on a recent bagpacking trip to sri lanka....a very poor nation torn by decades of civil war. my best experience was to feel at home in a strange way; i felt regarded as a visitor, not quite a tourist (unike certain spots in Indonesia). over here, expect your seat to be hovered around by well-meaning stares and bemused expressions, i.e. whenever you step into a local eatery and order food in a spattering of english given emphasis by hints of a body in language. the cooks and attendants would do everything in their power to assure and protect you from their lava-hot olive curries and dishes known to be dressed in potent swathes of chilli padi. your palate is cared for...and most meals were served in with more than a smile...sweet tea to soothe an abused tongue and or extra dahl simply because your larger morsels showed you liked them so much.
on a train that moves beyond the mist. my legs dangled over a yard of valleys and the mark of a constant waterfalls. hungry. i pick from a providential basket of vadai and chickpea selling for 20 rupees (less than $S0.30) onboard. overland, village boys lead the road to a lake by a gentle wind. a saffron-clad junior monk continues to wave from a faraway monastery. the colours carry on with their song: there were tea-pickers in sari- their back-breaking work awashed in waves of blue, gold and green. they moved, some on bare feet...i saw a quiet circle of gold, a toe-ring worn on the very end of their feet. the path was muddied. and became asphalt at times. black with a hint of gold. i sense toil and dignity in their stride as they picked their tea.
resorts on the east were overun by dogs. they lead a spartan life. facing the blue seas daily. a few were saved from the tsunami. i stayed on galle face hotel. the equivalent to the raffles, in colombo. the classic wing had a bathtub marked by murderous stains (straight from the classic psycho movie...) and the prison-slit of windows were dressed in aged mosquito nets. i slumped by body by chairs of a saltwater pool. content to stare blankly at the indian ocean for the third time in my life...(the last was at port louis, mauritius and chennai plus goa in india). i was at chennai's marina beach at 3pm in 2004. i left a day later. At the same time, the tunami swept in and took everyone by surprise.
am taking it slow. not knowing when life will close again, i sharpen my stand, bend my knees. angle my hand and jump 
into sweetpurple and the blue of full release as the cold sky witholds its judgement, and blesses the body's roots to hunger.
i pray still each afternoon or night when i fall down to sleep. grateful that the sinews of my body work in accordance to the dreams and journeys on the sky and ground. there are quiet leaps made, to the quick comfort of a forgotten childhood. sometimes, i can only look back in wonder on the years of loss and bereavment that mark my schooldays. there is a deferred sense of arrival in all this. an awkward space between a fresh discovery and the old nostalgic need to steal home a stolen dream.
