Four Paragraphs for the Past Month

Hey Mom,

I meant for my occasional Sri Lanka blog to be a bit more occasional than it has been. Forgive me. I was derailed first by work, then by sickness (coincidence?), then our friend Andrea (a.k.a. ‘the dainty’) came to visit. Thankfully, I’m no longer working, no longer sick, and ‘the dainty’ finally left, so I can return to the business of sharing Sri Lanka with you. Because there’s much to cover, and I am, by nature, an intolerable drone, I’ll break it up and limit myself to one paragraph per subject (if, at times, longish). I’ll begin with the panoramic business of what’s happening in Sri Lanka (i.e. the war’s over), then on to the slightly less exciting developments in your son’s life (no work! heavy drinking!), and finally zooming in for one intriguing detail on the ground.



I. The President’s Mustache Wins the War

No doubt you’ve heard the civil war that’s plagued Sri Lanka for 26 years has ended. For three days straight, after it was declared over, the streets were awash (still are) in national flags, people chanting, marching, and dancing, lighting firecrackers and other larger detonations (apparently nothing says ‘the war’s over!’ like the replication of warfare). That, you’ve probably seen on t.v. What you haven’t heard, perhaps, is the story of just how the war was won. It’s largely attributed to the president, almost single-handedly. After all, many have tried before, but he did it. Despite pressure from the international community, he didn’t cease operations against the LTTE, and in the end, he prevailed. For this he is celebrated EVERYWHERE. On the backs of tuk-tuks, the sides of buses, walls and windows throughout the city. You see his image, and you can’t help but wonder where a man finds the fortitude necessary to do such things as he has, but slowly, you realize, as with most things: we look and look, before we see it’s right under our noses. His is a prominent mustache. There’s one intersection in Colombo with a thirty-foot likeness of him, propped up with an impossibly complex network of poles and scaffolding, and his mustache has the wingspan of a condor. Seeing it there, soaring in the air above, you can almost imagine it crushing the LTTE with one arm, and with the other, screening the IDP camps in the north for the final Tigers, while simultaneously delivering a conciliatory speech to the Tamil community at large (and in Tamil no less!). You wouldn’t put such feats past it, past him. As far as the Sri Lankans I’ve talked to are concerned, he’s a hero capable of anything, and when you pass his image again and again, witness that Herculean flex above his smile, you can’t help but believe it too.



II. The New Warden Arrives; Abruptly Departs

When last we spoke, I left off with the disappointing news that I may be working. Now, this is a complex and very detailed story, one I can’t do justice to in the confines of this regimented post, so I’ll collapse the whole thing—interview, hire, work, release—into a paragraph (as promised). When I get home, I’ll tell you the whole story. Just for context, remember that I had no idea there was even the potential for me to work here, was in fact planning/praying for the opposite, and it was under these expectations that I suddenly, dreadfully, found myself interviewing at St. Thomas College.

I arrived that first day at St. Thomas to meet Mr. M. (we’ll call him for anonymity). Imagine a cross between Homer Simpson and Apu (the Indian character who runs the Quickie Mart), and you’ve got an accurate likeness. On his desk: piles of papers and folders, a snow globe, a denim box that held his pens, the word ‘unique’ embroidered on it. “Yes Judd,” he began, “very impressive C.V. Very impressive. What we are wanting to know is what you’d like to do with it? Shall you come in five days a week?” At that moment, I panicked, tried to think of how I might exit gracefully—remembered, with some shame, a time I got out of a prospective job by saying I had to be admitted to the hospital for internal tests—but that didn’t seem like the right approach. “I can see that is too much. It’s okay Judd, it’s okay. You tell me. What is it you want to do?” I noticed a man standing at Mr. M’s door. Enter Mr. V.: playwright, director, and head of literature for the Upper School. He sat down, and I noticed he too held a copy of my C.V. Flanked on all sides. Mr. M. filled him in on where we were, very politely explaining that I had no idea what I was doing, what I wanted to do. “It’s okay,” Mr. V. said. “You tell us what you want to do. We’ll make it work.” The further we went, the more we talked, the clearer something was becoming: when they said, “you tell us, we’ll make it work,” they meant it. I slowly realized, despite all the trappings of being one of the most prestigious schools in the land (which it undoubtedly is), it held the same orbit as the rest of the Sri Lanka I’d encountered, an orbit that could best be described as: whatever (“There’s a giant felled tree here, sir, where we’re building this security wall. Should we chop it up and get it out of the way?” “Nah, why bother with all that? Just build around it.”). After all, here they were asking me: “Do you want to work?” And I was responding, “no,” again and again. “Great,” they said. “You tell us how little you want to work, and we’ll make it happen for you.” What had begun horrifyingly, was quickly turning out to be the greatest interview in the history of the world. Eventually, we hashed out a schedule for me to come in two days a week, beginning the following Monday. Mr. V. walked me around campus, took me into several classrooms, and introduced me as the new warden (think principal), as a joke. Those poor kids. They looked both horrified and disappointed. You could just see their faces working: “Him?” All in all, it was a very promising introduction. Monday comes. I hold two English conversation classes, where students ask me many questions: Sir, why are you sweating so much? Sir, can you tell me about Area 51? Sir, are there many beautiful women in America? Sir, who’s your favorite WWE wrestler? Tuesday. It becomes clear I’m there to do anything that needs doing, when I’m asked to cover a physics class for three straight periods. Me! A physics class! If you asked me, I couldn’t tell you what physics even is (gravity?). In physics, I’m asked more questions: Sir, why are you sweating so much? Sir, does this look like the right answer? (response, an old teacher trick: “why don’t you tell me if it’s the right answer.”) In short, a crazy, chaotic, wonderful job that ended that same afternoon. Mr. M.: “Yes Judd, I’m afraid we are having a problem.” I prepared to tell him it wasn’t my fault; I had no business being in a physics class in the first place. “Our budget. This economy. Parents can’t pay their fees. We are, as they say, in the red. I’m afraid we’re only going to be able to offer you 4,000 rupees a month ($33), and that won’t cover your transportation. I wish there was more we could do.” Our agreement: I work very little, pro bono, and they’d ferry me to and fro. Without transportation covered, I’d be paying to work, and that’s a serious violation of principle. I thanked him for the opportunity, and—though St. Thomas College would, undoubtedly, have provided me a great deal of material—wasn’t altogether heartbroken I could again count myself amongst the unemployed.



III. Horsedicking Around or What Unemployment Looks Like in Sri Lanka

I have always been an intensely lazy person, and someone for whom the carrot of job = money was never much of a dangle (remember the e.e. cummings lines I tacked up on my bedroom door: “my specialty is living said / a man (who could not earn his bread / because he would not sell his head)”). I’m not sure how I turned out this way. My whole life I’ve been surrounded by hard workers, I work with hard workers, was raised by hard workers, am descended from hard workers, am married to a relentlessly hard worker (Korean hard worker), whose parents work twelve hours a day, six days a week and no doubt wish their American son-in-law had something akin to drive. With all this, you’d think I’d be ashamed of my laziness, but you’d be wrong. I’m not at all. And here, I don’t even have to pretend to apologize for it. Weekdays, I wake up, when Sandra noisily readies and leaves for the office, and lay in bed a while, contemplating getting up. When I finally do, I drink coffee and read for an hour or two. Eventually, I’ll enjoy a leisurely breakfast. I might shower. Then I’ll write for a few hours. I may go meet Sandra for lunch and feel vaguely threatened by her questions: “What do you do all day?” Afterward, because I’ve got my camera in my pocket, I’ll take a different route back to the apartment and see what I see (horses, etc). If I get back and Inosh, the room boy (as he calls himself), is cleaning, I’ll try and stay out of his way, maybe head to the gym, or the pool (it’s probably too early for a beer). When Inosh has finished cleaning, I might return to work, or read some more, or nap, or go shopping for bootleg music and movies, or knock off football jerseys. With any luck, I may go play some football (soccer; more of that below) with a Brit I met, and if not, it’s probably okay now to have a beer. After Sandra gets home, we’ll go have dinner somewhere, and when she inevitably falls asleep at 10:00 (after a conference call), I’ll go downstairs and listen to one of the cover bands, or walk outside, looking for other places I might wander into (last week, I happened into a den of prostitutes and was instantly mobbed; avoid, or don’t avoid, the Winter Niteclub). My weekends have a similar trajectory. Last Saturday, I went with our friend Gayshan to watch rugby—“The Big Match,” the 65th annual Bragby Shield between Royal & Trinity—and under his tutelage, drank beer for the better part of 24 hours (though that’s not a typical Saturday; usually, the shift is limited to no more than a respectable 8 hours). So, this is my life, the life I’ve always dreamed of (though, I fear, it may not be the life parents dream for their children), the life whose horizon is but a short two months more, and while I’m here, I’ll continue to live it without apology, before returning home to the real world of duty and responsibility (provided I still have a job; I pray none of my employers will happen upon this disclosure. If one happens to, please understand I’m really a very dedicated worker).



IV. Finally, Toto

I’ve never been to Cuba, but I hear the streets are full of classic American cars from the ‘40’s, ‘50’s, and ‘60’s. I imagine that must be quite a sight, especially interesting to Americans fortunate enough to travel there, an odd reminder of home’s yesteryear. I mention this because, in one respect anyway, Sri Lanka has its equivalent: music, the influx of which apparently ended sometime in the late 1980’s. It’s as if, somehow, while the radios kept playing, while MTV hit the airwaves, while, years later, the internet buzzed up out of the ether, here in Sri Lanka, the music remained frozen in time. There never was a Nirvana to turn the page on keyboard-guitars and synthesizers (like punk did for disco), never that boy-band bubble (excluding the likes of New Edition, N.K.O.T.B., et al), never a hip-hop and rap blitz (all apologies to Hammer), never a 50 Cent to thug up and make the mainstream ‘legit’ (save the originators like RUN DMC). Instead, it’s George Michael in the grocery store. Peter Cetera in a taxi. Belinda Carlisle in the hotel lobby. INXS at the gym. As mentioned earlier, a couple nights a week I’ll go downstairs and listen to the cover bands. They’re pretty good, two especially, and I should say that their catalogues aren’t solely composed of ‘80’s numbers. CCR is a favorite. I’ve heard some jazzy Willie Nelson. “My Girl” is always a big hit with the crowd. One guy does a fantastic Elvis medley. But mostly, it’s an ‘80’s parade. Robert Palmer’s smash “Addicted to Love.” The Police’s “Every Breath You Take” (greatest stalker song ever). Huey Lewis & The News and their “Heart of Rock and Roll” is still beating here. Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” (a lunar eclipse may only last a few hours, but an eclipse of the heart goes strong for 26 years and counting). Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” (but a great song). Ratt’s underappreciated classic “Round and Round.” The list goes on and on. There are, however, two distinct favorites. Coming in at number two on the charts is Bryan Adam’s classic “Summer of 69.” I’ve heard this song more in the month I’ve been here than I did in the entirety of 1985. One night, a band played it three times. First, of their own choosing, then as a request from a very drunk man, and finally, as an encore (which set the very drunk man to dancing as if in Pentecostal praise). Without question, however, the number one song on the charts, and in the hearts, is Toto’s peerless classic “Africa.” Every band I’ve seen has played this song. Some do it better than others, but the quality doesn’t seem to matter. As soon it starts up, everybody’s moving, dancing, drumming, singing (everyone knows the words), and there’s a palpable swelling in the room as it builds and crests with the synth-organ solo, and then the song delivers on its promise, comes back to bless us as much as “the rains down in Africa,” and, noting the frenzy it sends people into, I can only conclude that it is Sri Lanka’s national anthem.

41 Hours Later, We Made It!

***If anyone else may happen to read this: I’ve never written a blog—have, in fact, never read a blog—and as an instructor of composition, I always stress to my students the importance of considering one’s audience.  Since I’m relatively certain the only person who will read this is my mom, I’ll begin each of my posts thusly.

 

Hey Mom,

First, the pictures.  The first is representative of the grueling slog it took to get here.  The second is of one of the helpful signs posted around town.  The third is of the first organization I've joined since arriving in Sri Lanka.  

So, we’ve been here in Colombo a week now, and I figured it fitting to begin with general impressions of the city.  There are several constants, no matter what district you’re in.  To begin with, it’s stiflingly hot, always.  As I walk around, your son is little more than a pasty, sweaty reminder of Sri Lanka’s colonial history (though I suppose only a reminder of the British and Dutch periods, not so much the Portugese), and after having walked around for, say, twenty seconds, I’m second-skinned with sweat and exhaust.  That’s another constant, the traffic.  Back home, I neglected to appreciate how things are beautifully ordered by successive traffic lights, clearly marked lanes, and wide, signaled crosswalks.  While they have those things here, occasionally, they are little more than unconvincing suggestions, resulting in roads about as controlled as the explosion of fireworks, cars and pedestrians embattled in a ceaseless game of chicken.  Colombo pedestrians are the bravest people in the world, and you should see them mom!  Ambling across the street as if on deserted beaches at sunset, not centimeters away from death.  Then, of course, there’s the filth.  Colombo is an exceedingly filthy city, the likes of which I’ve never seen.  There are places back home where we see litter, sure: on certain highways, for example (despite the best efforts of our Rotary and Kiwanis clubs), in the dark corners of parking lots where dumpsters have boiled over, in trash cans downtown that have reached their limit and trickle crushed coffee cups onto the sidewalk.  I’ve yet to see a trash can in Colombo, however.  Here, garbage is like foliage.  Huge piles of it everywhere, picked over by sickly looking ravens and bone-thin stray dogs (which maraud everywhere in cowering packs), the odd person, here and there, digging through for something of worth (food or otherwise).  The teeming trash adds a certain flavor to the city’s smell too, as you might imagine, something like a cross between raw sewage and toe jam.  The buildings are also filthy, walls filmed with exhaust, old bills and posters, peeling and rotting, everything baked and pelted by years of intense sun and rain, so there’s something like a uniform grime everywhere you look.  I realize these descriptions aren’t exactly seductive (likely not something the Colombo chamber of commerce will adopt for their tourist brochures), but let me say here that in all this there is a kind of beauty to be found, like in the brushstroke-flowering of mold, and I truly love it here thus far.  Finally, of course, there’s war.  As you well know (“you’re going where!” you worried), Sri Lanka is a country at civil war, and before we came, I wondered what living in such an environment might be like.  I didn’t let on to you how utterly terrified I was—I didn’t want you to fret more—but I’ve been very relieved.  There’s really little sign of war here, as the devastation is taking place in a tightly confined area hundreds of miles away.  The first few days here, in my wanderings—knowing they’ve been targets in the past—every time I passed a bus (of which there are hundreds and hundreds), my television imagination saw them set to explode like terrible flowers, and I winced and braced for my undoing.  However, the only signs are the ever-presence of men and boys with machine guns, security checkpoints every few blocks, and the helpful signs posted by the Colombo police department which remind you to “beware of bombs.”  In short, Colombo is a vastly dirty, strangely beautiful, vaguely terrifying place to find yourself.

The people are the friendliest I’ve ever met.  Everywhere I walk, I’m met with smiles and hellos (even from the heavily armed soldiers), questions of where I’m from, quick, fascinating conversations with other walkers, or taxi and tuk-tuk drivers.  For example, the other day I had a very interesting discussion with a taxi driver about cougars.  After he’d asked me where I was from, he inquired, “You have cougars in Oregon, no?  I have never seen one in life.  Only pictures.  You call them the mountain lions, no?  They are moving very quickly, yes?”  Another pedestrian asked me if I liked wrestling.  “I am liking the Undertaker very much,” he said.  “Can you tell me, is it real.  We don’t know.  Some say it is, some say it isn’t.  I don’t know.  You can tell me, are the bodies real?”  In another conversation, I was asked: “Why did the CIA kill Kennedy?”  I’ve yet to have any substantive conversations with the hotel staff (with the exception of a chef), who are all very friendly to the point of suffocation.  I’ve yet to open a door myself, unfold a napkin, summon an elevator, pour a beer, or open a bottle of water inside the walls of this building.  They come to clean our apartment everyday (everyday! and we’re here for three months!).  It’s so excessive and unnecessary that we turn them away every other day, asking only for supplies of coffee and toilet paper, so that one boy must tell the others all we do is sit around and drink coffee and shit (sorry for the language). 

I had meant to post this sooner, but sadly (very sadly) I was distracted by work.  Yes, work.  You know how much I hate that stuff.  A very generous and thoughtful (?) friend of ours, and a colleague of Sandra’s, arranged work for me at one of Sri Lanka’s most prestigious private schools, called St. Thomas College, an all boys school which boasts six former prime ministers and several former mayors of Colombo in its alumni.  The second day we were here, I had an interview.  An interview!  I’ll not go into that business yet, as it’s still being sorted out (with any luck, I will be terminated; I’d terminate me—unless I was Portland Community College J), but for now I’ll share one thing to peak your interest: in this part of the world, ear hair is a thing to envy, and is cultivated to such lengths as can be styled.  I’m currently taking vitamins to grow mine.

With Love, Your Son,

Judd