2015 July 12: Joyous Reunions and Bittersweet Goodbyes

Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

Someone was at our gate. Before I could see who it was, I heard squeals of delight and hearty shouts of greeting.

I ran to witness a joyous reunion.

You see, a couple of weeks after our first trip to the beach where Steve did his PhD research, we went back for another walk along the shore. I suggested to him that maybe we could ask the people who lived nearby if they knew what happened to the villagers who used to live on the beach. We thought we knew what had happened, given the evidence and the news reports, but we wanted to be sure. So, as we were leaving, we passed an old man sitting on the sidewalk outside a nearby hotel. Steve asked him about the villagers, and he responded that he thought some of them were okay. He didn't know where they were or what happened to them, but he thought some of them were okay.

Thus, with that glimmer of hope, we began our search to find Steve's friends.

I asked people as I walked through the streets of Negombo in the early mornings or late evenings if they knew what happened to the people who lived on the beach after the tsunami came. I asked fish truck drivers if they knew what had happened to them. I asked the fishermen along the canal and further along Negombo beach. We asked our driver to help us find them. I received various responses, most indicating that they thought some were okay but had moved 'far inland' and were no longer fishermen. Even our driver indicated that they had moved elsewhere.

But no definitive answers. Except that now we knew that at least some of them had survived.

Last week I again asked our driver if he knew anything, and a couple of days later he told us that some of the villagers might be living in the Tsunami Housing Scheme nearby.

Which took us to Wednesday of this week, when we asked our driver to take us there. As we walked through the complex of four story apartment buildings, Steve listened for any words of Tamil among the many people speaking Sinhala. As we neared the entrance again, he asked someone if they knew if anyone used to live on the beach now lived in the complex.

And someone did.

We were taken to their apartment, where Steve talked with a woman who was just a sixteen year old teenager in 2000-2001. Her mother was not in town, but she said she would let her know that someone was looking for her who thought he knew her.

So there was little question in my mind who had come to our house on Thursday morning as I heard shouts and exclamations of glee and joy and laughter as Steve reunited with his old friend Susila. He spent many hours in her family's house fifteen years ago. When I ran to meet them, I was swept into their arms in huge hugs. She and her daughters were so happy to see Steve and to meet Elanor and me, and she cried when we told her that we thought her whole family had been lost in the tsunami and we were so happy to see that she was okay. She and her daughters then told us what happened on that day and what has happened in their family since.

Susila was fortunate to be in Chilaw - 44 km north - on December 26, 2004. But many other people in the village, including her daughters and other relatives, were on the beach in their humble homes. Pushpa, her daughter, told us how life was just going along as usual on that day...until the police came along with loudspeakers shouting for everyone 'to run for your lives'.

And so, they ran. Part of the warning being broadcast said that a huge wave had already killed thousands of people in southern and eastern Sri Lanka and that there was not a minute to lose. They ran, leaving behind everything they owned, many of them with only the clothes on their backs and their children in their arms. Some only made it as far as the church when the wave struck, and spent many terrified moments praying that they would be safe. The wave crested partly up the brick wall that surrounds the church, flooding as far as the road a couple of hundred metres from the beach, and then receded.

But when they returned to their homes....there was nothing left. Everything had been swept away. Furniture, mementos, clothing, personal items, identification papers, the houses themselves... everything was gone.

Susila rushed back to Negombo from Chilaw, not knowing whether her family was alive or dead. She found them eventually, and was relieved to find her daughters safe even though everything they owned was gone.

When Steve asked about her husband, Ameer, one of the daughters answered, 'He left our mother. He ran off and we haven't heard from him since.' But later, Susila told us that he was in Galle, on the south coast of Sri Lanka, when the tsunami struck, and that neither she, her family nor their friends ever heard from him again. She doesn't talk to her daughters about her husband's likely death and allows them to pretend that he is still alive, because it is easier for them to think he left her than to think about the horror he must have felt as the wave came and everything ended for him.

The local Don Bosco Catholic Church opened its grounds to those who were left homeless by the tsunami. In short order, they and others had built a shelter city consisting of tiny huts, one per family. But living conditions were very crowded and life was very difficult for the people living there, so the Father issued a plea for help. The Italian government responded, and within a year, had built the Housing Scheme for the Tsunami Affected nearby. Susila was issued an apartment there for her, her mother and her daughters.

Known as Boscopura ('Bosco City'), this series of block apartment buildings soon became home to families from all over Sri Lanka who were rendered destitute and homeless by the tsunami. Many people have moved on as their circumstances became better, with steady employment and the ability to purchase or rent their own place again. But more than two hundred families still live there, including Susila. Her neat and tidy four room apartment consists of a large kitchen, a small bathroom, two good sized bedrooms with large beds, and front room that is used for entertaining guests, repairing the neighbour's fishing nets, eating, and sleeping. Her family has also grown to include several grandchildren. At least one of her daughters, maybe all of them, were married to abusive men whom they have since divorced, and they live with their mother again. One daughter works overseas, usually in Saudi Arabia, for two years at a time as a domestic servant, and then returns home for one year.

They still have little. And they still are generous and warm and loving and expressive. And happy. They smile a lot. They laugh a lot. They hug a lot. They have been through hell, but they live as though they are in heaven.

And Susila explained that in a way, they are. They feel that they are blessed to have what they have. From a palm frond hut with a sand floor on the beach to an apartment four times the size with running water and electricity - they are in no rush to leave.

Later that evening we were treated to a wonderful reunion supper at their home, with grandmother and mother and daughters and grandchildren, and neighbours wondering why a white family was visiting them wandering in and out. It was truly a wonderful reunion.

And tonight we were invited back for a goodbye supper. It was bittersweet, having just found them after thinking that they had all been swept away and then learning that most of them, at least, were okay, to now have to say goodbye again. From tears of joy on Thursday, to tears of parting tonight.

But it was worth every tear to hear the joy in Steve's voice as he reunited with these beloved friends.

2015 March 20-21: Foreigners

"Foreigners! Foreigners!"

That's what was being whispered all around Elanor and me when we went with our church women's group to go river bathing on March 5th. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Sinhala, but whispered, nonetheless. Once people realized that we were there with a large group of our friends, and that we were not there to gawk at them like some other foreigners who passed by, we were quickly included in the fun and games, and yes, even the bathing. This is the way I like to travel, fitting in as best we can, joining with our friends in their ways of doing things, learning about their culture by taking part in it.

I don't blame them for their hesitation at the beginning. After all, we could just easily have been like most others, there to gaze at the natives like they were some sort of exotic specimens there to be studied. I have seen similar situations countless times.

In Pond Inlet, we went to a feast at the community hall shortly after we arrived. We sat on the floor - like everyone else - with a couple that we knew, and sampled the food and tried to blend in. Two other couples stood on the sidelines, sometimes taking pictures, and making comments such as "I can't believe they're eating that", "That looks disgusting", and "People back home are never going to believe that this is what they eat." Pretty soon, we found that we were the only new 'Southerners' or Kablunaq (literally: bushy eyebrows, in reference to the Scottish sailors who first visited the Inuit in modern times) who were being invited to community feasts. (There were a couple of long-term white residents as well.) Others sometimes showed up if they found out about the feasts, game days, and dances, but someone always made sure that we knew about them. Sometimes we would be listening to the local radio station in Inuktitut, would hear our name mixed in among the announcements, and sure enough, within a few minutes we would have received several phone calls and a knock on the door, telling us of some community event.

This was especially apparent after a confrontation at the local 'mall'. I had gone to the Co-op store to get a few things. A woman approached me and said, "I don't think it's very nice of you to make the teachers do so much work!" Confused, I asked what she was talking about. "Your daughter is at our school and her teacher doesn't have the time to teach our children and then to teach your child everything again in English!" I replied, "Well, actually, the teacher is not teaching everything two times. I told her that we wanted Amber to learn Inuktitut, and to not teach her in English." "You want your daughter to learn Inuktitut?" was the incredulous reply. "Your son has to learn English. Why shouldn't my daughter have to learn Inuktitut?" I countered. By the time we left two years later, Amber could read primary books and write journal entries in Inuktitut, using their syllabic alphabet with thirty-nine characters. We found out later that with the exception of two families that were basically life-long residents and a principal's daughter, every other white child in the community had been home-schooled.

In China, I spent the summer in Beijing. Other members in my group traveled around China when our teaching was finished, spending a day here and a few hours there. I stayed in Beijing. Most people spend four hours going through the Forbidden City on the short tour. I spent thirteen hours there over a two day period, and when some of the workers noticed that I was interested in all the little details, they made sure to point things out to me and explain how things were built. At the Summer Palace when I showed an interest in how the ponds were built and other "non-tourist" items, people refused to believe that I was foreigner and could not speak fluent Mandarin, but could not figure out why I was white instead of 'yellow' (their word, not mine). Then they decided that I must be Russian and insisted on speaking Russian to me. I saw things that literally no other white person had seen, such as a small house museum in honour of a famous Chinese writer. In fifty years, I was the only non-Chinese who had visited. I know this because the curator checked the log book while I was inside, a logbook going back to the opening day, and in which every person who had ever visited had signed in with their full name and address. When an old woman that I knew found out the types of places I was seeing and the types of things that I was doing, she and a local teacher we both knew arranged to have me move to a different hotel. Four stars just off Tiananmen Square was not too shabby, especially when it ended up costing me nothing. The hotel was owned by a man whom the teacher had taught English classes to, and when he found out that I was interested in learning about 'real' China and not just 'tourist' China, he refused payment.

When we went to Muthurajawela, we saw a different type of foreigner, the kind that tries to get every last penny out of a people who are already poor. The entry fee at the marsh was about 1000 rupees per person, but about half that amount for children. (It works out to about $7.50 each for a two hour tour, with personal guide, boatman, the boat, and gas. Similar excursions back home typically begin at $50 per person.) When another couple heard that Elanor was getting the child discount, the husband quickly quipped, "Hey, my two kids are children too! They should get the discount, too!" and his two children chimed in. I am sure he was joking, but when you don't speak English well and are used to being taken advantage of, it creates awkward situations, especially when the 'children' in question are obviously in their late teens. It's a difficult situation for people to be in. Do they treat it as a joke? Maybe he's not joking. Do they give the customer the benefit of the doubt? What if he then tells everyone and they demand discounts? Do they say no and perhaps lose that business? Do they say yes and then take a loss for that tour in order to keep the customer happy? Did they actually understand what was said, given that English is a third language for most people?

We see it in the stores, too. We are used to getting charged the tourist price, although some of my regular places now charge me less. At one vegetable stand that I frequent, I used to get charged 100 rupees (76 cents) for a particular vegetable, still only a fraction of what I would pay back home. Then I was charged 50 rupees (38 cents). Two days ago I was charged 30 rupees (23 cents). Another day I bought two dresses - one for Elanor and one for me - for 2400 rupees ($18.18). I knew I was getting charged more, but back home this would have cost me $40 for Elanor's dress alone. At the same time, another couple in the store were haggling over the price of the two dresses they were buying. I stood there at the counter as I listened to them haggle back and forth, trying to get every last rupee they could out of this shop owner. Their dresses started at 2400 rupees, too, and they managed to get it down to 2200. I could have done the same, but honestly, the $1.51 I would have saved was not worth it.

People notice things like this. As we were leaving the store, the woman stopped me and said, "You didn't bargain." I said, "Did you give me a fair price?" "Oh, yes," she replied, "I give you morning price. Morning price always cheaper. I no make enough money, evening price is higher." I smiled and told her we would be back when we were ready to buy more. She then went over to the cabinet full of purses that Elanor had been eyeing the entire time we were there, pulled out a few and asked Elanor which one was her favourite. When Elanor told her, she presented it to her. I took out my wallet again, and was quickly told by both her and her husband that it was a gift, and that when we come back, we would get the morning price or better even if it was evening.

When we went to the natural area in Kandi, Steve was signing us in at the entry gate and paying the entry fee. He began speaking to the woman in Sinhala and mentioned that we were here for several months. After conversing for several minutes on a variety of subjects including what he was doing in Sri Lanka, she asked him what kind of visa we had. When she found out that we had resident visas, our fee dropped from 600 rupees ($4.55) per person to just 30 rupees (23 cents) each.

A third type of foreigner that we have seen is the type that smacks of the old colonial attitude. When our order came during breakfast in Kandi, the bread was not toasted. We just assumed that there was a miscommunication with the waiter or a misprint in the menu and didn't think anything of it. As we were eating, an older man sat nearby. The waiter approached him and the man started talking. He didn't want anything on the menu, he just wanted toast, orange juice and coffee. The waiter looked unsure and asked again what he wanted, as he pointed to the menu. The man repeated himself, then added, "Is that slow enough for you? Do you understand?" (Remember that while many people here speak English, many do not. That is why in restaurants with menus, you order by pointing at the number next to what you want to order. That way there is no confusion.) The waiter again pointed to the menu, which, incidentally, has a note on the top that tells patrons to "Please order two hours early to avoid disappointment". The man very loudly said, "Get me a manager immediately. Do you understand? I want to talk to your manager immediately, and he better be able to speak English!" The poor waiter ran from the room.

A few minutes later, the manager came in and asked what the problem was. "Your waiter does not speak English. That is the problem. I told him that I just want toast, orange juice and coffee for my breakfast, and he cannot understand that." The manager replied, "No problem, sir. I will bring you some bread..." "Toast," the man interrupted, "I. Want. Toast." "There is a problem, sir. I cannot bring you some toast. Our toaster broke this morning. But I can bring you some nice fresh bread." "Well that doesn't help, does it? Having a broken toaster is not very useful, is it?" "I am very sorry, sir, it just broke this morning." "Can you get a new one?" Silence. After all, it was 7:30 in the morning. "Well?" "I will get you some toast, sir." "That wasn't so hard, then, was it?" was the response.

The kind of foreigner you are while traveling can have a big impact on the way that people treat you. Steve and I have both seen this during our travels separately, and now, together. For both of us, it has led to some amazing experiences as people share their lives with us. For Steve, it has meant being welcomed into homes wherever he has traveled. The last time he was in Sri Lanka, it meant becoming welcomed into a Tamil fishing community as well as his church community. This time, he is garnering respect among the gypsies of Sri Lanka. He met with a family last Friday and Saturday. They were very reluctant at first, and told the tuktuk driver that they couldn't help because they don't speak English. "No problem!" the driver replied. "He speaks Sinhala!" They quickly welcomed Steve into their home, and after a discussion about what his project here actually entails, they are eager to help him because he wants to actually learn about their language and culture. So eager, in fact, that early Sunday morning the father called Steve to find out when he was coming back and to make sure that Steve knew that they want to help him, and that Elanor and I are welcome too.

Looks like Elanor is in for yet another huge culture shock.

We can't wait.

2015 February 19: Splashed by a Tamil

February 19th was a rare perfect day, as some of you may remember.

One of the things that made it so perfect was a boat ride we took in a traditional outrigger fishing boat. These types of boats are owned by the middle income fishermen, the ones who can fish up to a couple of miles from shore. These are also the same Tamil fishermen who greet me with "Where is your husband, the man who speaks our language?"

Pushing off from shore.

A whiskered tern flies by.

More terns join in, hoping for a fishy treat.

Our captain, or at least the guy in charge of the rudder!

The view overhead.

A fishing boat owned by the wealthiest fishermen - these can go several miles offshore, maybe further, and are equipped with motors, not sails.

Another overhead view.

See the little stick on the right hand side? This is the stick of the outrigger that the captain walked on in the heaving Indian Ocean to take our picture. He asked Steve if he wanted to come out, and when Steve said no thanks, began jumping and down on the log while laughing! We were sitting a few feet above the water on some wooden slats covered by a thin mattress. Notice how the boat is held together with rope! The captain also didn't think that we were getting wet enough, so he made sure that he splashed our legs with warm ocean water before we returned to shore. See how the sail is on the left here? This picture was taken just after they turned the sail. Instead of turning the boat around, the sail is changed from the front to the back using a complicated series of ropes, and then the rudder is moved from the back to the front.

Sunset two kilometres offshore.

This is the poorest type of fisherman - just a little raft, sometimes made of molded plastic if he is fortunate, and a paddle, and a net.

Hauling the boat ashore.

Steve jumps out to help.

Back on land again.

A wonderful ride!

2015 February 19: A Rare Perfect Day. Or, Jesus Got Our Number.

Ever have one of those rare almost-perfect days when everything seems to be going just right? when every care seems to melt away? where everything in the universe seems to perfectly aligned, for a few brief hours?

That was us today.

Steve and I awoke to a glorious gorgeous dawn.

We saw several species of birds while sitting on our top floor veranda waiting for Elanor to awake, and I was able to get this picture of a grey heron. Birds in flight are often difficult with my camera, as the shutter speed is too slow, so I was pleasantly surprised to see this.

We watched three coucals feeding behind the vacant lot next door, and I was finally able to get a fairly decent picture, something I have been trying to do since we arrived last Saturday.

At breakfast, one of the hotel workers offered to take our picture for us.

We began looking for a house, and Steve ran off to follow up on a lead given to him by the District leadership of our church here in Sri Lanka. A little while later, he came rushing into the hotel room, and very excitedly told us to come with him - the tuktuk driver was waiting to take us to the house he had looked at. Two exhausting but rewarding hours later, we had made an agreement to rent this house, a new luxury dwelling on Cemetery Road here in Negombo, close to shopping, groceries, the beach, church, restaurants, and downtown, for a very reasonable price. (More to follow when we get moved in.)

After our marathon two hour housing ordeal this morning, Elanor and I waited inside the open air lobby of our hotel while Steve paid our oh-so-patient tuktuk driver for all of the running around and waiting we had asked of him. We were chatting with the desk clerks when we heard Steve's raised voice say, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you!" Uh oh, we thought. This did not sound good.

It turned out that Steve had offered him 100 rupees (78 cents) for his hours of work. Not wanting to insult Steve, our driver, named Jesus (pronounced with a 'j', not an 'h' sound like the Spanish), with clear disappointment in his voice, said, "I thought I would get at least 300 ($2.34)." Steve became flustered and couldn't think of the words he wanted to say in the sun addled state we were in - while the days start off at a 'cool' 25 or so degrees, the temperatures rapidly climb - and finally resorted to shoving a 1000 rupee note ($7.81) towards him while saying that he he misspoke, that he meant a thousand not a hundred and wasn't trying to insult him. Jesus protested that it was too much, and finally they got it sorted out between the two of them.

Pleased with ourselves for finding somewhere to live, we thought we would get some lunch and check out a nearby marshland for some bird watching. Jesus, our tuktuk driver from the morning, came to see if we needed to go anywhere. Now that he knows we are not trying to cheat him - plenty of tourists try to get the cheapest rates they can from some of the poorest people in the country - he was eager to help us, and gave Steve his number. He knows where our new place is, so we will likely be seeing him again and calling him if we need to take a tuktuk a longer distance.

We walked south along our street to Sha Indian Restaurant, where we had a simple lunch of rice and curried chickpeas - Elanor had shrimp, which she has learned to eat Asian style with shell and all intact. The servers were marveling over our binoculars - a luxury item in many poorer places - and were excitedly taking turns while we ate our meal. This was a second story restaurant which overlooked a garden full of trees across the street. More excellent bird pictures followed, as well as observations of just how these birds feed.

We continued south, looking for a tour company that arranges boat tours of the marshlands that we are interested in seeing. We didn't find it, but did find ourselves on the beach where Steve spent much of his time when he was here previously. (More about that later, too.) More great pictures, such as this one of a big yellow crab.

Back to the hotel for a couple of hours of rest in the blazing heat of the day. And then we went to the beach, intent upon taking a cool dip. As Elanor and I walked down the pathway, I got distracted by this Pond Heron.

Elanor ran ahead as Steve and I stopped to talk to some of our new Tamil speaking Muslim fishermen friends. Yesterday when Steve was in Colombo, they approached me at the nearby taembili (King coconut) stand, asking, 'Where is your husband, the one who speaks our language?" They were happy to see him and talk to him in Tamil. Steve glanced to where Elanor was standing near the water and then suddenly exclaimed, "There's one!" and took off running. I followed, perplexed at what was going on.

Well, while Steve and I were attempting to find out where the nomadic snake charmers he is here to study actually are, Elanor was happily talking to one of them and playing with his pet monkey! A long discussion and introductions ensued, Steve received all sorts of valuable information, an invitation to visit, and assurances that he would be quite welcome to learn whatever he wanted to from them.

We then went for an hour-long ride in a traditional outrigger fishing boat with our fishermen friends. We paid them, of course, but you know you are being accepted by a people when they start kidding around with you and joking in their language!

A sunset swim in the sunlit waters of the warm Indian Ocean was the perfect ending to such a rare day as this. May there be many more.