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Published: February 21st 2008
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Colombo-Kandy Railroad Haiku
Rattling through jungles
Heads bouncing like souvenir dolls
Lost in sad thoughts
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I can feel the proximity of the jungle in Kandy. Monkeys scramble across my roof, the bird calls that wake me in the morning sound like auditions for a Tarzan movie, and there are columns of ants streaming across every wall. Even if Buddhists were allowed to use ant traps (and they aren't,) this isn't a problem you solve, it's a problem you learn to live with.
In my last entry I asked Asia to swallow me whole. This turned out to be a lesson in being careful what I ask for. Asia is a giant organism, a turbulent flow of people, cows, mangy dogs, rickshaws, and dilapidated buses. It's not enough to go with the flow; I must also facilitate the flow. I must master the delicate balance of letting the other corpuscles slip past without loosing too much momentum by getting angry at the rudeness of the truck that gently nudges me out of the way. There is no rudeness. How can my left hand be rude to my right hand? The truck knows that some
other corpuscle will let me slip past before I get run over.
My stay in Kandy coincides with the Kandy Perahera-- two weeks of parades and pageants that will culminate in the Great Perahera a week from tomorrow. Kandy is filling with pilgrims and elephants. It's impossible to find a speck of serenity here. To add to the cacophony loud speakers on every corner blare the sound of chanting monks. I tried to escape to one of my favorite hikes in the countryside, but it also felt congested. Even the bottle offers no escape. After a long dusty bus ride back to Kandy I stopped in the local pub for a beer, where the waiter informed me that Kandy will be dry for the entire two weeks of the festival!
After sipping lemonade at the pub I tried to catch a glimpse of the opening night Perahera. The only spot I could find to stand on was half a block from the actual parade route. I fought fiercely for my spot as newcomers squeezed between my legs and under my arms. Ultimately I realized I was standing there mostly to spite the people around me, whom I had
grown to despise. I left before the parade even started!
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Signs posted along Perahera route:
Beware of pickpockets and smokers!
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If the past nine months has taught me anything it's that I'm clearly out of synch with the goddess energy of the Universe. Before I left Colombo for Kandy I decided to appease the goddess by making an appearance at the Addipuram festival.
Addipuram is a Hindu festival that commemorates the day Kali-- Shiva's wrathful daughter-- reached puberty. On this day a procession of 2200 women will cross Colombo carrying buckets of milk on their heads. When they reach the Hindu temple that happens to be around the corner from my house, the chief priest will dump the buckets over Kali's statue. I would attempt to explain the symbolism, but I wouldn't know where to begin.
I arrived at the temple around 6:30 in the morning. The heat was already stifling. There were the usual flags, banners, and clouds of incense. Of course no speck of wall space, inside or out, lacked a garish lacquered statue of some Hindu deity. The head priest was performing various rituals in preparation for
the arrival of the milk bearers. A trio consisting of a drum, a bell, and a weird oboe thing played cool sounding snake charmer music. When the priest was about to do something important, the tempo and volume of the music increased dramatically. This would be accompanied by gasps of awe from the crowd. The man on my right prostrated himself and repeatedly banged his head on the marble floor. The man on my left crossed his arms and pulled frantically on his ears. He later explained to me that Kali must be appeased because the tsunami proved that the world is out of balance. Even the Prime Minister (and next president?) made a brief appearance.
At last the milk arrived. Some of the women had tridents poked through their cheeks and tongues. Wave after wave entered the temple. It took hours to empty all 2200 buckets, and the streets ran white. All I could think was that it would be nice to have someone to share these sights with.
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After the temple I took Rukman's father and sister to Mt. Lavinia Hotel. For $5 you can use their private beach. No one will try to
Addipuram 7
The soon-to-be president makes an appearance. sell you seashells, no one will steal your wallet while you're swimming, waiters will fetch drinks for you, and the price includes a seafood lunch!
But the ocean was unusually rough and the tide was unusually high. Several times during lunch waves sloshed right into the restaurant. I only managed to wade into the water up to my waste before the waves pushed me back. I'm sure everyone there was thinking about the tsunami. People look at the ocean in a different way now. It's not an attraction anymore. It's not a friend. Rukman's mother refused to come with us because she says she is mad at the ocean!
I have heard several frightening tales from tsunami survivors. This evening a colleague described driving to the beach with his family. Just before he arrived he saw the ocean surge through a row of houses. Children and furniture were being washed out through the windows. He saw an old man spinning in the current, and he saw a bus flip over. He couldn't understand what was happening. He tried to speed away, but cars fleeing in the opposite direction blocked every road. The ocean was surrounding him. By driving
through alleys and backyards he was able to reach a speck of high ground.
Later, he heard an absurd story. Supposedly this same thing had just happened miles away in Jaffna. It was later still that he learned of the full scope of the disaster. Not only had the same scene repeated itself up and down the coast of Sri Lanka, but up and down every coast of South Asia.
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