chartandwaters

I just wanted to call a blog that. Safe and passing through Colombo,
Gabi

P.S. I've just returned to Colombo from the Galle area. In Colombo I'm trying to get up the energy to see some more NGOs; feel like I've nearly but not quite done enough in that area, but am finally in the mood to see some large Buddhas, so will do that tomorrow. Am going to India Friday (Sri Lanka visa expires Sat) and then Bangalore Saturday to see Venkatesh (my American NGO's India contact) receive an award for World Disability Day (he specializes in providing art classes to children with disabilities).

I stayed more days in the south than I expected but the beach was really beautiful and blissful--I have definitely never been so "ahhhh, the BEACH" as I was here, and I do feel nice and clear-headed. Galle was an amazing surprise--a small city whose prize is an old Dutch fort built on the ocean, inside which is a bunch of residences, a few extraordinary hotels, some guestlodges and restaurants. You can walk along the fort walls and stare out at the ocean; when I first got there I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and in the days after, if I strayed from the fort, I found myself longing to return to that sanctuary and the old timelessness and strength of the walls. It was reminiscent of Fort Jeff in Florida (and probably all the forts built on oceans, nach) and there's something so beautiful about walls that were built with so much strength that they would last so long against the ocean, in such a climate.

I know my future plans are always changing, but I really am interested in the issues NGOs face in coordination, and am thinking of next steps in that area. (The obvious ones involve going to, say, Louisiana or Biloxi or Pakistan.)

All for now. Girl with a Pearl Earring is an amazing book. The Bookseller of Kabul is okay so far.

Someone asked me: NGOs is non-governmental organizations, a.k.a. nonprofits (I think there's no diff between the two but they're called NGOs here). I’ve taken a big interest in coordination between NGOs during disaster relief. It’s an intersection of a lot, a lot of factors, and the way coordination takes place differs from site to site and disaster to disaster. Espec. interesting I think because setting the stage for the coordination happens during the earliest, most emergency months of the disaster, when everyone’s rushing around. I sense—though not 100% sure—that the way the coordination takes place is often not well-documented for future learning. Each agency may document how it worked for that agency, but overall I'm not sure there are solid snapshots of, say, coordination in the Nagapattinam district in India v. the Galle area of Sri Lanka.

Poor coordination may result, in the worst (and not too common) scenario, in, say, a villager getting two houses built for him. In more common scenarios, six agencies may distribute the same relief items to the same village in the same few weeks---Would you like your seventh mosquito net? Your 6th blanket?

I had been wondering if one organization could position itself as a reconnaissance team, going into villages and camps to just find out what needs to be done—did someone never get their mosquito net, for example, or did a school get a fan that subsequently broke; are the latrines out of order, etc. The amazing Project Galle, a project in the district of Galle in South Sri Lanka, has been doing it, as they told me yesterday, although not all NGOs are responsive to suggestions and it’s absolutely impossible to find funding for. And THAT’s what’s interesting. I just thought you should know.

Thanks to Dad for good Sunil questions; he definitely has all the documentation Dad asked about and hmm, maybe someone--I don't say who--is supposed to stay and help him make a documentary. Also, word to my family that cousin Paul Kaplan is a very funny man, AND in all his years at Dow Jones/Wall Street Journal he's never missed a day of work.

Ello, am alive and well and hanging in Hikkaduwa, a little popular tourist town that’s also the hub of a lot of tsunami-related NGO activity. The big presidential elections were Thursday—they happen every 6 years—and with them came a curfew since election results are frequently accompanied by some form of violence. Everyone was well prepared for the elections and subsequent curfew and chose a place where we could hunker down for the day of, the day after, and the day after that, and of course we stayed in the south, where militant-related violence is (very) minimal—in fact no one’s actually given me an example of it here, as opposed to the north or east, where it’s more common.

There are a few different themes I’ve decided I want to learn more about while I’m here, including arts-related relief work (as broad and all-inclusive as that sounds), and the NGO community is pretty small and generous with its time so it was easy to get to meet a lot of people quickly. I love how forthcoming they are, and there are so many interesting things about people who picked themselves up from wherever in Dec. or. Jan to see the tsunami’s affects, then found themselves still here 11 mos later, immersed in many different kinds of projects. One of them is a cameraman Sunil who is Sri Lankan but had been living in Canada since ’87. He had just become a cameraman in Canada when the tsunami hit, and he came here in January to see what was up and started filming. He’s still filming 11 months later, watching NGOs come and go, studying the entire scope and extent of the relief work and the changes in people’s lives. Pretty cool. Through him met briefly a local couple, two artists who are dividing their time between here and Sydney. The boyfriend, who disguises himself as a surfer, said, why not come see my paintings and they were just amazing, the kind of work where you enter the room and are instantly struck by how beautiful they are, then he showed me his Masters thesis, finished a couple of years ago, a short theoretical discussion of the art project he did for his Masters, and damn if I didn’t find myself reading and taking notes on aesthetic theory that night in my little room. (Since I really like aesthetic theory but rarely read it, this was a good thing.)

I can’t bring myself to see a single towering Buddha, that is, to make the trip that would require it. If any one thinks they can persuade me to do so, please try; otherwise I don’t see it happening as the interviews and what not are more interesting to me right now. Sorry for the brevity of this and more soon, Gabi

Just a post to all family saying I'm great in Ambalangoda. Have just been hanging with the local art therapists ( :) ) and looking at their great projects, and other stuff....will let you know more as I know it! Love, Gabi

An underreported phenomenon is the popularity of the song "Hotel California" in India AND Sri Lanka. For many months I've been observing this extroardinary phenomenon. And just this past Sunday night, when I asked a restauranteur to change the romantic music he'd put on for my benefit ("Tell me how to win your heart, cause I haven't got a clue...."), he immediately turned it off and put on "Hotel California." I almost spit out my tea. Today my guesthouse owner played a CD in which there was an instrumental of it that sounded sort of like a samba. Safely, Gabi

Arrived last night in Ambalangoda, beautiful beach and tsunami territory, where ICAF has two volunteers who actually have art therapy training, Claire and Rebekah. Rebekah is getting her Masters and this is an internship, and Claire has her masters. They are both very friendly and welcoming and I am really happy to see them. I finished the article at 10pm at night on Monday, since I always work up till the deadline and this was it (a quality I wish I could make disappear). My hotel was about 30 km away in Negombo and I was persuaded to take a taxi home as everyone said the bus would be dangerous after 10pm. I don’t know for sure that it’s so unsafe. (In India, one American described people's concerns this way: Many families are very sheltered over many generations—women stay home, don’t go out alone, etc., and everyone shivers when they think of women going out alone, so no one knows for sure, after so many generations, what WOULD happen if the women went out. But it doesn't help that crimes aren't well-reported or well-tracked.) In any case, I took the $17 taxi, marveling at how expensive Sri Lanka is when you live like a nitwit.

After reviewing my address the taxi driver set off with abundant hesitation, and I knew that in 30 minutes or so, once we hit Negombo, we’d be lost. Needless to say, once off the main thoroughfare the car started to slow, and eventually the driver stopped to ask someone directions. Whatever they told us indicated he needed to do a 180, so he did, went 30 feet, asked someone else, and whatever they told him indicated he needed to do a 180. So at the next stop I listened closely to what he was asking. The name of the hotel is Star Beach, but instead of "Star" he was saying some word that didn’t sound like a word. I corrected him and showed them the physical address. But we drove back and forth two more times before arriving at the Brown Beach Hotel. Where I started to scream. In response, the driver started to ask the night watchman at the hotel for further instructions. I leaned forward and listened again; the driver, who simply didn’t know English, was trying to sprout a word from his mouth that approximated whatever was growing from mine. I understand, I do it all the time. Only I, who was IN the BACK SEAT, actually knew the word. I said sharply, “NO. NO. STOP that. STOP that.” It was 12:30 at night.

I eventually got home and the kind-looking, too thin watchman let me in (in most places, doors lock late at night and you have to get the watchman’s attention). He smiled at me with the friendliness of an insomniac and said, “Dinner”? Breakfast?” I’d had a small dinner but thought I would be out of luck for anything else since the kitchen closes at 9:30. Could he mean what I thought he meant? I took a chance and allowed my hopes to be raised.

“Dinner? You have? Kitchen closed?”
“Banana.”
“Banana you have?” That would be okay. Four bananas might be good.
“Dinner banana breakfast banana,” he said, with the air of someone who knows he is giving it his best shot and is fully resigned that it may not be enough. It's like a poker player who, on his last dime, risks everything, fully prepared to lose. But I understood. He had something resembling a breakfast for me, and it was guaranteed to include a banana.

He retired to the kitchen and puttered around, eventually producing 4 pieces of fresh unbuttered toast, two small bananas, and a cup of cold tea. Rations. Every bite tasted incredibly good and I ate it over a novel, then went to sleep peacefully under my romantic mosquito net.

Why do I repeatedly overlook the consequences of putting a banana in the bottom of my backpack, O Lord? O Lord, am I destined to make this mistake forever?

I just took a train to Colombo to try to get my visa renewed; alas, my train arrived too late. On the way we passed a town called, was it, Hitutupti? The sign announcing Hitutupti noted that it was 3.5 meters above sea level. The advantage or purpose of noting this was unclear, and I was trying to decide if it was funny or just curious when I heard an Indian traveller, who must have had more confidence than me, laugh heartily as he pointed to his friend: ”Dah-dah-dah-dah sea level dah dah dah sea level”. Even then I could sense in his laugh some dubiousness-—when you travel, you sometimes want to make things funny. Even when they're not.

On the train there was a series of disabled beggars that boarded our car, one or two boarding at each stop and getting off at the next since the cars don’t connect. The first was a man whose legs didn’t work. He slid himself along the length of the car with one hand, speaking the entire time, and every so often stopped so that people could put coins in his other hand, which he held cupped the entire time. I don’t know what he was saying, but it was clearly affecting to the passengers; his hand was brimming over and many were adding more coins or giving their children coins to pass to him.

My instinct was that he must do very well, and that I should save my money for someone else. As the other man left the train (with the assistance of the passengers), another man boarded. He had a very diseased foot; it was at least 4 times its normal size and covered with lumps like a mushroom cloud. I had never seen anything like that and gave him money, but no one else did. The next was a younger man and then a slightly older man, both barely able to walk and using canes for support. The older man was not as good a talker although they seemed equally poor and struggling. The train gave a small amount to the younger man but rejected the older completely, whether because it had hit a plateau of generosity, or because it favored the better talker, or because it knew something I didn’t. It was clear that people had grown tired; it was an early morning ride and many people had closed their eyes.

I stood the entire 1 ½ hour busride. First I contemplated the women’s dress. Though you see salwars and saris here, many many women in this area wear—-whew! tiny sexy feminine clothes to work and play, reminding me of South America. Western clothes are de rigeur and seem to have been worn longer here than in the parts of India I've seen. I know this might be elitist or Westernist or something, but I love how comfortable and uncontained women look here in their Western clothes.

It’s funny to me that as people begin to wear Western clothes they don’t have to pass through the same evolution of Western wear that we did; e.g., they don’t have to go through the eighties like everyone else.

Then I contemplated how none of the men were offering me their seat, and none of the mothers with teenage boys were requiring that of their boys. And I thought how this felt rude even though I'd just been excited about the women's equality of attire. (It’s just, we’re weaker. I’m kidding.) Finally a mother did smile at me and have her son offer me his seat, and I refused, no no no, but my heart sank. In any case, there seems to be this universal desire to sit down.

Standing up, though, I recalled a rap my friend Mark Mazziotti and I made up. You know how in these modern songs there’s often a lull where the instruments fade out and someone starts rapping. Well we thought it would be funny if there were one of those added to “Diamonds on the Souls of Her Shoes”. I don't remember all the words, but at one point the rapper says, “I make the sign of a switchblade, you make the sign of a RUN homey, RUNNNNNN!” I was thinking about it and made myself smile and then laugh and then grin wildly in the middle of nowhere.

When it is not lonely not to understand what people are saying, it is very peaceful.

....

I spent the day writing the tiny article for the ngo; it’s taking very long even though it’s so simple, and I’m not sure why. I decided to stay the night in Colombo, and an awesome rickshaw driver toured me around to different hotels, and I started to notice that he was extremely polished and diligent in showing me around in a safe way. (It's like the time a man was imitating an FBI agent for Halloween and I noticed he was too convincing, and it turned out he had worked in Clinton's cabinet.) The rickshaw artist must have noticed I noticed, because he explained that this is his second job; his first is as an escort to the president of Sri Lanka. Unfortunately, govt jobs don’t pay well. Imagine not adequately paying your bodyguard! But then I guess if you did, you’d also have to adequately pay your parking attendant.

At night I went to a huge fancy hotel just out of curiosity. It had a spaciousness similar to some I'd seen in Mexico City—size that serves no purpose but to emphasize opulence--and extremely kindly guards who gave me various kinds of advice. (It was hard to imagine what the hotel would ever do with that size room, but there are a lot of riches here---i.e. there ARE people buying those rice cookers in the airport.) In the hotel there was a live singer and a keyboardist performing for a few people having a midnight snack. She was singing songs that are cheesy and popular here, like “I’m on the Top of the World,” but her voice was completely lovely and she didn’t draw out any of the notes unnecessarily--she was making all the cheesy songs low-key and tasteful. I don’t know what sort of fame she deserves, but when I noticed how good she was, I had the same sickness of heart--and I know how ironic this is—-I’d felt that morning, watching the beggars one after another. So much inequity at every level?!

Finally, thank you oh parents for writing so much and for reading this. Thank you thank you.

Which is all to say that I’m safe in Sri Lanka.

The article I've been working on is really basic--it's for kids--and probably doesn't capture the spirit of the workshop. I tried to post it as a blog but it was torture for many reasons, including that blogger's photo posting mechanism is incon--it sucks. Sucks! But I'm going to just give you the link because I posted a bunch of photos on it: www.cafihealingarts.blogspot.com. It's funny, I haven't got many photos of myself over the years, but now I have so many photos of me! And now you all get to look at them.

Actually I arrived in Sri Lanka today; am staying in the stopover coastal town of Negombo--the beach, though a silty one, is still the beach and close to my room. It feels like an inexplicably sudden, random luxury that I had no choice but to obtain to renew my visa. Tomorrow I'll go to a town in the south where ICAF volunteers have begun a healing arts project, and while I'm there I'll visit some ngos just to learn what they are up to. I also have to write a few things for ICAF and CAFI. I FEEL like I was a tourist for long enough and, though I know I'd be remiss to miss certain things, I'm eager to stay working. But I had a papaya pancake for dinner last night, which was a crepe wrapped around papaya, and it was delicious (and not spicy). Then I had a lemon one and some tea and talked with the owner about the tsunami in Sri Lanka. From his description it encircled nearly 2/3rds of the island, to greater or lesser degrees, over the course of a day. It hit Negombo only slightly, coming up to his shop and knocking over a few tables, and he described it with the awkward guilt some people who weren't quite affected seem to feel.

Colombo Airport is shiny and fresh as if it were just minted, with lots of nice shops selling large, expensive things like duty-free kitchen appliances (I took particular notice of a bunch of rice cookers). There were also many more white people than I'd seen in a while, and the touristness of the place is in stark contrast to Nagapattinam and the tsunami shelter. The airport's niceness startled me, and seemed to simmer with the tension of a place that has fought for years to be a fabulous tourist resort even as it's been enslaved to militia groups. But white tourists trotted through in low-cut tank tops and low-rise jeans, reminding me that you don't have to see the airport's glittering through the darkest possible lens.

I love my room, the smell of the sea, the perfect weather, and the silk trimmed mosquito net that hangs like a canopy over the bed. There are delicate green floral curtains and orange and pink sheets, and there are two little old-fashioned frosted glass wall lamps. I slept strangely well. Over the past few days I tried to read a certain popular book (nameless because I don't want you to do what I did), but the story's tension was really stressful and I had to skim the whole thing to find out what happened before I could relax to read more fully.