Warms The
Cockles
I consulted my Lonely Planet and planned out a proper, living out of a suitcase, epic adventure, travelling all around Sri Lanka. We did not have time to do the very north but we covered as many of the main sites as we could.
I was looking forward to it. Ever since we moved to Singapore everyone we met had been chuffing on about how chuffing brilliant Sri Lanka is with its beaches, wildlife, temples, hill country and colonial history. There was no question it really did have it all. I had forgotten about my personal horrible histories when I started planning this trip.
It probably helped that I was no longer going through puberty as I think some scientists say it can skew your judgement a little.
I was advised to get a driver who you can hire for the duration of your trip and they take you wherever you want to go. I was put in touch with an old family friends’ son who has a travel agency in Sri Lanka and he sorted me out with a lovely driver. We popped to the office to meet my friend on arrival.
I have to say those twenty minutes of talking to him warmed my heart. The group of children of my parents’ generation (all of us in our 40s & 50s now) who remained in Sri Lanka use the same hilarious vernacular and nobody did it better than my pal Nishad.
The finest way to illustrate this is the Sri Lankan’s I know, when discussing their children, never refer to them by their name but instead use the following lingo: “the big fellow is in Melbourne”, “the small fellow is at home”, “I have to be home in time to feed these people”, “those jokers are playing cricket”, “that child is at piano lessons” and “the other fellow is asleep” or “that bugger, I haven’t seen him in ages”, “what a morose beggar that bugger is” and the like.
This brief conversation made me so happy. As my parents’ friends are slowly thinning it warmed the cockles to know their voices were not gone and still existed in their children.
While I sport a hoity toity London posh pants accent, you should know that I can slip into this very specific Sri Lankglish chit chat pretty easily.
Coconuts
One cousin on my Father’s side, one of my parents’ dearest
friends and my Mother’s brothers remain for me in Sri Lanka. Everyone else is gone of this earth or
abroad. I hadn’t seen two of my Mum’s
brothers since 1988 and we popped in to see them on the day we arrived.
This time I was without a banana clip and see through poncho but instead brought with me a refined English gentleman husband, two small mudbloods and myself, the coconut (you know, brown on the outside, white on the inside).
This is a popular and derogatory term for the children of Sri Lankan immigrant parents who after moving to Europe, Oz and North America had their brown offspring who developed very un-brown accents and for quite a few of us, a rather poor level of understanding and knowledge of our origins.
Do note however that this derogatory term was not hurled at us by skinheads in the streets in the 1970s, but was instead coined by our parents as a means of ridiculing our lack of cultural identity with the motherland.
Might I add, the fault of my lack of language skills and
cultural awareness is entirely due to my parents’ lack of interest in teaching
me anything about it.
When being criticised for not sending me to Tamil lessons or learning traditional dance, my Dad softly laughed and said I have no need for that and encouraged me to learn the European languages of which I did French, German, Italian and Spanish through my high school and university years. You will be delighted to know I speak none of them and can just about manage English on a good day. I should have done Tamil. At least I can do the accent.
When being criticised for not sending me to Tamil lessons or learning traditional dance, my Dad softly laughed and said I have no need for that and encouraged me to learn the European languages of which I did French, German, Italian and Spanish through my high school and university years. You will be delighted to know I speak none of them and can just about manage English on a good day. I should have done Tamil. At least I can do the accent.
Eat, Pray,
Love. Now Bugger Off
If you follow my sporadic blog regularly (how is that for
crap word usage. Told you I should have done Tamil) you may remember I entitled a previous blog post with the
above moniker. I am afraid I am going to
repeat myself, as I am incensed.
At my last health check up, it was qualified medically, that
I am in fact, a woman. Therefore, as a
woman I am allowed to berate other women.
I am not into all this sisterhood and "bigging" each other up IF IT IS NOT
DESERVED!
Just like the Bali birds which spawned the vitriol in my previous Eat, Pray, Love post, Sri Lanka with its booming tourist industry has now attracted the same sort of floaty idiot woman to its shores.
Just like the Bali birds which spawned the vitriol in my previous Eat, Pray, Love post, Sri Lanka with its booming tourist industry has now attracted the same sort of floaty idiot woman to its shores.
In the middle of the country is an incredible rock known as Sigiriya or the Lion’s Rock. It does hold spiritual significance for some and has proved a slight mystery for archaeologists as to whether it was a monastery or a fort. As we are not spiritual or Indiana Jones we just wanted to climb it because it was a big rock in the middle of a very flat landscape and it looked challenging, scary and would provide us with incredible views of the surrounding countryside. And it was there. So there.
I was suffering with a full blown hypo that morning but through total bloody mindedness, the shakes and atrophied legs I climbed to the top. The last section of steps with a sheer drop is not for the faint hearted. That said, my 9 and 6 year old ran up it while I was trying very hard not to pass out. Strangely, heights only bother me climbing up. I am less bothered when I can see how far I can plunge to my death and have no issue standing on the edge of cliffs. However, like Kung Fu Panda, climbing stairs is a terrifying challenge.
Maybe it was the stress of the climb or the lack of glucose to my brain but as we sat down in the quiet and peace of the early morning to take in the stunning views, our vista was fouled, fouled I tell you, by some chick who had carried her yoga mat up with her and was now doing her full yoga routine in front of us.
Now this really gets my pants in a bunch. Is this really necessary? Is this just not exhibitionism? Showing off?
Look at me, I climbed a huge rock and now I am rocking this Hindu
Buddhist stuff. Check ... Me ... Out.
I certainly was checking her out and contemplating how hard I could kick her toned bottom, as she did her downward dog in front of my burning eyes.
I have the same issue with tiny dogs wearing FBI jackets. Before you go all animal rights dog day afternoon on me I am not alone in this as I was with a very nice friend who unlike me does not have a single mean bone in her body and even her reaction to the canine FBI agent was, I wonder how far I can kick that. Anyway, I digress again.
I certainly was checking her out and contemplating how hard I could kick her toned bottom, as she did her downward dog in front of my burning eyes.
I have the same issue with tiny dogs wearing FBI jackets. Before you go all animal rights dog day afternoon on me I am not alone in this as I was with a very nice friend who unlike me does not have a single mean bone in her body and even her reaction to the canine FBI agent was, I wonder how far I can kick that. Anyway, I digress again.
Isn’t spirituality quiet, private, personal? I don’t know. I am neither religious nor spiritual. That said, while I do not believe in it myself, I do respect other peoples’ religions and beliefs.
Well, that is actually a lie. I don’t really.
Case in point. When we were at Colombo airport on our way back home a huge group of what I thought were Sri Lankan Nuns came through the airport, fully clad in white from head to toe. I suddenly noticed that there were men too and then realised they were pilgrims.
Shortly after check in, one of the elderly lady pilgrims took a massive tumble on the first bit of the escalator. We all rushed forward to help but she was quickly assisted by her fellows. They helped her via the stairs and when we got to the top of the escalator her sandals were there but she was still making her way up.
About five minutes later we heard another massive clatter as another one of these people fell down the escalator. There was a small part of me that genuinely felt the reason they kept falling on the escalators was because and only because they were pilgrims.
There you go. I am not
fond of religion and my reasons are valid.
Religion is incompatible with escalators. And escalators are very important, particularly when it is hilly and the climate is hot and you have luggage.
Religion is incompatible with escalators. And escalators are very important, particularly when it is hilly and the climate is hot and you have luggage.
Anyway, as if the lady yogi on Sigiriya wasn’t enough, when we spent a couple of days at the beach towards the end of our holiday, we learned our lovely little guest house hosted Kundalini yoga sessions in the morning from 8 until 10am.
I can’t say I didn’t groan.
Midway through my breakfast we had to listen to them all
shouting “Sun” “Sun” “Sun” “Sun”. Now I
am aware of the yoga position, the sun salutation, but I didn’t realise you had
to shout “sun” for 5 minutes while doing it.
This was all news to me and I have to say, it put me off my eggs.
I have many friends who practice and even teach yoga and I do apologise if I have offended you. Well, actually I don’t apologise. Do your duty, pull these rebel yogis in line so they stop blocking the sun with their downward dogs asses and upsetting the most important meal of the day.
I have many friends who practice and even teach yoga and I do apologise if I have offended you. Well, actually I don’t apologise. Do your duty, pull these rebel yogis in line so they stop blocking the sun with their downward dogs asses and upsetting the most important meal of the day.
Even though I am a woman I am now going to attack holidaying men too because I like to be fair and not show any gender bias.
On one side we have the prescribed spirituality of the daffy 30 something single woman and on the other side you have the European male out of his natural habitat and sporting a sarong.
Now I am all fine with getting into the culture and spirit of the locals but do your research. If you are going to wear a sarong you have to commit to it buddy! That means no pants no pants no pants.
A sarong is basically the Lankan version of a kilt but far more risky as it is tied with a knot, has no areas within which one can conceal a little knife and there is no sporran behind which you can hide your packed lunch.
Generally, I have been told the older the sarong the better
as it is much softer, silkier and therefore provides better ventilation. It also therefore has the downside of being
more transparent.
My Dad’s sarong was threadbare and he did not wear any pants under it. Admittedly, he is my only point of reference in which case maybe he was just weird. Still, it was his night time attire, hence, no pants.
My Dad’s sarong was threadbare and he did not wear any pants under it. Admittedly, he is my only point of reference in which case maybe he was just weird. Still, it was his night time attire, hence, no pants.
Anyway, I saw countless westerners strutting around in their
sarongs while clearly wearing pants underneath.
It does not count if it falls down or you cross your legs at the bar and
we can see you are wearing your speedos underneath. If you are going to do it, commit to it or go
home you damn Guylian's (you know, white on the outside, brown on the inside).
Oh and Sigiriya was fantastic. You should go.
Next Time: Roots Chapter III Little Britain & Curiosity
Next Time: Roots Chapter III Little Britain & Curiosity
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