Errands

After cleaning up I realized there was no food in the house. There was only one thing to do, go out for lunch and a shopping trip. This would be my maiden solo voyage into Kandy. I planned my mission carefully, laying my gear out on the bed. Backpack for carrying things back up the hill, dark sunglasses to avoid eye contact, hat, detailed and well-organized list, Lonely Planet book for back-up, journal, pen, Pepto-Bismol tabs, small underarm red purse for money, cell phone, and Dan’s business cards. I felt nervous about going out on the street alone; I remembered all the people crushed around me at the Perahera. “Was this how agoraphobic people back home felt?” I wondered to myself. “Is it reasonable, here or there?” I debated with myself as I packed my gear. I reminded myself of the first rule of mental health “is it causing a problem in the negotiation of your life and relationships? If yes, then something is a problem and not just an eccentricity or habit.” I knew that if I couldn’t make it out there on the street alone, that would be a problem.

Starting out I figured that without Dan I was more likely to be groped, but less likely to be hit by a bus. Walking behind someone taller than you in the Third World can be dangerous, drastically reducing your sight-line. I also feel safer negotiating my own street crossings even though I am actually more aggressive on my own than I would be walking next to Dan. I felt surprising comfortable and confident behind my dark shades and dropping my head to dip down the brim of my hat when I had to go through a gaggle of idle men.

I had only large bills, so I went to the supermarket first to break my 1000 Rupee note, the equivalent of about ten bucks. Then I could proceed into the “alley of many things” with my small bills to get sponges, buckets, a floor brush et cetera. One of the Third World Universal Constants bridging culture, religion, and continent is that no independent vendor can handle large bills. If I were to go into the alley to get some plastic bowls, hangers, and a strainer from one vendor and the total was 200 Rupees, and I tried to pay with a 1000 Rupee note, it would be a crisis. The shopkeeper would have to send the 8 year old errand boy off someplace to get change. You would think that if the vendor is selling 100 and 200 Rupee purchases all day long he would have a collection of small notes, but this is never the case. Ever. One must cultivate and carefully monitor one’s small bill and coin collection.

I did well in the alley, acquiring everything on my list from a large plastic food cage to getting an extra key made for the annex, paying what I estimated to be slightly white-skinned prices, but not too bad. I was not going to stand around in the equatorial sun and work a man with no shoes from 150 to 100 Rupees for a clothesline and clothespins. I am just not that into the spirit of haggling. My reward was lunch at Rams.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I do not like Sri Lankan food, the backbone of which is dahl, curries, and rice. Before I came to Sri Lanka Dan warned me that the rice was bad here. I had my favorites, but as a serious carb addict I had never met a grain I didn’t like. I’d had everything from Thai rice to Japanese rice to Basmati. Sri Lankan rice has a very small, squat grain, and tastes like it was grown in a swamp next to an open sewer. Rams was a South Indian Tamil restaurant where they served great thalis featuring savory Basmati rice. A thali is a little curry sampler with various pickled things and chutneys in small metal bowls ringing a cereal-bowl sized metal bowl of rice and crammed onto a large metal platter. You dump the rice on the platter and dig in. I dig in with a fork, Dan and the natives dig in with their fingers. I find eating with your fingers revolting in a country where soap in the bathroom is a rare commodity.

Eating my thali meal and sipping my fresh lime juice in the refreshingly dark interior of Rams I felt the pain of future loss again. I could eat here for a little while, but not forever. I was comforted by Rams with the attentive but not creepy staff and reliably excellent food, but I could not cling to it. When every smear of curry juice had been soaked up I knew it was time to start rolling myself and my loot back up the hill. It was monsoon season and I had tempted the rain gods far too long. Starting back along the lake I passed Tree Man, one of the legion of homeless men who live on the streets of Kandy. This man was special though because he lived in the cleft of a huge tree by the lake, he had blankets and a few belongings in there. You never saw him with an open bottle of booze or passed out drunk on the pavement at night. He never hassled anyone for money; he just had his nicely washed ice-cream container out for donation. He was familiar to me from other walks by with Dan, but not irritating. When I passed by that day he gave me a nice smile. I decided that he would become my first homeless donation. Not that day, since I was not going to stop walking and crack open my bag on that stretch, but in the future I would carry a few Rupee coins in my pocket. The one and two Rupee coins were building up in my desk anyway. I had never, ever given money to a homeless person before, under any circumstances. Since I lived here now though, I felt that I should become part of the social economy. I decided that on my future trips into town I would carry small coins in my pocket and carefully decide on other recipients. Candidates should first and foremost not follow me or in any way approach me physically, or even verbally. I decided that I would also prefer a homeless person to be familiar, in a usual location, and not obviously drunk.