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/