More Errands

On Monday I was out on the patio with my pump-pressurized water rifle defending the house and mango tree from a monkey attack when I decided that water was not enough, I needed rocks. I couldn’t reach the monkeys in the high branches with enough force. I looked down amongst the greenery in the long planter that ran along the side of the patio wall, searching for the right small stones. What I found instead was a fairly nice six-inch chopping knife with a wooden handle hidden in the planter. It was slightly rusted and not very sharp, if someone wanted to chop us to pieces with it they would have a tough row to hoe. My discovery was vaguely disturbing however since it was obvious that knife had not been there for a long period of time. A search of the planter revealed nothing else of interest. The knife was of no use to me in its current condition, so I decided to get it sharpened. I had seen a knife sharpening man in the Alley of Many Things next to the man who makes key copies and sells small motors for blenders.

The next day I made my list, put some Rupee coins in my pockets for beggars, packaged my new find first in a paper bag and then in a thick plastic bag before stowing it in my backpack. Dan had stolen all of my small money, so before going into the Alley I went to the Food City supermarket and bought two rolls of toilet paper totaling 68 Rupees, about 68 cents, with a 1,000 Rupee note. As I was leaving Food City I could see Elephantiasis of the Legs Man in his usual position on the pavement just down the hill near the crosswalk. I decided that I would give him some of my change. I felt out a two Rupee coin in my pocket and planned to drop it into his hand as I passed on my way to the crosswalk. Making my approach I realized I would have to bend down to his level on the busy sidewalk in order to deposit my donation, a concept that made me profoundly uncomfortable. The other option would be to sort of throw the money at him or drop it on his head. When I reached him I performed an ungraceful curtsey to place the money in his hand and proceeded out into traffic as fast a possible, feeling unsettled. It reminded me of the time an old woman in Turkey held me in the mosque during the call to prayer and took me through the salat.

Knife Man ran his operation near the mouth of the Alley. He wore his longi knotted up around his knees in a double-layer, giving the impression of a man in a mini-skirt. With his bare feet he manned dual pedal-powered grindstones set into a single faded blue wooden frame. The pedal spun a large ox-cart sized wheel on a length of twine which in turn whirled around the small grindstones. He was already working on another man’s knife as I came toward him, pulling the enormous chopping knife out of my bag. He took the knife and deposited it in his small rig. I imagined that I could leave the knife, go shopping, and return for it, but I wanted to watch him work. The man in front of me was waiting for a small knife with several large chinks in the blade. The Knife Man effortlessly used different angles and alternated the grindstones to work out the chinks and bring the worn knife to a sharp edge. When he came to my knife he spent most of the time on the point of the knife, reshaping it and honing it down. I wondered who had put the knife in my planter and why as I watched my new knife sharpening into a proficient kitchen tool or weapon.

After paying 40 Rupees for the services of Knife Man I went up into the Alley to my Plastic Housewares Man. Wearing my trademark sunhat I moved though the Alley completely ignored. No shouts of “Hello My Friend,” followed me. When I arrived at his stall, Plastic Housewares Man greeted me warmly. He knew me well by now and gave me good prices, knowing I would always need another plastic container, hanger, sponge, or cheap pot. After selecting several small spice containers I headed on to the main street and to the focus of my mission in Kandy today: hair clippers. I was carrying about 4,000 Rupees with me for this purchase, much more money than I would ever normally take out on the street. I even had these notes stashed in a separate place from my small money.

Dan’s hair had grown out of control and he was reluctant to get it cut in town. “If I don’t speak Singhala they mess up my hair,” he said. “If I speak Singhala then they ask me for a visa by the end of the cut,” he complained.
“Well, then tell the barber that you can get him one just before you go home, I bet you’ll get a good rate and a good cut while you’re here,” I suggested sarcastically.
“But that would be wrong,” Dan mocked me, nodding his head.
“Ok then, I’ll find clippers and I’ll cut your hair. I’m sure I can get it right after a couple of tries,” I replied. I used to cut my ex’s hair. I had just started learning how to use clippers when he had his passport photo taken. The image in his passport for the next ten years shows a man whose hair looks like he had an accident trying to fix a lawnmower.

Several sources had pointed to a single store for my clipper-mission. Fortuitously this store was located next to my favorite Chinese restaurant in town, Flower Song, and I was already familiar with its location. The bottom floor seemed to be more of a pick-up and warehouse area, so I followed some locals and proceeded upstairs. After a brief survey of the merchandise I found the single product on offer in a glass case. A young man in a blue button-down shirt approached me and asked in English if I wanted to see anything. I indicated the clippers in the case in between several models of electric razors. He went into the case from the back and pulled out a box, opened the box, and showed me the clippers. Instead of having removable guards, this model featured a sliding guard that could be set from 3mm to 21mm. To show him that I knew how commercial exchanges worked in Sri Lanka I requested that he plug in the device and turn it on. Once the clippers whirled to life I said that I would take them.

I followed him downstairs into the warehouse area. Several other blue-shirted employees buzzed around closing other sales behind a counter with customers seated in black chairs in front of them. The salesman had my clippers in his hand. He showed me the price, 3,300 Rupees and I handed him my four 1,000 Rupee notes. He then indicated for me have a seat, a common practice in Sri Lanka as warranty information is taken off of the box and elaborate receipts and records are filled out by hand. I called Dan on my cell to tell him of my victory. As I was talking to him I glanced around the room. I saw a small sign hanging from the ceiling in Singhala and English reading “Pay Only the Cashier,” over a woman sitting behind a Plexiglas partition. Suddenly I felt sick. The man in the blue shirt with my clippers and my money was nowhere in sight. “I’ve, uh, got to go,” I told Dan abruptly.

The other employees and customers in the store were staring at me, but this was nothing terribly unusual. Where they staring at me because they had all watched me get had or just because I was a foreigner in a place they do not expect foreigners? Were they amused at watching me get screwed? Would nobody intervene to protect me if that man was not a real employee, or was a real employee who had just taken my money and gone home for the day? To what extent would a nice establishment such as this support that sort of behavior and blame it on my stupidity? I carefully studied the known employees. They were all speaking in Singhala, wearing blue shirts like my “salesman.” Also like the man who had waited on me, they did not wear name tags. The other women waiting in the chairs next to me seemed to be simply waiting, not filling out warranty paperwork as I did at another store for my rice-cooker. I turned around and could see another side room with lots of men in blue shirts filling out large books. “Perhaps my man was in there,” I told myself hopefully.

I then began to ponder what my next action would be and how long I would wait to take it. Studying the traffic pattern I identified a front desk near the entrance, a central processor for all activity. I resolved to start there and then take it to the cops out in the street if necessary. “Has the great Sara, veteran traveler of the Third World, never been robbed, never been seriously screwed over, finally been nailed?” I wondered. I felt shame rush hot into my cheeks. “There is always, always someone better than you,” I consoled myself; “maybe today you just met that man,” my internal dialogue ran as I started to move toward acceptance of the situation. Just then my salesman then returned with a wide smile, head-waggle, my clippers in a bag, my receipt, and my change in hand. “But not today,” I told myself with relief, “evidently not today.”