Sri Lanka
Little things I'd like to remember from the most challenging chapter yet
Floods, bad tummies, wrong directions, and a lot of saying ‘no, thank you’: Sri Lanka took an amount of grit that I wasn’t really sure I possessed. If I had to pick a word to describe it, I think it would be ‘unbridled’. So, so insanely beautiful, but unbridled.
When I exchanged experiences with others, we all agreed that Sri Lanka had required us to grow up a little bit - to really listen into our intuitions, and do the difficult thing more often. Frankly, I found trying to keep afloat and enjoy that experience a little bit exhausting. Not letting a highlight become overshadowed by the fight to get there felt impossible, sometimes.
But when I was on the rocky train back to the capital for my outbound flight, I was rewarded with my last, and most beautiful Sri Lankan sunset. And then I wrote about all of the other wonderful little things that accompanied me on the four-week conquest through chaos:
Coconut sambol. Shavings from the coconut’s flesh, mixed with onion, chilli, some citrus, and other things. They all have the same core but flavours, somehow, vary widely. It’s the perfect chilled, spicy kick to the sweeter, softer curries of legumes and squash that I eat almost every day.
The bus. Going somewhere three hours away for less than a euro. Dashboard disco balls and mini shrines, to Buddha, or Jesus, or Ganesh; maybe all three. The blaring Sri Lankan pop music that Shazam will never pick up, no matter how hard I try. The stocky driver, who sits mute, focused on the road, pinging away on the horn with one hand, the other wrapped around a hoola-hoop sized steering wheel. Blockia gripped between his index and middle finger. His spritely accomplice who weaves through the crowds all the while, taking money and shouting the bus’s comings and goings. The two seconds you get to enter or exit the vehicle before it speeds off again.
Okku, the ‘man of the house’ in the hostel I volunteered at for two weeks. His small frame, jumpy disposition, and his heavy smoker’s laugh. He’s one of those people whose age you will never guess. He cooked us dinners most nights; spicy concoctions with mango flesh, gorgeous dhal, shitloads of rice. When monkeys start thrashing around on the roof, he makes these indescribable noises at them while shaking a broom, sending us all into fits of laughter. How he managed to warmly offer me hash, without making it weird (I still didn’t take any, for the record). How he held my hand like I was a child when I asked for a photo with him before I left.
The rice bag he gave me, too. It’s yellow and covered in squiggly Sinhala. The locals use them for carrying around random bits, as we might with a plastic Aldi number. People tend to do a double take when I use it, which is quite funny.
Soy meat. Pellets of dried protein, sold in packets like instant noodles, complete with sachets of spices and sauce. Maybe that sounds gross. But they are genuinely an incredible meat substitute, which is crucial to my survival in the face of a cooking-foreign-meat phobia. You soak and cook them, and they legitimately taste like sausages. 80 rupees – about 20c – for a 2-serving pack.
The chin-waggle. When saying ‘yes’ or feeling happy with something, people sway their heads side-to-side. Of course, having never seen this before, at first I assumed it was a sassy, taunting thing. Now I think it’s what I will miss most.
Hoppers. Sri lanka’s answer to a taco. Made from rice flour, the cup-shaped thins are filled with stir-fried vegetables inside, or even just a fried egg. Sometimes served with some dhal for dipping. I even found a sweet one, made with jaggery, with set coconut yogurt and granola inside. I dream about it.
Sari spotting. On the street, waiting for the bus, in the supermarket. Not every woman wears one – I still haven’t figured out if it’s a personal choice, or down to occasions. Sometimes at rush hour, I’ll see women emerging in their drapery and vibrant colours, clad with heels and a handbag. Did they go to work like that? I don’t know how they do it; I look down at my stained vest top and bobbly cotton shorts.
Monkeys. Monkeys being as common in Sri Lanka as magpies at home. Walking somewhere and spotting them jumping deftly through the trees. Even if one of them swung its way into my open-air bathroom one hungover morning, getting a nice view of me slouched on the toilet. And all the other animals; the peacocks, chameleons, weird fish, giant bats, and so many more that I don’t know by name.
Donning the flipflops and walking through angle-deep puddles. Filthy and everywhere. At the time I could’ve cried; Now I’m glad I just embraced it. Leave the birkies at home if you’re coming to a tropical climate, girls, they’ll turn to mulch. You don’t need pretty things when there’s so much to take in, anyway.