Diaspora Voices

Diaspora Voices

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Kandy – Colombo  – MO63501 – WD6 2AU

Dhammika Dharmawardhane

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For all of you, the migrants from all over the world. For those forced into slavery in unknown continents, the boat people, asylum seekers, and most of all these short stories are in memory of my mother.

 She was a village girl my father married and brought to the city. I don’t think she ever enjoyed that.

 I remember her bawling her eyes out when I got home from overseas study. I didn’t know then what I know now. How much of suffering she went through in my absence. I am sad she’s no more, but glad that she never saw me suffer.

I am sorry, mother. I wish I was a better son.

Dhammika Dharmawardhane

Kandy – Colombo

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Tell me; is the grass here any better than the grass anywhere?

I am sitting in my little patch of garden in the stix. Years ago I probably would sit my butt on the paved part, but now I am using the padded stool from the living room. Jasper sits a few feet away from me, despite an hour-long walk with the kid; he looks up to the sky longingly. His way of hinting to me that he would love a little romp in the field behind the house. Walking with me has the added bonus of being let off the lead. That way he ensures no strange scent is left unexplored while frolicking beside me but to run to all parts of the field when he gets an exciting scent. The sun-blazing overhead all day has gone down earlier than usual, early darkness, signs of autumn looming, worse the winter cometh.

Constant sunshine is a rarity in Britain, today more of an exception. Bathed in the morning and again at night. Tiredness takes over as I take the last drag on my cig and butt it on the grass beside me. British homes are built for the cold weather – air tight. Provision never made for fans as you most times can count days like this on your ten fingers for a whole year. Air-tightness is welcome in the winter, keeping the cold air out, but when the sun blazes overhead all day, the homes virtually heat up like a boiler room. The temptation to buy a fan is always there, but every time I want to, checking the weather I find the next day to be mild. So one of the tasks you never really complete in Britain.

There is relief now. I leave the cool night outside and go back in. The slight breeze that ruffles the curtains through the back door is still welcome.  It’s been a long day, frustrating to say the least. Seeing the Srilankan Smiles frequent flyer email early morning I am determined to avail myself of this offer, and a quick week in the Paradise Isle to celebrate my Brit friend’s birthday, the Brit friend who has lived in Sri Lanka for over two decades. The younger brother I never had.

The smiles offer was £200, 210, 0r 250 depending on the day you wanted to travel plus 10,000 miles deducted for the privilege. Add the tax and it became £512. For one week, even to me, the one who misses his Paradise Isle so much, it is too much. So after much agonising heaven is on hold.

But from morning after my call to the Srilankan offices in London, I have not been very good company. Running around in the heat didn’t help either. Neither did the suffering, sweating, stinking mass of humans packed into trains that run underground without adequate cool air pumped into the carriages from aging trains. Again keeping the cold out in winter but not working at all when it gets warm like today.

Now after my second shower, in my now faded ODEL sarong (present - I buy my sarongs from Barefoot, Paradise Road and House of Fashion) and loose t-shirt, life looks better, but only a wee bit. My stomachs full, bowels empty and all the cares of the world are flushed away.

But for that niggling longing somewhere deep inside of me, for the Paradise Isle and to be there for a great mates birthday. I know I will do the right thing and not go and I will feel better in a couple of days, but right now it does hurt. Not going I mean. The Olympics, London 2012 and all the fantastic action from the pool and the stadium all but a glorious memory. British unprecedented gold and third place on medal table added excitement.

Now all gone.

Like my Paradise Island, nothing but a bittersweet memory.

My ankle not completely healed prevents me from pounding the pavement with Jasper. His rapid weight-gain over the past eight weeks a good indicator of the lack of exercise, for both of us. So the relief of a good jog no more, nor the endorphins that accompany it I sit despondent.

Honestly?

I just yearn to be in Kandy again. I wish I have never either seen or experienced the world. I wish my parents thought living in Kandy was good enough. That I was just a Kandy boy coming home after work in a bank. Getting off the Wattapuluwa bus in front of our house with my empty lunch container. The lights to welcome me would be switched on in the house; nightfall comes fast and quickly in Kandy. My dinner would be on the table, timed to perfection with my coming home. Quick wash and food, coffee, quiet chat with parents and to bed, repeat the next day. Relaxing weekends playing cricket, or taking my fathers old Lancer Station Wagon into town with my friends for a KFC and an ice-cold beer at Bake House. If it’s bright enough and there’s no rain Sundays would be at the Queens hotel swimming pool. Sunday evenings long jogs on the mountainous roads to ogle at all the beautiful Kandy girls who come out to stand by the wall in their garden. They’re dropped and picked up from school by car, some boarded in Colombo schools, but all home for the weekend, no permission to venture beyond the garden, so furtive excitement of a quick smile, the gutsier amongst us would and might slowly palm off a love letter.

If I stayed in that quiet hamlet of Wattapuluwa I probably would have married one too. Not once but twice missed. When I came back from the USA my parents had moved back from Colombo to Wattapuluwa. But I didn’t but to visit.

I wish, therefore I yearn

I repent, therefore I cry

I live, therefore I hurt

I am nothing

Tell me; is the grass here any better than the grass anywhere?

I wish I knew what I know now, then

But living there, not here

You know?

I keep wishing

For my mother, to let her know what I know now

That’s it’s not really ok, you know…

I wish I could stop blaming myself, for I am one who made the mistakes, I can’t say I didn’t know better, but I didn’t know what was best.

Devi (Goddess)

The aroma of her

I inhale with greed

Her body

Voluptuous

Yet graceful in her generous display of assets

I am grateful

I yearn not to touch

I bow and kiss the ground she walks

I yearn for her touch

The touch of love

Happiness

Laughter

Confidence

She protects me

Where ever I go

Devi

Forgive me

Somewhere

I know

I could have

Forgive me

For I know

You know better than I

Devi.

Darkness everywhere

It’s absolute

Welcoming because here is nothing to see

Like the juicy fruit gum she would chew

Before I kissed her

In the dark…

Sweet and fruity

Forbidden love

The unwashed hanky

From the rock concert

So is the shirt with her scent

From the party

All in the darkness

Gone for ever

There is darkness everywhere

I see better

I see her

I embrace her

I even dream of her

In the darkness

Tell me can you do better?

In darkness…

The multi headed goddess

She who punishes

The multi handed warrior god

He who vanquishes

The elephant headed god

He who protects

They wait

In darkness

Dark statues

Dark shadows

Why should the gods be?

Be in darkness?

Darkness, everywhere           

I have no where to run

I love you

Darkness…

Paradise Isle

“I both saw the thunderstorm and the single red rose drenched in rain. I saw your rivers flow swiftly as my days flew by.

You may look but never touch said she as I looked in wonder. Her scents overwhelm me. I need her forever more.

She tickles me as she gently dissolves through my feet. I am as aroused as her. I am battered and blown. Burnt to golden brown. But yet again I set out from shore. Into her welcoming warmth.

The single elephant stands majestically. Bathed in the headlight as he waits to cross. The night is silent for but for the two of us. We study each other. Me distance for quick escape. He if I am near enough to charge at.

The warriors 'cry' their words of victory. They spilled their blood so I can walk free. A flower grows in memory, deep in the recess of my heart.

I yearn for evermore. I read the words of a master, the wordsmith. The sorrow that I am never he, and she ever is mine.

I love her not of love, I love her for she is my life itself.”

Racing Raindrops and a One-Month Visa

Everything has been washed. Everything is pure, pure like the rains that came cascading on a cool Colombo afternoon. I sit on the settee enjoying the complete feeling of being cleansed, bare bodied in an old sarong. I am extremely comfortable. The settee’s long enough for my body to drape above it and settle on to the old indents made on it by me, for years now. Years of long Colombo rain showers, sitting and watching the rain come down. Watching it in full flow and then enjoying the very comfort of a monsoon storm past.

The rain drops race each other on the telephone wire strung across outside our balcony. The front door is open welcoming the fresh relief of the storm. As soon as one batch of rain drops race and fall, my eyes catch another, and another.

The wires seen through my front door seem to imprison me to the settee. Itself adding to my comatose feeling of inaction of a full stomach and lying still on the settee. My eyes blink, I breathe comfortably, my chest falls up and down slowly, the only sign of life, and yes, I am home.

Yet the open door itself is a symbol of my prison. For I do not exit it. The couch is the handcuff that holds me. Beyond the wires I see a clear blue sky, the church spire and the rooftops of the houses in front of ours. I new day beckons. Yet I lie staring, trapped in my own world, of inaction.

I dream yet only of my first cigarette, coughing, then that satisfying head rush that comes only to those virgin to the joys of smoking.

My first love, the most wonderful feeling in the world. Kissing her for the first time, that unbelievable feeling of wonder and love.

My first car, the joy and heartache of owning and running a constantly breaking down proverbial red beetle.

7 shri 4743, my chariot, the god gifts to those who believe. I didn’t bother.

Travel and tribulations in foreign lands. Lands where dreams come true in the physical manifestation of buxom blondes and all too willing brunettes.

Finding my Queen, then another and another.

Endless nights, brushes with death, pleasure and pain.

Life, beyond the racing raindrops, the telephone wire, racing my way, running away from the third world.

Realising too late, how much the world itself has imprisoned me.

Tell me; was the grass any greener, the wine and women more willing than my true love?

I still think of her, does she know that? Will I have the indecency to disrupt her world of house, husband and two sons? Never. Even if it’s to say hi.

Will Charon, as I pay him be able to give meaning to the nothingness in my world?

Never, never, never, never, never ever will she allow me to hurt her again. Not her.

Now.

If I was American, I would have sat on that settee, shooting those racing raindrops down, you know?

We use to walk back from ballet class, all the way down Duplication Road. Bumping into each other, our hands touching, secretly. Her driver would walk behind us the chaperon, and the gatekeeper.

Sri Lanka is a forbidden fruit. I shall never eat from its fruit. Never, never ever. I maybe able to afford entrance, but its only on a visa. He can and he will revoke it if think fit. I once was, now I never will be.

Terror in Paradise

There were many incidents, but when it all started in my little world of Colombo was the famous night in July 1983. A good friend lived right across from A F Raymond and his view from his bedroom was the Kanatte (cemetery) Junction and the Borella Kanatte itself.

Lucky immediately called me wanting to know if I could come to view the excitement. The rumours had already started and parental approval to leave the house was impossible. He however narrated how as the 13 soldiers burial commenced angry crowds demonstrated their displeasure of their deaths by a Tamil Tigers (LTTE) bomb in Jaffna. A famous well-endowed and much feared Superintendent of Police was an auxiliary victim at this demonstration. When trying to control protesters they rewarded his efforts by beating him up and throwing him among the soldier’s graves. Half and hour afterwards everyone had started to run ‘Kotti Gahanawa’ (the Tigers are attacking).

Mass hysteria was common then amongst the majority in Sri Lanka, so was the loathing of the newly formed terrorist organisation LTTE by Tamil fundamentalists in northern Sri Lanka. The next day actually marked Sri Lanka’s international shame. The day Sri Lanka erupted in communal violence. One, which I first hand, experienced the actual effectiveness of mob violence.

As I grew older the LTTE grew stronger. I watched many sportsmen of Royal College true sons of our soil join the armed forces. I envied how they became overnight heroes and worried for their safety. Sri Lanka’s fertile soil became stained with blood; the night sky lit up in fire and day became night from the smoke. My classmate, Stubbs shield champion boxer and major in the Army came back home to Gampaha without both his legs.

The next attack I remember well. It was an early Colombo hot, humid afternoon. Jo our CD and I were chilling out in her office, one of the few nicer offices to hangout in as her upper floor windows brought in much needed coolness with large tree and its branch’s looming outside. Suddenly there was a loud boom and the windows to her office shook violently. Jo characteristically screamed, all of us proceeded dreading what we were about to see in the boardroom TV. The drivers who continuously listen to the radio informed us of the suicide bomb truck that had driven into the Central Bank, taking down along with it the surrounding building and Colombo’s famous Ceylinco Tower. Over 100 people died and millions of dollars damage was caused. We worried the most as our agencies Ceylinco advertising team were there for a meeting. They arrived back safely and their tale was more harrowing than what we were seeing on TV.

The third one, not the last or least amongst the many terror attacks in Sri Lanka was the one I experienced best. It was a lazy weekend. Suddenly far away I could hear the sounds of gunfire. We lived in Kynsey Road and our apartment was on the top third floor. From the back balcony it sounded to me that the gunfire was coming out of Galle Face. Again a rush to the TV and this time around we all had cell phones. Mine rang immediately and it was my friends from the Ministry of Justice. It took Prabath, Ranga and Chaminda ( You were in Germany, Blacker, otherwise they would have picked you up too) about 20mins to arrive home and for me to quickly jump in the car with them. These were what I call my glory years when a sibling had the dubious powers to have a car with full security clearance that said such most clearly on that cars windscreen. Also Prabath, Ranga and Chaminda of dubious Policeman or something like that fame.

A gunfight had developed between LTTE suicide terrorists who had attacked the Government newspaper offices, the Lake House. With clearance to enter the Presidential Security Zone and the Treasury we had the stupid pleasure of driving through all the roadblocks set up to control traffic around the attack area. With so many PSD and MSD men in plainclothes it was easy for us to park in the treasury and mingle freely. Finally we got to view three of the suicide bombers who blew themselves up. Neither a life experience I will never forget nor the smells of burning human flesh.

All through these senseless attacks what strikes in my mind most are the civilian casualties. If you are a terrorist they are civilian casualties, if you are the US and their allies, they are called casualties of war or collateral damage.

I skim only through my three decades long life with terrorism as my shadow. Guns, bombs and mayhem were facts of life. 

Great Sri Lankan leaders being assassinated by suicide bombers became a part of my life.

The assassination of Rajiv Gandhi, 

9/11 in New York and 7/7 in London changed the world’s perception of terrorism.

Now one of the gentlest countries in the world, Norway has suffered a devastating loss. Homeland Security, Border Controls, Scanners, X-Ray, Checkpoints, Barricaded Buildings, and the everlasting memory of those they lost to terrorism will become part of their proud Viking history forever.

My thoughts are with you Norway, so are my prayers for the one’s you lost.

My greatest regret is when the Sri Lanka government last year defeated the Tamil Tigers, I was not there. My biggest happiness is that I was there when Sri Lanka went through such loss of property and life.

Terrorism must stop all over the world. Civilian casualties, collateral damage and human rights violations are part of defeating terrorism. You can never win against anything being nice. Sport provides us a good example, look at the aggressiveness of any sport champion, they never got there being nice or becoming second.

When you meet people like me who are not a fundamentalist or a terrorist but fiercely love our country and it’s sovereignty, I hope you will begin to understand our pride and horror of terrorism. You will also understand the importance we place in protecting our country against anything or anyone. So when you complain about your manufactured 'are you with us, or against us' Sri Lankan mentality, and then turn around to profess great love for Sri Lanka, your sincerity doesn't quite ring true. 

I of course am making ready to celebrate England’s test victory over India at Lords, two more wickets to go! Common England!

Home

That wonderful freshness of air-conditioned air hits me as I walk into the softly lighted nightclub. The nights humid and even the journey to the car and out of it to the club has made me sweat. The two large vodka I had before I left with half a spliff begins to work better in the cool comfort of the club.

The bartender welcomes me and the club manager heads off to fetch my bottle bank. I leisurely say my hip’s to everyone and stroll over to the DJ booth. A wide grin and a hi5 greet me. The waiter sets up my drinks on the table right next to the DJ booth. I can’t help but notice the interested looks of the girls and envious looks from the guys. Now no longer a regular clubber in Colombo I am not known, but the club staff attention does arouse curiosity.

Even before I have said hello I begun to bug the DJ to play some old skool house. The waiter pours my first drink and places it in my hand. I am good. It’s my last night before flying out again. I am sad to be leaving, but happy to be at the club.

Birth

Life

I am whole

Yet nothing

Grinding

Time freezes

Wheels turn

Yours truly

Constant

Predictable

Inevitable

Until

Death

Come soon

Please

Heaven above

Hell below

Knock, knock

Home, I miss home

Pleasurable activities, including laughter, addiction, and music

I am never home

Never. 

The most beautiful girls in the world

“She clings to me

Her hair, like fire streams behind us

Sleek, black, shiny

As she hugs me tight

I know that my mistress

Has fulfilled her

Tight jeans, wet

Her firm pert breasts rub through the thin cotton shirt

On my back

She screams, ‘faster, faster, faster’

I turn up the throttle

They both come together

180mph

I am the man who rides them

Fulfils them

I am god”

In loving memory of Ruvin Perera and Pemraj Amal Peiris. Best friends in life and death.

My first memory of bikes were the Suzuki TS125’s on display near the Bamabalapitiya bus stop. Sleek gleaming colours, the proud trail bikes standing tall with their circular gas tanks and the stand up handlebars. Barely a teen, making my father promise that my 18^th birthday present would be one. I still remember then when the rupee was valuable they seemed dear at a mere Rs.13,000 each.

Consequently the bike craze that spread like wildfire through Colombo. My childhood hero’s; Dallas Martenstyn, Milinda Halahakoan and Tissa Wimalasekara. The races in Katukurunda when we used to just remove the muffler from Lucky’s KH125 or my dad’s Mark11 and just track them.

At a mere 16 years, when my dad refused permission for me to travel to Nuwara Eliya, locking my bedroom door and having the domestic boy shave my head bald in protest.

Soon the norm, all the accidents. Leading to complete parental refusal to even consider buying a teenage son a trail or road bike.

Pemba’s subsequent entrance to personal wealth through flying for Air Lanka. His Yamaha DT175, Suzuki RM125 and the Honda 200R. Flying down Duplication road on the RM, and shifting from first to third on a wheelie. Back wheelies in front of innumerable Colombo all girl schools. Ruvin’s XL250s, Nauzers Yamaha RD200 and the best bike of all the RD350. Black and red, purring powerfully as I would showboat on the Viharamaha Devi Road stretch or all around Independence Square.

It was cool to slip and slide, fall. Bruises and bandages were a part of attaining manhood, to be gasped at and admired by your peers and the young Ladies College birds hanging out at Otters (Otters was cool then).

In memory, Ruvin died on his XL, people had serious accidents, limbs were broken and I settled with my dad for VW Beetle as my entry to 18 years of life. The posters of Barry Sheen and Kenny Roberts still shone from my bedroom wall but my dreams of owning a mobike fast disappeared to borrowing friends bikes and riding around town unknown to my parents.

Life was cool then. You fell, you went to the accident ward and you were treated. The millions of bikes ridden, the millions of falls and finally shepherded off to college in the US to stay out of trouble by anxious parents.

The devastating day when I received the call from a sibling with the news that Pemba had crashed and moved on to race with the gods in the sky. The sorrow and grief.

Living in the USA was similar to bike heaven with every kind of bike imaginable. Murali’s Kawasaki Ninja and my initiation and love affair with Harley Davidsons, the most beautiful girls in the world. My dreams of owning a bike still unfilled due to the simple fact of being a miserably poor student, but always riding and dreaming, one day I will own my own beast bitch – a Harley.

Over forty now and I still ride, but still no Harley, but one day you beautiful bitches, I will own one of you, ride you, tame you, ride with you to the gods in Valhalla where I hope I will meet Ruvin and Pemraj again, and ride.

Ride on our girls with the sun beating down on gleaming asphalt, the wind streaming through our hair, as young teenagers stand by the road and watch and go, there go the gods and wish they were one of us too.

I need a man in my life

When the last bus from Kandy to Wattapuluwa grinds its gears to begin the descent to Jaya Mawatha, he runs to light the fire under the cauldron by the well and then informs my mother that the prodigal son is on his way home for the weekend. He has already changed the linen and given my bedroom downstairs a good clean. My preferred beverage, a steaming mug of coffee awaits me when I reach home.

He is nonchalant while I greet my parents and sit in the living room drinking my coffee. Afterwards when I make my way downstairs he has fresh towels and my sarong ready for my favourite part of the day. My mothers dog Ninja, also knows what’s coming and excitedly runs around and around the well for me to start my bath. Fresh well waters drawn and mixed with the hot water in the cauldron as I begin scrubbing Ninja and myself with the bar of Lifebuoy we share. After my bath I dry myself and Ninja and we chill out in the long sofa in my room while he cuts and trims our nails. Then I finally have a chat with him over a Gold Leaf cigarette. While I sip my before dinner old arrack, he quickly takes his to the side of the garage and gulps it in one go.

After a dinner of string hoppers, fish curry and fresh pol sambol, I chat with my parents at the table drinking another cup of coffee. Wattapuluwa nights are quiet, blackness lies like a blanket and only the far away lights of houses can be seen. The noises of crickets are loud. He flitters among us at the dinner table lighting mosquito coils all about the house to keep the mosquitoes away. It’s chilly now and the usual Kandy drizzle of rain has started. My parents are old now and retire to bed while the women who cooks and cleans clears the table. Ninja has trotted after my mother to guard her while she sleeps.

Kumara, the man servant/driver/odd job man/security guard and my valet when in Wattapuluwa came to our house randomly through one of my Dads clients who wanted his son to learn to drive. So he was given board and lodging and in return he provided the aforementioned services to our family.

Most of all he was my friend and companion. He was the one who trimmed my nose and ear hair, nails, and shaved the hair at the back of my neck I couldn’t get to, file down the stubborn corn on my right toe and ironed my work shirts with the creases just right. When I woke up hung-over he knew to exactly chill the king coconut juice to the right temperature and have it ready for me with two paracetamol tablets. Followed up with a glass of lime juice and a vigorous head massage with bay rum.

In return I shared my bottle of old arrack hidden under the bed, my cigs, got him the occasional pair of denims and shirt, and most importantly thought him to drive. With of course huge tips when he visited home for holidays. A more than fair enough exchange as far as Kumara was concerned.

Most of you who haven’t had this experience will think ‘rather gay’ but for what a barber, a taxi driver, waiter, masseuse, male grooming salon provides for hundreds of pounds in the west, many Sri Lankan men get for a couple of thousand rupees in the luxury of their own homes.

The popularity of the middle-east labour market has now increased the value of this man-servant and decreased supply in Sri Lanka, but yes it does still exist. In some families in has filtered down from generations where in your golden years the manservant now the dignified chauffer of the family will drive the ‘baby hamu’ and get back to you with a full report of nefarious or other activity on part of the ‘baby hamu’.

So why did I suddenly remember Kumara in this cold, clear Hertfordshire morning? Went to sleep last night with a niggling cold to wake up now with full blown flu. Nose bunged up, stomachs aching and feel squeamish. Begged for Lemses kindness and got a mug of coffee to bed but no soya milk and not quite made the way I like it. Marisa the Philippine cleaner’s banging away downstairs adding to my misery. Lems’s like take a nurofen or something and get on with it.

I want a bit of male, macho company. Where men can fart and discuss the various levels of smell in a fart and reminisce about the how a sexy female art worker in an ad agency would send out silent but extremely violent ones in terms of smell.

Above all, I need my eyebrows cleaned up, nose hair trimmed, and some hairs in the ear removed. I would also like a proper cup of coffee and manly chat. As I do not have the financial means to visit a male grooming parlour I have now come down to make my own cup of coffee and attend the early morning worship at the porcelain pinnacle.

I will sit down, light up a B & H, sip my cuppa and reminisce about Kumara!

And why the bloody hell was I so incredibly stupid to leave my motherland.

The Valley in Paradise

Life in rural areas of Sri Lanka is very different to ones we lead. Udispattuwa, the village of my roots lies in a quiet valley. During day, the sun shines with the quiet drizzle of rain. Birds chirp merrily. Beautiful ‘Maala Giraw’, green parrots with bright orange red necklaces fly by, Woodpeckers urgently tap away at trees, and the bluest of Kingfishers fly by. Squirrels dance everywhere, chattering. Special mention to the young village lasses bathing in the well in our paddy field, laughing and talking to one another.

But late evenings, and at night with mist covering this little village, the far off cries of birds and the howling of an occasional wild animal and you can’t but believe in the spirits. With darkness only the bravest of souls can be seen walking around with a flaming torch. The villagers call it ‘Gods Country’ for justice at night can be violent. A Cobra who snaps at your feet as you tread the wet, muddy paths to meeting my favourite character of youth, the Pirith Kota. Death is unexpected, but yet an expected part of life in these rural communities.

A figment of my mothers imagination or her own invention, or village myth, too much of Pirith chanting (prayers) will summon the Pirith Kota. The Pirith Kota according to her is the one who goes around collecting lost souls who assemble wherever prayers are held. Unable to get away from our world either to violent death or not receiving a proper burial they wonder around and gather at places where prayers are chanted.

The Pirith Kota who I alike to Charon the Boatman sneak up to these places to catch these lost souls. If you are caught daydreaming you is well in chance of this Pirith Kota taking you away too. A midget with round red eyes dressed in white rags stolen from the cemetery, I would imagine him peering over the lush hedge of my Grandmothers house when ever we had a pirith ceremony and almsgiving in memory of dead relatives.

My mother had the quirkiest sense of humour.  I still can’t understand why she would scare us with the Pirith Kota story. But it is a part of growing up and a memory of her and Udispattuwa I treasure in my heart forever.

Listen very carefully on a full moon night. You will hear the tinkle of small bells, as legend says, the King Cobra managed to sneak up on Pirith Kota to fix an anklet of small bells around Pirith Kota’s left leg, so that they the Cobra’s always hear Pirith Kota when he walks the lonely paths in the jungle and do not strike him in mistake.

I grow older, my upbringing becomes more precious. Everytime I go to Udispattuwa and climb those long steps to God Skanda’s temple I silently thank all the gods of the day and night for the privilege.

My mothers land

Nightfall is here and its pitch black. It’s slightly chilly as I wrap myself more securely in the blanket. I lie on the bed, scared to look out of the window into darkness, and spooked by the sound of insects. My only reassurance is the deep sleep breathing of my sibling fast asleep next to me and all the other cousins all scattered around us in what was called the kids room. I am born and bred a city kid, school term holidays otherwise when it was time for the families to visit my Grandmother in my village of Udispaththuwa, close to Kandy in the middle of farm country in Sri Lanka.

My fear of the darkness was aided more by the fact that I was also scared shitless of my grandmother. A tall stately lady, who used to wear long sleeved, white, lace jackets and a white Osari, the popular form of the saree, worn Kandyan style. We were to never venture to her room and my memories of her were glimpses of her smoking a cigar before bedtime or taking long walks down the corridor of her home. My siblings and cousins had better more pleasant memories and experiences but mine were these. The house itself was large with my vivid memory of the old but still working pinball machine and the brilliant actual Tiger skin hanging on the wall.

The corridor in the back starting with the prayer area leading to the huge smoke kitchen. The long table in the corridor where the less fortunate ate. A huge table in the middle of the dining room where the family would sit and eat. Memories of my father always saying that when he romanced my mother, he was entertained where the less fortunate sat, and how when he married my mother, all she came with was one pillow. Obviously one had to add about 750ml of alcohol into the pater to come out with these little gems. Warm goats milk for the children in the morning with jaggery. My aunt, Cheeti’s occasional forays to the kitchen area to cook us delicious tidbits. The much looked forward to evenings with my huge bunch of cousins, being one of the youngest and always being bullied. The fear of the dark coming from Sumith Aiya’s ghost stories. All of us going to temple. Wesak and all the decorations that came up around the house. Plucking the forbidden Coccoa fruit from the back garden. Thellija, (Honey distilled from coconut trees) each child getting a spoon each as one can become drunk with too much consumption. Walks through the paddy field for baths in the well. Our aunts screaming at the older cousins to ensure we do not fall in.

People, laughter, noise, pets, fun.

All of us have moved on now. Some of us to other lands far away where the ‘Sudhdha’ (whiteman) lives. Exploits of even how the house suffered slight damage in WW2 due to bombing. The house now quiet, locked up. The paddy fields unploughed. Only signs of life being the people hired by my aunt who live in the kitchen area. My grandmothers grave area with the jam tree and cement seat sits forlorn. My daughter I take whenever in my motherland for she must know this is her heritage.

A brilliant human and great friend

It seems almost ages ago when Aunty Lil came swinging down the corridor laying proud claim to another scalp to the Lintas formidable creative people portfolio. Although I knew him I did not quite expect him to be that big. Well over six feet he was our gentle giant. I, who usually boast of a proud history of scraps with creative, had no reason to shout or argue with him. From his SLIM ad awards Gold bell winning Sunlight Wesak campaign where he produced it within 24 hours to run from Saturday morning on Rupavahini, to coolly hanging out with his then wife to be girlfriend at the Glow (always the corner table), he was one hell of a guy, a human being and someone I am proud to call a friend.

He was the epitome of a gentleman. Before meeting his current wife and then single, I remember asking him if he would mind escorting my niece for a 31st night dance at the Mount. Given that I was going for another party, and he had to go with my elder sisters family, he was a sport and readily agreed. I remember calling them at the dawn of the New Year; he was having a glorious time other than for the fact that he was dying for a strong drink! That was the amount of trust I had of this young man.

The memories are many:

Tall, gangly, and chilled out, his stroll down the corridors of Lintas was a fast walk for all of us. Many a time would I enjoy seeing one of the many Client Service skirts running after him inquiring about an ad deadline? I still hear his booming voice in my head, “I told you know I will give it.” The same booming voice we heard everyday and at every single company event which he never would miss.

Chilling at the overseas ECD’s house in Battaramulla, the ECD and I had the misfortune of facing a very drunk and abusive spouse of the domestic, demanding on taking her away well past midnight. Again, one mobile call to him and he was there within five minutes. He was a true showman, and he immediately chased the spouse away and stayed on with us to ensure that we were sufficiently comfortable before taking his leave.

At the tail end of my career at Lintas, the infamous meeting for the Unilever corporate campaign with the Chairman and Brands Director. All the creative deserted me, he alone came along, tried his best with me to sell what we had, drank our tea and left. He and he alone had the guts to come along with me. Most importantly the only reason for him to be there was only due to the loyalty of our friendship.

The proud moment he arrived in his brand new car to my house to deliver his wedding invitation. How delighted and happy he was.

Calling me in London when he started his own advertising agency, Brands Alley. Always staying in touch.

The stories to narrate, the memories are many. Leo you may have gone from my world to reside with god, but you will live forever in my heart. I wish we had more of the one thing we have no longer, time. In my heart you live, a brilliant human, a great friend.

I shed a tear as I type this on my keyboard. I believe that somewhere in heaven, up there, you are sitting in front of your MacBook Pro, laughing down at all of us. 

DD’s dad

My dad was a cool type of guy, eccentric and hugely intelligent. He achieved so much in his life but made so many mistakes. Those were his mistakes. Mistakes for us to learn from, to then teach our children to not make.

As I grow older I find that I make my own achievements, my mistakes, not yet as big as his achievements and mistakes, but all mine. None similar to his. I know I don’t have his brilliance, which my older siblings do, but they too make their own achievements and mistakes.

His achievements give me courage. My siblings and his achievements I use to motivate and educate my child. My achievements compared to theirs are shallow, but some good enough to motivate my child. Ensure that she learns from the mistakes of her immediate and extended family.

My dad’s dead now, for a long time.

What I remember of him the most was that he was an incredibly kind and patient man. Honestly, he has never raised his voice or hand at me, that kind of patience in a father is incredible.

I never learnt from his mistakes, it scares me that with the whole world in the palm of her hand, my child will still make mistakes like all of us. My child however is blessed with the same intelligence of my father and my siblings. That’s good.

I used to think how much I am like my mother, not my dad. Now as I grow older, more and more, I am like my dad.

When I was fifteen, I was really small. My mother of all people would mock my size. So any bar I could hang on, I would do pull-ups on. By the time I was seventeen I reached 6 foot. My circle of friends increased, I hung out with some of the rugby players in college, I played for fun, my best friends in the first 15. My personality was such that I had friends everywhere; somewhere down the line I became a thug. It was because two of my friends had fathers who were actual tough guys, and they would love having me around, for they sensed that recklessness in me, appreciated it.

This worried my father, and he was scared for me. So he thought it best that he sends me abroad. This was the biggest mistake he made, and I.

He’s gone now. I miss him everyday, very much like that first love you still think of occasionally.

No. I think of my dad everyday. I wish we had more time and I wished he didn’t let me go; maybe I should have been not so reckless and he would have let me stay.

So it’s my dad’s birthday in March and I am proud for him. Wherever he is I hope he knows that I miss him very much. I honestly hope I have learnt from his achievements and mistakes to ensure that maybe just maybe my child will not miss me as much.

Happy Birthday Dad, I love you, I miss you. I wish I could have been a better son when you were alive, I wish we had been friends.

Your biggest gift to me I enjoy now. You were never afraid to lose everything. You had everything but yet nothing to lose. Material happiness, love for your family, all of it like you I will too leave behind when it’s my time. Like you I do what I want, sometimes at huge cost, but whenever I stare at the mirror in the morning, I look in confidence, I see you, a man who lived by his own rules, celebrated his achievements and embraced Valhalla where Vikings go to die. I too have nothing to lose.

It’s cold here now dad, coldest winter that England has had for sometime. Early morning when I am scraping ice off the car shivering in minus temperatures, I take courage by thinking of you. When the man in the tube bumps hard into me, the woman in the store does not look me in the eye, when I am now the invisible migrant, I always think of you, and I take courage. I am brave, I am your son.

Eating my own words

Young Prince we bow before your greatness.

The utmost auspicious day has come. The young prince follows in the footsteps of his father the king.

As the Chinese New Year begins, the birth of future young leaders is heralded. What better way for our Paradise Island to rejoice for our inspirational young prince and thank the gods for his coming.

We boil milk in celebration, light incense, offer flowers and alight the night with oil lamps to Lord Buddha, praying for your protection and soon, victory. Young Prince, we have waited too long to see you in the corridors of parliament.

We thank thee good king and saviour of our nation, we thank thee for our liberty from foul terrorism, for the unifying of our country under the Lion flag, and we wish thy name to be embedded into our country’s history, as the true king.

Young Prince we bow before you. May the sound of your victory bring joy to every corner of the Paradise Isle, as well as our king’s benign kindness and smile.

May your family rule forever your majesty! You have given us peace, prosperity and leadership!

The night before

Jeeps, vans and buses were sent around collecting as much riff raff as possible. Taverns cleaned out. If you had just walked to the road for a smoke, unceremoniously bundled in. All taken to the near by party offices or well-wishers homes and plied with kassiya and gal. Betel, soosthies and cigarettes handed out on the traditional buluth atha trays. Shouts of 'Jayawewa', the lighting of firecrackers reverberating through Sri Lanka. Occasionally the night lit up in brilliance from flares fired by serviceman.

The armed forces with their peckers up roam in droves. The Police hapless watch on or set about silently in deeds dictated by their current masters, those now in Government. CTB buses under armed guard move around with ballot boxes and staff who’ll man the polling booth. Thunderous shuddering machines of steel shells. The grim reaper at their wheel, half drunk, half asleep.

The innocent cover in their mats and beds. Sighing in relief in the sanctuary of their homes.

The teacher in Kegalle gets up nervously for his toilet needs. His wife shifts restlessly. On his way back to bed the teacher quickly checks again the kitchen cupboard. Two bottles of DCSL old reserve and two packs of gold leaf, all wrapped safely in newspaper. Two packs of Keells kirata mirisata meatballs in the old rusted Sisil fridge. A butter cake, pack of sugar and island coffee on a buluth seppuwa on a tin plate filled in water to keep ants off. All set and ready to watch elections results the night after with his brother in law and uncle.

The Tamil lawyer staying at the Hilton Residence turns restlessly. Neither the young East European hooker nor the stiff shots of blue label he had before bed failing to sedate him. His family will join him in the afternoon, long after hotel staff cleans out his philandering at night. He has booked into until the end of the weekend, so any trouble he is safe in his paid for sanctuary.

Only the advertising executives sleep the untroubled sleep of the wicked. Tomorrow for them will be just another working day. Only the studio boys and the Sinhala creative will take the leave due for them to vote. For the ad exes who wins or loses is not an issue. Life in Colombo forever the same, who ever they do not vote for. They will work late, the females leaving early in their white vans, the males will all eventually stagger off to watch the election results and party late into night at the international creative directors home. For the foreigner, this is just another day. Even if there is curfew the hardier ad exes will still make it to work the next day. Life goes on in Colombo.

In the midst of this dark late January night works two groups of efficient and bold people. Two groups vastly different in nature. But both equally trained. The Special Forces the darkness their much loved lover use the night to move into key positions all around the capital securing all vantage points of significance to ensure the country runs smoothly after. The blackguards move in and out of their shadow, already stuffing the boxes of importance, the keys to earth’s heaven, the Paradise Isle.

For whom the grim reaper shall come is in everyone’s mind, but the result a foregone conclusion other than the utopia in the minds of some.

When does reality stop, and fiction begin?

Bury me; bury me deep in my Paradise Isle

Cremate me not, for I want not to be ash

Bury me for I want my flesh to nourish

The worms to breed in my carcass, feed from my past life

My flesh to rot away and seep into Mother Lanka’s soil

Oh bury me; oh bury me please in my Paradise Isle

For my rotting flesh and even in death

I continue to nourish my Paradise Isle…

Spring in Paradise

The normal hot humid weather gives way in May to chilly but pleasant Colombo mornings. I wake up as usual to the toll of the Church bells at 5.30am. The cold makes me burrow into my pillows and pull the sheet up to my chin. My cat Choco stirs annoyingly as I have woken him up too. I lie awake listening to the morning sounds of the birds chirping in the Murunga tree outside my window, whispers of the domestic and my mother and the clatter of cups being washed for coffee in the kitchen. My internal clock is timed to wait for the prayers from the Muslim mosque at 5.45am followed by the chimes of the Temple at 6am. I live in urban Colombo and I am within short walking distance to these places of worship. Multicultural diversity at its best I guess. Today is a holiday and excitement slowly wells within me in anticipation of the day to come.

My niece’s day nanny has arrived early and she brings me my coffee to bed. As soon as I see her I spring out of bed. The nanny and I don’t have the best of friendships and I remember the three Vesak Pandols I have hanging in the living room fan blades. How last Vesak the nanny switched the fan on to get my goat, successfully. Despite sleeping late the night before I am full of energy as I turn the shower on high in the bath. Morning showers in Colombo are incredibly cold as only the rich and famous have hot water showers. Refreshing nonetheless and the best way to fully awake in the tropics.

The night before I completed the three pandols and they hang waiting the last touch of the fluffy kite paper balls for the corners. They are really intricate to make and the speciality of my third sister. Patience is required, none of which a 15 year old will ever have. I have also finished all the bulb holder streamers with intricate joints to couple with one of the bulb holders hanging in the living room. The joints and extensions are many as everything is connected to light up the colourful streamer with blue, yellow, orange and red bulbs and three extensions for white bulbs that light up the white pandols. So far in my memory although I have managed to set the trip off many times over I was never electrocuted. Not seriously anyhow. I quickly dress in my school clothes although it’s a holiday. Smart white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and white trousers. Waking my sister up and taking the fuse off for the living room fan I set off at a run to the temple down our road. The Mettaramaya down Lauries Road in Bamabalapitiya. A brief stop at my friends house and we arrive excitedly to the temple.

As we enter the tranquillity of the temple even calms the teen tempest within us. The Bo tree surrounded by the white wall sways softly to the wind. The yellow sand all over the temple grounds crunch beneath our now bare feet. It’s surprisingly cool to walk on. The innumerable jasmine trees that dot the temple glisten with morning dew and scent the cool May morning as if we were in heaven itself. As always we enter the Buddhu Mandiraya to pray for the blessings of the triple gem, the Buddha, Dhamma and Sangha. I wipe my feet off the sand on the big coir carpets outside before entering the big prayer room. A reclining Buddha and a sitting Buddha, larger than life size welcomes you. The tiled floor is cooling, flowers of every form and colour are on offer from Frangipani, Jasmine to Lotus. Mingled with the incense and the burning of coconut oil lamps the scent almost hypnotises you into a trance like silent meditative state.

After offering our prayer we run off to see our friend, teacher, advisor and overall psychologist the Reverend Mahinda. Never forgetting to carefully circumvent the living quarters of the Head Reverend of the temple who we are mortally afraid of. Reverend Mahinda as usual is sitting in his hansi puttwa (reclining chair) drinking a cup of plain tea. He carefully unravels the huge bunch of keys tucked into his robes and presents us with the key to his famous cupboard. The cupboard is famous only for the goodies it secrets. Every foreign chocolate, fresh fruit and all forms of biscuits reside in this cupboard. All offering from the rich Colombo ladies who travel abroad frequently. The good reverend uses this key to good effect to keep all of us well disciplined during Sunday school. Good behaviour is well rewarded by delicious chocolates from far away foreign lands such as England and USA.

After our snack and chat we are now finally ready for the day and what we have anticipated from last Vesak. About ten of us have collected now to be marshalled by Reverend Mahinda. As we are in the temple we are quiet and industrious. We break up into two groups, one to fetch the long bulb streamers and white bulbs that we’ll hang all around the temple, Bo tree and Chaitya. The others fetch the long bamboo stems, white kite paper and wheat flour to mix with water for paste. A basic vesak pandol is built by cutting 24 thin bamboo sticks to one length. Then you proceed to tie them into square of four. Finally these are tied to each other to create a hexagon shape. This is then hung on a tree at reachable height. The white kite paper is cut into squares and carefully pasted on to the hexagon frame. White streamers are added to the bottom and the four corners. White kite paper is preferable but people to build more colourful ones with different colours of kite paper. We hustle around attending to our tasks and are careful not to disturb the gathering of sil mathas (usually old ladies who celebrate Vesak, the birth of Lord Buddha by observing prayers to the triple gem all day and fasting).

Late lunch time and our stomachs begun to rumble. Hunger is secondary when you are a teenager on a mission, but as all teenagers are, food is a must. So we quickly break up to head home. At home I quickly eat my lunch. My sister has finished the pandol décor and I proceed to quickly hang the colour light bulb streamers and the pandols. Superstition and habit prevent me from testing the lights, a ritual left for late evening when darkness descends. All of us gather again at the temple late afternoon. Now we hurry, hurry to finish all our tasks before the thousands of devotees flock to the temple to celebrate the birth of Buddha and offer their prayers. As usual we finish at the very last moment. Tired and weary our white clothes are now drenched with sweat and all the dirt accumulated during the day with the entire cutting, hammering, tying and pasting. Finally the Reverend Mahinda arrives to cast his final glance over everything and switch everything on. The pandols sway in the evening wind, the temple is now brightly lit with all the bulbs and we all now run home to get ready for the night.

I arrive home, have a quick dinner and complete my own ritual of switching on the lights of my three pandols and the streamers at home. My family is all there to see and everyone commends me on a good job. I shower quickly and this time around dress in traditional Sri Lankan dress of a white lunghi and a long sleeved white shirt with a low collar. White flowers have been picked by my sisters to take to the temple along with oil for lamps and incense.

The temple is a short walk away. As we all leave I look back at my decorations at home in pride. Back at the temple all of us teenagers assemble again to organise the lighting and hanging of the coloured Vesak lanterns all over the temple trees. We are encouraged by the Reverends to involve all the children who are at the temple. Everyone excitedly runs around lighting the lanterns with the candles inside them. Finally it’s all finished. The core of us who laboured during the day finally takes time out to admire the fruits of our toil.

Even as a teenager I still remember how my heart would swell with pride at the beautiful sight of our temple and a small tear of joy would gather at the corner of my eye. The temple would blaze with glory in light, a pandols rustling and swaying gently in the wind. Our parents, the sil mathas, worshippers and the reverends would all smile and acknowledge us as the architect of the most satisfying aspect of Vesak – Decorating and lighting up our temple for Vesak in home to the Lord Buddha and blessing of the triple gem.

Waking to Paradise

I wake to the slight chill in the air and the blur of bright sea blue as someone adjusts the pillow on my head and covers me with a blanket. The steady drone I hear is the aircraft engine and the bright blue morphs into a smiling stewardess. I have slept for over five hours on my flight to the Paradise Isle from London. I stretch comfortably and slowly meander my way to the back of the cabin for a fresh cup of Paradisian tea, a shining red apple and some Paradisian chat. The Malaysian Tamil female passenger reads the palms of the stewardesses and mine. I smile as the stewardesses ask her the main question in any single female Paradisians mind, when will they marry? We all cross the fortune-tellers palm with silver and I meander my way back to my seat.

It’s early morning when we land in Paradise. In the typical Paradisian way everyone pushes each other to disembark. I make my way through immigration; pick my bags up, quick stop at duty free and onwards to book a taxi to take me to the salubrious surroundings of Pelawatte. After a prolonged dismal English winter and dodgy spring, the April heat of Paradise overwhelms me. I long for the air-conditioned comfort of my sister’s home.

As always I am delighted by the sheer colourfulness of my Paradise Isle. The painted and gaily decorated public buses and scooter taxi’s, cars as old as 1950, the latest in luxury SUV’s all jostle and bustle with each other as they proceed at breath taking speeds down the airport road to Colombo. The only differences are the slow bullock carts, cows and street dogs that sedately share this road with vehicular traffic. I look forward to the three weeks ahead as I flinch and close my eyes inside the taxi that’s taking me to Pelawatte. I flinch because the taxi driver keeps taking his eyes off the road to talk to me.

I jump into the shower as soon as I get home. After five years, the solar powered panels that provide hot water still surprisingly work well. I set the water from hot to really cold as I wash the journey off me. I am wide awake as I jump off the shower and what seems to be ages, which it actually is as I put on a pair of my GAP shorts, a tee from Abercrombie, slippers as my friend arrives in his jeep to pick me up. Its post election day so the sale of alcohol is prohibited, therefore all the clubs and bars are closed. We head to another friends house and I start my holiday in earnest as I sip my first long ice filled glass of Absolut and Red Bull. Helped down smoothly at dusk by the freshly fried chicken and prawn rolls from Tasty’s. My thirst and hunger sated it is late night as I head back for a long nights sleep. My stay in Paradise has begun. I awake refreshed late next afternoon. Meeting family, seeking funding and partners for business, the Sinhala and Tamil New Year, the post new year procession in seeking the blessings of Lord Skanda in the deep south of Paradise, Kataragama, the wedding of one of my best buddies, catching up with college mates, clubbing, bar hopping, binging on drink and food all await me. I am truly in Paradise. As I have been strictly warned to not mention smoking material from Pakistan and Thanmalwilla I shall detest. Ask any Paradisian they will know.

I blaze my way through the two most happening nightclubs in Colombo. Mojo at the Taj Samudra Hotel and the Silk nightclub next to the CH & FC rugby club. Highlights at Mojo are meeting the former Blue Elephant DJ Naushad who spun one complete night of house music for me, helped along with bottles of Absolut, Moet and Grey Goose.

At Hambantota, just before we come to town we are sent on a detour due to construction of the new port. We drive down a brand new fully carpeted road. I get my driver to stop quickly to take pictures of the peacocks hanging out by the roadside. The peacocks are fully alert and as long as we stay in the SUV they stay put. The minute I get off the jeep they run away. We pass the new International Conventions Centre in construction. The sheer size of the structure leaves all of us in the jeep impressed.

Usually extremely hot in April, Kataragama is pleasantly cool, as rains have fallen at night. We visit the Kirivehera Stupa and Temple to offer flowers, incense and light oil lamps to seek blessings of the Buddha, dharma and sangha. Afterwards we walk to the scared temple of Lord Skanda to seek his blessings and protection. In April I usually time my visits to Paradise in time for the procession of elephants in ball gowns and dervish dancers in homage of Lord Skanda. Firewalkers, various forms of ethnic dancers in brilliant costumes are a photographers dream.

Back in Colombo, family and friends take me to some of the best fusion, Indian and Chinese restaurants in the world. Sunday and poya day dim sum at the Wok in the Colombo Hilton, Mango Tree for Indian food and the Peach Valley Chinese restaurant down Flower Road in Colombo are most noteworthy.

Meeting old school mates and friends at the members only private clubs and bars in Colombo and bacchanalia is a special treat that one must enjoy in Sri Lanka. A prelude of our colonial past and a memento of the British, clubs such as the Old Thomians Swimming Club (OTSC), Orient Club and the Swimming Club must be visited to see true friendship and bonding amongst Paradisians.

My holiday is fully completed with my attendance at a best friends wedding. Quick purchases of fresh spices, Paradisian Tea, and souvenirs for friends from Barefoot. A pair of perfectly matching pink sapphire earrings for my wife. All too soon it is time to leave. The cab arrives late night as my friends help me load my bags in. Hugs, kisses and goodbyes.

Intermittent lights of Colombo blink below me as I look down from the Srilankan Airlines flight to Heathrow. This time back I get a seat by the exit door with loads of leg space. I stretch out and allow the drone of the aircraft engine to lull me to sleep. Dreams, sweet dreams of my motherland, and another fantastic holiday.

Colombo’s best-kept secrets

An Oasis in the middle of a city. Barefoot. Either to drink long glasses of ice tea at its café on a Saturday morning to recover from a hangover from the previous night of debauchery or to chill out and listen to live Jazz on a Sunday afternoon, Barefoot is undoubtedly one of Colombo’s most famous but best kept secrets.

Galle Road is Sri Lanka’s busiest highway as it loops through the southern coast linking Colombo the commercial of capital to Sri Lanka’s other best kept secret, wonderful stretches of coastal towns with long stretches of beach and gin clear waters of the Indian Ocean. On Galle Road in Colombo 3, popularly known as Colpetty awaits Barefoot. A clothing store, art gallery and café. Barefoot is Sri Lanka’s creative Mecca where advertising people, writers, aspiring poets, artists, musicians and the expat community haunt at all hours of the day.

From outside the black and white ‘Barefoot’ logo against the white building with colourful store windows say little to the outside world. One must drive down the lay-by and park in the parking lot at the back. The first surprise is immediate as soon as you walk in through the arched entrance into Barefoot’s garden and café. You leave behind Colombo’s hustle and bustle, hot sun and humidity. A sense of calm and tranquillity awaits you.

The café experience is usually to be savoured unhurriedly after a walk-about inside the Barefoot shop. In the shop awaits a colourful selection of Sri Lankan hand-woven cloth. Sarongs and shirts for men and women, hand woven material, table clothes, handicrafts, antiques of every nature, trinkets and presents for friends abroad. A bookshop that boasts of every Sri Lankan author and every type of book on Sri Lanka.

With it’s long bar, high ceiling fans, the beautiful garden with tables strategically placed for relaxed dining one wonders if this is still the city. A fusion of bright colours, bustling smiling waiters await with blackboard specials for the day. The Kalu Pol Pork Curry is a personal favourite.

What really make Barefoot special however are the people. The ever-affable Sri Lanka’s top chef, colourful personality, wonderfully gay doyen, chubby Kolu who is ever ready to stroll over say hi and chat. The chilled out owner and world renowned photographer Dominic, bustling wife Nasreen are always around again to come over say hello or just simply to help you select something for your house.

Suresh the tailor who will help you choose the right kind of fabric for your curtains and sew them for a reasonable fee has always been a centre of attraction for the hoi polloi of Colombo. In fact even as far away as London, all our house curtains, cushions and chair covers are Barefoot fabrics carefully discussed, chosen and stitched by Suresh. Well placed warm lighting and the wonderful Barefoot colours always uplifts the mood of anyone venturing to our living room on a cold, foggy London morning.

Barefoot, no suits in attendance, calm, tranquil, chilled out. Native Shopping, Fantastic Food, Jazz, and Art exhibitions at the Gallery, Film nights, Colombo’s creative fraternity and much more. The scent of jasmine in the air, aromatic candles, incredible splashes of bright colour, the gentle trickle of water from the koi pond, cool air wafting amongst the garden gently caressing your troubles away, wonderful fusion cooking, the most relaxed shopping experience for a discerning visitor to Sri Lanka.

A true insight to the untroubled life of Sri Lanka and its people’s philosophy. Take it as it comes, always with a smile. A secret that is best shared.

Life after heaven

Lazy Sunday morning. The aroma of fresh coffee wafts into the room. This is enough incentive for me to roll out of bed. Everyone eventually showers. All of us take off for Dim Sum at the Hilton Emperor Wok.

Full as we eventually head off to my piece of heaven in Sri Lanka, The Barefoot Shop, Gallery and Café. We immediately leave the heat and humidity of the day as we walk into the Barefoot Garden. The splash of colour never fails to surprise me. Sunday Jazz Band in attendance and the crooning voice of Jerome Speldewinde entertains.

Christmas hols and it’s almost like back in London. I spot many of the Diaspora. Wave, grin and cheerful greetings shouted across. Many of us carrying around the absolutely necessary piece of Diaspora kit, a digital camera! Picture’s taken, hugs and New Year kisses. I quickly look about and spot in relief that my mates have headed upstairs.

The true beauty of the Barefoot garden is truly captured from the balcony. The Jazz Band forms the centrepiece to a bustle of colour. The religious statues from far off kovils in the north, ethnic Christmas trees, the wonderful painting hung on the bar wall, a fusion of colour in the table cloths, huge ceramic pots teeming with little orange and red fish.

The Tiger beer I sip feels colder, much better than anywhere else in the world. I am home, in heaven, in my Paradise Isle. The two Diaspora kids who run up to see me are impressed. They believe that broad upper floor over the Barefoot Café bar is where I live when I am in Sri Lanka! Reluctantly I set them right.

I give up on the uber cool image I am trying to project and click away with my piece of Canon kit. Dom the owner of Barefoot spots me from downstairs. Grin, wave and a huge thumbs up.

Some of us head into the Barefoot shop to do some shopping. I have already been. Sterling statue of God Gnanapathi, the famous Barefoot stone Buddha’s, compulsory Barefoot sarongs, Table Mats, Napkins and a load of knickknacks for the kid. All for just under £100! All in the unimaginably glorious Barefoot colours of Sri Lanka.

With the mildly amused acceptance of Nas and the obliging grin of Dom’s I take a few shots of inside the shop that you enjoy now. Normally a strict no the shop staff looks at me annoyingly and are still suspicious despite the fact that I inform them I

have approval.

Dusk arrives and all too soon Jerome and the Band pack up for the evening. Few pictures, goodbyes to everyone and we head off. Getting into my friends monster sports car I take one last look back. It’s Sunday, I leave my Paradise Isle early Tuesday morning. My heart aches, the lump in my throat and teary eyes I hide from my friends. I console myself that I am back in April for a friends wedding.

It’s twelve inches of snow and minus eight degrees outside as I sit here typing this from the stix of England. But in my soul I hear the voice of Jerome Speldewine. Brilliant colours mix in my mind. I am full from the café’s fresh fusion food. I am wearing the bright gold Barefoot sarong mixed with shades of black. The warm tropical wind caresses my back. The scent of frangipani flowers scatters everywhere. Lord Gnanapathi gazes at me in benevolence.

Colombo’s wonderful oasis for every weary traveller. Barefoot.

My paradise isle

It’s 30 centigrade and the sun blazes overhead. The humidity adds an extra dimension to the heat. Landing at the international airport in Katunayake I especially feel it as I had left cold miserable weather back in Heathrow. I have been dying for a smoke after the 12-hour flight and I quickly light up as I stand on the pavement in front of the airport passenger pick up point and look for Bandu and the car.

As soon as I landed when switching the mobile on I already had sms’s from my friends in Colombo welcoming me. Nice, very nice. Bandu rolls up and almost leaps from the car in welcome. As usual he tries to worship me and I stop him by giving him a warm hug. The sweat sticks to my body; my white linen shirt is covered with sweat. I don’t mind, I love it. I slide into the refreshingly air conditioned car but immediately roll the window down to light up another cig. Bandu helps the porter load my bags; I call out a warning to them to ensure none of the booze bottles purchased from duty-free break.

Finally as Bandu pulls out of the airport I just let the tension in my body, just let it all go and slide more into the car seat. I enjoy the incredible feeling of the suddenness of everything being completely right. I am home. Bandu wants to stop for a cool Thambili (King Coconut), I am more eager to get home, so we keep on. The school and work traffic has started and the goings slow. I greedily take in the sights and sounds of my Paradise Isle.

A fusion of bright colour.

The Buddhist priests standing by the bus stop.

The orange king coconuts in the wayside shop matching their saffron robes perfectly.

The little kid inside the bus on the way to school. Peering at me curiously and rewarding me with a brilliant white toothed smile and shy wave.

The private buses shooting recklessly by. Their coloured livery and signs make me smile.

‘Don’t kiss me’ stickers on Scooter Taxi bumpers.

The young lady in her pastel flowered Saree and umbrella to match walking to the train station.

The girls from the garment factories hurrying by, chatting one to a dozen. Pretty, very pretty.

Noise emanating from everywhere, the record bars littering the Wattala area blasts pop music from speakers placed right outside their shops.

A Policeman stands in the middle of an island on the road. His face in resignation to the chaos around him.

I am waiting to just get home and stand under the cold shower for hours. Wash off the dirt from the journey, all my trials and tribulations. For I know I am home. Home in my Paradise Isle.

I am surprised to find my cheek already wet as I wipe it. Jolted out of my dream I realise I am in bed snuggled under the duvet. It’s cold outside in my part of Hertfordshire, just 12 degrees this morning. The alarm from the mobile rings urgently. I quickly wipe the tears off my face and head downstairs to prepare my first cup of coffee for the day.

It’s OK, I am OK. I have my precious memories, my dreams. Home, my Paradise Isle.

Weekends in Colombo. Friday!

Weekends in Colombo must start with a liquid lunch at the popular Colombo Swimming Club in Colombo 3. The late Joanna Miles our then Brit creative director loved the place as all Brit expats and any tourist do. A left over of the colonial era, this swimming club’s main attraction is it’s main building. An old bungalow still preserved in its original condition. A long verandah at the back serves as the spine to the club where one can sit and watch the trains go by frequently on the adjoining commuter train track that connects Colombo to the deep south of Sri Lanka.

All this capped by a magnificent view of the Indian Ocean that the club overlooks. Aunty Jo as we popularly called her was the epitome of the British expat. Single and born to be, she loved her drink and got on famously with all the boys from the advertising and marketing fraternity in Colombo. She would unfailingly arrive most Friday’s around one o’clock at our desks and off we would go. Fresh grilled seafood, the proverbial Gin and Tonic and the weekend is off to a brilliant start as we sway off back to office late afternoon. Wherever you are in the nether world Aunty Jo, rest in peace, we remember you with love.

Last copy checks of art works, sending material off to press, last minute frantic calls to clients for approvals and everyone’s done by late evening. The start to the debauchery is always at a sports club that dots Colombo’s landscape. These clubs, a hangover from colonisation of Sri Lanka by the British, range from exclusive Golf, Rowing and Swimming clubs to the bit more rowdy Rugby clubs and little more refined Cricket clubs. Most have huge lawns that are readied every evening with tables, umbrellas and chairs for relaxation and quaffing of alcoholic beverages after a hard day of sport or work. A wee different from the rest of the world, this does not mean a couple of drafts of beer, no, Sri Lankan men and women alike love their spirits from the local arrack to whisky, brandy, gin or vodka. Bottles of it are consumed, not shots, especially on a Friday evening.

Our club of choice was the Old Joes Sports Club within the premises of St. Joseph’s, a boy’s catholic school! The main attraction to this establishment was the incredible fried pork that was served with fresh buttered bread to deaden the effects of various alcoholic beverages. Late evening when the sun sets the view you see from the club is the lovely green cricket field, the old chapel standing grim and proud with wonderful shadows giving light to many ad man and woman’s imagination. Old Joes serves to encourage every one of us to reach the correct stage of inebriation for someone to start clambering to go play pool.

Allow me to meander from this weekend of mine for a brief moment. If the reader is wondering where are the spouses, partners, children, boyfriends, and girlfriends of these people? Under the guise of one’s profession, Advertising, these loved ones all over the world suffers in patience. Not all but most. Ad people are very good at hiding behind their profession. The creativity, short deadlines, demand what we call letting off of steam with the team!

Now back to a late Colombo Friday evening where darkness, any party animals friend has announced its arrival. Groups of us stagger into our respective cars and zoom away to one of Colombo’s best nightspots. Owned by the genteel Russell Fernando ‘Rhythm and Blues’ is a club that offers live music six nights of the week and pool at any time of the day. Popular amongst Colombo’s ad and marketing fraternity, young expats and tourists, R n’B caters to a slightly older clientele through a delicate balance of live rock music with covers performed of songs from CCR, Eagles, Santana and Eric Clapton to name but a few. DJ Ben takes over during band breaks.

If Ben is exceptionally ‘smiling’, smiling the operative word, he can be persuaded to play a bit of house, drum and bass late into the night. And if you wish to ‘smile’ too, Ben will point you in the right direction!

The atmosphere is cool and relaxed starting from Russell and his lovely wife. One is required to be in pants and shoes and adequately covered on top. Our noisy entrance is usually accompanied by grins from the doormen, bouncers and waiters, and wry smile from Russell. We’re regulars, so tolerated for our various vices and curiosities. Again explained by ‘Oh ad people, no?’ Fiercely competitive amongst some of us, games of pool begin. Unusually or usually one finds games of pool where suddenly it’s creative vs. the suits. It’s late Friday night as I usually wean myself from the pool and enjoy my Jameson on the rocks with live music from the band.

R n’B’s small dance floor is usually packed with expats dancing their cares away. The crowd is eclectic, from Colombo’s executives to tourists, musicians, journalists, and the worldwide mandatory Russkies and Thai girls. Everyone’s cool. Universal love is always in the air.

Late night and the stronger souls stagger off to Clancy’s. Another Brit Pub themed bar owned by Russell’s family. Here one finds live rock music from the more modern era performed and an edgier, younger crowd with many young couple on night outs or dates. Clancy’s like R n’B stay open to the wee hours of morning. Finally Friday ends on early Saturday morning. There is still no hurry-to-hurry home, everyone chats about and finally heads off to Colombo’s premier 24-hour night restaurant ‘Pilawoos’ for breakfast.

Sri Lanka formerly known as Ceylon was on a world spice route via the Indian Ocean. Colonised by the Portuguese, the Dutch and finally the British, the food influences are many. Especially through the Chinese and the Moors who continuously did and still do business here. The Muslim and moor culture is part and parcel of Sri Lanka. So are their food and the origin of many of these night restaurants called ‘night kades’ in Sri Lanka. The choice of food amongst Colombo’s night lovers is called a Kottu. A Kottu is cooked on a huge metal plate heated from underneath. Pieces of delicious roast chicken, beef or mutton, eggs, onions, leeks, tomatoes, garlic, herbs and curry sauce are all fried with cut pieces of leavened bread parotha’s on this metal plate. The noise accompanying the cooking of this dish is loud, and usually the cook does this right outside the restaurant, so one can watch this dish being prepared. All part of the night experience and the food washed down either with cool incredibly sweet chocolate milk or lime juice. For the more adventurous party people all one has to do is whisper in a waiter’s ear either for more of Sri Lanka’s home-grown alcohol, arrack or a neatly rolled spliff. The Kottu roti is a Mongolian dish adapted to suit Sri Lanka’s palette for spicy food and is the best food guaranteeing the lack of a hangover in the dawning day!

Finally dawn breaks in Colombo, Sri Lanka’s commercial capital. There is an early morning chill, little forewarning of the humidity and a median temperature of 96 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade during day. The restaurant Pilawoos is on Galle Road itself that links the capital to the south of the country. Morning commercial traffic, huge commuter buses, lorries carrying large loads of fresh produce to the city thunder down the road. Wearily but happily sated and plied with alcohol and food everyone meanders to their cars. The last cig is smoked, hugs, kisses and goodbyes. The end of a busy week, the beginning of the weekend. Saturday morning has dawned.

Playing in Paradise. Kandy.

It’s Friday evening and darkness, a thick blanket has descended on Kandy. The only sound is the steady trickle of rain usually common to any late Kandy evening. We roll into home and my nephew springs out from the car to open the gate to our house. The spotlight brightens the gravel on the driveway, shining black stones shimmering. My mums rose bushes glimmer invitingly with dewdrops. Getting down from the car and stretching as the fresh mildly cold air hits you, refreshes you.

The kids run into the house screaming in youthful exuberance in anticipation to the week ahead. The dog jumps at you in welcome, pawing at you in impatience to be petted. Your home, in the city called Maha Nuwara (Big City) during the days of the Sri Lankan kings. Best known as Kandy, 72 miles from the commercial capital of Sri Lanka, Colombo. With evening traffic Kandy is about a three-hour absolutely wonderful scenic mountainous drive that really tests the skills of any adventurous driver. I usually successfully attempt to do in two hours.

Kandy, life is slow, uncomplicated there. Mountainous Terrain. Home to Sri Lanka’s dubious descendants of loyalty, sons of the soil. There is plenty of rain, so agriculture and rolling fields of paddy are common. The mornings hot with blazing sun and days that cools from the afternoon with a steady trickle of rain turning to majestic thunderstorms during the monsoon. Fresh produce in everyone’s backyard, an abundance of natural food, and a lifestyle very different from the rest of Sri Lanka, chilled would be the best word.

My friends in Colombo would always wonder why in the wide world I descend to this part of the world of perceived boredom every single weekend. But the secrets: the sights, the sounds and places of Kandy are many, waiting to be discovered, enjoyed.

I worship the statue of Buddha in our living room, then kneel in worship to my parents, say hi to rest of the family and go to my room to change in to Sri Lanka’s preferred choice of relaxing wear, the sarong. The domestic is awaiting my arrival and has a huge simmering cauldron of hot water heated by wood fire by the well in the back of our house. As I draw the first bucket of water and pour it on my head all the worries of the week from life and work in Colombo just wash away. I scrub the dog on his weekly bath and myself hard with Lifebuoy soap while chatting to the domestic. The dog loves it and splashes water all over us. Finishing with icy cold water drawn from the well and drying in the icy cold of the night outside feels wonderful with the terry cloth towel washed and dried in the sun. I head inside in anticipation for the night. Call my half Brit-half Sri Lankan gentile friend to check if he has made it home from Colombo too. Quick dinner and off to his house on the high mountains of Pitakanda, Kandy. About five minutes drive from our house in Wattapuluwa, Kandy.

We sit in his verandah overlooking the rolling mountains right above the Nittawella rugby grounds, home to the Sri Lankan champion team, Kandy Rugby Club. Infamous for its credentials of importing players from as far as Fiji and Samoa for an unfair edge in the national rugby league. A spliff is rolled, vodka poured into tall glasses filled with ice and we finally lay back on the antique long arm chairs famous only to Sri Lanka. The first sip of vodka with the spliff sends an incredible feeling throughout my body. We can’t help but smile. My friend’s partner is sitting on the cool tiled floor using his legs as a rest for her body.

We finally get out of our chairs lazily and head out to our favourite watering hole in the Kandy town, the Bake House. The feeling of euphoria and freedom is incredible as our trail bikes thunder around the Kandy lake to our destination, I can hear my friends partner screaming as we try to out do each other too see who corners the best. After the beers at Bake House we set off to one of the hotel discos or to hear live music in a hotel lobby. The choices are many but Mahaveli Reach, Earl’s Regency or the Tree of Life are personal favourites. Couple of hours in town and we are back at my friends winding down from the evening and weeks trails and tribulations of hot and humid Colombo. I am finally off home in early twilight to collapse on to bed for dreamless much needed sleep. Fresh cotton sheets, large white pillows filled with natural cotton all dried in the sun cocoon me in comfort. The dog flops into bed at my feet and I am too tired to push him away. I sleep by myself in the ground floor of our house in the annexe, the large Alsatian dog does give me a sense of comfort and security.

Wake up late next morning to hear the house hustling and bustling upstairs. A cup of coffee lies on the nightstand beside my bed, discreetly brought in by the male domestic. I open the door of the bedroom that opens out to our garden, quietly light up the first cigarette for the day and enjoy my coffee sitting on the step. My mothers jealously guarded visitor, a King Cobra glares at me from behind a rock in the garden. I acknowledge him nervously and hug the dog close to me. The Cobra is a venerated animal in Sri Lanka and it is believed that the gods send them to your home to guard you but also test your belief. Believe you me I have actually seen this Cobra come really close to my mother and just chill out when she ventures out to the garden.

I then use the bathroom; change in to shorts and t-shirt and head on upstairs to be greeted excitedly by my niece and nephews waiting for me to rise for the day. We eat a delicious breakfast of rice and mung beans soaked overnight and cooked in coconut milk with fresh-grounded chillie and onion paste and fresh river fish curry. Finally we all pile in to the car and head out to the Tree of Life hotel where we rent mountain bikes and go for a vigorous ride on the trails especially built by the hotel for hikers and bikers. Back after an hour and the kids all splash into the hotel pool. The Tree of Life hotel’s main section is over 100 years old and used to be the British Lord Mountbatten’s jungle hunting retreat and bungalow where as well as hunting for wild boar and deer, he sowed his oats as any good colonial sod did in Sri Lanka during the late 1800’s and as far as 1948 when Sri Lanka finally gained independence from British Colonial rule. Although much debated and unaccepted the bony Kandy lasses are amazingly beautiful. The tanned local heritage mixed with British blood and toned down over generations give these local lasses golden skin which contrast amazingly with their long dark tresses. It is not unusual to see some of them with light brown almost hazel or blue eyes. Beautiful is an understatement.

While the kids splash around, I head off to the hotels Ayurvedic centre for Herbal Treatment. Head, Face and Body Massage ‘Snehana’ (Oil Massage), ‘Swedana’ (Steam Bath), ‘Shirodara Kutisweda’ (Herbal Sauna), and Aroma Therapy. The hotel offers a genuine, reliable and traditional Ayurveda in Kandy, Sri Lanka. Ayurvedic therapy comes from an age-old formulation passed down from generation to generation of Ayurvedic families in Sri Lanka. After a good couple of hours I emerge a new man, now finally all the worries of the week massaged away.

All of us then head to the hotel buffet lunch. I stick to the traditional rice and curry from the buffet as the hotel maintains it’s Ayurvedic credentials by offering a range of Sri Lankan vegetables that sadly do not feature in the regular fare of Colombo’s home meals.

Afterwards we drive to the Kandy town for the afternoon. First visit is to the Dalada Maligawa, the former palace of Sri Lanka’s last king, Sri Wickrama Rajasinghe and now a Buddhist temple that houses the scared relic of Buddha, one of his teeth. Outside the palace the regular showpiece before entering the temple a huge tame elephant awaits the brave. It is believed that going under the elephant’s stomach and circling three times builds bravery and courage in children and also wards off evil! After offering the traditional araliya flowers and incense in the inner sanctum we head off to explore around Kandy town.

Kandy offers a labyrinth of streets more complex than those of New York City. Around every corner awaits a surprise, always pleasant. All though buyers must be aware as you may end up purchasing a useless trinket, for the discerning eye antique jewellery shops abound in Kandy. From genuine antique bracelets, earrings, and rings worn by the nobility of ancient Sri Lanka, one will find small shops selling silver rings woven with elephant hair for luck, leopard tooth pendants made from real leopard teeth from hunters of the past and various intricate jewellery items made from ivory. The elephant is a venerated animal in Sri Lanka largely, so buying ivory although needs to be at one’s beliefs and discretion, most ivory items are antique and obtained from elephant graveyards of old. I still remember the large leopard skin that adorned the games room wall at my grandmother’s home in Kandy. Gemstones and jewellery made from precious gems such, as rubies, sapphires, garnets and moonstones are a plenty. Unless you really can identify gems, I would advice a visitor to only purchase jewellery made from moonstones. These are really cheap and won’t be more than 10 to 20 British pounds maximum. All this and more such as local handicrafts made from brass, devil masks, and Sri Lankan drums and in the main though fare of Kandy, a Cargills supermarket and a KFC for a quick snack of chicken! Even a Pizza-Hut!

If visiting Kandy in July and August one has to book early to avoid disappointment as these months herald the beginning of the world famous Kandy Dalada Maligawa procession. A parade of over one hundred elephants in ball gowns brightly lit up very alike a Christmas tree with thousands of dervish dancers, firewalkers, whip crackers and traditional drummers. These processions are held to give thanks to the gods for life, gifts of nature that nourish and good health.

After our walk-about in town we finally head home early evening to beat the drizzle that gradually starts as small drops to steady. Fresh cups of tea for the adults and Milo for the kids, everyone crashes in bed for a nap. The kids head out to the garden for a noisy game of cricket. I switch the TV on and drowse off to the news and woken up again only when the domestic brings me a cup of coffee.

Darkness falls early in Kandy. It’s twilight when I wake up and refresh myself to head to Pitakanda to my friends house again for dinner. I have my dad’s driver drop me off as I plan to get properly sloshed at my friends. More spliffing, loads of vodka and a refined dinner. My friend’s family were restaurateurs in England. So we enjoy a refined meal of pasta with a lovely mushroom sauce all washed down with red wine. Chatting for hours with coffee made from freshly ground beans, the sun’s rising as my friend drops me off at home.

Awake unusually early for a Sunday morning and fast drive to the picturesque Victoria Golf Club for a couple of holes of golf, ride around the club complex on a trail bike and some much needed exercise. The English breakfast at the clubhouse later negating the benefits of the previous exercise. Then I head back to set off with the kids to the Polgolla dam a five minutes walk from our home in Wattapuluwa, Kandy. We have on our bathing suits underneath and carry fishing rods, as beneath the dam, in the flowing calm waters of the Mahaweli River is a perfect secluded spot for bathing and if one wishes to even fish. Not the hectic sport fishing, but the type that calls for calm patience with a line cast in the water and watching the world go by, not counting the seriously adventurous and curious Monkey families living on the trees by the banks of the river that glare at you for invading their territory.

The kids I take along with me as they provide the perfect credentials to my status as an uncle, therefore harmless to parents looking for prospective bachelors for their bony Kandyan female offspring. An insight to life of the people in Kandy, the girls are beautiful, respected and protected. Culturally with no real fuss or bother, they usually head off to school, socialise mostly with the family, an occasional chaperoned movie with friends. Otherwise home. On a Sunday the proud parents allow these girls to hang out by their front gate in the garden in their Sunday best. It is a very subtle way for parents to almost show off their offspring. Be proud. Believe you me the concept of an untouched virgin still exists in this part of the world. This was and still is the best eye candy I have seen any where in the world! And an important part of what makes Kandy, Sri Lanka what it is. One of it’s most jealously kept secrets.

Sunday evening dawns. Early dinner, worship parents and its time for the mad drive back to Colombo. This time more fun as driving in you climb, going back is downhill and much faster!

It’s early Monday morning. I am in office in London. The room is just 10’ by 10’, but I do have a large window that looks out. The winds howling outside, dark clouds make it seem like night, rain beats incessantly on the window as I type this post. The office tower blocks are foreboding, a Range Rover parked illegally is clamped as the owner runs up to it screaming. Traffic was especially bad this morning on the school run, the Jubilee line running late with the tube station closed and I had to get off and walk six blocks to work in the rain. Forgot my raincoat. Inside my mind the parrots with their lime green plumage and bright red necklaces call out to each other from the Mango tree in my parents garden in Kandy. I wipe the tears falling down my face, I imagine my clothes and my face is soaked from the fresh tropical rain of my country of origin, my Paradise Isle. I am OK.

Wild Elephants, Wild Boar and the deep rural South

A young child stands bare bodied with a grin on his face as he waves at the SUV as we approach. The intense heat bounces off the tarmac in the long smooth road as I squint through its haze tapping the brake to slow down and see what the boy has to offer. He has been in the forest picking up the fallen feathers from early morning, the prize he now waves to us for sale. The bright blue and purple hues of the Peacock feathers wave in brilliant colour as we roll to a gentle stop. A scene I have seen many times on the southern coast stretch from the city Matara to Kataragama. Home to Lord Skanda who is venerated all over in Sri Lanka. A scene my fellow companions from London have never seen, a Peacock in its live glory.

I am taking my friends on a journey that I have made many times in my life. To the home of Skanda in Kataragama, Sri Lanka, 350 kilometres away from the city of Colombo.

Our journey begins past midnight from Colombo. In my opinion the best time to travel, as the nights are cooler, traffic less and as a person who loves quiet long drives the best time for solitude. My companions soon fall asleep, waking only when I pull over almost half way through the journey for my usual nicotine break. I wake them again only close to Kataragama. The morning is chilly as its 4am in the morning now. The full moon bathes the Weerawila stretch of road with its adjacent sugar cane fields in soft light. I have switched the headlights off. The lone wild elephant waits to cross the road, the promises of the sugar cane on the other side. He is nervous of the SUV and us as I am of him. My friends scramble around for cameras, their sleepiness all gone, everyone’s wide-awake. The bravest of the lot demanding to be let out of the SUV to take a better photo. My experience of wild elephants limited to viewing at wild life parks and chance encounters like this on the road demand that everyone stays in the car. I switch on my parking light and roll forward slowly as cameras click furiously inside.

We finally arrive at the Rossen Hotel in Kataragama. After the elephant experience everyone in the car is pumped up, wide awake and our chattering wakes the security guard up and he opens the huge gate leading to the hotel. The staff stir wake, the receptionist still manages to smile brightly at us and cheerfully wakes staff in the kitchen to cook my ravenous companions chips, eggs, toast and pots of coffee and tea. As we head out to our rooms the heated pool beckons invitingly. A mist escapes from the pool and the bellboy informs me that at the request of some visiting tourists the pool water has been heated to exactly 70 Fahrenheit. We are delighted, nip to the rooms, breakfast served by the poolside, everyone’s in the pool. It’s 6am and all the staff is out and about. Bright Sri Lankan smiles, the traditional ‘Ayubowan’ mixed with ‘Good Morning’. The other guests must be annoyed, an impromptu game of tag has the females in our group screaming. The pool lifeguard still sleepy looks on in bemusement. While three of our group stay back in the pool the others accompany me to the Lord Skanda temple.

I drive the SUV through the back and we park behind the temple. The flower vendors clamour for our custom. Especially the custom of my British friends. Incense, Coconut Oil for the lamps, and the traditional Sri Lankan flower - white and pink lotuses. I offer the pooja of light, scent and colour to the Buddhist Stupa and the statue of King Mahasen. My friends help eagerly all excited to participate in everything and enjoy their holiday. The suns up now and all of us are glad for our loose white linen clothes, the bottles of water in our hands and the stiff breeze that blows through the wind swept sandy ground beneath our bare feet. Pilgrims from all walks of life go about their business of worshipping. We get back in the stupa and drive to the Skanda temple. From the white clothes and the pilgrims at the stupa to the incredible fusion and splash of colour at the kovils amaze my friends. Camera’s click constantly.

I grin as we stay for the Skanda pooja, the ritual of cleaning the gods casket and sutra lying in the inner sanctum of the god where no one other than priests are allowed. A large curtain with a picture of the God Skanda and his two consorts cover the entrance. The pilgrims pull on the bells that surround the camphor filled outer sanctum of the temple. I grin as I now see my friends drenched in sweat. They smile, their OK.

We return to the hotel find the rest of our gang still lazing around by the pool. Long showers in our rooms, a late lunch in the hotel and a nap in air-conditioned comfort. The sun blazes overhead now, only a few ventures outside in the deep south of Sri Lanka as temperatures reach the 35 to 40 centigrade at noon. We emerge out of our rooms early evening. Tea, coffee and sandwiches have been served to our rooms. Some of us pile into my SUV, the others into the carefully maintained Land Rover of Suresh, the driver from the Udawalawe Wildlife Park who will accompany us on the short drive from the hotel to and in the park. Especially to see wild elephants. After this mornings experience, I hear my British friends narrating this to Suresh and egging him on to take us as close as possible to the elephants. After one close encounter with a heard of elephants, a friend climbing on to the track much to my annoyance and dismay of the tracker, millions of photographs we leave the park. Everyone is excited talking one to a dozen about his or her experience. In the parking lot I discreetly open the boot of the SUV and surprise everyone with my cooler filled with pint bottles of the best Sri Lankan lager – Lion Lager. We then pile into the SUV and wave our goodbyes to Suresh after much banter about the evening’s elephant experiences. Suresh leaves happy, his wallet much fatter than when the evening started.

At the top of the road on the turning to Udawalawe begins my friends experience to the wild side of Sri Lanka’s deep south. We stop at my favourite roadside restaurant. I discreetly inquire if the night’s fare includes ‘Meat’. We are lead to a table, wild boar curry, venison, and Potatoe curry in coconut gravy with freshly baked bread. All washed down with Sri Lanka’s fiery Ginger Beer and more Lion Lager. The night is cool now as we finish. We make one last procurement stop in Tanamalwila for the best and freshest green before returning to the hotel late at night. Deep in the jungles of Tanamalwila away from preying eyes there lies farms that rival any produce even grown in the jungles of Jamaica. A discreet smoke by the poolside puts everyone in the mellow but party mood. I have carefully packed the rest of it away in the bottom of a cane basket containing fresh green oranges on the top for the remainder of our holiday. Midnight and everyone’s at the hotel bar singing karaoke and drinking numerous numbers of Sri Lanka’s arrack and cokes. In a couple of hours I stagger to bed as we have a long drive ahead of us. I do not forget to drink a huge glass of chilled king coconut juice, Sri Lanka’s best hangover remedy. My friends I know will party on until the wee hours of the morning.

The soft sound of the A/C and the far way sound of my friends singing Bohemian Rhapsody at the bar lulls me to sleep. An end of another day of holiday in Sri Lanka. I dream of the day that awaits us. Hikkaduwa, more Lager, fresh Seafood direct from its source, Sun, Sand and Sea.

Surfs up, anyone? White linen shirts, shorts, Speedos, fresh white cotton sheets dried in the sun, sun tan lotion, flip flops, go to Sri Lanka.

Every journey has a beginning and an end

IT'S THE MIDDLE THAT COUNTS, THE ACTUAL JOURNEY!

A headline written by the late Joanna Barbara Miles for British Airways when they changed their stopover from Abu Dhabi to Dubai on their Colombo route in 1997. Other than winning a gold at the ad awards for the print campaign, how very true. The headline I mean.

Many people I know miss the magic of the journey. As far as they’re concerned its how fast can I get from point A to point B. For me, many of my journeys are filled with warm memories. As far as I remember from being a kid.

I remember traveling deep south with family in my dads old Humber. My mother in the back seat with the kids narrating stories to us of highway robbers who lay logs on the road to stop vehicles. Deep dark night and the jungle all around us.

Taking the night train to Jaffna with the family during school holidays, the sleeping berths and all kinds of family back chat.

Trips to India by ferry. The amazement of seeing everything through a child’s eyes.

The one night getting pissed with Millie and Davy at Otters, onwards to White Horse, deciding to play pool at Shooters and then the sudden decision to drive to Hikkaduwa at midnight - pissed. Driving down Galle Road singing rugby songs while drumming on the dashboard at 130kmph (The fastest that car would go). My electronic shutters had failed, all three of us were smoking, so the car was just filled with smoke!

Leaving for Kattaragama at midnight from Moratuwa. The long stretch of roads where I could just gun the engine. The kid sleeping peacefully in the back and narrating all my childhood stories to the wife while driving. The utter silence other than the occasional heavy vehicle, the beauty of the night.

The numerous night flights to Singapore… Leaving on a Friday and back to Colombo on Sunday.

The trips to India. Once getting so pissed on the plane with Pervy, landing in New Delihi and somehow in drunken stupor thinking I was in Singapore. We actually finished the brandy in business class and the stewardess just left us with a bottle of Tia Maria! The next morning I was late for the launch of the workshop and Laila actually concocted this story that I was suffering from gastritis! When I entered the sessions the regional director very concerned and asking me if I was OK! I had no bloody idea what he was talking about and still in the clothes from the night before, stinking of Brandy.

Flying back and forth from London with my daughter. Bugging her on the plane as all she wants is to sleep. The companionship.

Clubbing in Colombo after getting pissed. That one corner I will never ever forget from Holiday Inn to Galle Road, I took it at over 100kmph. Mahesh sitting next to me and unflinchingly saying ‘Machan, you just took that at 120kmph!’. And hearing the screech of Pahan spinning behind us in his car and Davy coming to shuddering halt to avoid hitting Pahan.

Train journeys to Norwich, Swansea…

Something as simple as just chatting and walking in the park…

The stories are endless. Just proving it’s the journey that counts.

So everything has a beginning and an end. Enjoy the journey!

My Devi, My Paradise Isle

As sure as the dawn of a new day

I miss you everyday

Every sunrise and at dusk, all through each new day

I think of you and wonder how you are

Everything precious in this world

Cannot be as precious as you are to me

As gentle as a new born doe

As soft as fresh snowfall

As warm as a mothers love for her new born

As caring as the gods who looks calmingly upon you

Soaring above a bright blue sky

Swimming in a gin clear ocean

Walking on a clear morning in a sunny beach

Leaves bowing down in the park to gently tickle my cheek

I pray for your safety

I pray for your success

I pray for your every dream to come true

Every morning, every waking second of my day

Memories of you cascade in my mind

Much like the tears that now cascade down my cheek

As I dedicate this to you.

My Devi. One moment of life, one moment of Joy, Memories to sustain a lifetime.

MO63501

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