Yoga on rooftops---Colombo

It’s humid, and though humidity can do wonders for your complexion and hair—moisturizing, and nourishing, and preserving youthfulness, when combined with hot-hotness and polluted urban centres it can lead to a sticky sweaty dirty existence, and the feeling that you are wallowing in your own sweaty stench. After a long day of solving all of the world’s problems—poverty, pestilence, war, misery, you know the sort, and doing so in the well ventilated, but not air-conditioned room within our former colonial office space, the sticky gets even worse commuting with 1.5-2 million other souls in traffic plagued by diesel fumes and dusty roads. As I have mentioned before the Colombo commuters are great communicators with their horns.

Beep-beep –“I’m behind you.” “I’m beside you” I’m in front of you”

Beep-beep— move out of my way/let me through.

Beep-beep—“hurry up, slow poke”

Beeeeeeep—“I’m a massive bus with too many people get the heck out of the way before I run you over”

Bip bip—“hi, cutie want to talk to me?”

Boop boop—“Look at me I’m driving through an intersection…” and on and on and on.

So imagine if you will, nearly 2 million of us filling the roads and sidewalks of measly little Colombo after the sun has beaten down over the city all day, and though the air is filled with moisture the dust and particles float among us, we are packing our sweaty bodies into buses, tri-shaws, cars, bikes, and some of us are walking. We weave in and out of traffic searching for the quickest way home or to our respective destinations.

Mine is yoga, down Havelock Road and over to Amarasekera Mawatha. It begins around 6 while the sun is still up and the commuters still raging.

I’ve arrived using several modes of transportation, after avoiding death in the streets, and often a bit anxious. Sam (my Australian-born yoga instructor) --her husband waits for us at the garage door reclining barefoot and in his lungi and directs us up the three floors to the rooftop. With each step up I can feel the intensity of the streets falling away down the stairwell. By the time I reach the open rooftop the horns and motors can still be heard, but their effects on me are greatly diminished.

The sun is slipping lower into the sky, painting it pinks and oranges and reds. The crows and daytime birds are vociferously making their way to their evening nesting places. The bats silently head southeast. Our class begins and as I stretch and glide into postures, the noises of the day slow and slip into a mellower evening hush.

The sun dips into the sea, just beyond the rooftop. Dusk passes quickly and by the time we are laying in our savasana postures, the stars have emerged and the moon lights our practice. The busy city has transformed in only a couple of hours and I find my own ‘urban peace’.

Traveling alone is great! But can be exhausting too.

"Ooh la la

Wow.

Hi baby

Nice walk

Nice skirt

Whistle whistle whistle

Uuuugh (grunt)

Grrrrr

How much? Fifty rupees?

Helooo! Hi Madam…

Lookin’ good. Where are you going?"

--- Let's just say, it was a long walk today.

These are only a small sampling of the kinds of greetings I have heard while walking down the street in just about any city I have ever lived in, visited, toured, worked in, or passed through. It has mattered not which continent or country, whether in a posh neighborhood or a slum, village or town. It has not mattered if I was 18 and dressed like a skater boy, or 31 in professional and demure attire. This has been weighing on my mind for some time and the words are only now starting to form. These are unfinished and unpolished thoughts, but they are itching to come out.

Let us get something quite clear. I am no raving beauty. I do not look like a super model. There is nothing particularly awe inspiring about my appearance. Not particularly tall or short. Not particularly large or small. Not particularly hot or ugly. Not particularly young or old. I do not dress provocatively, nor do I wear a niqab. But rarely a day goes by that I haven’t heard at least one of the aforementioned comments/noises/gurgles or grunts.

When I go to a new place I do a little research on appropriate attire and dress accordingly. I walk in well-lit areas, down main thoroughfares. I stay close to the road, and do not lurk in shadows. I walk with friendly confidence.

I know how to get out of a pickle. (I have a quick whit and disarming tone). When I am out alone (which is often) and especially at night, I am constantly aware of who is behind me, to my left or right and just ahead. I also am painfully aware that my >5’3”, >54kg frame is not going to ward off a larger attacker, multiple people, a male, or what have you. In fact I am painfully aware of this. And that sometimes makes living this life exhausting.

A very close male-friend of mine was complaining to me months ago, about some rather silly girls he has known. He couldn’t understand why, as soon as they got into a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship they immediately started talking about traveling together. He couldn’t see the fun in that. If he wanted to go to exciting places he was much more interested in going at it alone, leaving open the possibility of meeting new and remarkable people you might not if traveling as a couple. I had to agree with him, at the time.

I’ve always liked how much more open to new people you can be when traveling alone, you strike up conversations and take side-trips you never would have considered if you were distracted by the attentions of a boyfriend/girlfriend. You even try harder to speak the local language, as it’s often means to communicating with another human being.

Quite frankly none of the partners I’ve ever had have been willing to travel to the highlands of Ecuador, or the ‘badlands’ of Mexico, or to India, or sailing across the pacific, or even the ‘hood in Miami. So I found myself looking down my nose with my friend at those silly, silly pretty-girls, dependent on a man to provide travel companionship, security, and confirmation that yes, he is your boyfriend.

But then I went to the Mexican/US border and watched “Coyotes” shuttle people past my window and over my rooftop from Nogales, Son to Nogales, AZ, on a nightly basis. And I witnessed the police and border patrol shuffle past me with AK-47s and armored vehicles. And I drove across the desert as fast as possible to make it home before dusk, so I wasn’t caught on the road, alone and in the main drug trafficking corridor in the state of Sonora.

And then I came to Sri Lanka and I know people are curious and will stare at this strange white woman riding the bus, or walking along the sidewalk. I am prepared for this. I am prepared to hear the hoots and the whistles and the propositions. I can deal with the man approaching me from behind on a dark road and striking up a conversation ultimately ending in asking for my Facebook info. I nonchalantly pass the barrage of tri-shaw drivers drinking and snoozing at the entrance of my road, hooting and hollering as I walk home.

I let most of this wash off me like water off a duck. But then I realize when I have finished whatever walk, or bus ride, or even tri-shaw ride and tolerated it all, I am filled with strange and unfamiliar feelings, that I cannot immediately identify…they are anxiety and irritation, and exhaustion. And I finally begin to empathize with these ‘silly girls’ my friend described.

I hate to admit this. I hate it because it goes against how I live my life. I hate it because I don’t want it to be true. I hate it because of the career path I have chosen.

But they’re right.

The silly girls are right.

Sometimes, well…often times, traveling with a male companion can just makes life easier. It makes security less anxiety producing. It makes me clench my stomach less. It makes me grip sharp objects in my pocket less. It decreases propositions and comments. Men ‘accidentally’ bump into me exponentially less. A male companion creates a sort of buffer to the unwanted advances, assumptions of my character, and actual physical intimidation that can make traveling far from home, not unpleasant, or impossible, but at times truly, truly exhausting.

This is not a unique thing to young, white, Western women traveling in ‘non-western’ places. My sisters in Egypt speak volumes on their experiences of street harassment. A friend from grad school is spreading a ‘Stop Street Harassment’ action on Facebook. My sisters in Puttalam and Mannar must limit their economic activity because of a lack of safety after the closure of a major road. Some women choose to wear the niqab just to avoid these experiences in the street. I can really empathize with my niqab wearing sisters these days.

I don’t have any answers. I’m just tired. It’s boring. It’s lame.

Maybe I’ll think of something more insightful in another post.

Election Day and School Cricket Madness

I really did not expect to write quite so much about cricket while here, but it seems to be everywhere I turn. As I walked to work today I passed the D.S. Sanayake Boys College today I witnessed the revelry that accompanies 'old boy school cricket' had spilled into the road and overtaken most of Gregory's Road. I found myself walking through a gauntlet of adolescent boys bedecked in their school colors of yellow and black. They were all polite and proper and completely consumed by chat with their friends on the upcoming game, entirely too distracted to make silly adolescent boy comments to a sole American female walking through the middle of the road. Bands were playing. Cars were thumping stereos. Faces were being painted. Some of the older boys had piled three or four of their friends on a motor bike (not really a motorcycle). They even had a rather unfortunate and miserable looking elephant chained to a parking spot with the school flag draped over his back, underneath the pile of heavy chains used to 'keep them in order'. Many boys had gathered around it and were posing for 'uploadable' photos.

And I nearly forgot, they had a double-decker London-style bus filled to the brim with alumni, and older boys waving huge yellow and black flags. We will surely hear their parade later in the morning as they make their way to one of the large cricket grounds just beyond our office...

But...

Today is actually election day, mostly in areas outside of Colombo. Schools were mostly closed across the country yesterday because they serve as polling locations.. Government workers get today off. Some have called on the private sector to get a day off too, but I believe that will be unlikely.

Like I mentioned in the previous post, Sri Lanka is a democracy. Has been since the late '40s. It has a functioning government that is highly centralized. It is also highly prone to familial dynasties. Currently we are in the Rajapaksa Dynasty. With the sitting president, Mahinda Rajapaksa, having appointed three of his brothers to high ranking cabinet positions, not least of which the Ministry of Defense is led by his brother, Basil. His son, all of 23-years-old, has recently won a seat in Parliament and is tapped to follow in his father's footsteps as President, should M. Rajapaksa decide to step down. (In 2008 he managed to change the constitution with the 18th amendment to eliminate term limits)

Almost everyone I have spoken to about the elections has made a funny face, waved their hand and said, 'what's the point, they're all fixed anyway'. One woman with whom I spoke said that her precinct's votes were all lost in the last election, and she had to go through a big process to get them found. It turned her off voting a bit, not to mention the fact that these seem to be the kind of mid-term elections few people get very excited about.

But let us not get too cynical. There are elections today. People will be voting. They may get new Parliamentarians. Then again...it may just remain business as usual, in a democratically maintained Rajapaksa-political dynasty.

On a more serious note-- Post-War Reconciliation

Lessons Learnt and Reconciliation Commission.

So some of you may know that Sri Lanka ended a 26-year civil war almost 2 years ago. It was a nasty, nasty, nasty war. Hundreds of thousands of people lost their lives, property, and livelihoods over its course. In May of 2009 the Government of Sri Lanka dealt the rebel forces, the LTTE, its final blow and claimed victory after killing nearly all of the rebel leadership. This occurred after a final stand that included between 30 and 50,000 Tamil civilians trapped on a string of beach between the LTTE and government forces. It is unclear how many civilian lives were lost in this final battle for victory.

The rebels had fought for an independent Tamil land in the North and East of Sri Lanka. One might make the mistake in saying that the war was an ‘ethnic war’, as the rebels were mostly Tamil, but they would be mistaken. It, like so many civil wars, was about much more than ethnicity: land, resources, language, political representation, all of it, but I cannot get too deeply into the details right now.

The government won. The rebels lost.

Sri Lanka is considered a unified state and the Tamil people of the North and East provinces are Sri Lankans. This is not a country of only Tamil Hindus of the North/East and Sinhalese Buddhist of the rest. It is a diverse nation of Indian Tamils (Plantation –workers), Muslims, Christians, Burghers (Sri Lankan/Dutch), and more. After such a long war, and the severe destruction in the Northern region and the sense of division pervasive in Sri Lankan society calls were made to create some form of reconciliation. This came from international voices, as well as voices within Sri Lanka.

The government of Sri Lanka acquiesced and the president appointed the Lessons Learnt and Reconciliation Commission. The members are respected members of the community, and they held hearings across the country, taking testimony from the public. On the 18 of February they made a stop in the city of Galle, in the southwest of the island. My coworker and I traversed through Friday evening traffic to arrive in Galle late in the evening, to attend the public hearing the following morning.

One of the amazing things about involving the public in a government process is that the ‘public’ is a diverse group. I will not comment on the extent to which democracy has coalesced in Sri Lanka, nor will I state to what extent I believe this process will aid in the reconciliation and peacemaking for the Sri Lankan people. But I will say that one of the things about democracy that I love the most is witnessing its participatory nature.

People involved in community organizations, lawyers, public servants, academics, all gave their evidence. Women who’d lost their husbands and were being forced to move from their homes testified. Carpenters outlining incredibly complex arguments against current actions the government is taking against minority groups. Local lawyers outlining their belief in educating children in both Tamil and Sinhala…. Mothers who’d sacrificed all of their sons to the military gave testimony. Business owners who’d lost their shops in riots years ago, gave testimony. For hours we sat listening to the horrors people had experienced during the war. And this was only one hearing.

The international community continues to call for independent investigations into war crimes on the part of both the LTTE and the Sri Lankan government. Building a sustainable and lasting peace is a long complex process, which Sri Lanka is only beginning to scratch the surface.

I’m grateful to bear witness to at least one component of it.

A tidbit on Ethel again

After I’ve finished a day drinking tea, reading about theories on post-conflict development, arguing over cricket, and filling my belly with super-spicy rice and curry, I usually walk home. It takes about 22-25 minutes (which is why I stopped taking the bus, that takes at least 30 minutes, and I don’t show up any less sweaty). Upon my arrival Ethel is usually either in the kitchen or watching some TV. She asks me how my day was and frequently asks if I’ve eaten my dinner. On more than one occasion she has spent a few hours in her little kitchen brewing some lovely sundry up. I count myself lucky when she’s made string hoppers from scratch or a deep dark brown beef curry that is so rich you don’t even mind your lips burning for another hour after your done. She makes dhal that is so complete you’d forget it was a boring old yellow lentil. And then there are the days she’s planning a lunch or cooking for her family…oh lord! That means she has either made a cake or brownies. Oh my, oh me oh my, where did she get the recipe for those brownies!

Development or Sport? I'll take both please, with a side of riata

It is the cricket world cup, if you haven’t picked up on a bit of a theme in this blog, or you haven’t turned on a television in the Eastern hemisphere, or you are in South Asia and have been living in a cave you might have missed this. But the women in my office have not!

I work in a research center (as I may have mentioned) dedicated to examining poverty, development, and society. It is a female-majority work place. It is a Sri Lankan (Sinhalese and Tamil and Muslim) mostly workplace. There are 2 English women and me, who make up the non-Sri Lankan population. Lunch is a mixture of analyzing the merits various research strategies and their impact on the centre's ability to influence long-term development policy and arguing over which team performed better in the previous days’ ICC World Cup match.

And arguing we do well.

Is there more grace in a Test match than in a 50-overs match? What is the best approach to analyzing poverty? Why does the Australian team suck? (because they slighted the Sri Lankan team and there is no arguing with a Sri Lankan on these grounds, it is fact) How is India looking? Where the hell did Malinga learn to bowl a ball like that? Who had to play cricket in gym class and who hated versus loved it. (The older English lady hated it, a few youngish Sri Lankan women didn’t mind and at least 4 Sri Lankan women L-O-V-E-D it.) Do we want to use a quantitative approach to the next project or qualitative?

Our conversation really never strays far from development/politics and cricket. In fact sometimes they are happening simultaneously and interwoven…ly. Everyone has equally strong opinions on both, and are equally quick to laugh about both.

During lunch we sit in long tables with red rice and spicy dhal and fish or chicken or veggie curries of the hottest variety. I’m not joking even the native Sri Lankans reach for the cooling creaminess of raita or curd (yogurt). Most of us eat with our fingers, I’m telling you the food does taste better that way. We eat and chat and laugh or sometimes sit quietly on the veranda for about 30 minutes. Then we all take our plates to the kitchen, where the Kitchen Goddesses are tidying up, and we all wash our plates and hands. Our Kitchen Goddesses have been here since the place started and treat a lot of the researchers and policy officers like their nieces and nephews.

Then it’s back upstairs for more reading, and analyzing, project planning and computing, and I suspect for more than a few, a little live streaming of the latest game, which always starts around 2:30 in the afternoon. We'll all watch the highlights of the game that evening and be refueled for tomorrow's lunch-time analysis.

Perehera--the unpost--

I’m skipping the perahera entry.

I can’t muster the energy.

Ok. fine. Let’s just say, there is a procession on full moon evening in February.

It includes beautiful bedazzled, yet potentially exploited (but who knows to what extent) elephants.

It includes 2 hours straight of parading bands, dance troupes, holy-folk, firecrackers, fire twirlers, and bands. Sooo many, many bands. Mostly men.

Mostly directly culturally significant.

I got in a fight with a parade official. He waved his arms, yelled, called me names, attempted to employ the police in intimidating. They cared not,. Attempted to employ the Sri Lankan Special Forces. They didn't care.

Eventually said to me, with an ironic grin, “you have a very good mouth” and let me have my way.

I think this was a compliment.

There. Perahera.

I am sure someone who is more culturally astute and wrote about experiences as they happened could share their insights better. This happened mid-February and let's just say, I got distracted since then...

Post-Lunch Stream of Consciousness

It is siesta time in Colombo. It is 2:15 in the afternoon. I have eaten a lunch filled with starch. It is hot. There is no one else in my office and I am technically suppose to be either writing about education in Ghana, post-war development in Sri Lanka, or corporate behavior in Europe, I can never keep straight which project is scheduled for which day. So instead of being the diligent little worker-bee/researcher that I would like the world to believe I am, I am going to write a long overdue (or two) blog entry. But none of you will mind, because I don’t even know who you are or what you think anyway (note slight tone of snark from an occasionally crabby-pants).

So a woman in the office is returning to England on Saturday and we held a little going away lunch for her today. She is apparently also writing a ‘travel log’ each week (a better soul than me!). She has made many observations (Sri Lanka still has traffic police, and bus conductors, and people don’t take their children to the grocery story with them, among other things). It was as she was sharing these observations that I realized I’d sort of gotten past the wide-eyed euphoria of newly arriving in an ‘exotic’ place. The time has ceased to allow for observations on crows outside my window and bats migrating in the evening. I should, and likely will, write observations about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, and I will write about how lovely Galle is, and the beach in Unawatuna. But quite frankly the world is an insane place right now, and that fact is not lost on Sri Lankans, and on my long walks home (yes I stopped taking the bus, it took too long!) I am formulating questions and thoughts on, the state of affairs in this country, how they relate to affairs in other countries, my reluctance to go back to the UK or the US, and the loneliness that can develop when far from the people who know you best…oh and the how tedious I find it being a woman traveling alone. (a subject I will dive into much deeper very soon)

Well, I suppose those are not uncommon questions, and really the preceding 4-5 sentences were really just a stream of consciousness. Let’s put some order to things, shall we.

7 Billion people

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sc4HxPxNrZ0&NR=1&feature=fvwp

This is cool, yo.

The Original 'Ladies Who Lunch', In Colombo

I was meant to write about ‘Ladies Who Lunch, in Colombo’, after I wrote about ‘Expat-- Ladies Who Lunch’. This did not happen.

I was supposed to dedicate the entry to Ethel, my landlady, and her 92-years-young-spritely little friend, AnnaMarie, and their respective chattering daughters. I failed to do this.

I was suppose to describe their rapid-fire gossiping in the midday heat each woman clambering over the next with a better description of some audacious person in society making some faux pas at a function and the whole event making the papers and the looks given by this minister or that planter.…all the noise throbbing at my aching-hungover head (the Sunday after my gendered perspective on cricket-playing rock stars…).

But so much happened in that week that I do believe I completely neglected to finally sit down and write about Ethel, her cooking at 6:30 in the morning, --2 hours after I made it to bed--, all through the morning, curries, and raithas, chicken and pork, rice and fish, stewing away in our little anti-room kitchen, keeping the heat away from the main part of the house, but not the scents of garlic, and ghee, onions, and curry all wafting over my semi-consciousness.

I was suppose to tell you all about how wonderful I thought Ethel was when she greeted her friends with a beer and a Cuba Libre, just after noon on a Sunday and how the daughters nearly fell off their seats when she offered her 92-years-young school chum, AnnaMarie, a second drink before we even ate. The old-lady-daughters wagged their middle-aged fingers at their mothers, nagging

“Mommy don’t you dare, I don’t want to have to carry you home!”

Their septuagenarian/nonagenarian mothers ignoring their scolding daughters as they’d done when the girls were nagging teenagers, or whining toddlers, or screeching babies. They poured their brandies on ice and enjoyed them quite heartily, while I limply sipped on a ginger beer, willing my hangover to subside long enough to enjoy some of the beautiful traditional Sri Lankan food spread across our dining room table.

You see how negligent I am as a blogger. Completely failing to capture the sheer cultural and generational beauty of an afternoon with some of Colombo’s most fabulous women, gossiping about their children, their relations, friends, society, and their old lives.

See how I missed this great opportunity to describe Ethel’s beautiful daughters and how I will never in a million years express how fast 6 women lounging on sofas in the afternoon heat can actually speak. My God, they were speaking English, but I wouldn’t have known it. It was the English of women who’d known each other their entire lives, inflecting and deflecting tones and intonations, giggles and jokes before any of us could get a word in edgewise. I was truly grateful at times when AnnaMarie would turn to me and explain a joke, or a relation, or a story, I’d completely missed.

Well that was ladies who lunched, in Colombo…

And now Ethel and I have been roomies a whole month and her curries and rice have become second nature in my diet. Her stories of life on the plantation as a young woman and of the various people her family has known over the years, well I think I know not only the main characters but the supporting ones as well! We sit and watch movies like 1954’s “Morty”, Sidney Poitier in "Lillies in the Field" and Al Pacino in “Scarface”. I can’t believe I watched “Scarface” with a septuagenarian!?

But she’s cool, man. She goes off to events. Shoot on Valentine’s Day she announced that she was leaving for an event, and that I should not expect her home that night, it would probably last until quite late. She’s got an active social life (a very proper one, I might add. She spends the night at her daughters’ houses, if it gets too late). She has lots of friends all over the world. And she keeps a nice house, filled with things from her life and travels to Malaysia, England, Australia, India etc.

That’s my roomy in Colombo. You may think I spend loads of time partying it up with the various cricket teams of South Asia (and you can just keep thinking that all you like), but life can be quite proper as well, here in Sri Lanka.

Military-business model for post-war development....

This is the stuff I'm working on right now. It's really interesting and really troubling at the same time. How does a country go about developing after a war? The author of the article below, would argue the methods pursued by Sri Lanka's current government are NOT the proper means to the ends:
http://groundviews.org/2011/02/27/lanka-63-the-%E2%80%98military-business-model%E2%80%99-of-post-war-economic-development/

Ladies Who Lunch

18 February 2011

This Thursday past I accidentally found myself at an “expat-ladies’ drinks night” I had agreed to an after work cheap clothes shopping expedition, which turned into my tagging along on this high-end drinks get together. At first we, my two British companions and I, joined a couple of women from the International Red Cross. They seemed to be the only ones aside from us who hadn’t gotten the message that even though it’s an expat function, it still occurs on Sri Lanka time. As the evening wore one, more women joined. Some worked in publishing, or their husbands ran cigar companies, still others worked for NGOs, or were here for a brief time working for ‘a charity’ and several did not work outside the home, but were here due to their husband’s position in a government office of some kind. One woman who joined us had about 7 more weeks of pregnancy. Another was bouncing her 8 month old in a snuggly.

I could hardly imagine how I could fit in with them. They were married. Bouncing babies. Following partners to far off lands. Taking children on ‘the school run’. I eventually cornered a legal advisor to a major international NGO, who had been willing to talk about development and governance issues in Sri Lanka, which enticed me to stay a bit longer.

I pressed her to talk more about her work supporting detainees, especially in the post-war environment. It was fascinating and I conspired to get her details so that I could interview her for the project I’m suppose to be doing….

The hostess was a Dutch trained corporate lawyer who’d spent years living far from her husband, and finally when she got pregnant decided they would move to Sri Lanka with him. While she was loving being a new mom and being close to her husband, I could tell she struggled with the change in her identity. Her vibrancy and energy and openness was so honest. She encouraged us to embark on a discussion about ambition, careers, love, choices made at certain times in life, and realigning our sense of self for whatever time and circumstance we need. These are some of the most pressing questions that seem ever present in the hearts and minds of the many well educated professional women I meet, especially those in their late 20s-30s.

The evening was also a mixture of ‘Where are you from?’ ‘How long have you been in Sri Lanka?’ ‘What brought you here?’ and the like. It’s funny that these are just a variation of the very direct questions that sometimes put me off by the random Sri Lankan men approaching me in public. They all extract the same information, just maybe for a different purpose. Instead of a random man met on a bus, or on a beach, these are elite, educated, expatriate women mildly chatting while sipping overpriced non-alcoholic organic juices in a trendy Westernized restaurant/lounge. But we are out for ‘ladies’ drinks’ and we are also shamelessly networking, but we’re doing this under the guise of sisterly socializing. Perhaps men drink beer and watch sports or golf or smoke cigars, women meet for juice with babies in tow and discuss the Galle Literary Festival, or the latest creepy crawly they saw in their extravagant apartment.

Then again maybe all of us came for the same purpose, female conversation, be that what it may.

http://dailymirror.lk/top-story/9930-colombo-amongst-worst-livable-cities-.html

This morning the daily mirror, an English language newspaper published an article originally published by The Economist. Colombo is described as one of the least livable cities in the world. I find this fascinating considering all my ravings about how lovely my life has been since arriving here.

Now please consider I am no Holly Golitely, just arrived in the big city. I have lived in Yonkers and Mt. Vernon, New York; Orlando; Miami; San Diego; Portland, Oregon; Seattle; Oxford, UK; Oahu, Hawaii; Nogales, Arizona; San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.....to name a few. I have fallen for Sri Lanka hook, line and sinker, since arriving here a mere three weeks ago, and after spending most of my time in Colombo, the reviled unlivable city.

So this makes me really ponder the living conditions of people who have the resources to live well and to live high, versus the standard of life of everybody else.

In the American cities where I have lived I belong to the solidly middle class (in the American sense of the term, not the English). In the UK I make up the student population, a fairly elite population, but also generally cash-strapped. But in Sri Lanka, I am a part of the moneyed elite. And life is generally very comfortable for us. Even as I hang off the footpad of an overcrowded bus, I
1) am only here for a brief time
2) can jump off and hail a rickshaw whenever I feel
3) work in the nicest neighborhood in the city
4) live in one of the nicer neighborhoods in the city
5) can join my expat friends in the beautiful hotels, clubs, restaurants etc. whenever I take a fancy.

So while the research institute where I work is circulating this article commenting on the issues of urban poverty and effective transportation, access to health care, and clean air, we are all writing from our beautiful office building in a beautiful neighborhood, enjoying the luxuries of a completely different city.

This is something to be aware of as residents of whichever city in which we live, but especially for those of us engaged in the development sector. The experiences we will have in the developing world are still far from those of the people for whom we hope to provide assistance. For those of us living in the developed world, I suppose we have to recognize that a lot of others are experiencing our cities in completely different light, be it darker or brighter.

Perhaps my next entry will shed some direct light on just how different life can be for the elite.

In the midst of trying to secure India visa.

Postings that must be completed in short order:

'Ladies Who Lunch: a momentary glimpse into ladies' society in Colombo'

'Perahera: or the procession of Elephants on a Buddhist Poya in Colombo'

'I finally went to a beach'

'Lessons Learnt Reconciliation Commission: an American girl's visit to Sri Lanka's self-assessment after the civil war'

'Hoping to attend a real life World Cup cricket match'

I have a lot of writing to do! But also a lot of work to complete before leaving for Galle this weekend.

Also, comments are welcome. Updates from others are good...??? Yes, even a blogger wants to hear of your life.

Gendered perspective on sports players treated like rock stars....

Alright, the next entry comes a bit from a gendered perspective. I would like to preface it by saying that my portrayal of the male representatives of society are only one perspective and only from one point in time. It does not reflect my overall viewpoint of men, of men in Sri Lanka, or of sporting men. (for they will likely be painted in the least positive light in the coming series of stories)

But it does reflect an interesting series of days I had last week that seem reflective of the time and place and my mindset at the time.

Well here we go.

As you may recall, last week I mentioned that I had made acquaintance with some members of the West Indies cricket team, and by acquaintance I mean, dancing ridiculously to Michael Jackson, and swapping stupid looking dance moves in a circle in a dive bar. I also made friends with some ‘county-cricketers’ based in England. I believe these folks are professional, but as I understand it, fall more in line with AAA baseball professional, rather than Major League Baseball. Maybe the reason they are not playing for their respective countries is due to their evening antics of getting completely obliteratingly drunk, falling asleep sometime after dawn, emerging from the confines of their gated community for 2 hours of training in the afternoon and starting the process all over again?! I mean how do you get better at cricket living like that?

I’m clearly no expert…

So, I find myself in a very hip club, ‘The Museum’, around 2:30 a.m. Saturday night/Sunday morning. My friends and I have already been out for several hours and as none of us is taller than 5’3” or heavier than 54 kilos we can’t really drink much more. Which makes our enthusiasm for Museum a bit low. The place is bumping in one of those “I take myself way too seriously for how small a city this actually is” kind of way. The chic of the city are dancing to some mildly acceptable beats in an overly lit club scene. Mostly people are in their 20s, and they have clearly spent a lot of money on their attire, though for some that doesn’t mean they got a lot of value for their money (read: not much cloth)

We meet up with our English/South African ‘cricketer-friends’ who’ve been drinking all day and night. They are three of the 10 white people in the room, which according to them is a statistic they assess in every Sri Lankan situation. Our old friend Mr. Chris Gayle shortly joins us. He is decked out in his usual bedazzled t-shirt and thick gold chain, Hennessey and Ginger beer on ice, and his ever-present Iphone. He leans against the bar, near where we are standing.

It doesn’t take long for my social-scientist brain to kick into gear. As I stand there, mildly chatting with an acquaintance, the women flock to our circle, like moths to a flame.

First they approach C. Gayle and express their admiration. Apparently the word gets out that the English/S.African crew is also a cricketer-professional lot and the moths flutter about them as well. Three English ‘Gap-yeah’ girls find us and the cricketers are on them like flies on….meat. They rotate one to the other and then back again.

C. Gayle has more important things to do than weed through the throngs of potential….um…conquests? would that be the right word?

So his not unattractive teammates are sent to do his bidding.

I kid you not, I watched this series of events transpire: C.Gayle leans against bar. Scans club. Assesses the pickins’, ‘Man-whispers’ to teammate, teammate disappears, but is seen from across the room flirty flirtin’ with some zebra-print-napkin-size-dress-gyratin’ girl, teammate draws said girl over to bar, lets her dance all up on him. She eventually brings her friend (apparently the original object of C. Gayle’s desire), nonchalant whispers are exchanged the group round.

I blink.

They are making for the exit and there is no turning back. Shit, the glass of Hennessey is still half full!

Damn. Quick moves, C. Gayle. Very quick… will he be back for the Hennessey?!

I turn to observe the ‘AAA’ team. They’re game isn’t as fine-tuned as ‘Major-leaguers’, but they didn’t make it to county league training and training alone. They've clearly put some 'practice' in the art/sport of womanizing too. Instead of playing a zone-offence approach (the way the West Indies boys did), they’re man on (wo)man, but they go about it through rotations. (note my switch to basketball metaphors) One might offer a girl a drink from their third bottle of Bacardi, the other talks to the friend and the third tries to seal the deal with the one for whom he’s been ‘laying the groundwork’ the past several songs.

The lines, “we have an incredible apartment with an awesome balcony, you really should come check out.” ”It’s got a rooftop patio, perfect for watching the start” “Yeah, we’re here for a fitness-training camp” “Yeah, I’m a batsman, did quite well this season.…” were all flung about.

AAA.

Not major league.

But I suspect good enough for their aims.

Mild and not-particularly academic sociological observations. And let me reaffirm, this was just a continuation of another interesting cultural phenomenon, I have been privileged to observe since my arrival in a tourist oriented, drink-infused, clubbed-out, cricket-loving place.

The music wasn’t good enough to stay for any more ‘data gathering’, so I find my way to an overpriced tuk tuk and cross my fingers I make it home safely.

on a sillier note---back to flying creatures

I’m a worthless worker between the hours of 1:30 and 3:00 p.m. and usually pretty crap the hour before lunch too. I should just be given an automatic nap time, because it would be more productive for all involved. Because of my total lack of focus for a good 2 hours in the day I try to come in early and stay about an hour late each day.

Therefore, I’ve been staying at the office most days until just around dusk. I walk the very long block to my bus stop and as I go the skies fill with black flying creatures. Mostly Mr. Crow and all his little friends are squawking just as loudly as they have been all day, but then you start to notice that flying in what appears to be a northerly direction are crow-sized bats with amazingly huge wings. They’re silent and there are hundreds in a flock. I wonder what they eat, and where they go in the night and when they change shifts again in the morning...

Today I enjoyed watching them on my walk to the bus. The sky was a beautiful pink and deepened to a darker and darker blue. I stood at the construction zone (where they were building improved sidewalks) waiting for my bus. I believe I mentioned something about the bus on my first Sri Lanka entry. I mentioned they were crowded.

Crowded doesn’t even begin to describe a Friday night out of the city commuter bus. It leaned towards the curb. Four men clung for dear life on the footboard with one foot and an arm hanging on to part of the bus, as they approached the stop. More people managed to pack in and I just stood back and laughed. I had no intention of boarding that bus. They arrive every 30 seconds anyway. It left and lilted down the road leaning even further to the left with the weight of the commuters.

I waited and another arrived. Fewer people seemed to hang of this one I was the last to get on the footboard, and as the bus roared down the road, I realized my laptop swung precariously from my outer arm in nothing more than a cloth bag. The prospect of losing all my research for 3 different projects, because it fell off an overcrowded bus was just the ironic story I could imagine. Fortunately the bus attendant hated the thought of this short little Western girl falling off the bus too, so I was squeezed further into the crowd. Into someone's armpit I crammed. Six of us balanced one hand worth of fingers on the ledge above the door. Only three guys swung from the door of our bus. All I can say is at least there was a breeze. But for a 10 rupee commute I suppose squeezing in with my fellow Colombo-ites is a small price to pay.

After this little adventure and a week spent staring down a computer and reading copious academic papers, my Friday night consisted of a bowl of yogurt, a brownie, and a lot of ‘How I Met Your Mother’. Perhaps the wild times in Colombo were only a one-off…but the weekend is still young…

Cutting down trees for sidewalks (or pavements)--or a post-war approach to urban development

I’ve been working for the past week or so with this research center that examines poverty in many different contexts. The theme I am charged with assisting develop is post-war development. Now, Sri Lanka was involved in a civil war for over 26 years. And although the government forces virtually destroyed the last of the rebel group (LTTE) Liberation Tigers of Tamil Ealam in May of 2009, the country is finding its new post-war identity. It is for this reason I have made the trip to Sri Lanka. Society in a post-war context has many interesting qualities. Colombo is fairly mild, and I am sure more remarkable manifestations of post-war society will become apparent in the coming weeks. But here is an interesting story from this week:

The other day the Executive Director of our research center became wildly incensed by the seemingly irrational chopping of trees in front of our office building. Now you may wonder why she would even care, creating safe walkways near the wild roads of Colombo seems a perfectly sane proposition, and as a walking/bus commuting resident I appreciate an improved sidewalk. Our executive director had a valid point, however. This cutting and chopping of trees came without warning, without notification of the property owners along the road, there was no sign posting informing residents to expect this, there was no method for people to respond or intervene should they disagree with the cutting of trees. She placed several calls to the appropriate ministries and no one seemed to know where this order came from. But the beautification/road work improvements/ transportation authority did fall within the Ministry of Defense.

This all seems quite strange to the naïve mind, such as me. But…let us think further on this. The executive director makes an additional point. You realize you are living in a post-war society when the military (largest share of government funding) is charged with such things as street beautification, vegetable sales, and the like. Yes, they execute with military precision. The trees were cut and all debris was removed within a day and a half. I suppose the point could be made that such things as neighborhood improvements, the removal of shade producing trees in an overcrowded, dusty and hot city might be controlled by some democratic process. At least this is the opinion of some, who may point to small ways in which a post-war society manifests even outside the former conflict zone. Then again, maybe it doesn’t and maybe it was just a decision that will help increase pedestrian safety.

Everyone's got something to say

I have a resident crow outside my window, which will not shut up. He arrives everyday after lunch and apparently he has his own blog, for his fellow crows and he is a prolific sharer.

He sits on the drain pipe directly behind my chair and the beautiful open window I so like and he blabbers on and on and on and on and on in his crow-speak.

I’m sure about the most important political issues in the crow world. I’m sure he has very strong opinions on the style of governance that seems to manifest within the post-war crow society and I bet his views on corruption within the crow-parliament are nuanced and insightful, but I swear to you I’m never going to get anything done in my own personal world examining the affects of post-war development in Sri Lanka if he doesn’t stop his squawking and take his damn soap box somewhere else!

ON A MORE SERIOUS NOTE

Please follow the link below to get another perspective on the goings on in Colombo that were not quite so lighthearted.

http://groundviews.org/2011/02/07/celebrating-freedom-a-personal-account/

Groundviews provides an outlet for various forms of alternative journalism in Sri Lanka, currently a fairly dangerous endeavor as the state responds none to kindly to journalists with strong opinions.

Independence Day: weekend proves a riotous affair--

This weekend was a holiday weekend celebrating Sri Lanka Independence Day on February 4^th. Colombo was a great place to chill, since everyone left to attend out-of-the-city celebrations and spend the holiday with their families. I didn’t know what I was going to do with my time, since I’d just arrived in town 3 days before and had only become accustomed to the bus and days at work. A nice young intern from England cordially invited me to an after work drink on Thursday and I thought why not, I was only going to end up at the YWCA, feeling like I should get to bed by 9:00 pm with all the other good Christian women.

We made our way to one of the expat bars she was so excited to try, apparently it’s the hopping place in town, and overlooks a large cricket or rugby pitch and frequently has live music. I was mostly indifferent since I was only interested in a bit of a chat, and a cold beer. We walked into the bar and it seemed her heart was sinking through the very floor she stood on when she saw the place. There were at least 9 waiters and bar tenders and one middle-aged German couple and us. Not what I’d call the hot ticket in town. We took a booth by the window and ordered a couple of drinks. It was actually a nice place and good for a quiet drink. Within about 15 minutes she had made friends with the German couple. I was amused.

We managed to recruit a few more new friends and tuktuk race to the R&B club/bar, where their house cover band is swinging full gear. The lead singer is about 50 and in stunning leather pants and a fabulous Jerry-Curl. There are lots of people, Sri Lankan, non-Sri Lankan, expats, etc.

Turns out some of the non-Sri Lankan people in this club, are a few of the West Indies Cricket team, who’ve come to Colombo for the one day test match on Sunday. –This is where the story gets interesting for some of my cricket fan friends. The big burly one of the bunch, towering over the crowd swirling a Hennesey on ice is none other than Mr. Chris Gayle. (I am later informed that apparently is lauded the world over as the crème de la crème of international cricketers. He just looked really tall to me, with a lot of jewelry and a cheesy old-man-fishing hat, but he’s a big deal to a lot of people.)

He is fairly successfully deflecting a lot of autograph seekers. His team-mates are a good 6” shorter than him, but significantly more bouncy. All and all, they’re a lively bunch and people seem to ebb and flow around them. We of course make friends and they are way into making fools of themselves on the dance floor!

The music is cheesy and we dance to the silly cover band with a bunch of new friends. I make it back around 4:00 a.m. (which is apparently rather early in Colombo terms)

When I bump into the matron/warden of the YWCA she inquires as to my whereabouts the previous evening. Now, I’ve never fibbed to my mother about my shenanigans staying out late at night and have never felt compelled to hide my antics from her, but for some reason this middle-aged Sri Lankan woman strikes the fear of judgment day in me. I can’t bring myself to say that I was in a hoppin’ joint with a bunch of hip Colombites jivin’ the night away and laughing at athletes’ dance moves. I can’t tell her that I had a rickshaw race in the middle of the night, or that I prevented some juvenile delinquents from stealing a cardboard cutout of a famous Australian cricketer from a central plaza. So I offer the lamest excuse in the book…

“Uh…my friend became quite ill….with food poisoning…she lives across town….so I stayed with her”

She lamely smiles. I can tell she doesn’t buy it.

I try to change the subject. I would like to make reservations for the next week, as I will be staying in town and not going away during the weekend.

She promptly informs me they are all booked up from tomorrow night on. So sorry. It doesn’t look like they will have any rooms for many days to come.

And her judgment has passed. I’m blazin a trail straight to hell…damn it.

I spend a good portion of the weekend hunting for houses/hotels/guest houses something. My new English friend comes to my rescue with gracious hospitality for a night. Fortunately her landlady went to school with a woman who just so happens to need a roommate. I make arrangements to look at it Sunday.

Within an hour of waking I’ve made it to her house, agreed with a handshake and a carbon paper receipt that I will share her little Grandma style house for the next month.

But the day is young… what should an American girl do on the Sunday of Sri Lanka Independence weekend?!

What you ask…. But attend a cricket match of course!!!

Who is Sri Lanka playing, you ask!?

Why none other than the West Indies! Big Burly…er I mean, Chris Gayle and his bouncy teammates are doin’ what they were meant to be here doing, playing cricket, not attempting the moonwalk.

The match is a blur of energy. The stadium is not filled, but it is gyrating with energy. Vuvuzelas are passed out to all attendees and we blow them and pound them with all our might in a rhythmic chant of intimidation to the visiting West Indies.

The crowd goes wild the closer Sri Lanka gets to their 50 over limit. It is a spectacle that I love. At the half or the break for tea, we find beer and ice cream. This English girl is proving to be a great date. We walk around. We get a lot of stares. It’s par for the course. I ignore it, she struggles with it.

We go back to the match, West Indies is up for batting. The crowd is buzzing. We’re thumping our vuvuzelas in rhythm to an intimidating beat as the bowler runs for Mr. Gayle. The Sri Lankan bowler is a beastly-sized man, who I’d never want to see running full speed at me launching a rock hard ball at my face. Well Mr. Gayle apparently didn’t want him doing it either, because he got out with the first bowl. All that hype. All that build up. All that banter in the R & B’s club. And he gets out with the first bowl…Isn’t that a golden goose? Dunno. The crowd went wild. They couldn’t be contained. The shouting. The jumping. The thumping, the blowing of vuvuzelas. It was such a noise! How could it be followed? Well the next batters did all right. They were batting a good set of runs. It got a bit hot so we left. Best to leave on a high, I say.

I moved into my new house with Ethel. She just celebrated her 70^th birthday and has 3 daughters, one of whom lives in the UK. She made me tea and fed me curry supper. It’s great. Hopefully we will make compatible housemates.

I’ll get to those crow-sized bats one of these days. Also, it turns out some major political issues were going down while I was enjoying the frivolity of being footloose and fancy-free. I am debating how much overtly political content I want to put on this, but I will try to post an interesting piece written by an MP who witnessed the protests first-hand.

Recession ain’t Recess, but it can be a good excuse to make lemonade out of lemons….I suppose not finding a job gives you a few opportunities (forces you into a few new corners) to try things you might not have tried otherwise.

I talked a big game about writing a blog with the theme of being unemployed, no, (f)unemployed…but turns out it can be a lot less funny than you imagined, and finding the humor in the rejection can be a major challenge. I think the tides might be turning. Apologies Ryan, but I think I’m going to hijack this blog from its original intended purpose and use it as a vehicle to keep loved ones, far and wide, abreast of my latest ‘international development’-job-travel-intercultural experiences.

Some of you may have known that in a fit of (f)unemployed anxiety I began pursuing an escape from the humdrum of daily Oxonian life. After a long correspondence with an incredible research centre, I secured a one-month internship starting after the new year. So after racing back to the UK to secure a visa, which only took 3 applications, an equal number of trips to London, a couple shopping trips and a lot of fussing, I hopped on an Etihad flight through Abu Dhabi (say that city a bunch of times with out smiling!) to Colombo. Arriving in the city at 4:30 in the morning February 1, 2011. Stepping out into the warm early morning, I smelled Fiji (2007). I smelled Mangalore (1998). I smelled Goa on the train (1997). It was warm and a bit humid, and something felt right.

It turns out the Cricket World Cup is arriving in Sri Lanka on the 18^th of February and the country is in a frenzy. They’ve built new highways from the airport to the city. The posters and signs and player cut outs pepper every major road leading into and throughout Colombo. My Sinhalese speaking driver and I could communicate about very little, but we did manage a long chat about the World Cup. He can't wait for it, and is certain Sri Lanka will take the trophy!

He took me to my prearranged-friend-recommended accommodation, the YWCA in the center of Colombo. They weren’t too pleased that I had arrived at 5:30 a.m., but were accommodating and allowed me to sleep a few hours. It was a very comfortable, if not incredibly basic hostel arrangement. Turns out we were also neighbors to President Rajapaska, whose presidential compound (which I initially thought was a high security prison) is across the street.

I started work later that very morning. Their offices are situated in the beautiful Cinnamon Gardens neighborhood, near several embassies. The old plantation-like office space was built with just the right cross-ventilation windows one can appreciate in such a warm climate. Though it has been unseasonably cold and wet here this year, possibly due to La Niña. The research center is engaged in a whole host of inspiring research from, assessing poverty, to monitoring development schemes, to analyzing the impact of conflict. In brief, I think they are awesome. –more to come on them as my work there develops—

My favorite part of that first day was the incredibly warm reception I received from everyone in the office. And the homemade Sri Lankan meal served daily by their extremely talented chefs. (Two very sweet ladies) I want to call them my Angels, because they were more than willing to pour me countless cups of sweet-heavily creamed tea in an effort to combat my will to sleep.

At the end of the day, two of my new co-workers walked me to the bus stop and showed me how to take the local city bus. It is so easy and cheap I don’t know why everyone doesn’t use them. I love South Asian buses, they are old, and dirty and crammed full of people, and the windows are always open, and they hardly stop for you to get on or off. They’re saaaweet.

On my commute to work the following day, so many of my fellow commuters had boarded at the previous stop that the only space for me was on the footboard, hanging out the back door, clinging to the outside window. There really is very little difference between a crammed London Tube at 8:30 in the morning, and an equally crammed Colombo city bus. They’re overcrowded, muggy, and filled with slightly crabby commuters in a major urban center. However, in the Tube you can’t hang your head out the door and feel the breeze (albeit polluted and dusty) whip through your hair. And you most certainly wouldn’t chat with your fellow footpad occupant, or help a lady unstuck her sari from under another’s foot.

More to come on commuting, examining post-war development and governance issues, meeting interesting expats, dancing to Michael Jackson songs with members of the West Indies Cricket team, and becoming homeless in Colombo within a week…but later. The jetlag has still not worn off.