It was Sunday and a national religious holiday. While national museums and government offices were closed, souvenir shops largely remained open for business, which afforded me the opportunity to pick up some traditional Sri Lankan goods before I left the country on Tuesday. My first stop was The Cricket Shop, a one-stop sporting goods store for all things cricket. Having failed in my previous attempt to secure both white and red cricket balls, this was truly my last chance for redemption. Determined to right the ship for the sake of my friend Robert, who had requested the purchase, I zoomed down Galle Road and made a left turn at St. Anthony's Mawartha. Half expecting the place to be closed for the holiday, The Cricket Shop was brimming with excitement as a team of young cricketers from the UK tried on pads and swung cricket bats of varying sizes and weights. A teenaged blonde girl, likely the girlfriend of one of the enthused patrons, sat on a bench in the middle of the store looking dejected, unamused. I searched for the section where I could find cricket balls and, wouldn't you know it, there was a beautiful display shelf where both white and red cricket balls all sat ensconced in perfect concave dimples like sporty Fabergé eggs. I purchased the elusive white ball (the cost was 1050 LKR but they only charged me 1000 LKR, probably because I was so well behaved in comparison to the rambunctious team running amok in the tiny space) and left the scene, which was gradually devolving into a madhouse as older cricket players began to pour in. I was clearly out of my element.

En route to my next destination, I stopped off at The Commons, another facially unassuming coffee shop identified by Western signage. It was right across the street from the Ladies' College, where men stared like wild dogs into the gate opening up to the campus, anxiously awaiting the exit of their daughters, sisters, and girlfriends. I ordered an iced coffee, as if that would have any lasting effect on my internal temperature, and checked over the impressively eclectic menu. With 20 different types of specialty burgers alone, I knew I would be back.

I continued down Sir Marcus Fernando Mawatha, also known as Alfred Crescent, a road that bowed underneath the expanse of government property that housed the National Museum, University of the Visual and Performing Arts, and Nelum Pokuna Mahinda Rajapaksa Theatre. Upon reaching the penultimate perpendicular intersection of the smiling road, I turned right onto Independence Avenue. After bearing right on Philip Gunewardena Mawatha, about 1/4 mile later I arrived at a place that was rated by Lonely Planet as the #1 shopping attraction and #1 thing to do in Sri Lanka- Lakpahana. If you are looking for local artwork and handicrafts, your trip to Sri Lanka would not be complete without a visit to Lakpahana. Located in two main buildings, this small campus of local artistry offers seemingly everything under the blazing sun. Here you can purchase or simply admire carefully detailed and vibrantly colored works such as masks, batik clothing and wall hangings, wood carved elephants, jewelry, drums, clay pottery, and woven goods of all sizes. Because of the holiday, I practically had the place to myself. Needless to say, I try to support local art when possible, so I did not walk away empty handed.

I started back up Philip Gunewardena Mawatha, and then north on Independence Avenue. My stomach was calling for my attention, and I promised to heed its constant nagging by returning to The Commons for some midday sustenance. The restaurant was considerably busier than before, likely because school had let out and students filed in for lunch. When I came up to the cash register I ordered the Sesame Chicken Burger and a mango juice. The cashier urged me to reconsider, as apparently the stock of mango juice was "kind of rotten." I appreciated his candor, and opted for the chocolate milkshake instead (I can't explain my recent inclination to order milkshakes other than to say that it's so hot all the time I simply want a cold beverage whatever time of day or night it may be, and fruit juices are not always available for the reason stated above). I waited about 40 minutes to receive my meal. Diabetics must have it rough in Sri Lanka if my experiences with customer service are any indication. Had I been drowning, I would have died three times over while I waited for someone to pay attention to my frantic flailing. Fortunately, this was less of a life-or-death situation and more of a hunger game. Politely I inquired about the status of my meal. My chocolate shake, which had been delivered to me only a few minutes after placing my order, stood empty at the edge of my table, an ancient relic of a time when I was in lactose love and the burger of my dreams seemed only moments away from resting in my swollen, trembling hands. Fairly soon after my inquiry the waiter arrived at my small square of solitude with the burger king and its sad regiment of scattered fries. The taste of the burger was remarkable. The description on the placard accurately told of the burger's inner secrets- ginger, soy, and onions were all present and accounted for in generous capacity. The Asian slaw resting orderly atop the patty added a fresh and crispy countervailing force to the surprisingly savory sensation conveyed by the chicken burger. Overall the symphony sounded superb even if the musicians had arrived late to the orchestra. No longer a prisoner to my hunger, I opened the door to the outside world, which spared no time in reminding me it had not similarly cooled off, and returned to my hotel.

On my way back to the Cinnamon Grand I decided to keep an eye out for members of Sri Lanka's Environmental Protection Unit, a division of the police charged with the enforcement of environmental laws (although one interviewee referred to the EPU as a glorified neighborhood watch for illegal dumping activities). I had seen one such green vested officer earlier in the day, and I hoped that my luck might continue. At one point on my walk, I turned into an alley where I could see the ocean and its twinkling white caps seemingly a stone's throw away. No sooner had I hypnotically migrated toward the sea than I was confronted, to my delight, by two officers clad in moss green EPU vests. Excited and in full social science researcher mode, I asked if I could take a photo of the two gentlemen. I handed them my UC Irvine business card and attempted to explain the nature of my research without appearing like an awestruck tourist. If anything, I seemed to have confused them more. Eventually, and with some pleading, I convinced the men to let me take one photo. Pleased that serendipity or perhaps karma had dealt me a good hand, I continued up Galle Road in a state of geeky elation.

That night, César had extended an invitation for me to join him for Easter dinner at the home of Dr. Jayadeva Uyangoda, a constitutional scholar and Professor of Political Science at the University of Colombo. I happily agreed. I left my hotel by cab and arrived at Dr. Uyangoda's house around 7:30pm. There I reunited with César, and met Dr. Uyangoda, his wife, two young professional couples, and a little boy. One of the guests, Mrs. Dinesha Samararatne, had been a lawyer and Fulbright Scholar at Harvard Law, where she earned her LL.M. She is currently a lecturer in the Faculty of Law at the University of Colombo and a doctoral student working on her dissertation. Together our party chatted about primary schooling in Sri Lanka, eating habits in Spain, weather in Florida, and social contract theory. One couple told an interesting story illustrative of the inadequacy of the Sri Lankan legal system. Basically, their neighbors became embroiled in a legal battle over a parcel of land. The issue remained unresolved in the court system for 15 years. Then, one day a judgment was rendered that was favorable to their neighbors. Dissatisfied with outcome, the opposing side murdered the entire family of victors the very next day. Justice here in Sri Lanka has a flavor unlike any other place I have visited thus far.

Thousands of miles away from my place of birth, I found myself strangely at home in the company of otherwise complete strangers and their mild mannered dogs. The food itself was also wonderful, a spread of regional dishes fit for an Easter Sunday meal ("My mom will be happy to know I had at least one home cooked meal while I was out here," I quipped.). Upon having the various items explained to me, I assured the hostess that the pork chops would be no problem for this non-observant Jew, as I believe that the kosher laws essentially functioned as the first food safety laws, now rendered obsolete by the advent of curing and refrigeration. Outside the house on a post just beyond the doorway hung a tile that read "Shalom" in both English and Hebrew. Surely the Angel of Death would have seen fit to pass over this house back in Biblical times. For dessert we raced to finish bowls of green mint ice cream before the glacial chunks turned to emerald soup. Dinesha, her husband, and her adorable son bade us all good evening, and soon César and I decided it was our turn to depart. Our hostess's first couple attempts to call a taxi failed to produce, so I suggested Kangaroo Cabs, which I had used when leaving Dr. Dhanapala's home in the thunder and rain several days ago. Sure enough, we were able to reserve a taxi. After a week in Sri Lanka I was now suggesting which cabs to take. The taxi, a Toyota Prius which César and I shared, dropped my new friend off at his apartment and then continued on into the agonizing abyss of the spring Sri Lankan night.

Today the only interview I had lined up was a Skype chat with Dr. Jayampathy Wickramaratne, Director of the Institute of Constitutional Studies in Colombo. However, Dr. Wickramaratne was currently in Switzerland for work, thus necessitating the virtual interview, which I conducted using my iPad (as a side note, I have found that my iPad has been an excellent surrogate for a laptop during my field research. It is much less cumbersome, faster, and more portable. So far I haven't run into any problems when trying to execute a task for which my laptop would have been my first choice). Doing research in an era of unprecedented globalization is like that- I came all the way from the US to interview people from Sri Lanka and once I get here one of them is now over in Europe. It's a global game of chase. Our original interview time was delayed due to family issues to which Dr. Wickramaratne needed to attend, resulting in a situation which highlighted the importance of being flexible during field work. I purposely never scheduled more than two interviews during a given day because it would be (1) costly, (2) exhausting, (3) potentially troublesome if one of the interviews ran significantly over time or there were transportation problems. As I had only scheduled that one interview for the day, I assured Dr. Wickramaratne that it was no problem to push back our digital meeting. Although the interview lasted just over 15 minutes (interrupted by a couple of electronic hiccups on my part as I tried to set the voice recorder app on the iPad while I was using Skype), it was well worth my time as I found out that indeed there was an attempt to develop a solidarity environmental right in a new version of the constitution, but it never made it beyond the pages of a draft document (which Dr. Wickramaratne emailed me immediately following the conclusion of our Skype session). This was an important side story to the larger narrative surrounding environmental rights in Sri Lanka which I had not previously heard about from any of the other interviewees.

For the rest of the day I decided to go sightseeing in the immediate area and then cap the day off with a drink at the Galle Face Hotel at the suggestion of my friends Heather and Sanjee Wickramarachi back in California. I braved the stifling heat yet again as I circumnavigated Beira Lake, just slightly east of where I was staying. Once I arrived at the opposite bank of the lake I came to a Buddhist temple, the Sima Malaka Meditation Centre. I removed my shoes, paid a small entrance fee (125 LKR = ~$1 USD), and quietly shuffled around the floating holy site. Young children flocked to stoic statues of Buddha to offer prayers and flowers. They pranced around freely and joyfully except for those few moments when they switched schemas to engage in personal introspection and unexamined ritual devotion. I took several photos, as respectfully as one could given the location and circumstances, gingerly popped my shoes back on, and continued up the plank that had led me to the multiple visions of Buddha sitting pensively all around the perimeter of the temple.

I made my way around the previously unexplored side of the lake and witnessed people peddling across the waters inside large white boats meant to look like giant majestic swans and young couples snuggling beneath the cool shade trees lining the cobblestone path overlooking the lake- a post-apocalyptic vision of maritime New England. After leaving the scene behind and nodding to the armed guard standing his post at the edge of the lake, I followed the empty street behind my hotel to areas unknown. Along the way I crossed railroad tracks that ran immediately behind residential housing and another military officer who wished me a good day (the only such time any member of the armed forces engaged me in conversation). Finally, I came upon one of those psychedelic Buddha statues I mentioned in a previous post. Of course I had to commemorate the finding with several photographs. The installation was at once visually mesmerizing and seemingly contradictory, since based on what little I know of Buddha's teachings I'm not sure he would have sanctioned busts in his likeness randomly erected throughout the city and adorned with an electric neon halo that looked like a cheap fireworks display. Unsure where the end of the road would lead, I reversed course and returned to the back of my hotel where an attendant opened the large iron gate to let me in once I flashed my room card.

Gratefully I passed through the intensely air-conditioned interior of the hotel until I left through the front door, opened in advance by a white-gloved gentleman. This time I headed north on Galle Road. After rejecting the solicitations of what seemed like a dozen enterprising trishaw drivers, I found myself at the Galle Face Hotel, only a few yards from where my swindling guide flew out of our cab with my 1000 LKR note in the clutches of his dishonest grip. This time would be different, I told myself. Walking up to the Galle Face Hotel can make one feel poor and insignificant, like standing outside the ropes of the red carpet during the Oscars wearing overalls. What began as a Dutch villa in 1864 has since developed into a kind of monumental colonial compound that is as architecturally stunning as it is physically imposing. A secular temple where deep-pocketed adherents worship the decadence of Sri Lanka's imperial past, it has accommodated the likes of Richard Nixon, John D. Rockefeller, and Princess Alexandra of Denmark. Approaching the building in a plaid buttoned down shirt and shorts, I felt it would be any second before I was handed a shovel to dig garden trenches or towel to drape over my arm and begin taking orders from paying guests. To my surprise, I was welcomed inside without any interrogation. Once in the lobby I asked a gentleman if he could direct me to the bar, and he led me down a stately corridor to a breezy indoor-outdoor patio- the Verandah. I walked down to the gravel track separating the manicured lawn from the ferocity of Sri Lankan sunset waves. A lone national flag positioned at the edge of the track whipped violently in the ocean air. I turned back to have a seat on the terrace, a checkerboard island floating in a sea of low-cut grass, which looked out onto the crescendoing seas and fading sun. After mulling over the drink list, I selected a most appropriate beverage, a variation on the British Pimm's Cup called "Old World Charm," which substituted lime and native cinnamon sticks for the requisite cucumber slice. Surrounded mainly by attractive, swimsuit-clad European couples who had similarly emerged to celebrate the romance of life by imbibing a tropical drink at dusk in the presence of godly water and heavenly sun, I toasted to the end of the day and to the privilege of birth and experience afforded by merit which enabled me to enjoy that golden moment in my existence. I may have been by myself, but I was not alone.

My fifth day was intended to be simple enough- visit a research institute in the morning and conduct an interview in the afternoon. However, thanks to a rather serendipitous arrangement, my day would be far more productive than I had anticipated.

I began by heading downstairs to the Coffee Spot where I picked up my delightfully strange bagel with lox and cream cheese imbued with a certain European flare for having been toasted in a panini press (it looked like a circular crinkle cut fry). Then I set out for the American Institute for Sri Lankan Studies (AISLS), a research organization with whom I had been in contact prior to arriving in Colombo. There I finally met face-to-face with Mrs. Ira Unamboowe, Executive Director of AISLS and warm and dedicated guide, who helped me navigate the unfamiliar territory that is Sri Lanka by providing me with contacts and setting up meetings. We talked and strategized for about an hour, during which time she made phone calls which enabled me to secure additional interviews. Given my time constraints and the fact that there are not one but two national holidays this week, I would not have been able to schedule as many interviews as I have without the assistance of virtual strangers and I am fortunate that so many people, such as Mrs. Unamboowe, have been willing to help me, a graduate student from a university somewhere in California not called Los Angeles or Berkeley. Mutually we agreed that my best course of action for the day would be to visit Environmental Foundation Limited (EFL), an environmentally-focused public interest law organization, gather what literature and contacts I could from there, and make my way to my interview later. Luckily for yours truly, EFL was located within walking distance from AISLS, which pleased, to no small extent, both my feet and my desire to remain dry, or at least drier than I had been during my epic walk from Colombo 08 back to my hotel the previous day.

The tinkering I had done with Google maps while at AISLS indicated that EFL was only a few short blocks away. Early on in my walk I crossed paths with a notable coffee shop, and, given that the heat was already at full tilt, I opted to pick up a cool beverage before formally attacking the uneven pavement to find EFL. After managing to cross the street unscathed, I entered a coffee shop that stood as a symbol of the level of development and cosmopolitanism Colombo aspires to achieve. Though named Java Lounge, this establishment proudly served Starbucks coffee and was decorated more like Central Perk of Friends fame than anything remotely cognizable as Sri Lankan. I ordered an iced coffee. To my chagrin, somehow during the ordering process our communication was severed, leaving me with not a soothing, icy glass of joe, but a piping hot cup of coffee in a ceramic mug. Not wanting to press the matter further, I simply imbibed my hot drink on a hot day, which was easier than it sounds as JL was air-conditioned to abusive Western standards. Fully caffeinated, I ventured back out into the unforgivably hot tropical world and followed the simple directions I had written down in my notepad.

After following my directions precisely, I stood at the corner of Thimbirigasyaya and Spathodea Avenue, perplexed. Where was Havelock Road? I asked a couple guards for help, and they pointed me in the opposite direction from where Google maps had commanded me to go. Street numbers were curiously absent from most building facades, but one building which did feature a number led me to a kind of dirt road where, presumably, I would find the EFL office. Again I inquired with a guard who lackadaisically controlled the traffic going in and out of the residential side street. He informed me that the location I sought was indeed directly down the road he manned. I walked about 50 feet until I saw the sign, in English and Sinhala, for "Environmental Foundation Ltd." I passed through the threshold into a dim and open sauna of an office, staffed almost exclusively by women. Immediately I was faced with the awkward situation of having to deliver an entirely unrehearsed solicitation for assistance. What, do graduate students not just randomly pop in off the street into NGOs in the developed world? In this line of work, one needs to be humble and realize that when asking for help you are totally at the mercy of what is likely to be a complete stranger, so manners function as an important form of currency. In my case, a young lawyer, Ms. Lakmini Amarasinghe, offered to speak with me about my research. Although we experienced a bit of difficulty communicating, the essence of my project and request for contacts and/or resources was conveyed clearly. In fact, I landed a major document- "Your Environmental Rights and Responsibilities: A Handbook for Sri Lanka." At first Ms. Amarasinghe agreed to let me photocopy page 11, "Sri Lankans constitutional right to a healthy environment," (Note: To properly analogize the importance of this section to my research, this single page is nearly equivalent to having someone you asked out on a date but who rejected your advance explain to you that he/she was currently seeing someone at the time you asked, satisfying your thirst for an explanation and weakening any residual stinging sensation) but upon further consultation with another staff member she agreed to let me keep the whole coffee table-sized bilingual reference tool. I expressed my extreme gratitude for her organization's charitable contribution to my dissertation (unfortunately not tax-deductible due to incommensurable tax codes) and left to find lunch.

As I proceeded down the block, however, I came across a sign, partially obstructed by a much larger sign for a bank, that read, "Institute of Human Rights." Although no one I had been in contact with mentioned this particular organization, I thought I might as well check it out and see if they, too, can offer any assistance. I cut off a car that was slowly turning into a car port, and started up the stairs to the second floor, where IHR was located (I seem to recall it actually being on the third floor, but I digress). I advanced down a kind of breezeway and approached the office. Fear flowed into my brain like a a cloud of poison. Just outside the office, hundreds of documents and binders were strewn about haphazardly. From what I could see of the office itself there was no office furniture, just several people in plain clothes milling about. I was hoping to learn that the place had been robbed, and that all of their expensive office equipment had disappeared along with their Herman Miller chairs (there was a Herman Miller store not too far away from the place). At least that might explain the condition of this official-sounding organization. Again I entered the room unannounced and explained who I was and what the hell I was doing standing in an otherwise vacant room with a bag slung over my shoulder and the reddish, sun-impacted skin pigmentation of a non-native. The director of the office had a staff member pull over a plastic lawn chair next to hers. It was devastating to see a human rights organization in such a state of utter disarray. It seemed like to operate under such conditions would certainly qualify as a violation of a second generation human right. The woman heading the institute apologized for the appearance of the office. They were currently in the process of moving to another location, and everyone came in that day to help transport things. A wave of relief crashed over me. We chatted for a few minutes, and the woman provided me with the names of a few people she thought I should contact given my interests. Realizing I was in the middle of an ongoing process, I thanked everyone for their time and descended the stairs leading back out to the street-level carport.

Success and caffeine powering my step, I decided to have lunch at an eatery frequented by locals, so I turned into Sen Sal, a popular café. The entryway was quite cramped; multiple queues formed in front of three different counters (hot food, bakery, and salads/coffee). I shifted about constantly as I stared into the glass case at the bakery counter. Ultimately I settled upon two curried chicken pastries and a 7-Up, which set this traveler back all of about $2. With just enough food to keep me placated until dinner, I returned to the roads.

The time at which my next interview was scheduled to commence drew near, so I hailed a trishaw to take me to Citizens' Trust in Rajagiriya, where I would meet with Ms. Ruana Rajepakse, a well-known environmental lawyer. Due to a clerical error on my part, my cab driver went up and down Nawala Road in search of a mysterious address. We must have stopped to ask for directions from random off duty cab drivers and roadside vendor attendants 5 or 6 times. Meanwhile, my fare kept going up, the final grains of sand emptied from the top of the hourglass, and yet we were still lost. Finally we arrived at what appeared to be a house with a number very close to the one I needed to find. My cabbie asked another driver outside the place where we might find the address I had listed in my notebook. Eventually the second driver called out to someone standing on the porch on the second floor of the house. Then I heard the sound of gentle footsteps respectfully meeting ceramic tiles until the white metal door at the front of the house opened carefully and a woman emerged. It was Ms. Rajepakse. She apologized and informed me that she was currently busy. But, if I was willing to wait, she could see me when she was done. Having nowhere else to go at that point, I agreed. I went upstairs to sit outside her office while she conducted a consultation with a client. In the meantime, she handed me a copy of her book, "A Guide to Current Constitutional Issues in Sri Lanka." It would be an early Sri Lankan Hanukkah for me. Patiently I sat out on the porch where I became acquainted with the history of constitutional law in Sri Lanka and Ms. Rajepakse's dog. About 45 minutes later, everyone had cleared out, including Ms. Amarasinghe, whom I had met earlier that day at EFL. I waved hello and she smiled in return. Finally Ms. Rajepakse invited me in, and offered me a glass of grape juice. Given the temperature and having been outdoors for a while at that point, I gladly accepted. Slender and soft- but very well-spoken, Ms. Rajepakse discussed the constitution and the issue of environmental rights in Sri Lanka with me while her docile dog hugged the cool ground to the right of my chair. The interview ended and I walked down the stairs and followed the snaking path of the residential street to a trishaw stand where I quickly secured a ride back to my hotel.

That night I made plans to eat dinner with César Hernández, a friend of a colleague's at UC Irvine, and currently a lecturer in the School of International Relations at the University of Colombo. We agreed to meet at Sri Manika Vinayagar Kovil, a Hindu temple. Having had fun riding in the trishaws earlier that day, I decided to take another one to our meeting spot. I hopped in one of the little red tricycle golf carts right around the corner from my hotel and instructed the driver where I wanted to go. I don't know what it is about me and getting ripped off on the way to religious sites, but it seems to be a recurring theme during my time in Sri Lanka. I realized almost instantly that the meter for the cab fare was not on. Yet, I rationalized that it probably wasn't necessary because it was at night and they must charge a flat fee or something like that (I can't believe I basically came to a rationalization of why I would be taken for a ride, literally and figuratively, instead of being more suspicious, but I guess that's my Western optimism (read: naïveté) shining through). When we came to the temple, my driver wanted somewhere between 100 LKR and 1000 LKR, but he didn't specify. I told him I would have to break my 2000 LKR bill, so we drove away from the temple and to a convenience store down the road, where he told me to get the bill changed. I asked the cashier to change my bill and, after discussing it with what I presumed to be his superior, he told me he could only break it down into two 1000 LKR bills. I came back to the trishaw with two smaller bills this time and was met by the displeasure of my cab driver who proceeded to drive me to another store where I could get my bills broken down even further. But, bless his heart, my driver finally relented, and he offered to let me pay with one of the 1000 LKR bills in exchange for the 3 miles traveled (to put this in perspective, I paid 880 LKR once during this trip from Colombo 08 in the far eastern reaches of the city all the way back to my hotel in Colombo 03). Personally disappointed and 1000 LKR poorer, I walked to the Hindu temple to meet César. Standing outside, César greeted me right away. We talked about what had just happened as I removed my shoes and we washed our feet to enter the temple. It became apparent to me through our discussion that staying in a nice hotel actually introduced new problems into my field research experience that I had not anticipated at all. Who knew that my staying at a higher end hotel I would be trading safety from contracting dengue fever for being ripped off habitually by trishaw vultures? As we talked, we game planned for how I could avoid getting had in the future. Mainly, I learned that I should never take a trishaw from anywhere in the immediate vicinity around my hotel. When someone sees you walking out of a fancy hotel, you are instantly an easy mark. It's a kind of unfortunate stigma that follows you, as if you are hemorrhaging money into the ocean waters where trishaw sharks lay and wait to tear into your wallet. In addition, this means getting dropped off at places outside the hotel and just walking to the hotel once you have paid your fare and left the vehicle. This whole experience is really depressing because it is indicative of what's going on in the country (and even the region) as a whole. Corruption, not democracy, is the true form of governance in places like this. Political leaders drunk with power are enabled by a populace that is unaware of the level of abuse present or unable to force a change in the ruling faction in place or both. With little oversight and substantial pensions, government workers simply bide their time until the grand payday is upon them. At the lower levels of society, people like my cab driver care not about national pride or trying to improve their country. Instead, they would rather rip off a foreigner who is providing the country with money through tourism. I truly want to believe that people will do good if left to their own devices, but my experiences and conversations so far dictate otherwise. At any rate, my confidant and I sat and talked until we were ushered out of the temple, at which point we went across the street to dine at Amirthaa, a vegetarian restaurant. At the street level of the restaurant a large menu lay plastered against the wall. César explained the menu to me and we went up the stairs to the dining room. Once there, both of us washed our hands in a kind of communal sink basin and they were left to dry in the muggy upstairs jungle night air. We ordered an assortment of dishes, all to be set upon wax paper wrapped around a metal plate and eaten by hand with the aid of a kind of pancake called dosai, which came in an assortment of flavors. The dosai had an appearance and texture that inspired mental comparisons to a Dutch pancake and Ethiopian injera, although less spongy than the latter. The dishes ranged in terms of their spiciness, some so spicy that I feared I would consume my entire skinny bottle of Coke Classic before finishing a portion of my meal. César and I exchanged war stories from the front lines of academia and had our worries overpowered by the raw heat of curries and chillies. We settled the bill and said our goodbyes downstairs. I felt happy to have had dinner with someone, as so far on my trip I have been alone at every meal.

Thunder rang sharply and the skies began to open up again. I walked back to my hotel 3 miles north in drizzling rain, throwing a wave to the colossal fortress that is the United States Embassy as I scuttled past. Once I got to my hotel I sauntered over to Coffee Spot where my day had begun. I ordered a vanilla milkshake. I felt I had earned it.

Today was supposed to be uneventful. I would grab breakfast, check out the immediate surroundings, and return to my hotel to read up on Sri Lankan environmental law. All that changed when I left the comforts of the Cinnamon Grand Colombo and began to wander along Galle Road.

About 5 minutes into my walk, I was approached by a young Sri Lankan man who asked me, "My friend, where are you from?" I explained that I was from the US, and I had come to Sri Lanka to conduct research on environmental laws and the constitution (throughout our time together I attempted to paint myself as a lonely poor student, but this approach failed to garner sympathy thanks to the fact that I was staying in a nice hotel). The man said he worked for the Cinnamon Grand and wanted to thank me for my patronage and for the important work I was undertaking which would surely help the Sri Lankan people. As a courtesy, he would show me around Colombo, especially the religious sites, which were buzzing with excitement given that today is a major holiday celebrating the new moon. I already assumed that this was some kind of gimmick, but I figured it might be a good opportunity to see some areas of the city I might not get to see otherwise, and I would be glad to pay the man a reasonable fee for his services. This notion was at least partially misguided, as I would later find out.

The man flagged a random trishaw (a tiny motorized vehicle that looked like a tuk tuk mixed with a rickshaw) and we sped down broad dusty roads until arriving at a large Buddhist temple. Together we exited the red golf cart and removed our shoes at the entrance. In the center of the entryway stood a large ceramic pot of sorts with signs soliciting funds for "the children." My "guide" instructed me to leave donations for both of us. In the pit of my stomach I could feel my anxiety building as I was sure this was a test to gauge how much money I was carrying. Nevertheless, we walked into the temple and I was given a whirlwind tour of the place, which included clearly rehearsed commentary. The man led me swiftly through the temple on a tortuous path, stopping occasionally for less than 30 seconds to point out a relic, gem, or statue, implore me to take a photo (taking photos under duress is infinitely less enjoyable than snapping photos at one's leisure), and urge me on my less-than-merry way. With the speed at which we navigated the holy site, I was quite certain that my pal did not make regular visits here simply to pay his respects. At least he was kind enough to indulge my characteristically touristy inclinations by allowing me to return to the elephant we saw early on during my tour and photographing me several times in front of it. I should have interpreted the elephant's nervous swaying, as if entranced by some indigenous narcotic, as a bad omen. We retrieved our soles and returned to the little crimson tin can on wheels.

My involuntary friend informed the driver that we needed to go to the Lanka Gem Bureau, where surely exceptional deals on precious and semi-precious stones awaited us. This part of our tour seemed eerily reminiscent of the time I let my cab driver in Nepal take me to his friend's mandala workshop to "learn" about the ancient craft (as one might expect, I was offered "excellent" prices on unreasonably large paintings, with a portion of the sale likely going to my "friend" as a sort of finder's fee). Once we alighted at the gem shop it was all business. My guide informed me he had to go outside to have a smoke, and I was left to interact with a gem salesman who went to painstaking efforts to provide me with all kinds of discounts (did you know that students get discounts on gems in Sri Lanka? Now you do!) and assure me that I was getting one-time, wholesale-and-holiday-only prices. At first he tried to sell me small planets that would have set me back over a hundred dollars (US). Then, as I began to explain my financial situation, he relented a bit, offering me deeply discounted semi-precious gems which surely I could not live without. I carried on under the premise that the gift would be for my mother, but perhaps this was foolhardy because (1) it imbued the purchase with heightened significance since, when buying a gift for your mother, "you spend $1,000, but it's worth $100,000" in motherly love returns (as the man told me), and (2) the gem I was looking at was yellow, and, as anyone who knows my mother well will tell you, anything yellow is a non-starter. So there I sat, being cajoled into buying a small yellow gem stone for a mother who hates yellow with unwavering passion. I signed half the day's financial life away, and my guide suggested that we go to the beach. This sounded like a good idea because it was a public place and the opportunity for trouble seemed minimal.

Again we plopped into the little ruddy buggy and buzzed down Galle Road toward the beach. Without warning, my buddy told the driver to stop immediately, and he began to exit the car(t). He then requested that I pay the driver. I dug into my wallet and offered 1400 LKR, but the driver, a sullen man who held unspoken cab fare expectations, demanded at least 3000 LKR. This proved problematic because I had only 1400 LKR and a 5000 LKR bill (~$43 USD), which I desperately tried to conceal. I thumbed through the differentially-sized bills in my wallet and attempted to explain that I didn't have any more money. This did not sit will with either my guide or the driver. My new pal, being as keen as he was ruthless, spotted the 5000 LKR bill that was not well hidden in the back of my billfold. Proudly he assured the driver that, indeed, I had more money than I had let on (on a personal note, while I have never felt truly uncomfortable with the level of personal information of mine made available to either private companies [i.e. Facebook] or the federal government [thanks, Patriot Act!], this visual intrusion felt like the most unnerving violation of privacy I had ever endured in my adult life. If eyes are windows into the soul, my wallet was not too far removed, however metaphysically speaking). Caught between a rock and a harder rock, I struggled to determine the best course of action. Of course, my selfless friend made my decision for me. He told the driver that he would take the 1000 LKR so he could get a beer, and the driver would confiscate my 5000 LKR and drive us both to a bank where it could be broken into the smaller bills needed to settle the score. As mysteriously as my guide had entered my life he was now gone, 1000 LKR richer and cloaked in the warm fuzzy feeling one gets from swindling a foreigner out of his money. The driver, not one to delay the inevitable receipt of his payment, turned a hard right and we careened down the street into new and uncertain territory. It was at this point I decided to cut my losses and end this slide into a downward spiral by jumping the puny red ship. As we slowed down while turning around a bend I leapt out of the vehicle and sternly told the driver that he could have the whole sum.

Seeking to rectify what had thus far been quite a mixed day, I ventured to the beach where my guide had run off to chase girls with beer. I took several photos of the sparkling coastline and food huts which lined the cement boardwalk. I pondered the inconsistent messages that the developing world delivered me, being granted interviews and enthusiastic support from members of the scholarly community on the one hand, to being played for a fool during a national holiday at a Buddhist temple on the other. I paused to observe the beauty of the azure sea and its ironic gem stone clarity. It was a welcome contrast to the tall lanky man who kept glaring at me from several yards away. Perhaps I gave off the odor of a freshly wounded fish, and nearby sharks with killer instincts and an indefatigable olfactory sense hovered excitedly nearby, desperate to pounce at the first drop of blood. The serenity of the gentle salty waves began to lose ground to my burgeoning paranoia, so I turned my back to the wind and started up the wide lawn abutting the concrete walkway, hopping down the stone embankment onto a side street running perpendicular to Galle Road.

As I traveled purposively on the sidewalk, a middle-aged Sri Lankan man approached me. He asked, "My friend, where are you from?"