chartandwaters

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.