hotels exist, where the management means to propagate the image of colonialism. As a business, I am sure they would not have maintained this if it did not turn out to be successfully profitable, and I am sure a business-minded friend would argue that at least the Sri Lankans have managed to turn their colonized history into a profit, so that can’t be all bad. Somehow, I just wish it wasn’t still the Sri Lankans who were serving.

A differently positive shift has happened in other places where the final form of the structure reflects an empowered, freer Sri Lanka(ns); such as the university, the grand park, and the National Gallery (which is a haven to established and budding artists). I am sure if I had spent more time in the ‘real’ parts of Colombo, the type you stumble upon on your 3rd or 4th week in a city, I may have found a few more of these, and they would have balanced out my distaste for colonial tradition. For now, I’ll just linger with pleasure at the fact that the ‘Big man’ and the ‘Poor man’ live on the same street…

The Last Leg is the Longest

By virtue of modern air travel, I was able to fly from Beirut, through Dubai, to Colombo in one day. Crossed over no less than 10 countries and more than 2 time zones in one day. I had not thought that the longest part of my journey would be related to the 1 hour flight from Colombo to Jaffna…

The mere mention of the experience is so exhausting that I hesitate to think of it again, but it is too surreal and too miraculous not to share.

I will spare you the relatively boring first day of ‘travel’, where we arrived at the airport at 6am (admittedly far too early for an 8.30am flight) and were informed the airline’s final decision to cancel the flight at 2pm. After hours of “we will let you know in 30 minutes”, it was almost a relief to have a clear cut response.

But that’s only one part of the trip, to be followed by a surreal day where the airline overlooked to inform us that there was seat for me on the flight. Didn’t matter that we were calling them every hour or so… guess their left hand didn’t know what their right hand was doing!
In any case, I can’t say I minded another night in my sweetly modern hotel, where I even indulged in a bubble bath to wash away the stress of the previous two days. I hadn’t realised it would be what I needed to survive the day that followed.

The next day, I was told with great reassurance and optimism that I had a seat on the plane and should leave for the airport immediately. Just to provide a timeline, it was 9.30am. “At least I didn’t have to wake up at an ungodly hour”, I thought, and got ready to make the trip to my final destination where I could finally unpack.

I should have clarified that since Jaffna has been cut off from the rest of Sri Lanka by the band of previously LTTE controlled sites, it has been under heavy military protection for years. This means that it can only be reached by air (the road having been cut off) and only through a military airport.

I had never been to a military airport before, so could not blame them for the shack they had set up 100m from the airport entrance where they ‘checked you in’, both the security and the airline kind. To be frank, they were quite friendly for military, and weren’t as intrusive in their questions or search as I was warned. That is, not counting when they weighed my luggage, and then proceeded to weigh me as well! The nerve!!

In any case, my turn finally came up in the long dusty line, all was weighed, and then I was told that my bag (carrying all my ‘settling in’ items lugged all the way from Beirut) was too heavy and would need to go on a later flight. Finding the idea of parting with my luggage traumatising at this stage, I insisted that I was told I would be able to pay an excess baggage fine, but would fly with all said baggage. In the midst of this discussion, the fellow looking at the passenger list had even better news: my name was not on it. I would like to say that I was at my wit’s end, but to be frank, I was so numb by this point that I said nothing and followed their signal to sit on the side and wait. In the 2 hours that I waited there, I was told very little about what was being done, but I was repeatedly reassured – in oddly hushed tones – that I would fly out that day and that my baggage was ‘approved’. Deciding I had no choice but to believe them, I sat and waited.

My baggage still went on a different flight, on the earlier one that I was supposed to fly on, and I ended up on an additional flight that was chartered from – wait for it – the air force.

I’m not quite sure why the air force would want to charter out flights, especially when they so clearly don’t like passengers, and hardly thought of us as clients. We were corralled onto the airplane by pilots in uniform, sunglasses, and stern looks. The 17-seater had three seats per row (two together, one alone), and as I sat on the lonely side seat, I noted that only the paired seats had received ear muffs. Which, in my state of compromised lucidity at that point, led me to believe that the noise must only be coming from the engines on that side of the plane. Besides, I could barely hold that thought long enough when absolutely every fibre of my being was focused on keeping my body from melting. I can only say this to describe how hot and stuffy the airplane was: imagine putting your finger inside a can that had been lying out on the tarmac for a while. Two words: not fun. They only good that came from that is that it knocked us all out – in my case, for the duration of the trip.

But wait, there’s more…
Though the flight and landing were of the smoothest I’d experienced (as far as I can recall), we landed out on an isolated runway at the military airport in Jaffna, and were brought out of the plane. As the maintenance crew rushed to fuel the plane, and do their climbing-all-over-airplane tasks, we were left standing under one of the wings for shade. We lingered there for a while before I was told that we were waiting for a bus to take us to the terminal. How charming.

The bus finally arrived, and carried us and our luggage to yet another hut where they ticked off our names and where we waited for another bus to take us to the final checkpoint. The airline had apparently not scheduled their flights (or ‘additional flights’) properly and there were no buses available. My selfish thoughts at this point were focused on my life packed in a bag that was nowhere in sight, and probably lost in some marsh forever.
It was now 3pm.

But this is where the miracles start.

As I sat there waiting for an absent bus, I heard someone calling out my organisation's name. I had never been more grateful to diplomatic privileges that allowed our drivers to come in and collect us from inside a security zone. Within moments, I was in an air conditioned car, being careened in the right direction: out of the military base!

At the final checkpoint, we found a large truck – the type I am accustomed to seeing on Lebanese highways carrying livestock or produce – with an entire load of luggage. In order to find my bag, I would need to climb up into the truck and identify it. Slightly sceptical that it would be there, but desperate to be wrong, I tried to scale the side of the high vehicle (with great difficulty), and I almost could not believe my eyes when I spotted my lovely big bag. This was a true miracle!

Last on the list were our phones and cameras, which were confiscated as we checked in way way back at the very beginning at that shack on the outskirts of the airport in Colombo. And with those being handed to me, my cup had runneth over with miracles.

I would need a few days to recover from this trip (which is roughly how long it took me to be able to sit and write about it), but with everything arriving safely in the face of so many unpromising possibilities, I felt that all would be well.

And I tried very hard not to think of what the return trip out of Jaffna would be like…

Two and a half...

The first thing I learned about Sri Lanka was it’s time zone. It was always just a little more complicated to agree on an interview appointment with my now new employer when making calculations for a 2.5 hour difference. Why the half?? It took up much discussion in my farewell party, and none of us could quite figure out the reason behind it.

Well, I learned all about it on my first day in Sri Lanka, and it is reminiscent of Augustus wanting his month (August) to be as long as Julius’ (July) – Pakistan and India cannot be in the same time zone, so they specified the half hour mark, and Sri Lanka followed suit. (There’s actually more: apparently Nepal also didn’t want to be in India’s time zone or China’s (horror!!) so it specified its time zone on the 15 minute mark!)

After a few days in Colombo, I started noticing a few other things that are done in halfs.

For one thing tuc-tuc’s (motorized tricycle cab) are the most dominant (and most convenient) mode of transportation. They are everywhere, and impose a half lane on the street… producing 2.5-lane roads. And I know I’m stretching the theme here, but can I point out that a tuc-tuc has 2 and a half (of two) wheels?

There are other half compromises that appear here and there – there’s a 2 Rupee coin, but not a 1 Rupee coin, there are ministries for everything under the sun (one for agriculture, then another for irrigation; one for recreation and sports, and another for sports, one for probation and child care, and another for child development and women's empowerment…), halving mandates possibly in an attempt to make sure everybody gets a ministerial brief. And so on and so forth...

But one thing that they do not do in halves here in Sri Lanka is credit lines; I was issued my Visa debit card yesterday and noticed this morning that its expiry date was 2018. No middle ground there – now how’s that for full on trust?!

Welcome to the land of Tea, Rubber & Coconut

Everybody you come across in Sri Lanka will tell you of their three main products the moment they know you're a visitor - got it from two cab drivers, a concierge who was making small talk while we waited for paperwork to complete, and some clerk at the airport. I didn't have the heart to tell them that I had already read all about it in my Lonely Planet.

Considering I got these repeated introductions within my first 24 hours in Sri Lanka, I didn't feel it was appropriate to question what I saw as I first entered the airport's duty free. Not unlike many airports, you come across the duty free just as you're leaving with your luggage, and after a rather copious display of beer and alcohol, your eyes automatically wander to the electronics stores. Yes, that was plural, and I don't just mean cameras, phones, hairdryers and such. I am referring to the electronic keyboards, television sets, and - wait for it - fridges, ovens and washing machines! There were so many of these stores lining the hall as we exited that I could only assume this was a lucrative business, or that all of these store owners were equally misguided. I mean, how exactly would one have the foresight to land from a flight, and walk out to buy an oven from the airport?? But just as I was about to convince myself that this was all a stroke of bad planning that would soon be rectified when these stores go out of business, I saw a fellow traveler walking out to his ride with his suitcase... and a brand new television!

I suppose the three main national products would not be heavily taxed to warrant this type of duty free sales inventiveness...

المشـهد الأخير

يلوح الضوء خلف السـتارة
لم تبقَ حركة سـواه
خلا المسـرح من المعركة
خلا من الأنفاس
سـيفك المشـهور ملقىً
جوادك سـاكنٌ متأهبٌ
ينتظر أوامر المعركة القادمة
...لم يعرف الخسـارة من قبل
إنتهت المعركة يا نجيب
بعد أن اسـتراح بطلها
فنجد أنك انتصرت كعادتك
...والخسـارة هي خسـارتنا

ملل عميق

ماذا نفعل الآن؟

بعد أن حصلنا على شـهاداتنا
وبرزنا لأعمالنا في هذا المجال أو ذاك
بعد أن قرأنا وحلّلنا وأصغينا وانتفضنا
وهتفنا في الشـوارع مناصرين أو مناهضين

بعد أن شـاركنا الحبيب قلبنا
ورمّمنا ما تهدم بعد فراقنا
بعد أن سـاندنا أصدقاء نحبهم
وملأنا أعماقنا بضحكهم
وفرّغنا أحزاننا على أكتافهم

بعد أن كبرنا وصغرنا وكبرنا
وعشـنا ومتنا وعدنا الى أهل نعشـقهم

بعد أن جرّينا الشـمس
وطوينا حافة الظلام

بعد كل كل هذا
ماذا نفعل الآن؟

Forever Beirut

Bring out your colours, your mornings and flowers
Endless waves rolling in and out
Igniting countless dreams and wonders
Round up your lovers, your thinkers and fighters
Understand that after their worlds burst and crumble
This city, their city, our city... Beirut, will remain.

Disordered Lights

I love my little country, and I love my compatriots, and I say this completely and totally out of love: we do not know how to respect laws. Whatever order we have managed over the years has stemmed purely from culturally defined and propagated manners, and what has become socially acceptable practice.

One such socially acceptable practice has been “it’s alright to break the law if you don’t get caught”. After the seat belt law/fine was introduced a few years back, taxi drivers, wanting to unburden me from dealing with the moody seatbelt in their front passenger seat, would reassure me that I could ignore it as there was no police around. Same goes for speaking on the cell phone while driving, going the wrong way down side streets that had their directions (illogically) reversed overnight (both of which I will confess to having done myself), and more recently, driving through a red light.

There is something about a red light that absolutely deters me from crossing it. Perhaps it’s my engineer nerdiness respecting the technology that is making it run, or perhaps it’s, quite simply, the psychology behind that glaring red light staring down at me. Whatever it is, I have great difficulty crossing a red light, where many of my compatriots don’t. And for all the mish-mashed history of non-governance, the faulty logic of street planning and other such backdrops to our Lebanese driving stories, I forgive them all for these actions (whizzing past me as I remain steadily stationary), whether I condone it or not.

What absolutely incenses me, however, is when we are, through whatever magical spell, all respecting the order of the traffic lights, only to have a sprightly police officer encourage us to ignore it and drive through. It literally drives me nuts. Whereas I could and have ignored my honking fellow drivers as they try to loosen my stubborn brake at the red light, this little police officer demands my attention and forces me to move. My flush of silent rage as I reluctantly obey this mis-order is accompanied by an almost hopeless sadness. How will anything ever change when this master of his domain, this product of our culture, thinks it’s alright to break the law if he doesn’t get caught?

Too beautiful not to share

From the coffers of Gibran Khalil Gibran, and with my heartfelt thanks to Suad who shared it with us...

البعض نحبهم
لكن لا نقترب منهم ... فهم في البعد أحلى
وهم في البعد أرقى ... وهم في البعد أغلى

والبعض نحبهم
ونسعى كي نقترب منهم
ونتقاسم تفاصيل الحياة معهم
ويؤلمنا الابتعاد عنهم
ويصعب علينا تصور الحياة حين تخلو منهم.

والبعض نحبهم
ونتمنى أن نعيش حكاية جميله معهم
ونفتعل الصدف لكي نلتقي بهم
ونختلق الأسباب كي نراهم
ونعيش في الخيال أكثر من الواقع معهم

والبعض نحبهم
لكن بيننا وبين أنفسنا فقط
فنصمت برغم ألم الصمت
فلا نجاهر بحبهم حتى لهم لأن العوائق كثيرة
والعواقب مخيفه ومن الأفضل لنا ولهم أن تبقى
الأبواب بيننا وبينهم مغلقه...
والبعض نحبهم
فنملأ الأرض بحبهم ونحدث الدنيا عنهم
ونثرثر بهم في كل الأوقات
ونحتاج إلى وجودهم ....كالماء ..والهواء
ونختنق في غيابهم أو الابتعاد عنهم

والبعض نحبهم
لأننا لا نجد سواهم
وحاجتنا إلى الحب تدفعنا نحوهم
فالأيام تمضي
والعمر ينقضي
والزمن لا يقف
ويرعبنا بأن نبقى بلا رفيق

والبعض نحبهم
لان مثلهم لا يستحق سوى الحب
ولا نملك أمامهم سوى أن نحب
فنتعلم منهم أشياء جميله
ونرمم معهم أشياء كثيرة
ونعيد طلاء الحياة من جديد
ونسعى صادقين كي نمنحهم بعض السعادة

والبعض نحبهم
لكننا لا نجد صدى لهذا الحب في قلوبهــم
فننهار و ننكسر
و نتخبط في حكايات فاشلة
فلا نكرههم
ولا ننساهم
ولا نحب سواهم
ونعود نبكيهم بعد كل محاوله فاشلة

.. والبعض نحبهم ..
.. ويبقى فقط أن يحبوننا..
.. مثلما نحبهم.


جبران خليل جبران

Plato deserves his own post...

"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light."
- Plato

Souvenirs

I collect all sorts of souvenirs from all sorts of occasions.

There is the champagne cork when Anne and I marked her last night in Beirut before moving onto greener professional pastures.
The menu from the magical day that was Moni and Scott’s wedding.
A plastic trinket bracelet the girls made for me when they slept over one distant pre-teen night ago.
There are notes, and train tickets, and directions scribbled on hotel stationery…

I noticed today that we have a different set of souvenirs that we’ve started collecting and holding on to.
A bottle that once held some potent Limoncello, the only alcohol I had at hand during the war of 2006 which saw me through those nights, has been washed and dried and placed firmly on a kitchen shelf.
Digital souvenirs come in the form of SMS’s, warm and supportive, that I received from friends abroad during the May 2008 conflict, and which I have not been able to delete.
Tania has pictures of where the bullet came through her bedroom window, and through her built-in cupboard.
Dany kept a few of the bullets that landed by his feet, ricocheting off the wall as he solidly held through an 'active' night up in his village.

He has other souvenirs from those May events, which we share in slightly different forms but for similar reasons – he has his occasional nightmares.

What I wouldn’t give for a postcard and a cheesy t-shirt these days…

Love - a work in progress

Elusive love
Have you embraced me? Or did I create you?
Did I imagine your touch?
Elusive love, passing like a breeze
Should I believe the feeling you leave behind?
What are you? That my palms should sweat?
That my breath should go shallow
That all my senses should tingle so

What are you? That should bring such parts of me to life
Meanwhile, losing sight of who I am
As if we cannot coexist as we are
But must change and bend to each other’s will.
Love, you remain, elusive.

Coffee

The scent of freshly ground roasted coffee wafts through the cabin. “Why would anyone take coffee back from Amman to Beirut?” I pondered briefly, noticing that the stash was in the compartment directly overhead. A stewardess closes the compartment, sealing off the smell, and my mind wanders to other observations.

A pair of young ladies, displeased with their separate seating, feebly attempt to negotiate a seat swap. Not possible yet, sadly… I hear a click, and that warm scent of fresh coffee returns, carrying me to my morning with Jumana, Jabal Lweibdeh, walking casually from one art gallery to the next, enchanted with the smell of coffee being roasted in a large brass bin. The smell makes us look up from our path, out of our conversation, and I suddenly notice the bare tiny store boasting the shiny brass container in its window… a meticulously turbaned sheikh with a sweet Santa-like beard inspecting the vegetables that are lined in the back of a truck, fresh for purchase… a lady’s voice in mid-phonecall comes from one of the balconies, its bars coyly lined with cloth to allow for some privacy from the street… An area Jumana likes, she describes it as ‘real’, and I would have to agree. Interestingly, this tiny street carries the contrast of simply lived lives with the ‘pushing the boundaries’ art on display in the galleries we were visiting. I was fascinated by how inclusive this little area was to host such extremes, and wondered where these two pedestrian gallery visitors fell along that spectrum.

The fully booked flight has carry-on laden passengers struggling with overhead cabin space, moving up and down the aisle inspecting all of the compartments. The one overhead opens and shuts, and that beautiful coffee smell rhythmically pours out like lackadaisical waves lapping on a soft sandy shore. Each wave carries me somewhere else… to the peaceful mornings with my coffee mug in Jumana’s closed kitchen balcony… huddling on an armchair in a coffee shop with Nizar as we try to catch up on the past 22 years… the empty shaded tea garden at Darat al Funoon, completely unchanged from the day I took that picture of Mona on our first visit there, as we sat to recover from our spiraling route up the hill to its entrance (the picture still sits on my shelf)… the afternoon at Nisreen’s, our saviour with the coffee machine, where the long-desired cups of coffee set off an energized impromptu dance session…

We are instructed to fasten our seatbelts, and the scent is sealed off once and for all. The trip starts, putting an end to my meanderings.

One last letter...

أهكذا تموت الأبطال؟

مضى أسـبوع على رحيلك، يا حسـام، وقد ملأت هذه الصفحات بجمل ورسـائل لم تكتمل... خانتني اللغة مرة ومراراً، ورفض منطقي الكلام عنك بصيغة الماضي... عنّدت، كذّبت الخبر، كذّبت كل ما قرأت عن الحادث... وأنت تعلم تماماً أسـبابي، تعلم كيف يبني المرء جداراً في صميمه ليحمي نفسـه من وقع الفاجعة، لفترة بسـيطة على الأقل، كي تسـنح له الفرصة ليسـتوعب ما جرى ويقوى على تقبّله.

واليوم، عليّ أن أقبل أنك رحلت. عليّ أن أقبل أنني وجدتك منذ عامين، وجدتك بعد بحث طال العشـرون سـنة منذ تخرّجنا المدرسـي، ليس لأفقدك اليوم، بل كي أكسـبك في تاريخ حياتي كالرجل المسؤول، كالأب الحنون، كالحالم المخطط الطموح الذي وصل الى مراده دون قسـاوة أو غرور... هل تعلم كم يفرحني هذا؟ كم يفرحني أن حياتك كانت ملأى بالحب والنجاح والمغامرات... أنها كانت ملأى بالحياة، وأن من حسـن حظي أن أسـمع عنها منك.

يفرحني أن الطبيب الناجح لم يتخلّى عن صفات شـبابه، وبقي كريم النفـس والعزّ، بقي بتلك الضحكة الخافتة، شـبه الخجولة، وتلك الابتسـامة الماكرة الدافئة التي طالما جعلتني أضحك على غلطتي التي كشـفتها دون أن أخجل منها.

يفرحني أنني اسـتعدت صوتك في آخر كتاباتنا وأننا عدنا أصدقاء وليـس ذكريات.

وسـتبقى هكذا، يا حسـام، صديق عزيز حثّني على النجاح والفكاهة... والاسـتمتاع بالحياة.
فإن عدت الى السـؤال الذي طاردني طول هذا الأسـبوع، يأتي اليّ الجواب ببسـاطة: نعم، هكذا يموت الأبطال، فمَن عاش بطلاً، يبقى بطلاً أبداً.

وداعاً، عزيزي، في أمان الله.

There are no words

You would need to be living under a rock to have not heard about the devastation that is taking over a little piece of land in the neighbouring country. A country with a controversial name, and a little strip called Gaza.
You need not have followed the news every day – a random 30 second glimpse at any news from there is haunting enough to keep you awake at night.

I have stopped myself from writing here for the past few weeks because I was almost scared of what might come out. Scared that allowing myself the freedom my blog has provided me will bring too many ugly overwhelming feelings to the surface. Because if they did, they would blind me to seeing an end to this tragedy – a possibility that could literally flatten me and my belief that human lives count for something.

But maybe, as coherent sentences fail me, maybe I can just blurt out what has been going through my head in syllables:
Anger
Hurt
Outright injustice
Humiliation
Sadness
Despair
…

Hope.

Funny that I still have hope. Fortunate and blessed that I still have hope, that the inner workings of my subconscious mind still reach that at the end of every silent rant.

You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…