Happy New YearSure, 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
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