Colombo

“Colombo is the perfect metaphor for Samsara,” Dan told me as we were preparing to embark on our journey; “You are going to suffer, but you are always drawn back for something else.” He went on to explain that in Buddhist belief a being can be born into one of six realms: the realm of hell-beings; the realm of hungry ghosts; life as an animal; life as a human; the realm of Asuras, or lesser heavenly beings; and the heavens of the gods. Life as a god can get boring, especially for the Asuras, who are jealous of the gods above them in heaven and tend to pick fights. All beings are drawn back into the life cycles of Samsara and back into the world. Our jealousy of the commercial products available in Colombo drew us out of our relative heaven at 1650 feet up in the Hill Country of Sri Lanka, down the twisting road of hungry ghosts between Kandy and Colombo, and straight into the heart of hell, Galle Road.

With our hired car and driver we left at 7 AM and began the 72 mile descent that takes three hours due to poor road conditions. The road was swamped with careening inter-city buses that stopped for everyone, everywhere, all the time, while trying to maintain a tight schedule so as to fit in as many trips as possible. Small towns clung to both sides of the two lane road, which sometimes must become a three or four lane road, filling it with children, dogs, and three-wheelers. First we passed through the clay town featuring everything from large planters to delicate wind chimes, and then on to wicker and leather town selling baskets and chairs. Next we passed the cashew and prostitute town with girls in red suggestively waving little bags of cashews. Just before passing into Colombo we passed the pineapple men selling pineapple fruits still on their stalks. Once in Colombo I glimpsed my first UN SUV. Gleaming white in the equatorial sun, the five-foot snorkel rising proudly from underneath the front fender straight up in the air, and the darkly tinted windows made it look like something that an up-and-coming rapper ought to take to the Vibe Awards.

I had read up in the guide book to figure out why Colombo existed at all. It was not a natural location for a capital city. No splendid harbor, no historical significance, not terribly close to the Indian mainland. The name Colombo is taken from a type of tree, the Kola Amba, a variety of mango that does not bear fruit. I learned that Colombo was just a marsh of fruitless mangos and a small trading port until the Portuguese built their fort, the Dutch sacked the fort, and finally the British made it their crown capital in 1802. Since Independence in 1948 Colombo has been working on its reputation as the “Las Vegas” of South Asia. Gambling, prostitution, shopping, it was all there. Colombo was a sweltering ugly piece of concrete slapped down in a marsh next to the ocean whereas Vegas was a sweltering ugly stretch of concrete slapped down in the desert. Colombo had a few high-rises and one nice mall, but it is mostly a heavily fortified, seedy, run-down pit. But if you need a nice sarong, presents for the folks back home, or a coffee grinder, it’s where you have to go.

We started out at the old mall. Dan worked over the bootleg DVD stores while I circulated for the coffee grinder, quickly captivating my quarry. The old mall was more of a multi-story air-con market with a roof. The interior was dark with no natural light.
The halls are winding, confusing, and packed with groups of teenage boys with their arms around each other.

Next we hit the pavement under the searing sun to walk down the street to Barefoot, a cultural institution. As soon as I opened the door and saw the colorful bolts of fabric hanging from the ceiling I nearly lost my mind. “Dan, how do to come here and not go completely crazy?” I asked in awe, retrieving my gift list from my bag.
“I’ve been coming here for a long time,” he laughed in reply, thrilled that I liked the place as much as he’d hoped.
“Get a shopping basket, the biggest one,” I instructed, and referring to my list I got to work.

The textiles were extraordinary, all hand-dyed and hand woven, the product of rural cottage industries. I went through the entire rack of a hundred or so sarongs, meticulously selecting colors and patterns for individual gifts with the recipient carefully in mind, and then two for myself. The staff on the floor were trained to leave the customers alone, keep the showroom immaculate, and never utter the phrase “hello my friend.” One of them quietly followed after me repairing the damage I did to the sarong rack, which was fairly substantial. We shopped unmolested, relishing the fixed and very reasonable prices. We bought four bags worth of loot, everything from little stuffed crocodiles, to painted trays, to scarves and sarongs.

After Barefoot we ran the gauntlet of Galle Road three-wheel drivers back to the car parked at the old mall lot. Dan attempted to call the driver’s cell phone; but the driver’s phone was off. We wandered around the dirt parking lot until we were able to pick our white Nissan sedan from the sea of other white Nissan sedans. We had the car, but no driver. In a wordless understanding I waited next to the locked car with the stuff while Dan went off on foot to look for the driver. A boy was circulating through the lot putting brochures on windshields advertising a local garage. When we came to our car he looked at me very confused, a decision making process evidently running through his mind, and then just handed it to me, shrugging. I accepted it and even read it over since it was mostly in English. “Macro Autotech,” it read on the cover of the glossy pamphlet, “Moving ahead with modern Technology.” The text was blocked above four pictures of Caucasian men working on cars; cutting edge evidently meaning white. I was moving into the interior of the brochure and pursuing offers such as “Issuing of fitness certificates” listed under “Wheel Alignment Balancing & Repairs,” and “Accident repairs- Tinkering & repainting,” when Dan re-emerged, drenched in sweat with the driver in tow.

We stashed our bag in the trunk and continued on to the circa 1864 Galle Hotel, a colonial classic. The removable plastic letter sign in the lobby read “Welcome CIA Bribery and Corruption Conference.” We continued out onto the terrace where white skin and a Lion Lager bought us a comfortable and privileged view of the sunset over the ocean. I had allowed myself to be lulled into the rhythmic hypnosis of the waves when Dan broke into my thoughts, “check out that anti-aircraft gun over there,” he said, “that thing is like 50 caliber, tops. That is just not an effective surface to air weapon,” he finished, referring to the floor-mounted anti-aircraft machine gun positioned on top of a five story tower just outside of the neighboring compound. 50 yards from the infinity pool of the Galle Hotel rose 20 foot cement walls toped with razor wire and punctuated with a tower at each corner of the square property. Army soldiers manned the corner towers and the anti-aircraft gun.
“I’m sure the intention of the gun is to take out something at close range, from air, land, or sea, not to take out a plane at 5 thousand feet,” I replied, amazed that I had not noticed the gun and its stark contrast to the lush hotel grounds.
“Yeah, but those are the luckiest guys in the army. They could be up in Jaffna getting their legs blown off; instead, they’re down here watching the European women in bikinis,” Dan added.
“Whose house is that? What is the Army doing there anyway?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Dan replied, frowning. We watched the soldier watch the tourists in silence for awhile, and then turned our attention to the sunset.
“You know, I hate this place and never want to come back,” Dan said wistfully, gazing out at the ocean. “I’m going to get what I need to write my dis, and that’s it. I want to move the focus of my research back to Japan, to India, anywhere,” he finished.
“This is a terrible place,” I agreed. “All this fighting and tragedy goes on here and everyone is completely numb to it, a long war like this really takes a toll on a place. It wears everyone down, stunts the growth of the country, and erodes hope” I finished. Virtually as we were having this conversation the terrorist organization, the Liberation of Tamil Tigers Eelam, or LTTE, were murdering and hacking to pieces 11 Muslim civilians 150 miles away in Ampara.

“It’s terrible you know, because it could be really nice. It used to be better, ten years ago when I started coming here. I really loved Sri Lanka,” Dan added sadly.
“But what about Barefoot?” I questioned lightly. “I just don’t think that I can be cut off from Barefoot for the rest of my life,” I said decisively. “You know that even with a year here you will need to come back to put the finishing touches on some of your projects,” I teased him. “Just long enough to pick up some more sarongs and a few painted trays.”
“You’re right,” Dan admitted. “But it won’t be for long. No more long trips for awhile after this,” he finished, pausing. “You know sweetie,” he added with a devlish look in his green eyes, “That’s Samsara in action. You say how much you hate it here, but something draws you back,” he quipped back. As we silently watched the big ships out in the Indian Ocean, silhouetted against the sunset, I pondered how many sarongs I would need to take back to the states on my final journey.

After a lavish dinner and drinks at the Mango Tree, a North Indian restaurant; we started the trek back to Kandy. The driver slept in the car in the restaurant parking lot while we ate. I was relieved to see that he was well-rested for the journey ahead. “Turf Accountants” off-track betting facilities signs were illuminated in neon along the dark streets of Colombo as we began our journey east. Each sign featured a little blinking horse and jockey. Once out of Colombo the pineapple town had turned into a fish market. Cross sections of fresh tuna the size of twin mattresses were brightly illuminated on stall counters. Whole fish were being cleaned and hung up on hooks next to the bare bulbs. The cashew girls had retreated under the shelter of their tiny roadside run-in sheds. The rest of the towns were dark and hunkered into the hillside for the night as we sped for home.