Before leaving Norway I decided to splash out and by an HD video camera, or to be more precise, this one (Canon HF100). It works on flash memory and I bought a 16GB Sandisk Ultra II SDHC card which I'm using with it.
I've imported some recordings (AVCHD) on to my laptop. When I watch these recordings on the laptop, particularly the ones with a bit om motion do not flow well at all. I attributed this to the laptop (lack of RAM, poor CPU), but the problem persists even when I export these files to the MPEG-2 format (I have tried converting with ImageMixer 3 SE as well as Nero Vision). This I don't understand. If anyone has a clue as to why I don't get a better result I would be delighted to hear what you have to say.
If you don't want to post comments here, you can email them to me at haakon.aasprong(at)gmail.com
BTW! The recordings look fine when I view them on the camcorder.
Here's an example of what I'm talking about (4,5 MB):
Edit: Of course, if this runs smoothly on your computer I'd be interested in hearing that as well. That would locate the problem in the playback on my computer.
30.7.08
27.7.08
Bathing, dining and biding our time
After a week in Vincy, things seem to be somewhat at a standstill. I was off to a good start on Tuesday when we headed to Kingstown and I was able to get five minutes with Arthur Bobb, head of the Fairtrade unit of WINFA (Windward Islands Farmers' Association), the cooperative in which (I believe) all Vincentian banana farmers are organized. I had been trying to contact Mr. Bobb as well as Renwick Rose, head of WINFA, from Norway, without any luck and was afraid of the reception I would receive by just showing up there and stating my purpose of doing a long-term study on banana farmers. My fears were baseless. Mr. Bobb apologized that my emails had gone unanswered and explained that big things have been happening here lately, particularly with the move to include all WINFA bananas under the Fairtrade scheme and with the ongoing negotiations with the EU and WTO about the dismantling of preferential trade agreements which can carry huge repercussions for Caribbean banana farmers. Mr. Bobb took the initiative to set up a meeting where I could get to know some key persons in the organisation and where we together could stake out a course for my research. The meeting has now been scheduled for 1.30 AM tomorrow (Tuesday). I am elated and a bit nervous.
One of the things i hope will come out of this meeting is some idea of which areas of the island will be best suited for localizing my research. Realizing that it will most likely be some time before we know exactly where to build our nest we have decided to rent an apartment in the Calliaqua area as a temporary fix. Since Tuesday most of the time has been passed apartment hunting, waiting (for food, for Mr. Bobb to call, for Ella to fall asleep or wake up) and swimming in the sea. There seems to be loads of available apartments but still they are tricky to find as people rely on word of mouth rather than advertisements. The way to do it is to ask around. Quite a few people know someone who knows someone who has a place to let. We had a few options but opted for what would be the most conveient with Ella, that is an apartment close to the main road and public transport.
Living in a hotel when you're not on holiday can be quite sad, really, especially if the hotel is largely empty. Ours is, as are, I believe, most Vincentian hotels at the time being, for reasons I do not know. As for the meals, the only proper restaurants are in Kingstown, which is about half an hour away. We've tried pretty much every item on the hotel restaurant menu and while the food is alright, there is the waiting for the meals. Waiting for half an hour for breakfast, lunch and dinner can be somewhat of a trial when you are entertaining a 9 months old baby. The people here are really good with Ella, though. Yesterday she charmed two of the cleaning ladies by charging at them in the hallway and then refusing to be handed back to her mother. The same two ladies told us about the food stalls that are set up in Calliaqua on Saturdays. We weren't difficult to persuade to give them a go, and before we knew it, a Jamaican guy named Norman (one of the few fellow hotel guests) had volunteered to take us there.
Calliaqua, Norman declares, is the southernmost point of St. Vincent (although I beg to differ, having since then studied the map. It is close to the southermost point, though) and is a small town only a 10 minute ride from our hotel. Pulling up by an open-ended white tent at the end of a footbal pitch, Norman hoots out of the open window at the people sitting inside. They hoot back at him, making funny guttural sounds like sports fans. Obviously Norman knows these people, perhaps from when he was working at the island some years ago. We're welcomed like friends of friends. On metallic folding chairs inside the tent sits four ladies, a young man and a girl. The ambience is good and the talk light-hearted - no worries clouding the atmosphere. Silje and I both immediately feel at ease. I am thinking that "This is it! This is the real Caribbean. This is what things look like outside the resort areas." Even the food is relievingly good. A bit greasy perhaps, but exotic to a Norwegian palate with dishes like smoked herring, black fish, salt fish, dumplings, sweet potatoes and plantains. There are also the safer options of chicken, turkey and pork. We try a bit of everything and do not come across anything we don't like. A can of the local beer, Hairoun, makes the experience complete. We chat while we eat, forgetting about the heat. This fieldwork is going to be a breeze.
On returning to the hotel a bit later we stumble upon Ton, the Dutch general manager whom we've chatted a bit with earlier. We tell him about the trip and the food and how we enjoyed it, and he lets slip a remark: "you just wait till you've been here for a year". It is innocent enough and not to be made much of perhaps, but still, it stays with me. I think it is because it reminds me of a kind of ex-pat arrogance which I met in Sri Lanka too. Back then I made the big mistake of lodging with an American who mainly hung out with ex-pats. A man whose Lankan acquaintances did not extend much beyond a selection of the Anglicized elite and who in meeting others made little effort at understanding where they were coming from. I spent a lot of time dodging him and his exiled comrades. After a week in St. Vincent I've run into that kind of people here as well (and I'm not speaking of the hotel manager).
Of course it is completely understandable that ex-pats get together and complain about certain aspects of their host countries, whether it be food, habits, weather or whatever. This is probably the case with most immigrant communities, too. Nobody loves everything about an adopted country and when certain things bug you there is surely therapeutic value in it bugging others as well. Yet, when these things are all you see or talk about, you are in a dangerous place - whether you are exiled by choice or necessity (although it is by far more disgusting in the first case). It is easy to give into a kind of haughty bantering of that which is different or "backwards", but I am going to remind myself that I do not want to be that guy.
In a sense St. Vincent is the tropical paradise you all probably imagine it is, which I guess is why the ex-pats stick around, too. There is a warm climate, beaches, beautiful ocean vistas, coral reefs, and lush forests. And we enjoy those things but they are more of a bonus, really. They are not why we came. Knowing that we are going to live on this island for a year, our main concerns are that we get along well with people, that we are safe, that Ella is happy and that I get good material for the research. These are the things that have kept us preoccupied while living like tourists.
BTW: Those of you who can read Norwegian may be interested in reading Siljes report at Trollheimsporten.
One of the things i hope will come out of this meeting is some idea of which areas of the island will be best suited for localizing my research. Realizing that it will most likely be some time before we know exactly where to build our nest we have decided to rent an apartment in the Calliaqua area as a temporary fix. Since Tuesday most of the time has been passed apartment hunting, waiting (for food, for Mr. Bobb to call, for Ella to fall asleep or wake up) and swimming in the sea. There seems to be loads of available apartments but still they are tricky to find as people rely on word of mouth rather than advertisements. The way to do it is to ask around. Quite a few people know someone who knows someone who has a place to let. We had a few options but opted for what would be the most conveient with Ella, that is an apartment close to the main road and public transport.
Living in a hotel when you're not on holiday can be quite sad, really, especially if the hotel is largely empty. Ours is, as are, I believe, most Vincentian hotels at the time being, for reasons I do not know. As for the meals, the only proper restaurants are in Kingstown, which is about half an hour away. We've tried pretty much every item on the hotel restaurant menu and while the food is alright, there is the waiting for the meals. Waiting for half an hour for breakfast, lunch and dinner can be somewhat of a trial when you are entertaining a 9 months old baby. The people here are really good with Ella, though. Yesterday she charmed two of the cleaning ladies by charging at them in the hallway and then refusing to be handed back to her mother. The same two ladies told us about the food stalls that are set up in Calliaqua on Saturdays. We weren't difficult to persuade to give them a go, and before we knew it, a Jamaican guy named Norman (one of the few fellow hotel guests) had volunteered to take us there.
Calliaqua, Norman declares, is the southernmost point of St. Vincent (although I beg to differ, having since then studied the map. It is close to the southermost point, though) and is a small town only a 10 minute ride from our hotel. Pulling up by an open-ended white tent at the end of a footbal pitch, Norman hoots out of the open window at the people sitting inside. They hoot back at him, making funny guttural sounds like sports fans. Obviously Norman knows these people, perhaps from when he was working at the island some years ago. We're welcomed like friends of friends. On metallic folding chairs inside the tent sits four ladies, a young man and a girl. The ambience is good and the talk light-hearted - no worries clouding the atmosphere. Silje and I both immediately feel at ease. I am thinking that "This is it! This is the real Caribbean. This is what things look like outside the resort areas." Even the food is relievingly good. A bit greasy perhaps, but exotic to a Norwegian palate with dishes like smoked herring, black fish, salt fish, dumplings, sweet potatoes and plantains. There are also the safer options of chicken, turkey and pork. We try a bit of everything and do not come across anything we don't like. A can of the local beer, Hairoun, makes the experience complete. We chat while we eat, forgetting about the heat. This fieldwork is going to be a breeze.
On returning to the hotel a bit later we stumble upon Ton, the Dutch general manager whom we've chatted a bit with earlier. We tell him about the trip and the food and how we enjoyed it, and he lets slip a remark: "you just wait till you've been here for a year". It is innocent enough and not to be made much of perhaps, but still, it stays with me. I think it is because it reminds me of a kind of ex-pat arrogance which I met in Sri Lanka too. Back then I made the big mistake of lodging with an American who mainly hung out with ex-pats. A man whose Lankan acquaintances did not extend much beyond a selection of the Anglicized elite and who in meeting others made little effort at understanding where they were coming from. I spent a lot of time dodging him and his exiled comrades. After a week in St. Vincent I've run into that kind of people here as well (and I'm not speaking of the hotel manager).
Of course it is completely understandable that ex-pats get together and complain about certain aspects of their host countries, whether it be food, habits, weather or whatever. This is probably the case with most immigrant communities, too. Nobody loves everything about an adopted country and when certain things bug you there is surely therapeutic value in it bugging others as well. Yet, when these things are all you see or talk about, you are in a dangerous place - whether you are exiled by choice or necessity (although it is by far more disgusting in the first case). It is easy to give into a kind of haughty bantering of that which is different or "backwards", but I am going to remind myself that I do not want to be that guy.
In a sense St. Vincent is the tropical paradise you all probably imagine it is, which I guess is why the ex-pats stick around, too. There is a warm climate, beaches, beautiful ocean vistas, coral reefs, and lush forests. And we enjoy those things but they are more of a bonus, really. They are not why we came. Knowing that we are going to live on this island for a year, our main concerns are that we get along well with people, that we are safe, that Ella is happy and that I get good material for the research. These are the things that have kept us preoccupied while living like tourists.
BTW: Those of you who can read Norwegian may be interested in reading Siljes report at Trollheimsporten.
24.7.08
Three years down the road
Alas, the anthropologist blogs again! And why...? Perhaps because the anthropologist would rather share experiences with living people than with notebooks and fieldnote databases? Because writing field notes is exhausting work demanding accuracy and attention to detail rather than dwelling on vague impressions? Yeah, something like that. In the three years that have passed after leaving Sri Lanka the thought of blogging has hardly crossed my mind. Yet here I am, doing it again, on the fourth day after arriving for a new fieldwork, this time in the tiny eastern Caribbean island of St. Vincent.
A short recap (or an update/introduction to those who don't know me all that well):
Fairtrade is getting to be a big thing - no longer easily dismissed as niche markets. The estimated total retail value of Fairtrade certified products almost tripled from € 832 million in 2004 to € 2,381 million in 2007. The annual growth in sales has been around 40 % for the past five years (FLO-I). This explosive growth occurs while the WTO and champions of neoliberalism are continuing to push for what they see as fair trade, that is free trade. In the Caribbean context this is felt severely by the marginal banana farmers who are losing preferential access to European markets as the WTO demands an end to such practices. The WTO has ruled that the tariffs leveled by the EU on non ACP banana-producing countries is unfair, which means that the American based multinationals Dole, Chiquita and Del Monte, who already control most trade in bananas and who get their bananas from the larger and more effective Latin-American banana plantations will grab even larger market shares. The household based Caribbean banana farms can never compete with these supersized plantations. Much as a result of the Banana wars (the term used to refer to the long-lasting disagreement between the EU on the one side and Latin American producers of dollar bananas and the US on the other. For recent developments, see e.g. here) Vincentian farmers started seeking Fairtrade certification, seeing it as the only way to stay in business. Today the entire banana industry of the island is switching to Fairtrade in order to stay afloat.
I am here to see how this is working out. But rather than doing an impact study on Fairtrade per sé, I am interested in Fairtrade as one example of standardisation of agricultural practices. Another example, of course, is organic farming, not practiced here now (but perhaps sometime in the future). There are other standards as well, such as GlobalGAP, and then there are EU regulations. There are in fact heaps of people who directly or indirectly want a say in how bananas (and other agricultural products) are produced and my task is to attain some idea on how all these demands are felt and dealt with by the farmers themselves. That is the short version, anyway.
Before wiping the dust off this blog I re-read the last post I wrote in Sri Lanka. So much has happened since then, in my life and in the lives of the students I learned to know there, and I have still not been able to go back for a visit. In fact, I planned to do parts of this research on Fairtrade tea estates in the Sri Lankan up-country, but came to realize that the main reasons I had for doing that were not professional but personal. And with Sri Lanka slipping back into war, taking Ella and Silje there began to seem like a poor idea. I decided to rewrite my project and do the entire thing in the Caribbean. It was a decision saturated with guilt just for being in the position to choose in the first place. It was another tentacle of the Kilopus letting go, and it is with some reluctance I am preparing to wrap myself to this island in stead. Yet, here we are, and updates on our progress will follow. Stay tuned!
A short recap (or an update/introduction to those who don't know me all that well):
- August 2005: Returned to Trondheim, Norway from M.Sc. fieldwork in Sri Lanka
- June 2006: Turned in and defended the thesis ("Making a Home Away from Home - On Up-country Tamil Identity and Social Complexity at a Sri lankan University")
- 2006-2007: Held part-time teaching position at NTNU
- July 2007: Bought an appartment with Silje
- October 2007: Ella Leona was born
- November 2007: Took up position as PhD Research Fellow at NTNU
- March 2008: Married Silje
- July 2008: Arrived in St. Vincent along with Silje and Ella to do fieldwork for my doctoral thesis
Fairtrade is getting to be a big thing - no longer easily dismissed as niche markets. The estimated total retail value of Fairtrade certified products almost tripled from € 832 million in 2004 to € 2,381 million in 2007. The annual growth in sales has been around 40 % for the past five years (FLO-I). This explosive growth occurs while the WTO and champions of neoliberalism are continuing to push for what they see as fair trade, that is free trade. In the Caribbean context this is felt severely by the marginal banana farmers who are losing preferential access to European markets as the WTO demands an end to such practices. The WTO has ruled that the tariffs leveled by the EU on non ACP banana-producing countries is unfair, which means that the American based multinationals Dole, Chiquita and Del Monte, who already control most trade in bananas and who get their bananas from the larger and more effective Latin-American banana plantations will grab even larger market shares. The household based Caribbean banana farms can never compete with these supersized plantations. Much as a result of the Banana wars (the term used to refer to the long-lasting disagreement between the EU on the one side and Latin American producers of dollar bananas and the US on the other. For recent developments, see e.g. here) Vincentian farmers started seeking Fairtrade certification, seeing it as the only way to stay in business. Today the entire banana industry of the island is switching to Fairtrade in order to stay afloat.
I am here to see how this is working out. But rather than doing an impact study on Fairtrade per sé, I am interested in Fairtrade as one example of standardisation of agricultural practices. Another example, of course, is organic farming, not practiced here now (but perhaps sometime in the future). There are other standards as well, such as GlobalGAP, and then there are EU regulations. There are in fact heaps of people who directly or indirectly want a say in how bananas (and other agricultural products) are produced and my task is to attain some idea on how all these demands are felt and dealt with by the farmers themselves. That is the short version, anyway.
Before wiping the dust off this blog I re-read the last post I wrote in Sri Lanka. So much has happened since then, in my life and in the lives of the students I learned to know there, and I have still not been able to go back for a visit. In fact, I planned to do parts of this research on Fairtrade tea estates in the Sri Lankan up-country, but came to realize that the main reasons I had for doing that were not professional but personal. And with Sri Lanka slipping back into war, taking Ella and Silje there began to seem like a poor idea. I decided to rewrite my project and do the entire thing in the Caribbean. It was a decision saturated with guilt just for being in the position to choose in the first place. It was another tentacle of the Kilopus letting go, and it is with some reluctance I am preparing to wrap myself to this island in stead. Yet, here we are, and updates on our progress will follow. Stay tuned!
25.8.05
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/
19.8.05
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).
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).
9.8.05
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.
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.
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