Disentangling

I feel like an octopus – no, like a kilopus - gradually letting go, tentacle upon tentacle, of that which has kept me anchored to Sri Lanka for these last 7 months. The flight home is reconfirmed and before I know it, Silje will be waiting for me at Torp Airport, Oslo - a cool autumn wind whipping my face as we step outside.

Anthropologists, it seems, have always had a soft spot for arrival stories. One after another paints idyllic pictures of the unspoiled landscapes (social and geographical) that he/she penetrated. For “old school” anthropologists this virginal purity (to keep the sexual metaphor going) was a necessary precondition to their work. They were akin to explorers, only their explorations were of “Man” and not of “Land”. They were on a noble mission, seeking to unravel parts of the Human Condition itself. And so, by unleashing their analyses on cultures that had evolved in isolation (or so many seemed to think), they wanted to isolate common cultural denominators. What is it that makes us same when there is so much that makes us seem different? They came, they explored and they left, but we heard a lot more about the coming than the going. Their arrival stories, with a situating of their personas within the field, lent an all-important air of authority to their monographs. His position being established, the anthropologist would stay in the background throughout the rest of the book. It would seem most objective and scientific that way.

I find departure stories a lot more fascinating than arrival stories. They certainly have the potential to reveal much more of the anthropologist’s conduct in the field. Perhaps that is why they haven’t had the same prominence within our discipline. That is not say they are non-existent. Many a monograph includes a paragraph or two describing the sadness and heavy heart with which the anthropologist took leave. Some attribute or project the same feelings to informants and friends that are left behind. In the end though, it is their story that will be told through the anthropologist. Of course, I am not saying two-way friendships of substance can’t evolve, just that there tends to be an unbridgeable gap, or a heavy asymmetrical quality to these relationships.

From the day of Arrival the anthropologist knows, more or less consciously, that Departure is the exit sign visible at the other end. Departure is looming like a semi-transparent wall between anthropologist and informant, making the all-fashioned notion of “going native” utterly ridiculous. When times are bad, the thought of Departure is a comfort. When times are good, that same thought becomes a disturbing reminder, hovering like a ghost over all that is cared about. But the thought is always there, on some mental level. They know. We know. And we end up clinging to the idea of returning again and again, which many anthropologists do, but which really doesn’t make a difference in addressing the hierarchical dimension of the relationships. It rather stresses it. I am soon going back to my privileged otherworldly existence and I may return to Sri Lanka and Peradeniya soon. But I will never come back for good.

I bought kottu (stir fried chicken and vegetables) to 17 boys from my Tamil crowd at campus, last night. Earlier in the day some of them had asked me if it was ok that they paid me a visit at home that night and I said I’d be honored. I expected four of five of them to show up and didn’t realize it was to be our final explosion of a party together. Within minutes of arriving at my room, (while I was taken somewhat aback by the number), they had somehow figured out how to work my improvised sound system and were blasting out Tamil and Hindi movie hits. Like they’ve been doing on our trips in the upcountry, the danced around joyfully in their undershirts, bumping into one another, tearing down the room, with a degree of vigor I find impossible to reach without alcohol. When things had cooled down a bit - we were sitting on the roof, admiring the magnificent view - I announced that I would like to take them all out for dinner. It would be a small gesture on my behalf in order to thank them for all the help and friendliness they have showered on me. I had to do a bit of persuasion before they would accept, though. The bill for 19 kottus (a Sinhala friend joined us too) read 2130 rupees – the equivalent of a reasonably priced large pizza in Norway. They have no idea how little money that is to me.

So what is this all about? Guilt for leaving? Shame for being rich? A bit of both, I am sure. But also a sense of professional disillusionment at not really being able to see anything through their eyes. Even if the road of my life for a short period lined up parallel with their roads, it is heading to a very different place, not to mention where it is coming from. I never lived their lives. I never could have, unless I had been prepared to severe all ties to Norway. What I could do was to make as good use of my empathy as possible.

I am a kilopus – with hundreds of tentacles clinging to the life that I left –the life that I will soon be returning to - and hundreds (though not quite as many) attached (though with a loosening grip) to the life that I shall soon leave behind. Some tentacles must let go immediately, lest I be suspended mid-air between here and there. Others will take years to let go. But some things, by chance or by necessity, I will not let go of. They are friends and fond memories and they will change my life for the better.

A big thank you to all who have made my stay here in Sri Lanka a pleasant and rewarding one!

/haakon/

Big-talker, Firewalker

After six days the blisters are healing and the limp is gone. This was the last time, though. For sure! Firewalking? Been there, done that. Twice!

Being such a shy and modest person I failed to mention my firewalking debut last month. After the trip I made with Siva to Kataragama, with several detours in the upcountry, I had planned a quiet few days in Kandy. That was not to be. Stuart whisked me off to a new festival in the small town Aluthnuwara where devotees every year flock to the temple of Dedimunda to show the extent of their faith and the firmness of belief. Around this temple has sprung up a cult of bhakti worship, heavily influenced by Hinduism. Acts of self-mortification abound.

As we approached the temple we could see young men, in a roped-off area, dance wildly with hooks through the skin on their backs. On the hooks were attached ropes - ropes that were being pulled tight by fellow devotees. Coming closer I saw men and women of all ages with pieces of metal pierced through their cheeks and tongues, working themselves into trance-like states. An elderly exorcist (my current landlady's mother-in-law's brother) was chasing ghost after ghost out of bodies of innocent victims. Even Stuart had a ghost, he proclaimed, and proceeded swiftly to get rid of it through a process involving splitting limes in two and splashing water in Stuart's face. He then warned Stuart not to eat mutton or beef and never to be in a junction at midnight. It was that kind of an evening.

The relatively small square around the temple was absolutely packed with spectators and devotees. A large part of the crowd was there to see the Aluthnuwara perahera, a procession with elephants and dancers similar to the one in Kataragama (and the one currently going on in Kandy) , though on a smaller scale. This was also the part of the crowd that was perfectly content just watching the possessed dancers and self-mutilating devotees of Dedimunda. Further, they were perfectly happy just watching the climax of the evening: the firewalking. I counted myself to this group.

When we arrived at 9 pm a fire had been burning for hours and hours in the center of the roped-off area, and still thick logs were added to it. By 5 am it was finally decided that there were enough red-hot coals, and men proceeded to prepare a strip of them about 5 meters long and a meter wide. Having seen firewalking on a previous occasion in the upcountry, I was prepared for absolute mayhem. I clung to my camera, ready to catch some of it on film (or CMOS I suppose). I had positioned myself well and was snapping away happily, but as 40 or 50 people had passed in front of me in this manner I suddenly realized I had just taken a picture of Stuart. I had last seen him a few minutes earlier, getting into the dancing, doing some moves he must have picked up in Haiti. I had to reassess the situation. Being of a highly competitive nature I couldn't let Stuart triumph like this without being a part of it myself. I looked at the coals. They seemed to have died off a tad bit. Nervously I stashed away the camera in my backpack and got in line.

The following minutes are a bit blurry. I remember I ran across. I remember what was almost a disappointment at the lack of pain. I remember going across again at a more relaxed pace. Still no burns - only a huge adrenalin kick. We returned to Kandy tired but with a sense of accomplishment. I considered myself I retired firewalker. That was not to be.

Fast forward to last week.

My friend Vikram had invited Siva and I along for a weekend trip to his village Udappu, near Puttalam, on the west coast. We gladly accepted, and leave after lectures on Friday afternoon. Our visit coincides with the temple festival at Muneshwaram, near Chillaw, about an hour away. Sunday is the big day for firewalking, Vikram had told me and I had let it slip that I had already gone firewalking in Aluthnuwara. I had said it wasn't nearly such a big deal as I thought it would be. Bad call!

We spend Friday night and Saturday relaxing and visiting Vikram's friends and relations in Udappu. Come Sunday afternoon we're on the bus to Muneshwaram. I am perfectly unaware that Vikram has taken my loose-mouthed statement to mean that I would love to go firewalking again - a message he had let pass on to a number of his friends who would be present.

The three of us arrive in a very festive Muneshwaram and anticipation is in the air. Here and there devotees clad in orange- and peach-colored sarongs, with beads around their necks, are resting in the shade or praying at the temples. Like at Aluthnuwara, the majority however, are only here to observe the spectacle and perhaps to do a puja. We make our way to the main temple where a huge crowd is watching as a crew starts preparing the firewalk. Among the hundreds of people present I see four or five western tourists, cameras dangling around their necks and worried looks on their faces. This is when Vikram announces that we have to get ready. I ask, "ready for what?" but get no reply. Siva too is left in the shadows. On Vikram's command we deposit our sandals with a lady outside one of the smaller temples and proceed barefoot through the bazaars until we meet up with a group of his friends resting near a bo tree.

The group had walked the 26 kilometers from Udappu, starting the previous night. I had heard them pass our house at around 2 am, singing merrily, but was too tired to wonder what was going on. Now I'm impressed with their appearance. In their sarongs they remind me of the sadhus of India. I ask them about the pilgrimage and whether they will firewalk. This is where the confusion sets in. Not only will they firewalk but also they are convinced that Siva and I have come in order to walk with them. They have brought extra sarongs. When I try to laugh it off they smile back at me, thinking I am joking. When I explain that I am not joking and that I'd rather just watch they look at me like they can't make sense of what I am saying. Vikram argues "but you told me you wanted to!" It was almost as if my current stand was a personal insult to him.

I couldn't understand why the issue was so important. Were they challenging me? Did they not believe my story about Aluthnuwara and therefore wanted to test my courage? Did Vikram want to bask in the glory of my devotion? Or did he simply want the best for me - a divine blessing for his friend? In retrospect I opt for this latter explanation. Vikram is one of the more religiously attuned of my Tamil student friends. He doesn't see firewalking as a courageous act, but as a transaction between man and God. A confirmation of faith. It didn't seem to matter that I confessed being non-religious. I don't think many Srilankans grasp the concept (this reminds me a lot of the reactions I got from people in Texas when I was an exchange student there. "But... how can you not believe in God?")

I seem to be winning the battle of wills when Siva, who has been just as reluctant to walk as I, suddenly caves in and accepts a sarong. History is repeating itself. I find I cannot be the only one not walking. And besides, their attempts at persuading me have worn off, finally making it possible for a stubborn soul like I to change my mind. I accept a sarong and don it for a ritual bath in a nearby well.

From there on I am king of the hill for an hour so. I feel like a superstar as we return through the bazaars to the temple. People want to shake my hand. They congratulate me. They yell encouraging words. They are all smiles. And I enjoy the attention. After smearing holy ashes on our foreheads, chests and shoulders we're ready for action. So are 3-400 others, however. The ordeal, I am to learn, is not confined to the firewalking alone. First you have to elbow your way into the line. The concept of the line (like secularity), I believe, was never very clearly understood in Sri Lanka (with an amazing exception to Peradeniya campus). On this occasion 3-400 people are vying to be among the very first across. Apparently, the earlier you walk the more auspicious of an act it is.

It takes Siva and I 15 minutes just to get reach the start of the single file line that is stretching along to sides of the temple square before ending where the coals begin. I am finally waved into the single file by a guard who clearly is of the opinion that a white firewalker should never have to wait for long. Siva is allowed to go with me. I, on the other hand, had been happy to wait. I was sharing my experience from Aluthnuwara with Siva, telling him the coals were bound to be a lot cooler when it is finally our turn. All too soon it is.

Again, a blur. I do remember the old lady in front of me starting to jump around as if her degree of possession rose exponentially with the decreased distance to the coals. I remember a guard saying "just shout 'Arogera'* and go!" I remember doing just that. I remember thinking: "Shit! I am scorching my feet!!!" And I remember the crowd gasping as I jumped into the small pit of water at the end of the ditch. But this is when the true ordeal begins.

I put on a brave smile and shake a few hands as we pass through the corridor in the crowd and entered the temple. The burning sensation doesn't stop, however. And when I sit down for a second with Siva, it almost gets intolerable. Walking somewhat soothes the pain. I was never very good at keeping suffering to myself and Vikram and his friends, who have now joined us, look worried when they see my troubled face. Are they too, burned? Should I just pretend I am fine? If I tell, maybe they can help me do something about it? Or will they gloat that their religious belief protected them, whereas I have none and got burned? I decide to tell them that I'm worried I burned myself badly. Vikram smiles apologetically and assures me that it will only burn for a couple of hours. Tomorrow, for sure, I'll be fine, he says.

The bus returning to Udappu is packed with excited youth chattering away. I have to stand, which I don't mind as it gives me a chance to shift around a little bit. The ceiling is low, however, forcing me to bend my head at a 90-degree angle. I feel like a freak. Like a caged animal. I am sure I have the gloomy face of one.

Before going to bed Vikram insists I smear honey on the soles of my feet. At this point I'm already a bit more optimistic, having downed a large bottle of beer at Vikram's uncle's house where we had been for dinner. A beer-buzz, homegrown prawns (Vikram's uncle owns a prawn farm) and a cool concrete floor took the edge off the burn. The honey and the next 6 hours must have taken care of the rest, because waking up the next day I felt a new man, with only a few blisters to show for the previous days events. But never again will I go firewalking! (I think).

/haakon/

* 'Arogera' is what devotees shout when they’re going through physical ordeals to show their faith. It is a call to God for protection. (Correct me if I'm wrong, anyone).

Postal Travails

I braced myself as I entered the Main Post Office again today, carrying the large, wooden devil dance mask that I had bought in Ambalangoda and now wanted to send home. I expected something in the line of "Where is the receipt?" or "We need proof this is not antique! You must obtain a letter from the Department of Archeology!" Instead I was bewildered at seeing the staff smile benignly at me, acting in a courteous and helpful manner. I had to pinch my arm. "Wrapping guy" recognized me immediately and talked lightheartedly to "Sari woman"- I only recognized the words "printed matter parcel", but their voices carried no grudge. They both smiled to me and asked me about my stay in Sri Lanka.

"Man in Counter 16" was replaced with a more competent colleague. He made no fuzz about the mask and was able to give me the different rates so I could make an informed choice as to how I would send it. Only "Stamp guy" ruined their performance slightly by being out for lunch. He had me waiting 10 minutes, but what does that matter?

The world is full of surprises, but this caught me completely off guard. Maybe it is the up-coming Kandy perahera that has put everyone in an amiable mood.

/haakon/

BTW! I recently found in my guidebook (yes, even this anthropologist has one) a note that I wrote last year. On the note was jotted down all the different parcel rates. It turned out that the 600 rupees or so that I paid for my printed matter parcel was correct. Who knows..? Maybe the books aren't lost after all.

Sending Stuart off

Yesterday was Stuart's final day in Sri Lanka and as he had been such a good kid, the Yogarajs decided to rent a van and take him all the way to the airport. Stuart, on the other hand, insisted he'd buy everyone lunch in Colombo first: 1) as a thank you for all they have done for him; 2) as it was Mrs. Yogaraj's birthday; and 3) since the flight was only leaving in the evening. I, being the designated Stuart-substitute, that is the new occupant of his room, was invited along for the extravaganza.

It starts well. We make our way down from the up-country to the sounds of Wycleff Jean's Welcome to Haiti-album, which Stuart had stumbled across in Colombo a few days ago, and which the Yogaraj-kids are polite enough to claim they enjoy (although I sincerely doubt they like anything but Tamil movie songs). An hour or so from Colombo, after some short-eats at a roadside café, Stuart remembers he hasn't reconfirmed his flight and wants to call the airline. However, he doesn't have their number and no one seems to know the number to an information service. We decide to stop at a communication center, but no: they don't know about any information service either. At this point Stuart is a bit worked up and has a bad premonition. Mrs. Yogaraj saves the day, or at least the next five minutes, by calling the airport and getting the number from them. Soon, however, I see Stuart in the phone booth, knocking the hand piece against his head. His flight to Quatar is heavily overbooked. He can get another one in the morning, they tell him. He complains that he has a connecting flight to Italy (he's going through Rome to see a friend there). No good. Perhaps if he comes to the office, they can work something out.

The car is turned around as we have to backtrack a bit to get onto the airport road. Stuart has acquired one of those black cartoon clouds, hovering above his head, and fears his whole schedule will be upset and that he will lose a day in Rome. The ride to the airport is anything but jolly, but all his Ganapathi pujas pay off. Miraculously we find the airline office. Miraculously it is open. Most miraculously of all: they manage to get him on his original flight. Outside again we high-five, not really believing how easy it had been. Stuart is sitting on a white cloud of elation.

The rest of the story is a bit of an anti-climax. Back on the lunch track in Colombo, we can't find the Thai restaurant Stuart had set his mind on (never trust Lonely Planet), but end up in a south-Indian joint (can't remember the name now (Aramvathi..? Amarathi..? Amravathi..? something like that!) but will add it later perhaps), which proves a good alternative by whipping up an excellent thali. Going back to the airport we strive to stay awake, all of us full and some of us sleep deprived. The goodbye scene is quick but we remain standing outside, watching Stuart and his 4 pieces of luggage work their way through security and then out of sight. Another chapter is closed in my Lankan experience - the last one reluctantly opened.

With Stuart's departure I've lost my anthropological companion and adventure mate. We've had some really good times together, but I am sure will meet again later and have some more. I've gained a new residence and an amazingly kind host mother. I am also so close to wrapping things up here that Stuart's departure only feels like the first step of my own. For Mrs. Yogaraj, however, the experience of sending him off was more akin to sending off one of her own sons, not knowing when she would see him again. (She is however certain he will come back with a wife soon). For six months, Stuart has been living with the family, and with his Tamil (and Sinhala) skills he had become a part, not only of the family, but also of the whole neighborhood. I followed him on his good-bye rounds which took us to 15 families or so. Mrs. Yogaraj, on the way back, smiled sadly and said she would dream of him this coming week. "He really is a good boy".

Back on campus today (the non-academic strike is finally called off), I met a few students too, who felt sorry that Stuart had left. One exclaimed (and I hope you are reading this Stuart :) ) that "he is such a talented man. Every word he says carries such weight!" Contemplative silence now. "And he speaks so fast!".

Hope you had a good flight, Stuart, and that you're accepted to the grad. school of your choice next year!

/haakon/

The Rising
- Take your friends and family to the movies!

I've been awaiting this for what seems like a small eternity: "The Rising", Bollywood superstar Amir Khan's epic tale of Mangal Pandey and the Indian sepoy uprising of 1857 is set to have world première on August 12. Some of you may remember that I was picked up on the streets of Bombay and cast as an extra in this mammoth production (see blog entry 9.5.04). I was even so lucky as to be in the same scene as Amir Khan and Rani Mukherjee and I reckon there is a good chance I'll bee visible in the final picture. Look out for the British soldier with massive sideburns and a bewildered facial expression who has to step aside at the entrance of the house of pleasure as Rani and Amir come storming inside.

/haakon/

BTW! Read more about the movie at indiaglitz.com and imdb.com and watch the teaser (flash) at nowrunning.com!

The Incompetent Fools
or: Count on the Postal Service to Ruin an Otherwise Perfectly Good Day

Stuart is leaving for America on Sunday and I've been offered the room he is renting from a Tamil family on Peradeniya road. It was an offer I gladly accepted as my relationship to John has gone from strained to painful for reasons I won't go into here. It is enough to say I'd be a lot more comfortable somewhere else, and Stuarts' host family are warm and kind people.

Preparing for the move I decided to send a bunch of books back to Norway. I will only be here another month and with the Kandy perahera coming up I figure it is best to start emptying the nest now (how did I end up with so much "stuff" in so little time?). I filled a backpack with books and caught a bus to the Main Post Office.

Having done this a couple of times before I figured I knew the routine.

Step 1: Get parcel wrapped in Post Shop
Step 2: Add address
Step 3: Get the approval of man in Counter 16 who will tell you the postage
Step 4: Buy stamps from different counter
Step 5: Drop the parcel in Counter 16

I unloaded my books on the Post Shop counter and declared that I wanted them wrapped as a book parcel, to be sent as "printed matter". The guy wrapped it all up in a cardboard box, applying generous amounts of tape. Well done I thought, and ventured on to Counter 16.

"Man in Counter 16" proceeds to calculate the postage for "Sea mail" (3090 rupees). I make it clear that I want to send the parcel as "printed matter". He looks dumbfounded. "Man in Counter 16" needs to consult various superiors. One claims that it is "better to send sea mail". Another says, "Parcel is too big". Finally a man I figure must be at least 3 levels above "Man in Counter 16" tells me they can't accept the parcel like this. It is not wrapped correctly. It needs to be transparent. Better I send it as air or sea mail.

I explain that the mistake was with the Post Shop. "Superior Officer" tells me I have to understand that this is not his problem. The Post Shop is a different branch and he is not responsible for their business. I tell him that this is a screwed up way of treating a customer who is not responsible for the mistake. I ask him if he can talk to the man in the Post Shop and have him re-wrap my parcel. "Superior Officer" tells me I will have to do it myself and turns his back on me. In his mind he is finished with this annoying man and he doesn't hear me when I say they won't listen to me.

Right enough. Back in the Post Shop "Wrapping Guy" tries to dodge any responsibility. "Better you send as sea mail", he tells me, and goes on by redirecting me to the man in the other Post Shop counter. This man in turn tries to convince me of sending it as sea mail and then tells me to talk to "Man in Counter 16". When I try to say that "Man in Counter 16" sent me back to the Post Shop he has gone on to the next customer. At this point I have exclaimed that "this is outrageous" to three different people and I am becoming very frustrated and angry. This, as I have mentioned earlier on the blog, is not productive. I hook on to "Wrapping Guy" and tell him to re-wrap it. He tells me to wait and then when he sees I am not in the mood to be pushed around any more he sends be into the Post Masters office.

"Post Master" is sitting at his desk in his large office and gestures to me to sit down. A number of people come and go with papers for him to sign. He smiles behind his large mustache, clearly amused at my worked up temper. I try hard to cool down and explain the situation to him. "Yes, yes", he says. He agrees that "Wrapping Guy" made a mistake. But it is "better I send sea mail". I refuse; telling him I know it is cheaper to send as printed matter. After consulting briefly with a clerk he goes on to say that the maximum weight of the printed matter parcels is 2 kilograms. This I know is not the case and I tell him I believe he must be mistaken. I sent a much larger book parcel from this very same post office last summer. He nods, but maintains that the limit is 2 kg and that my parcel, which is 9 kg must be split in 5 smaller parcels. "Better I send it sea mail".

At this point I am about to surrender. But then a clerk enters the office carrying a price list. He confers quickly with "Post Master" who looks up at me smiling. "Yes he says.. there is one price for the 2 first kilograms and then another price for each additional kilogram". Victory! (Maybe)

Back in the Post Shop "Wrapping Guy" somewhat reluctantly starts cutting open the sides of the parcel so that the content is made visible - the requirement of printed matter parcels. Last year they covered the openings with transparent plastic, however, but this "Wrapping Guy" fails to do. I tell him the books will be ruined if I send them like that. "But we have no transparent plastic" says "Clerk no2" in the Post Shop. I stare at him, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. "Clerk no2" was one of few to have shown a somewhat sympathetic side during the preceding black comedy. He rises to the occasion though, telling "Wrapping Guy" to cover the holes with transparent tape. I am almost there.

Back in Counter 16, "Man" looks rather terrified of the parcel and I. I tell him we will try this again and that I want the printed matter rate. He is at a loss, scratching his head and looking at random pages in a notebook on his desk. He grabs a hold of the neighboring clerk who doesn't seem to bring any enlightenment into the mess. Then, as a descending angel, a sari-clad woman appears out of nowhere, carrying the very same price list the clerk had shown the Post Master. "Man in Counter 16" reaches for pen and paper and proceeds to calculate. "605 rupees", he tells me. Only a few small steps away now.

"Stamp Guy" is not happy. Something is wrong with his postage machine. He waves the white stickers at the guy next to him and rambles on in Sinhala. After a few minutes, however, he feeds it a sticker which comes out perfectly stamped. I pay him, not knowing what the fuzz was about, and return triumphantly to Counter 16 where I am given "par avion"-stickers but no receipt. I won't push my luck by demanding one. Everything seems to be OK, though it hardly feels that way. First: have I pissed someone off to the point where he will sabotage my parcel to get back at me? It wouldn't surprise me the least bit. Second: the rate I was given of 605 rupees cannot be correct. It seems much too low for a 9 kg parcel to Norway.

I left the post office convinced I would never see my books again. On the way to town I looked up at a billboard above the MD Gunasena Book Shop. It has a picture of Sir Winston Churchill and carries the slogan "For the Love of Victory!" (now, who chose that for a bookstore?). In this country, to successfully send off a parcel at the correct rate is a game that has to be won. A difficult game at that. And you certainly need to know the rules because the other team is not going to tell them to you - that is; if they by chance know them themselves and don't just make them up as they go.

/haakon/

Tourists Here, Tourists There, Tourists Everywhere!

I suppose it's really a cause for celebration... The tourists are back on the island! I will leave it to the journalists and the tourism industry to discuss whether they're back in the numbers we would have seen, had the tsunami been nothing but a bad dream (reports are contradicting). And of course, I haven't been to the coast and seen the situation there yet, although I'm planning a quick trip to Matare next week. But from what I gather, the surfers are back in Arugam Bay and I'd be surprised if not a great many of the whities I see in Kandy have not also been to, or are planning to go to, the southern and/or eastern beaches. Most of them certainly look like they've been picked up from a beach and put down again here.

So why this half-cynical attitude to tourists? It's only a year ago since I was one myself in this exact same place. There are a number of reasons, I suppose. Having lived here for 6 months now and made friends with a number of Lankans, I see the whole circus in a new perspective. And it's not pretty. What really gets to me are those who with an imperial air about them act as though every Lankan is here only to serve them and/or is a crook that needs to be put straight. Let me illustrate: at my regular internet café (where I am now) there is all too often some rich, fat European showering abuse on the employees because they feel the connection is slow or because they can't log onto Hotmail. Come off it people! It's not like they get a kick out of hindering people access their email. Why the hostility?

And then again. as a whitey in Kandy my patience is continually tested by others as well; that is by those who make a living off of tourists - be they touts, trishaw drivers, shop owners, agents out for commissions, etc. etc. I've been waving them off for 6 months and curiously enough, very few seem to recognize me (I'm sure we whities all look the same. One scammer who pretends to be employed at "my hotel" and wants money so he can buy ingredients for a "special dinner" has approached me with the same scam 4 times!) This last couple of weeks, with the tourist-influx, the intensity of it all has picked up. It's fair enough really: this is the price we have to pay for having Sri Lanka as our playground. And there's no reason to get worked up about it.. Anger is only counterproductive.

This is just the way it is: I can never feel truly at home here, because others won't let me feel at home, because the color of my skin clearly says I don't belong. How many immigrants to western countries aren’t experiencing just that?

But I do feel sad about it. It does prevent me from bonding with Sri Lanka on an emotional level that I would have liked to experience. Still, I am grateful for all the opportunities I've had to go to more remote areas, where, although I in a sense am more of a tourist, I am treated in a different manner altogether. How much easier it would have been to do a village study!

Or even a study of Kataragama, as I was contemplating. Going there, last week, was a superb experience, although my friend Siva's family didn't come along as I thought they would. It was us two boys. We even splashed out and got a hotel room near the temple area. The room wasn't much, but what can you expect for 500 rupees during high season in Kataragama? I am glad we're not there now, though. The crowds must have doubled or tripled since we went, and that does not mean the town wasn't crowded then.

Kataragama (also known as Skanda and Murugan), for those of you who don't know, is a God shared by Hinduism and Buddhism (But there are no gods in Buddhism, you might think. Wrong. But the gods can only help you with matters of this world, not the next.) Kataragama is also a town in the South of this island, named after just that god, and every year there is a big festival here. Traditionally it has been a predominantly Hindu pilgrimage site, but with a sharp rise in bhakti devotion among the Buddhist these last three or four decades, Kataragama has become a favorite destination with them, too.

So what goes on at the festival? Well, the short version is that people go there to make vows and do penance. You can for example ask the God to bless your car (from what I gather he's 'the one' to do that), but you can also consult him about a range of other things.. such as if you're combating illness or want improved fertility. Or maybe you want some luck with your business. Now, those of you who know better than me: feel free to comment. I know people see different gods about different things, but I'm not to sure about their different fields of expertise.

The highlight of the festival, though, is the perahera, or procession, conducted in the evening time. Elephants, dressed up in colorful robes, are paraded in front of the crowds, and between them dance young boys and girls, different groups of them representing different segments of society, in a tribute to Buddhist society itself it seems. The last elephant, a big tusker, carries a relic of the god Kataragama, safely kept in golden caskets, strapped on the elephants back and under constant surveillance by a white clad temple servant, balancing precariously on the tail end. The procession was big and lasted about an hour, but supposedly it grows much bigger towards the end of the festival, and even then it is nothing compared to the big Kandy Esala Perahera, to be held in August. Lisa, one of the American Fulbrighters has been able to secure us some good tickets for one of the last nights, and I'm hoping it will make a suitable Grande finale to my fieldwork.

/haakon/

Betwixt and Between

It's been a while since I wrote anything here. Since then I have enjoyed a two-week field break in Ireland, back in Kandy I celebrated my birthday with a monk at a temple and today I am off to Kataragama.

Ireland was a bit of a disappointment in some ways. Thinking of Eire, I have always imagined rolling, grass-covered hills, overcast skies and whipping rain. What greeted me was mile upon mile of flat pastures ("look, Silje! a cow!"), overcast skies and whipping rain. That was before the rain sadly gave away for a blue sky and scorching sun. I enjoyed the greyness while it lasted.

That being said, the holiday couldn't have been better. Hugging Silje again at the airport in Dublin, though wary of kissing because of incorporated Lankan taboos, it hardly felt like we'd been apart a week. Then the two weeks we had in Ireland, hardly felt like two days.

Now I'm in a bit of a limbo. The university is closed down as the non-academics (or "servants" as the monk, also a student, called them) are on strike. The students have gone home to their respective villages.

I have kept my self occupied reading and hanging out with some of the Americans. On Wednesday Stuart and I climbed Hantana, ascending from the campus-side. We were planning to go to Horton's Plains today, but then one of my university friends called me and asked if I wanted to come along to Kataragama. An offer I couldn't refuse.

And that is about as much as I have time to write today. Gotta fly!

/haakon/

Fleeing the Insanity

I have to hurry. In a few hours I'm out'a here. Going on a field break. That sounds so much better than holiday, don't you think?

Things have really been heating up in Kandy this last week. Things have been heating up all over the island I suppose, despite the monsoon coming in. Yesterday in Colombo, police used water canons against marching bhikkus, and 3 of them ended up in hospital. Saffron against army green. Surreal. You would think that in times of trouble the Buddhist clergy would be the ones to argue for dialogue and peaceful resolutions. Not so in Sri Lanka. I wonder how Siddharta would have felt about this. Is this really Buddhism?

The "we're-not-giving-an-inch-away-of-our-Sinhala-Buddhist-island"-rethoric is prevailing. So what are they protesting? They say the proposed "joint mechanism", an agreement between the LTTE and the government for cooperation in tsunami reconstruction, will be the first step towards partition of the island. Wake up! This island was divided a long time a go! How would working together to help victims of a natural disaster divide it further? Is sending poor villagers to die in jungle warfare in the Vanni and in the East going to change things for the better? If you argue for war, at least be the first to sign up for service in the armed forces!

We had Chandrika (the president) visiting Kandy this week. It was a joyous occasion indeed. She was here for the momentous opening of Kandy's new 4-story car park. The newspapers printed full page advertisements with messages from the mayor of Kandy, the deputy mayor, and the leader of the opposition in the Kandy Municipal Council. They all proudly pointed out that they had been able to secure loans for 630 million SLR (ca 6,3 million USD and ca 41 million NOK) from the Asian Development Bank to go ahead with the building. I think the quality of politicians here is perceived to be directly correlated to the sums of the loans they are able to secure.

On this festive day a bhikku decided to go on a fast unto death, right outside the Dalada Maligawa (Temple of the Tooth). Why? The monk, Ven. Sobitha Thero, a member of parliament from the Jathika Hela Urumaya political party, said he would fast unto death unless the president rejected the JM. A podium was set up opposite the temple where Sobitha and his disciples were in plain view for people inside and outside the temple grounds. A crowd had gathered around to show support or maybe to satisfy their curiosity. A few passer-by's on the lake promenade were stopping, too. A pineapple salseman was providing snacks for the show.

For most people though, life went on as usual. That is, until yesterday, when Sobitha was on his 5th day without food or water. The Sangha (temple order) had ordered all shops downtown to close. Newspapers today reported it was done out of respect, but I believe there was a fair amount of intimidation involved. Police were patrolling the streets in such numbers that there must have been a very real chance for civil disturbance. As it turned out though, all the action was in Colombo. I wonder if there were any police left in the rest of the island.

The newspapers today further wrote that the JVP, in a bid to increase the pressure on the president, has set a deadline for her to reject the joint mechanism (or the P-TOMS as it is often called now: Post-Tsunami Operations Management Structure). If she fails to do so by midnight on June 15, they will withdraw from government on the following day.

Just checking the news I see that Sobitha has broken his fast. I wonder if there is as much substance in JVP's threats to leave government as in this monks "fast unto death".

Enjoy the insanity! I will be back in a couple of weeks.

/haakon/

The 1520 Books I Never Read

"Two books a week is a normal ration, three not unusual: and this goes on throughout one's life. From children's stories and fiction one slips unselfconsciously into biography, travel, poetry, drama and ultimately into solid literature. This is the main part of the education of the undergraduate; and indeed a student who does not read at least two books a week ought not to go to a University because he lacks education, no matter how many examinations he has passed."

- Sir Ivor Jennings, the first Vice Chancellor of Peradeniya in "An Aspect of
Language Policy" from Jennings' File at Peradeniya University

Now that quote left me feeling about as sharp as a beanbag. I have never avoided books. But then again I was never one of those insatiable kids running amok in the library either. I have fond memories of being read to at night. I had a bookshelf in my room with old Hardy Boys-books that my father had collected when he was a kid. When he read he would change his voice with each character to fit his or her personality.

I was 11 or 12 when I read The Lord of the Rings for the first time. I loved the story, but hated reading it. At one point I gave up and the book lay untouched for months before I finally resumed reading where I had left off. Turning the last page I was crying, mainly because the ending is beautiful and sad, but partly also from relief at having finished (I was crying at the end of the final movie, too...).

As I became older I would chose random books for my parents' well stacked shelves, at times burning through them in no time, at other times letting them gather dust for weeks. I was never too critical about what I was reading, believing I could learn something from everything. I have the same philosophy still, believing it is important to be open-minded and that books can "cross-fertilize" one another.

Still, while traveling or living abroad, I prefer reading about the places I am at. Its a shame that there such a limited supply of Lankan English-language fiction. During my years at NTNU though, there has been little time for fiction. Now, that's not really the case, but after having spent a day reading academic stuff, normally the last thing I want to do is to open another book. I opt for a movie or TV instead.

I realize there are many holes in my literary upbringing. There are a number of classics, by Norwegian (Henrik Ibsen, Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson, Knut Hamsun and Silje thinks I should add Alexander Kielland etc.) as well as international (Franz Kafka, Fjodor Dostovjeski, Lev Tolstoj etc.) authors, that I would like to read but almost never stumbled upon. If I don't stumble upon them, reading them would mean having to make a concerted effort at buying them or borrowing them from a library. Concerted efforts were never my strong side.

Which is probably why I don't read 2+ books a week. But does anyone in this era of Internet and satellite television? Aren't we all just waiting to be entertained by the mind-numbing media monsters? Or perhaps this is my character flaw. I can be lazy beyond belief and I am all too often content doing nothing. I envy those of you who feel restless watching daytime television, who would rather go for a walk or read a book than watch televised snooker. With me the guilt of watching TV only comes creeping afterwards, when I realize that I have done nothing remotely challenging all day.

At times like that I promise myself to change and say start reading 2+ books a week.

Let's do some math:

What Sir Jennings thinks I should have read:

2 books a week from the age of 8 to the age of 27 (my birthday is in three weeks):

2 x 52 x 19 = 1976 books

What I have actually read:

I estimate an average of 2 books a month for the same period:

2 x 12 x 19 = 456 books

Leaving a difference of 1520 books.

To catch up over a period of 10 years I will have to add 2,9 books a week to Jennings' quota, or if I give myself 20 years, 1,5 books extra each week. 3,5 to 4,9 books a week! Ayoooo!

And it has to be "solid literature", which I guess rules out the Hardy Boys... :(

/haakon/

Minutes but Worlds Apart

After having talked about it for a while, Stuart and went about exploring the Hantana range yesterday. We both have a beautiful view of it from our houses and it is there, beckoning me every time I catch a bus to and from campus. It is there to catch my eye when I'm on campus too, especially in the morning time when a mystical mist pulls through the pine forests in the hillside. No wonder the first Vice-Chancellor of Peradeniya, Sir Ivor Jennings, stated that the university has the most beautiful environment of any university in the world. I never really contemplated climbing Hantana though, until Stuart said he had gone a good bit up and that it was beautiful.

Apparantly there are a couple of different ways of climbing the Hantanas; from the south, that is Peradeniya and from the north, that is Kandy. Apparantly there are a few different Hantana peaks to climb too, or 7 as one student told me. We went off with no clear idea of which one to conquer, but Stuart, having looked into this, said it would be easiest to go up from the north. He had been told of a road going behind the government hospital and a good bit up the hill to a the Hantana tea estate. Getting started rather late, after first having been to campus, we opted for the easiest version of the easiest route. In other words: we went caught a threewheeler a good bit up into the hillside, and got off just before the estate. Only minutes away from Kandy it was as if we had entered another world. This is the upcountry, conceptually an eternity away from the bright lights of the (not so big) city, with Tamil women bent over tea bushes in just the same way I've seen them bent over tea bushes in so many other estates now. I had no idea I hardly had to leave my doorstep to see this. Must be one of Kandy's best kept secrets.

We strode on upwards, waving to yelling children playing cricket, and dodging overloaded buses going both directions. A stop for refreshing king coconuts and people we met en route, provided ample opportunities for practicing Tamil, something Stuart regretably is much better at than I, explaining why he still has an edge on me. Neither one of us had the necessary proficiency to ask for directions to reach the top, though, so we stuck to the main road figuring it was a good thing as long as it was climbing.

Reaching the National Training Institute (for what??!) we seemed to have come to the road's end, though. That is, we had passed underneath the peak we felt like climbing, and while the road went on we felt we should push for the summit. Acres of tea plants covered the lower part of the hillside, giving away to high grass and forest underneath the peak, and I suggested we should head up through the tea to see if there was a path from there. And so we did, while the sky was turning dark grey, mocking us for not having brought umbrellas. Looking back we enjoyed a spectacular view down a valley to the north.

It seemed a path led from the edge of tea fields into the neighboring forest. Feeling a bit Indiana Jonesy as we followed it in underneath the canopy, we came to a holt in an clear space, surrounded by boulders overgrown with roots, creepers dangling like curtains from the branches above us, adding to the mystical atmosphere of it all. It is the kind of place where one half expects to come across face-painted, bow-carrying men in loin cloths, chanting while performing ancient ritual sacrifices - at least if one has seen a few adventure movies too many. Or if you're a Lord of the Rings-fan; it would have felt very appropriate if Tom Bombadill had come skipping along, singing a song (Tom Bombadill doesn't ring a bell? Read the book you lazy bastard). It was as if the trees were consuming everything, luring us on into the midst of the laberynth, where we in turn would pay for our foolishness being unable to find our way back.

Enough of this mombojombo.

We eventually gave up on finding a way to the top, deciding instead to return another day to push for the summit. And we had no problems finding our way back, although the leaches did their very best to stop us, or maybe they were just wanting to catch a ride to town. Either way, I seem to be popular among the bloodsuckers these days. The walk back to Kandy took us just more than an hour. An hour away, but so far removed.

Speaking of different worlds. Stuart and I live 20 minutes apart, he staying with a Tamil family in the neigborhood immediately adjacent town on the western side of Peradeniya Road. It is an ethnically mixed neighborhood, with the quality of housing varying from simple shacks to large concrete structures. He has a difficult time going anywhere without being "interrogated" by curious neighbors who seem to have no sense of privacy. Compared to this I live in Posh Paradise. Well, the name says it all: "Pichaud Gardens", which I am sure, to most people sound exactly like "Too-pricy-for-you". The men who come to collect our garbage take the opportunity to do some begging, and we are targeted by all kinds of travelling salesmen. It is a neighborhood in which I am sure you do not receive permission to build unless the blueprints contain plans for servants' quarters. A nice place but boring as hell.

For some though, a street is just a street - always fraught with danger. A stray dog in our road had a litter of puppies recently. They have been all over the place the last few days, yupping excitedly as I walk by. But what is a dog's life worth? Coming down to Peradeniya Road today to catch a bus to town, one of the puppies was lying remarkably still in a pool of it's own blood, it's head smashed in. Disturbing to see, but not as disturbing as the one I saw in the side of the road, coming home from Batticaloa last week, still kicking but unable to move. People see, shrug and go on with their business. What can you do? A dog is just a dog. Strays don't last long anyway. These are the harsh realities of life we are so sheltered from in the Western world. A world apart.

/haakon/

Back from Bloody Batti...

I was going to write about my recent trip to Batticaloa. I would have been bitchin' about the baking sun, ghostly invisible mosquitos, a heat rash, a broken watch and a caput mobile phone. Before I got around to writing the entry, though... tada! it was Vesak.

Vesak, yet another religious holiday, is the celebration of Buddha's birth, enlightenment and death. Well.. maybe they celebrate the first two and commemorate the latter. Anyway, I decided that in stead of writing about Batti, I would bitch about being alone during the holiday. I was alone because all my local friends' numbers are stored on the phone, and only there. The phone not working, I could only hope to meet one of them by coincidence, roaming the streets.

So I made sure to visit the downtown Cargills supermarket every day- sometimes several times a day. Jill and I have a way of stumbling upon eachother in the checkout counter there. It must have happened.. what? ...at least 4 times. I have a difficult time walking past Cargills without going in, anyway. Maybe it is the western consumer in me, taking control. That my sense of persistance is reliant on a neverending supply of commodities. That the beer, biscuits and peanut butter I buy is in fact an umbelical cord reaching back to Europe. Who knows? I know I didn't meet Jill or anyone else in there, though.

But then, Monday night, after having elbowed my way through Vesak-crowds, admiring the Vesak-lanterns by the lakefront, for as long as I could take.... Hm.. Timeout! I should take time to explain for you non-Lankans that a big part of Vesak is the traditional decorating of homes and public spaces with lanterns of various colours, sizes and shapes, some of them with undeniable artistic qualities, others.. ehm.. a bit tacky. I don't know about this, but I suppose the lanterns symbolize enlightenment. Makes sense, doesn't it? On the lake promenade a number of stalls had been erected, each stall for a separate lantern, and here people had unleashed their creative energies, competing in creating the most mind-blowing piece. Some of the lanterns, equipped with electromotors, were rotating, donning flashing lights, reminding me of robots or UFOs from 70s sci-fi movies. Others included figures of buddhist monks and Buddhas, or models of the Dalada Maligawa (Kandy's "Temple of the Tooth" where a tooth relic from Buddha is said to be kept). Some lanterns were huge and bulky - others done with exquisit detail, showing off intricate carvings and fancy shadow play. Some lanterns were just... uhm... tacky.

Alright, back to the story: Monday night, after having elbowed my way through Vesak-crowds, admiring the lanterns by the lake, for as long as I could take, I felt an urge for pizza. Pizza Hut-pizza is by no means a favorite of mine, but in Kandy one can't be picky when it comes to pizzas... or italian food... or foreign food at all. (I have seen a resturant called Milano, although a dingy and deserted interior has prevented me from giving it a go). Standing outside Pizza Hut I pondered wether to take away or to go in. The, for Kandy, uncharacteristic crowds made me take refuge inside. Lucky decission, for who did I meet there but Re(sri)becca and her friend Jeremy! A happy coincidence, in deed. Just the company I needed. And as if that was not enough Gavin and his girlfriend Christine arrived a few minutes afterwards. Vesak was saved, but I would have to find a new approach to writing about it.

Wednesday things were beginning to return to normal for me. The mosquitobites were itching less, though marginally, and I had picked up my mobile after having it repaired, (the display needed to be changed) a job that was quickly and successfully accomplished and easily worth the 7000 Rupees I paid for it. I would now be able to call Stewart, my American fellow-anthropologist (not one of the Fulbrights) who had recently returned from a month in India. Before I got that far though, he found me. We usually go the same place for using the Internet. Considering how much time I have spent here lately, calling that one a coincidence may be stretching it.

Today I've been visiting his field. I went with him to a Hanuman ritual in a private home here in Kandy, involving regualar puja but also a rather intense possession part. The medium, a Tamil lady, stood on knives while she was garlanded with betel leaves, fed burning camphor and grabbed members of the chanting audience by their heads or arms, making them tremble with her divine presence, before pushing them away or having them pass out on her (or him, I suppose). I have seen possession rituals in the upcountry too, but never upclose like this. She even grabbed and roughed up my hair, an act I am not quite sure how to interpret. Am I in Hanuman's good book now? Or does he want me to get a hair cut?

If I had still wanted to write a bitchin' blog entry I could have complained about how the ritual seemed to go on forever after the possession part was over. There was the cleaning, redressing and viewing of and chanting to the god, that just never seemed to end, while lunchtime had long since passed. I am not in the mood to complain any more, though.

When the mosquitobites disappear I'll probably even remember Batti in a much more positive way.

/haakon/

Constitution Day News on Norway

I had completely forgotten until a discoloured Norwegian flag glared at me from the pages of The Island. Today is the 17th of May, Norway's Constitution Day. But the embassy wasn't about to let me forget, was it? 1 page in The Daily News, 1 & 1/2 in The Daily Mirror and 3 & 1/2 in The Island (I guess their going rate is the lowest), make for a total of 6 pages of paid advertisements in Sri Lankas English dailies, focused on Norway. So is this just a shameless publicity stunt aimed at winning over those with a sceptical stance towards Norwegian involvement in Sri Lanka's peace process? Some of the stories undoubtedly give that impression. The piece on Buddhism in Norway is one example. Another article makes sure to mention Norway's contributions to tsunami reconstruction in Sri Lanka. And in a personal piece the ambassador exposes the rationale for the Norwegian involvement. He dvelves on the importance of peace for small countries, but fails to mention how Norwegian governments for decades have been striving to build an international image of Norway as a peace-loving nation in order to gain more influence in international bodies such as the UN.

This is an excercise in brand building. And was it a coincidence that the national shield with an axe-wielding lion was included in the banner? It probably was, but it is a nice link anyway, isn't it?

Other stories give us in debth information about Norway's judicial system, the history of our royal family, statistics on immigrants in Norway, details on the involvement of women in Norwegian politics, the run-down on Norwegian trade and industry and there is even a piece on the Norwegian dramatist Henrik Ibsen, famous for "A Doll's House" and a number of other internationally acclaimed plays. All this is interspersed with pictures of nature, architecture and people (is the most recent picture available of King Harold and Queen Sonja really 14 years old?) and congratulatory adds from Norwegian companies and Lankan companies with Norwegian connections.

Oh yes, a well-fostered Norwegian national pride swells further on May 17th.

As I am writing this children all over Norway are walking in parades and waving Norwegian flags while singing songs such as "Yes, we love this land of ours" (our National Anthem), "Norway in red, white and blue" (not red, yellow and blue as The Island seems to think), and "We are a nation, too". The Royal family are standing on the their palace balcony, waving at the children below, although this year, for the first time without the king, who recently received heart surgery and is still recovering. After the parades there are games and competitions for the kids and unwritten laws give the same permission to eat ice cream, hot dogs, candy and cake until they puke. And speaking of puking... the seniors graduating from high school, known as russ, have been wreaking havoc on the nation for weeks now, celebrating the end of 12 years of mandatory school by consuming enormous amounts of alcohol while pestering each other and everyone else. They deserve an entry all to themselves, though.

I may sound sarcastic writing this, but one thing about the Constitution Day celebrations really makes me proud. The celebrations have no military overtones, whatsoever. There never has been - not since the constitution was declared on May 17th, 1814, although Norway the same year was handed from Denmark to a union with Sweden and didn't gain independence until 1905. Parading military equipment on this day would be unthinkable. It would provoke anger and resentment everywhere. This day is for the children to enjoy and for families to celebrate freedom together. I think that is something that deserves mentioning outside of Norway, too.

BTW: You can find all the articles in The Islands online edition, and if you want to read more about the celebrations, check out The Norway Post, where you will also find an English translation of the National Anthem.

Chewing along

As I made my way over here today, through Sunday-crowded streets, chewing on a Seeni Saambal Bun from Delight Bakery, it struck me that I've never seen Srilankans eating while walking. Not that I can recall anyway. The exception is possibly with icecream, although I am not sure. Is this some cultural taboo I have overlooked? Or is it just that exhaust fumes and hungry looking beggars have a tendency to kill the appetite? If there is someone out there with an answer I am all ears.

Oh, and I have a little correction to make. In an earlier entry, writing about the Americans I have befriended here in Kandy, I wrote that they were once students with the "Iowa program". *cough* This as it turns out was a big fat lie. They have no connections to the University of Iowa whatsoever, and were, I believe, a bit offended at me writing so. They were, however, students with the "ISLE program" which makes a good bit more sense. Oh well. Honest mistake! :)

/haakon/

Some clarifications

First of all, I am really pleased, and a bit surprised, to see that there are some Srilankans out there too, who are visiting Globen Café. It seems deciding to write in English was not wasted after all. 7 comments in 24 hours is a new record, for sure. If Dr. Goonatilake struck a nerve with me, I obviously struck a nerve with you. I hope I didn't provoke any of you to the point where you stop visiting, though. But I suppose it works the other way around.

I really feel I should clarify a couple of things. In case I came across as pro-LTTE: I am not. I am fully aware of LTTE's violent and oppresseve history and it is abhorrent. I am fully aware of the expulsion of Muslims from LTTE-controlled areas. I have several Muslim friends who's families were directly affected. There is no excuse for such an act. Whether the LTTE or JVP are the most racist however, is a futile debate. First off, we would have to define what we mean by "racist". What led me to write what I wrote is that I believe the LTTE are motivated more by lust for power than nationalistic ideology. They have had no qualms with executing whoever stands in their path, regardless of ethnicity. The JVP on the other hand, claim to be socialist, but it their "socialism" is only for the Sinhalese.

Irony is a literary tool begging to be misunderstood. I hope it was clear that what I wrote about Dr. Goonatilake was far-fetched nonsense, but I did it to prove a point. He had perhaps done his homework when writing of Solheim, but I doubt his schoolteacher would have been happy with the way he did it, twisting each bit of information he could find to fit his purpose. This is dangerous. Especially considering his work as a university lecturer, a position which carries a great deal of influence. He should be more responsible.

To answer some of your questions:

To you who gave me this link: Thanks for making me aware of the probe and the compensations. What I wrote was obviously wrong, my sources too old. Still it shold be noted that more than 20 years passed before any compensation was given to affected Tamils, and that many of them still have not received compensation.

Chandare: As for the Tamil membership in the JVP, can you give me some numbers? I have no doubt that there are a few Tamil members, but I doubt sincerely they are many enough for you to beat your chest about it. I could launch into a debate about Tamil and Sinhala nationalism, but suffice it to say here that after independence there was a strong movement among the Tamils to build an inclusive nationstate where there would be some self government in the predominantly Tamil areas. There was no talk of Eelam, a separate Tamil state. Contrast this to the surge in Sinhalese nationalism when Bandaranaike came to power in 1956 and tell me who wanted a state based purely on ethnicity (and religion, but in this country the two are one and the same).

On to Goonatilakes claims against Norway.

1) Whether it is in the Norwegian constitution I don't know, but it is a fact that all officials in Norway must know not only Norwegian, but also the second official language, nynorsk (or Newnorwegian). What exactly do you find so repulsive about requiring an official in a country to know the language that country's affairs are conducted in? This beats me.

2) Regarding conversions... Again, I don't know the wording in the constitution. In reality however there is noone stopping anyone who wants to convert to another religion, or wanting to become an atheist, agnostic, nihilist, satanist or subscribe to any other belief of his/her choice.

3) It is true that Norway has a sad history of discriminating against the Saamis, as well as some other minority groups, such as kvenene (I don't know the English term) and the Gypsies. Some gruefull things happened in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, including experiments with lobotomy and forced sterilizations. This is a dark chapter in the history of Norway, and unfortunately a chapter it shares with most of the Western world.

In more modern times other minorities have been discriminated against, too. The Jews were not given the protection they deserved during the Second World War, although many Norwegians laid down their lives against the Germans. And the Lebensborn children, those born during or after the war with Norwegian mothers and German fathers, recieved harsh treatment by other Norwegians.

In recent years, like in other European countries, a neo-nazi movement has gained popularity, and xenophobia has driven many to the political right wing. It is sad. Very sad. I think it is the curse of the rich, that they are so afraid of a change of the status quo that they are never happy.
So, yeah... you can dig up a lot of dirt on Norway. Did I mention we sent soldiers to Afghanistan and Iraq (allthough in Iraq they are only doing humnitarian work)?

I just did some quick research on the economic rights of Saamis, and think I undertand the core of the controversy now. According to this source (in Norwegian) Norway was the first country to ratify the 169th ILO-convention on the rights of indigenous and tribal peoples. That was in 1990. The convention obligates Norway to recognize Saami rights of ownership of resources in those areas that they alone traditionally have made use of. It is argued that proposed legislation for Finnmark, the northernmost county of Norway, where half of the Norwegian Saamis live, does not live up to our international obligations. The legislation proposes a Saami minority (3 of 7 seats) in the administrative body looking after the regions resources. The Saami Parliament, and its president, are among the heaviest critics.

It seems our friend Dr. Goonatilake may actually have a point. I fail to see how this is relevant with regard to Norway's role as an invited fascilitator in Sri Lanka, though.

The issue of traditional Tamil homelands is a controversial one where there has been an amazing amount of partisan writing by shcolars and politicians on both sides. I do not want to get into this now, but may come back to it at another time.

Thanks for all the comments!

/haakon/

Eric the Viking and Susantha the Vikingslayer

While doing some research online today, I came across the conference material (pdf) from WAPS' (World Alliance for Peace in Sri Lanka) Road Maps to Peace in Sri Lanka-conference, held in Oslo, August last year. You may not be familiar with WAPS. Despite a benign sounding name, WAPS is a organization full of phlegm and bile, spewing out anti-Tamil propaganda and reeking of post-colonial paranoia. Their roadmaps to peace all follow the path of anihillation of the LTTE.

What particularily caught my attention was the article eloquently named "Eric the Viking - Deconstructing Solheim", written by Dr. Susantha Goonatilake, previously printed in The Sunday Times. In this piece Dr. Goonatilake reveals how our Norwegian messenger of peace is nothing but the devil in disguise. And how does he manage this? Never underestimate the power of googling!

The text is short, but if you don't have the bandwith to download the whole pdf-file which includes all the texts from the conference, let me repeat some of the golden nuggets.

After revealing that Solheim supported military action against Milosevic and condemned Kissinger and Pinochet, who he makes seem like girl scouts compared to Prabhakaran (founder and head of the LTTE), he brings to our attention that "Solheim is also concerned about the spread of a racist party in Norway and wants to isolate it" (I assume he is referring to FrP), BUT "in Sri Lanka he befriends the most racist party, the LTTE". You can call LTTE a lot of things, i.e. ruthless and war hungry, but when it comes to racism they fall considerably short of matching the Sinhalese chauvenist JVP.

Here is my favourite paragraph, though: "Solheim has also been against Norway joining the European Union (EU). He campaigned heavily against Norwegian entry when a referendum was held on it. But the EU today backs this political enemy of the European Union in his intervention in Sri Lanka. They consider him their representative. Apparently it is not his ideas that count for EU support but like the colonialists of yore, him being European. Europe uber alles, Hitler might have echoed" (emphasize added by me).

How about that!

Goonatilake goes on showing how the man has no morals, refering to Solheim's autobiography where he admits having used his children to obtain positive media coverage, and even worse, that he sold the details of his divorce to the gutter press. "In Sri Lanka, the practise of the sensationalist press does not exist. So Sri Lankans might not fully understand this act of prostitution", he comments. Hmm.. I have yet to discover press in Sri Lanka that is not sensationalist.

Did I say that that previous bit was my favourite paragraph? I changed my mind, this is my favourite part- this is where it gets hysterical: "The Norwegian constitution demands that all its officials know the Norwegian language (!), forbid their citizens to change their religion from Lutheranism (!!) and its government restricts the economic rights of the Saami people. Sri Lanka has no equivalent for these discriminatory acts. But now Norway wants to interfere in our country. For our good they say, in their missionary zeal. 'White man, he talk with forked tounge'." I wonder if he is aware that Norway has a federal system with regard to the Saamis, similar to what the Tamils want in the north and the east of Sri Lanka. And as for discriminatory acts: what about making Sinhala the only national language? What about "the standardisation" of university admissions, imposed to cut back the number of Tamils in the universities? What about irrigating land along the Mahaweli River, lands that Tamils claim as their traditional homelands, and giving it solely to Sinhalese colonists? What about covertly supporting the communal riots against Tamils in 1983 and never even appologize to, let alone compensate, the thousands of Tamils in the south that lost everything? No, I suppose Sri Lanka has no equivalent to those discriminatory acts.

So who is this Susantha Goonatilake? Let's google back!

This biography reveals that "Dr. Susantha Goonatilake was first trained in electrical engineering in Sri Lanka, Germany and Britain and later in sociology in Sri lanka and Britain." According to this he is currently employed in America and has previously taught at several research institutes in Asia, Europe and America. Still, his literature is flagrantly post-colonial and anti-imperialistic. For someone so antagonistic to western culture and academia he sure seems to be enjoying being a part of it. And electrical engineering and sociology? Geez.. he must have a waivering personality and is obviously wholly incapable of sticking to his decissions.

Goonatilake has lectured in Norway too, more specifically at the University of Trondheim, where one of his books was reviewed by this man, proving he has an affinity for bold, bearded and bespectacled men (no offence meant Prof Jones). Could it be that it is this pent up homosexual lust that drives him from country to country, from university to university, never giving him peace, forcing him to lash out at whoever or whatever is in his way that makes him feel inferior and insecure? Quite likely, quite likely.

Ah.. the power of Google.

/haakon/

Operation EXTINCD
(EXterminate those Terrorising INsects Causing Disease)

We are in the rainy season in the upcountry, and more rain means more disease. They say Malaria is confined to the southwest, but there are other insect-borne diseases to worry about. Among them is Dengue fever. According to WHO figures some 2500 million people, or two fifths of the world's population, are at risk from Dengue. Of the symptoms they write that "Older children and adults may have either a mild febrile syndrome or the classical incapacitating disease with abrupt onset and high fever, severe head ache, pain behind the eyes, muscle and joint pains, and rash". There are four different strains, and although the disease is seldom lethal, a dual infection with two strains may trigger Dengue haemorrhagic fever which is a more common cause of death. Again "The illness commonly begins with a sudden rise in temperature accompanied by facial flush and other non-specific constitutional symptoms of Dengue fever. (...) In severe cases, the patient's condition may suddenly deteriorate after a few days of fever; the temperature drops, followed by signs of circulatory failure, and the patient may rapidly go into a critical state of shock and die within 12-24 hours (...)".

Nice.

I have read about this stuff. In fact there was a medical student at Peradeniya who recently died of Dengue, although for some time her cause of death was a matter of uncertainty and there were speculations that a mysterious heart disease was spreading. Still, this is one of those things you never believe will happen to you. Then I talked to Lisa who was hospitalized with Dengue in India last year. A few days later I had a sudden onrush of fever myself.

I had been to campus in the day, and to town in the afternoon, as usual, but didn't feel good and decided to go home early. While watching TV I began feeling cold. Feeling cold in Sri Lanka is a novel experience, and I have to admit that I was enjoying it at first. But then I couldn't sleep becuase I was shivering uncontrollably, in spite of wearing a thick sweater, double blankets and having turned off the fan in a room that must have held about 25 degrees Celcius. My head felt as if it was filled with razorblades. I was sure I was smitten with Dengue and started considering the consequences for my fieldwork. When I finally fell asleep that night I had dreams of having to reinvent everything in this world because it was all crap. I had to start with language however, which was frustrating becuase I had to invent the words I was dreaming.

Fortunately, the fever, just barely having exceeded 39 degrees, subsided quickly and during the night I shed more and more clothing until I lay naked under a fan running at max speed.

So I didn't have Dengue after all. Not yet, anyway, and I intend for it to stay that way. Its not that I'm being eaten alive by mosquitos, but at any time I will have 10 - 20 bites. So I have taken some measures. Decent repellent is for some reason difficult to come by here, but coils and mosquito mats are everywhere. I have harvested. I also bought a bottle of poison, planning to pour it in our half-inside-half-outside pond, which I suspect to be a breeding ground for mossies. John stopped me, though. He insists fish is a better sollution, although the two he introduced to the pond 3 weeks ago died in less than 10 days - probably smitten with Dengue. John further objects to the smell of the coils. This is a mystery to me. In fact, to me the smell is like sweet incense, a sentimental reminder of happy Norwegian summerdays. But John is the boss and I'm at a loss. Anyone care to send me som Mygga?

The Odd Bomb

While bus travel on Peradeniya road usually involves little more excitement than the uncertainty of whether you'll get a seat or not, whether you'll be able to get off at the right stop and not fall asleep or not, etc. etc., every once in a while something will happen to spice it all up a bit. Fortunately I haven't been involved in any serious accident yet, although according to this source (pdf) at least 2,000 people are killed, and 14,000 injured, in traffic every year. And these numbers may well be subject to underreporting. Only last Saturday a former Sinhala teacher with the Iowa program was hit by a bus and killed, much to the shock of my American friends who were very fond of her. And of course you have all heard of the recent horrendous Allawa bus accident where one bus, trying to beat another bus to awaiting passengers, started across a railway crossing, even though the barriers were down.

For anyone used to western traffic, south Asian conditions resemble mayhem. In deed, for a newcomer it would be hard to find travel on Srilankan roads anything but nervewrecking. Some drivers are worse than others of course - and some of the young ones especially, will make mad manuevers in order to overtake a vehicle or two. A van driver I once travelled with pulled up on the sidewalk, nearly ploughing down pedestrians, in order to advance a few positions. I suppose that move saved us 20 seconds or so. Shockingly, some of the bus drivers follow the same simple philosophy: "if there is anything in front of you, overtake it". Overtaking is done by throwing the bus over in the opposing traffic while blowing the horn, hoping that whatever is coming against you will stop.

Interestingly the one bus accident in which I have been involved was not with one of those drivers behind the wheel. This was a week or two after arrival in Kandy, on one of my first trips to campus. The bus had stopped to let people on, and while it was standing still, a car pulled out in the road in front of it where it stopped (this seems to be the accepted way of entering traffic - pull half way out onto the road, stop, look, then go). Our bus driver never saw the car and when accelerating, ploughed it at least a meter forward. Luckily there were no injuries.

- Bus accident on Peradeniya Road

I have become numb. No maniac busdriver can scare me anymore. This is what happens when you're exposed to madness for a prolonged period of time. You start accepting it. And while I applaud politicians' and officials' recent appeals to the public to take their share of the responsibility by notifying the authorities when they see wreckless drivers, I have low hopes of any drastic change of attitude. Although, according to media, a bus driver just recently attempting the exact same stunt (!) that led to the Allawa accident was apprehended by the police, thanks to a dutiful passenger notifying the police on his cell phone.

What I witnessed en route from Pera to Kandy today, was an accident of a different sort. In fact, I doubt it was an accident at all. Near town a sudden explosion shook the bus. It was so loud that I for a split second wondered if we had been hit by a grenade or a land mine. Equally bewildered, my fellow travellers looked at one another, and out the windows, to try and make sense of it. People on the street were rubbing their ears, looking just as confused as us. While the bus driver exited to investigate my neighbor leant toward me in a conspiratory manner, whispering the words "fire works", then grinning. That was one hell of a fire cracker, my friend. But he must have been right. Whatever it was there was a lot more noise than damage, and the bus could continue.

/haakon/

The Ambassador's request

A couple of letters for me had arrived at the old house, John told me the other day, and yesterday he brought them over. I expected them to be from my Silje, the only one so far to have established a postal connection with me in Sri Lanka. One look at the envelopes told me they were not. One was small with a computer printed address label, the other one big, with handwritten label. Both were sent by national mail, which ruled out Lånekassa (the State Educational Loan Fund).

Savouring this moment of mystery, I started with the smallest envelope, slowly prying it open. Inside I found a stiff card, with the Norwegian seal of state. The card roughly read:

"In occasion of the Norwegian Constitution Day on May 17
The Ambassador requests the pleasure of the company of
Mr. Assprong [handwritten]
on May 18 from 6:30 PM to 8:30 PM for a reception at his residence."

Now, I don't have the card here, so this may not be the exact wording. Still, with one part I haven't strayed a letter from the original, and that is with the spelling of my own name.

You non-Norwegians out there may not be aware just how uncommon the name "Aasprong" is. A search at Statistics Norway reveals that our "clan" consists of a mere 78 people, whereas there are 54,046 Olsens, 4,521 Ødegårds (6,908 when you count the Ødegaards), and 181 Bersvendsens (the name of my famous, jet-setting, modelling first cousin - and possibly the weirdest Norwegian name I can think of). But only 78 Aasprongs. So why is this? My brother Einar, a hobby-genealogist, could probably whip up a nice explanation (and no doubt he will do so in a comment or three). I have a theory of my own, though.

How many times can a person tolerate being called an ass? Invariably, Americans will pronounce our proud name, a name meaning "river that runs between two hills" (if I'm not mistaken but again I expect my brother will comment), "Æsprong". The correct pronounciation? "AWsprong"

Not only Americans go wrong. Most Norwegians will struggle, though some more intentionally than others. How many times was I not teased in school when the teacher took attendance? And although most adults know that the "aa" in older Norwegian (imported from Danish and now spelled "å") is pronounced "aw" they will struggle with other aspects of the name. Which is why we often use fake names while ordering pizza.

My brother and father used to collect misspellings of "Aasprong". I don't know what happened to that sizeable collection, but I am sure "Assprong" was one of the more commonly collected spellings. Honestly though, shouldn't we expect more from the embassy? Here I am, lonely and thousands of miles away from home, the embassy a weak link to all that was left behind. And this happens when Constitution Day is coming up - the day when our national pride wells up inside of us in an uncontrollable manner. The day when our children are dolled up in new suits and dresses which they immediately soil in an orgies of ice cream, soda and hot-dogs, while running around kneedeep in mud, screaming "Hurra" (hooray), blowing on annoying plastic trumpets, and blowing off fingers with fire crackers. This is the day when our women don the heavy frocks we call national costumes, complaining of the painful shoes, while looking like 19th century peasants on their way to milk the cows. This is the day when men... hmm.. what do men do? Anyway.. you get the point. This is the day that I should feel part of an extended Norwegian family (Andersson, 1983)*, which I assume is why the ambassador requests the pleasure of my company, but Ambassador Brattskar, my surrogate father: "Mr. Assprong"?? That one stung.

Oh.. and the other letter was from the embassy, too, but nothing exciting was inside. Only a letter to inform that Norway's parliamenary election will be held on September 12.

/haakon/


* This is of course a lame, nerd-ish joke. Anthropologists, and a few others, will recognize the reference, which is to Benedict Anderssons "Imagined Communities", a seminal work on nationalism.

New house, new acquaintances

A month ago or so John, my house mate, informed me that our landlord was going to up the rent. Would I be prepared to pay more? I suppose I could easily have afforded to pay more than the 8000 rupees I was paying then. Still, I would have a hard time justifying it to myself when I could easily find far cheaper accomodation elsewhere. Maybe it wouldn't have the comfort of our house in Anniewatte but then again, an anthropologist in the field shouldn't be too choosy. I told him I would start looking for another place after New Year.

When I returned from my trip to the upcountry however, John had already done some looking of his own. He told me he had found a nice house, closer to the main road, where there would be plenty of room for the both of us. I could even continue paying the same rent and we could move in right away! I went and had a look for myself, the house only a 15 minute walk away. Sure enough - the house was not only nice, it was posh. The address should give you a clue: "Pichaud Gardens". How could I resist? It's location close to Peradeniya Road would cut down my travel time both to campus and to the city. And although the house is not isolated, like the one in Anniewatte, it is sheltered in a peaceful neighborhood, with a supermarket a 5 minute walk away. I gave John thumbs up.

The shifting was done in two trips. (I guess I still only have two backpacks worth of stuff, although I'm accumulating quickly). Not an insurmountable task in other words. For John, however, a little more is involved. Having lived in Anniewatte for two years, most of the time with his family, you can safely say he has a few more backpacks worth. A few lorryloads would be more like it. This I assume is why he hasn't even begun shifting yet, although he said he would be done with it by the end of April. As it is I have the house to myself and can chose between 4 toilets every time nature calls. Having grown up in a two-toilet house you can only imagine my elation.

Let me add that had I not been averse to believing in ghosts and the like, I might not have believed I was alone. There have been a number of "mysterious" incidences these first weeks. Why were for example the downstairs lights turned on in the morning, when I had turned them off before going to bed? And why, when coming home in the evening the same day a repairman had fixed the washing machine, did I find the door to the verandah open, the washing machine open and the floor flooded? Both the washing machine and the verandah door had been closed when we left the house. Sungun, our gardener at the Anniewatte house, who has now started doing some odd jobs at the new house, informed me that a woman had been killed outside this very same house some years ago. She was rammed by a car with brakefailure. I leave it to you to make up your own minds, but like I said: had I believed in ghosts I wouldn't have felt alone at night.

I never feel alone in the daytime, as John constantly sends over plummers, cleaners, electricians, tailors and whatnot to get the house in ship shape to his arrival.

John had a little surprise in store for me. Turns out he is not renting the house himself, but that it is being rented by an elderly British gentleman named Brian, who visited our house in Anniewatte some time ago. Brian complained he could never afford living in Britain. He had spent the last two years in Hawaii, where "all are thieves", but felt certain Sri Lanka would be a different story. That day he was shamelessly praising Srilankans. Further, he some rather eccentric ideas concerning boarding school homosexuality in Britain, but I won't get into those now. Anyway, it turns out Brian was the one who had found the house, and had offered it to John and I, while he went back to Hawaii to prepare for moving. This explains how a such a mansion could be a cheaper option for us. Brian is paying the bulk of the rent. When he will arrive, though, I don't know. One time when he called in to check on us he guessed "some time next month".

So I am spending my days in the house with Sungun and a handful of artisans, passing time studying Tamil with a self-study course I ordered online. Nothing is happening on campus so it's not like I'm missing out on much. Students are busy studying for exams or working on decisive assignments. I figure it is better that I am disturbed by artisans then that my informants/friends are disturbed by me.

But then I went ahead and got me some other friends. I had met some American girls at the ICES book launch a few weeks ago, and since then I had kept on bumping into them in town. Finally we decided to hook up for drinks. That was last Thursday and on that occasion I was introduced to yet another American student, Gavin. The Americans (Jill, Rebecca, Lisa and Gavin) were all introduced to Sri Lanka through the "ISLE program", ISLE being a clever acronym for "Intercollegiate Sri Lanka Education". Gavin was here in '99, Jill in '02 and Rebecca and Lisa in '02 (I think). Now, they are all back for research, some of them recieving Fulbright scholarships. Their in depth knowledge of local life and impressive Sinhala skills make them a good crowd to hang out with. The following days would provide several opportunities for me to get chummy with them.

First, Friday offered a cultural experience far removed from local culture. Rebecca and Lisa are both Jewish and were in the middle of celebrating Passover. One traditional event of Passover (often arranged twice) is the seder - a ritual dinner to commemorate the Jewish exodus from Egypt. Seders today are often reinterpreted with current political issues and struggles in mind, and so may for example focus on the Chinese occupation of Tibet or on the mobilization against exploitive capitalism. I was even told of a seder that had focused on the occupation of Palestinian territories, although this was a rather controversial decission.

Arranging a seder in Sri Lanka is no walk in the park. A lot of the ritual ingredients, like the Matzoh (unleavened bread) had to be imported from America, not without complications. Rebecca has written more about this on her excellent blog.

Seders, from what I understand, come in all colours, shapes and sizes, and this particular seder was coloured by the fact that half of the participants (children aside) were non-Jewish. In addition to Jill, Gavin and I, they were the Sinalese landlords of our host's house (an elderly couple with high standing in local academia) and Herath, a Sinhala teacher with the Iowa program. Our two hosts, Judy and Yvonne, I am afraid I don't know much about, but Judy and Rebecca took turns leading the ceremony while explaining to us rookies, refusing to be sidetracked by screaming/crying/running/crawling kids. As many other religious events, this one also involved a fair amount of alcolhol. In fact, you are obliged to drink a minimum of four cups of wine in appreciation of... OK, I admit, I can no longer remember. But the wine, some of it also imported from America, was good.

The following day it was all back to local customs as Herath had invited us all over to his house for a party. And what a party! A liberal amount of alcohol, including two kinds of arrack, Johnny Walker, beer and even grappa (!) was produced. And the meal... I don't think its an exageration to say it is the best I have ever had on Sri Lankan soil. It was a rice and curry feast, with no less than 15 excellent curries (though possibly more) to chose from! We chatted and drank away on Herath's balcony until the small hours of the night when he offered to give us rides home. It was a luxurius evening, a far cry from the more moderately beliqoured, though no less enthusiastic, Estate Tamils' parties that I have grown accustomed to now.

/haakon/

Happy New Year

Sure, I'm a bit late, but not as late as you might think. The Tamils and the Sinhalese, while often claiming to be different from each other, share the for many of us novel idea that New Year should be celebrated in April. On April 14th to be more precise. It is the one time of the year when the entire country stops. And like our western Christmas it is a holiday to be spent with family - that is: back home in the village. For every Srilankan is a villager. Sure.. a million or more may live in Colombo but hardly anyone will claim to be from Colombo. During the New Year's festival this becomes strikingly appearant. Colombo is a deserted city.

In Kandy the opposite is the case. In the days prior to this year's festival pavement crowds grew to nervewrecking proportions. Being a pedestrian in this town is always a challenge, as noone ever seems to be going anywhere but are quite happy just to stroll along right in front of you. Usually several people holding hands and will effectively block your way. There are of course also beggers, street peddlers and three-wheelers to be manuevered around. But the greatest hazard for a tall, quick-striding Norwegian is, I think, somewhat of a Srilankan idiosyncracy. I am thinking of umbrella wielding women. Most Srilankan women, and many men, always carry umbrellas. Why? Afraid of being caught in a sudden downpour? Sure, but that is only part of it. Women are wielding their umbrellas for the same reason university boys apply "Fair & Lovely" facial cream every morning. In south Asia fair=beautiful and women are not about to expose themselves to more sunlight than absolutely necessary. Umbrellas fold and unfold constantly as people move between sun and shadow. The danger in this for me is quite obvious. The average Srilankan woman is probably 30 cm shorter than I, their shade providing shelter threatening to poke my eyes out every time I pass one of them. Any time of year that will be quite often. New Year, however, took sidewalk adventures to new levels of danger. I was only glad to get away from it all for a while.

My Tamil student friends and informants had long been planning a trip to Sri Pada (also known as Adam's Peak) and again I was invited to come along. As usual we stayed with some of their families in tea estate villages. This is not only a question of hospitality - it is an economic necessity. None of these boys can afford to stay in guest houses. In stead we share beds, straw mattresses and if necessary sleep on the floors, often upto 10 people in a small room. The boys will help prepare the food and will make and serve tea constantly. I will be taken around from house to house, where I'm introduced to "brothers" and "sisters" (usually parallell cousins, not distinguished form siblings in Tamil) and nervously watch as my very new and expensive camera is being put to use by that particular house' designated group photographer (who most often has never seen a SLR camera). This, when repeated in village after village begins to feel like a ritual, but it is a small price to pay for the warmth and generosity I'm treated with everywhere.

Let there be no doubt about it: estate labourers are poor people. Social mobility is next to non-existant, and when someone catches a break it is hard fought. Social problems are abundant. Local bars are a favoured retreat for many men who will spend the family's wages on toddy or arrack, all too often venting anger and frustration on wife and children afterwards. Suicides are common as social obligations often cannot be met and there are so few prospects for the future.

I often smell liquor off the breath of men who come to greet me in these villages. The occasional "village fool" - the marginal character with nothing left to lose - will sometimes put on a performance when seeing me, trying to boost his own social standing by association to me. It is a bizarre fact I will never be comfortable with, that I am respected and admired because of the colour of my skin. But my nationality helps too. Being Norwegian I cash in on the abundant love for Erik Solheim and his crew of peace fascilitators. As if I have played an important part in the negotiations myself.

But if I am a prestigous guest, so is every Peradeniya student, visiting an estate. Gaining admission to any of the universities is a feat for an estate Tamil, but the name Peradeniya (or Peradanai in Tamil) as an extra ring to it. The parents and families of university students are indeed basking in the students' glory. Being able to send a child to Peradeniya is in itself an achievement. Many a student who was qualified through his or her A-level exam scores have had to abandon ambitions of higher education because of the economic strain it would put on the family. This is in a country where universities are free and where the students pay less than a dollar a month for accmodation and approximately 20 dollars a month for meals. It doesn't even help that the food expenses are largely covered by a monthly scholarship that most of the poor students recieve. This economic issue seems to be largely forgotten or disregarded by politicians, however. Indeed, the entire population of Indian Tamils were largely disregarded up until recently. Many were for decades deprived of citizenship as a result of a protracted quarrel between India and Sri Lanka over where the Indian Tamils belonged. The family whose house we stayed in prior to our Sri Pada ascent, were one such family deprived of citizenship. They only got theirs granted last year.

Our Sri Pada trip was a success, although it looked like it would all go wrong when the bus we had expected to take us to Dalhousie, the small town at the base of the mountain, never showed up. You see, Sri Pada should be climbed at night when the weather is cool and the reward, on a clear day, is a remarkable sunrise. My friend Amund and I missed out on that sunrise last year, when we stubbornly did an off-season climb. Reaching the top we saw nothing but clouds and fog and the beating wind made the place thouroughly uninviting. Well, when no bus arrived a decission was made to find alternative transport and at 3 AM about 15 of us were bumping along the narrow roads in the back of a lorry. It was a race against the sunshine. We arrived in Dalhousie at 3:45 and climbed at an insane speed to make it to the summit just as the sun crossed the horizon. I am less proud of the fact that we were commandeered off the mountain again, by a Buddist monk tired of being distracted by our exhillerated talking and laughing, in his attempts to give a sermon.

The second day following the climb my friend Siva and I took farewell with the other boys and went further south into the upcountry, to Haputale. A female Tamil student had invited us to visit her family and we gladly accepted. Siva and I spent a day there. I soon discovered that our friend's sister was to be married off to a distant relative living in northern Sweden. She will be moving next month. It was a prospect she seemed to handle optimistically, although I could sense her nervousness at heading for a completely unknown place, far away from family and friends. We exchanged addresses and I told her to contact me in Norway if she needed help adjusting. I can only imagine how shocking the transition must be. To leave the tropical, family-oriented, heterogenous and highly flavoured ancient isle of Sri Lanka for an ice cold and isolated town of Swedish hillbilles. I wonder if her parents, who have arranged the marriage, are even remotely aware of how radically different her life will be there. But then again.. maybe it won't. Maybe there's a large Tamil community where she is going and that there will be some things familiar among all that which is foreign.

Siva and I left for his village, Madulsima, the next day and spent the last days leading up to New Year with his family. This was my second visit to his home and I was greeted as a family member - as their new son. His father, an assistant field officer at the tea estate, would place a bottle of arrack on the table each night, with a grin on his face communicating what his lack of English skills prevented him from saying in words. The arrack was for us to drink, meaning me, since Siva can't stand the stuff. I on the other hand, have taken a liking to it, although I distinctly dislike drinking alone.

Sivas mother speaks some English. Her father, who also was a field officer, would regularly bring British visitors to the house. She is a confident and strong woman who would never put up with being pushed around by a man, but who affectionately looks after her family members, now including me. She and I have discussed the plight of Tamil estate women, who overworked and underpaid, are worst off of all in this male dominated society. I am certain her two sons will do what they can to change this. Siva wants to do an M.A. in political science and then in some way work for the Tamils of the upcountry. The younger son, Nawa, is currently sitting A-levels, but wants to study law. Their mother is bursting with pride for the both of them.

The days in Madulsima were a welcome break from tiresome travelling. I can sense how Siva winds down when he's at home. How the burden of expectations he carries around on campus is unloaded. We would go for walks in the green, rolling, tea covered hills while he would tell me stories of his childhood years, of girls, of friendships and of school. And I fall prey to romanticising this simple way of life but am again and again reminded of the hardships it involves. When I ask about an engraved stone by the local miniature cricket ground he tells me it commemorates the politician who brought electricity to their houses. That was just a few years ago. For Sivas family electricity is certainly not an issue anymore. The estate supply this as a bonus to the field officers. In fact, the house the estate has put them up in, lacks light switches in the bed rooms! They are quite used to sleeping with lights on.

Another serious drawback to living in these tea estates is the lack of efficient health care. Hospitals are a long way off and physicians not always available. I was shocked to find out that a local elementary school teacher, whom I had met and talked with on my previous visit, was now admitted to hospital in Badulla (two hours away), diagnosed with blood cancer. His chances are grim. Treatment in India is possible, but only if he can raise Rs 600 000 (approximately 6000 dollars). Siva could not see how that could be possible. Even if it were, he said, the three Indian Tamils who so far had recieved similar treatment in India, had all died. He looked at me and asked if people die of cancer in Norway. Expecting the answer to be "no", he didn't hear me as I affirmed. But the fact is that we probably discover the disease a lot earlier in most cases than what is common in the tea estates and in other rural areas of Sri Lanka.

After New Year, Siva decided to stay on some days with his family while I wanted to get back to Kandy. Siva followed me on the way to Badulla though, where he paid a visit to his hospitalized teacher. There I got on an Intercity Express bus with no seats left, leaving me standing for 4 hours. Catching a ride at all was lucky, though. Public transport in the days after the festival is highly unpredictable, as busdrivers and others look to astrology to inform them of which day is auspicious for going back to work. Astrology is, appearantly, another belief Tamils and Sinhalese people share.

/haakon/

- edited on May 3