chartandwaters

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.