Similar to my research in Nepal last summer, my last day of field work would be jam-packed and not without the requisite amount of drama. In the morning I had to venture the furthest distance I would be required to travel for an interview while in Sri Lanka. I woke up at 7:30am, skipped breakfast, and went straight to the taxi line outside my hotel to make the trip out east to Battaramulla, where the main office of the Central Environmental Authority (Sri Lanka's equivalent of the United States' EPA) was located. Traffic caused us some delay, but even so I arrived at CEA HQ at 8:55am for a 9:15am meeting with Ms. Manuja Wimalasena, Director of the Legal Office. I was surprised at how easy it was to gain access to an official government building, especially in a country that has only recently emerged from a major conflict. My cab driver accidentally entered through the gated exit area, but the guards on duty were not perturbed. I was dropped off in front of the building, the cab facing the wrong direction, and headed inside.

I informed the desk attendant at the right side of the lobby that I had a meeting with Ms. Wimalasena, and, without any verification of my credentials or contacting my alleged interviewee, I was provided instructions on how to find the appropriate office. Strategically located fans hummed comically as their efforts failed to produce even the slightest respite from the oppressive heat resting defiantly inside the building. I navigated the stairs to the second floor to find a veritable maze of nearly identical glass-walled offices. Only single metal signs denoting the name of the exact office contained within the continuous-yet-partitioned offices offered any clue as to whether I was headed in the right direction. Eventually I asked someone roaming the halls, and they motioned that the Legal Office was down a long corridor and to the left. Finally I came upon the steel engraved placard displaying the magical words, "LEGAL OFFICE," and I pushed the door to enter the cordoned-off area. As usual I felt slightly embarrassed as I explained the reason for my sudden appearance. A woman led me to the Director's office, a cubicle within a cubicle, and I introduced myself, apologizing for arriving earlier than planned (the result of a residual insecurity from a time in college when I was thoroughly chastised for turning in a term paper early, causing the professor to misplace it and award me an undeserving "F"). From then on I conducted the interview, which was more like an information session a hopeful intern might attend and less like a focused discussion of environmental rights. Our meeting was interrupted a couple times for urgent work-related reasons, but this was to be expected in any major bureaucratic body. Nevertheless, it was useful to understand more about the existing legal framework pertinent to environmental issues and what kinds of legal problems the office has had to contend with. I showed myself out and left the building correctly through the exit this time, stepping in front of an SUV that was attempting to squeeze out of the narrow passage.

At this point in the morning I was positively starving. I walked along the road until I encountered a small village of food vendors serving various baked goods and beverages. It looked like an ad hoc settlement where construction workers might stop for fuel after putting in a couple hours of work. Eating virtually anything from a small roadside vendor was extremely risky for me given the quality of food preparation, the ripeness (read: rottenness) of the food, and the fact that I have food allergies. However, feeling famished and uncommonly adventurous, I surveyed the array of pastries that sat stacked behind a glass case and chose what I assumed to be the most innocuous delicacy- a bun with a pool of crystallized sugar gathered in the center, a kind of half-hearted donut. I pointed to the treat and asked for the price. "Twenty rupees," replied the middle-aged woman behind the counter. This amounts to roughly fifteen cents in US currency. I was quick to oblige. I handed the woman a 50 rupee note, which won me a gracious grin, and I flew away, voraciously consuming my newly purchased glistening gem of doughy goodness not even twenty feet later.

Eventually I found myself at the corner of an unfamiliar intersection, and it was unclear as to which way I should go. Suddenly, I remembered that I had forgotten to collect my questionnaire and media release forms from Ms. Wimalasena. Discouraged only because it meant that I would have to walk in the treacherous heat back the way I had just come, I begrudgingly retraced my steps and opened the gate to the entrance of the environmental compound where I explained my situation to the guards laying back in the security booth. Without much discussion they signaled that I could pass through. I crossed the threshold to the entrance, explained what had happened to the pleasant desk attendant, and started up the wooden staircase, where warm air hung like disappointment after losing the big game. Fortunately Ms. Wimalasena was still in her office, and she recognized right away why I had returned so soon after our interview. She told me that she didn't have my cell number or else she would have called. Happily I collected my lost items and left the building yet again. This time I let myself out of the gate. No one objected.

I made my way down the street until I stood in the midst of a pack of trishaws. I figured these tuk tuks would be more dependable than the ones by my hotel, as they lingered near the foreign employment office. They were not catering to a wealthy clientele. I located a driver willing to bring me to the National Museum and we sped west, the promise of an officially sanctioned cultural experience providing me with energy as my sugar rush began to fade.

Satisfied that I finally took a trishaw without being taken for a ride, I alighted at the museum, a palatial estate that reminded me of the White House. Although part of the exhibit was closed for renovations, I was more than happy to see what I could. I paid 250 LKR for my ticket and 250 LKR for a photography permit, and proceeded into the surprisingly dark and humid interior of the monument to Sri Lankan history.

The National Museum displayed artifacts dating from antiquity through the birth of the modern state system. Fantastic relics of stone, metal, and ivory illustrated the various cultural and religious influences which found their way into Sri Lanka's works of artistic expression. Portuguese, Dutch, Indian, and Chinese elements fused with Hindu and Buddhist religious inspiration. Busts of ornate Hindu gods stood alongside geometrically consistent depictions of Buddha. Aside from the sheer impressiveness of the exquisite detail featured in the cultural artifacts (the royal throne cast in gold and covered in red velvet is a clear stand out), I think the most unexpected attribute of the artwork was its deliberate attention to proper human proportions. I always found European art from the Medieval period bland and unrealistic, as infants appearing in frescoes (I found out that the very term "fresco" is actually a misnomer) were painted in proportions that had them look like miniature adults, for example. In Sri Lankan murals dating back to the 5th and 6th centuries, however, the human form was presented usually in 3/4ths view using physical representations that approached true-to-form anatomical correctness. While some artifacts seemed like classic manifestations of ancient deities (occasionally reminding me of Mayan statues), others, particularly a few of the paintings, seemed almost cartoonish given the liberal use of vibrant colors throughout. In short, the exhibit was exceptional not only for the incredible artisanship on display, but also for the variety of artistic media available for appreciation.

On my way back to my hotel I got seriously lost. I was walking around Beira Lake, past the cricket field, when I made a turn down Hudson, which, as it turned out, was the wrong street. From that point onward I meandered through ever-narrowing unpaved roads lined by conjoined ramshackle domiciles. Towels served as doors. Sacks of rice formed solid, if lumpy, furniture. Buckets functioned as sinks. It was my first time in the presence of housing that looked like it could have been featured in National Geographic Magazine, where Westerners could view dilapidated slums from the comfort of their heated toilet seats. As the roads constricted so too did my throat, the unfamiliar territory closing in on my confidence, marking my defeat at last. To my surprise, despite the alarming condition of these familial prison cells, everyone I came across was amiable and chipper. Although I was a White alien in a gray polo shirt, I instantly felt that my presence was received not with suspicion but celebration. Sparkling white smiles flashed as readily as sanguine salutations. Children unencumbered by clothing darted in and out of terraces like scrawny hummingbirds fluttering from one nectar-laden flower to the next (Note: I deliberately did not take any photographs of the people of these humble quarters because I have grown increasingly self-conscious about objectifying others and placing some kind of artificial distance between myself and them, especially when I'm the guest in a foreign land. As Julie Delpy remarked in the film "2 Days in Paris," at some point when observing the world through the lens of a camera, one inevitably becomes divorced from the reality they are seeking to capture. I very much wanted to maintain my ontological position as a constituent element of my current surroundings).

Eventually I came to an impasse. To make matters worse, my sugar bun was now a distant memory, and the beast of hunger began to growl antagonistically. Realizing that I must have mistakenly made my way into this backroad neighborhood, a woman politely directed me to walk through a narrow shaded corridor marked by a makeshift moat of stagnant wastewater. It seemed too closed in to be the right path and yet, sure enough, after sidling through a 100-yard stretch of slender pavement I emerged out onto a wider road. The blinding field of nearby hanging laundry seemed like comforting flags of my home country. I knew where I was. I walked toward Beira Lake and was back on the main road in no time.

What was remarkable about these squalid abodes was the amount of life that was carried out and contained within their limiting concrete walls. Whole families, including pets, shared these minute spaces, able to carry out every day tasks and chores that people pay others to do in houses 10 times their size. Their minimalist lifestyles elicited an acute sense of capitalist guilt, the psychological consequence resulting from a maldetermination of need manifested in an excess of consumption. These living situations highlight the importance of perspective when differentiating one's physical needs from one's culturally derived wants. In fact, just the other day I became engaged in a debate on Instagram with someone who posted a photo of a collection of basketball shoes juxtaposed with a photo of a large house. The message of the overall picture was that some dreams are legitimate because of the seriousness conferred by their prestige, whereas others are inferior because they focus on less objectively desirable goals. I argued that this photo missed the point entirely; that is, whether it is aiming to own lots of shoes or a McMansion, both are completely unnecessary and neither are laudable pursuits because they are driven by an emptiness borne of insecurity. The point is that the crowded shacks that I walked past during my high noon hunger daze suggested that perhaps happiness is not a human emotion best measured in square footage.

Minutes later I stood drenched in sweat at the entrance to Crescat Boulevard. I had arrived at Sugar Bistro and Wine Bar, and just as destiny and the kind hearts of slum dwellers enabled my triumphant return to my place of origin, I felt destiny compelled me to replenish my exhausted energy supply with another filling English breakfast. Little did I know at the time, I would need every bit of strength at my disposal for the final interview of my field work in Sri Lanka.

My seventh and final interview was scheduled for 5:30pm with Dr. Sumith Pilapitiya at the World Bank. I left the hotel at 5:00pm, confident that I could walk to my site in rush hour traffic faster than any trishaw, however honorable or nimble, could motor. Although the sun began to set, the temperature had not received the memo. Nevertheless, I forged ahead on the concrete, wasting no time and stopping for no one. At 5:15pm I came up to the location where my trusty Google maps had informed me I could find the World Bank office. The only problem was that the addresses on the nearby buildings were all wrong- they were in the hundreds and I was looking for 73-upon-5. To complicate matters, I asked several people nearby in a frantic attempt to find this building, but they either gave me the wrong directions or had no idea whatsoever where this supposed building could be found. I walked up and down 5th Lane three times, ignoring the security guard whom I had asked for directions when he saw me curiously speed pass his booth back and forth along the road. It was now 5:30pm. I did not want to be late for my interview and there was no way in hell I was going to miss it. Still, I could not find the DFCC building to save my life and I was officially late.

In a moment of resignation I called my interviewee's office and left an apologetic message, explaining that I simply could not find his office and I did not want to waste his time if he was not able to meet. However, I planned on heading up the road in the hopes that I might eventually find the correct building. Just as in the case of Nepal, I flirted with disappointment on my last day and the ugly feeling of failure crept over my forehead, displacing the feeling of sweat and curled hair with a warm and gut-wrenching sensation. I tried using Google maps again, and, to my surprise, the output of my search matched that of an initial query I had processed the day before but had dismissed in light of the most recent effort. The results made my blood boil. The World Bank office which I so desperately intended to find was about 1/4 mile from my hotel on the very same side of the street. I could have leisurely strolled out of my hotel at 5:20pm and turned up Galle Road to make my interview with time to spare. That image only served to vex me further and strengthen my resolve to get to the office. Maybe, just maybe, I could catch my interviewee as he was exiting the building for the day. It was worth a shot.

From then on, I bolted up the street, a man possessed by determination and unphased by his deteriorating physical appearance. Once I reached the American Embassy I started sprinting, holding my shoulder bag which contained my camera and digital recorder close so as to not lose the very equipment I would need for the interview. In bandaged heel and boat-shoed feet I ran like I could see the finish line at the Surf City Half Marathon. Finally I turned right down a recently paved but nondescript road, reaching what looked like a sleazy Italian restaurant or banquet hall in New Jersey. Panting and painted in the sweat of my dedication, I explained to the guards stationed outside who I was and why I was at the DFCC building. They granted me entrance and I filed into the elevator to reach the second floor. Once the elevator brought me up one level I exited enthusiastically and scanned the offices for signs of life, or, more importantly, Dr. Sumith Pilapitiya. I worked my way around a corner and became startled by what I found- Dr. Pilapitiya's office, door ajar, lights on, with a bag on the ground and glasses resting beside his computer. The air conditioning was blaring an unmerciful tune. It rang like music in my ears. Clearly, he was still here. I searched the other offices for someone who could shed light on this mystery and confirm my suspicions. I found one such gentleman, who informed me that Dr. Pilapitiya was in a meeting down the hall. We walked down the hall and opened the door to the meeting in progress. Not having any idea what my interviewee looked like, I cast a wave into the general vicinity of the conference room. One gray-haired man stood up and made his way to the door. He told me that if I was willing to wait, he could see me after his meeting. In the meantime, I could sit in his office.

Overjoyed, I retreated to Dr. Pilapitiya's office to cool down and calm my nerves. I waited an hour, but it was worth it. I didn't give up. I didn't fail. Persistence reigned supreme. Sometimes, the wheel that squeaks the loudest does get the grease.

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.

Today I had only one interview scheduled mainly because it was Good Friday, a national holiday in Sri Lanka. I had arranged to meet with Ravi Algama, an environmental lawyer, at his home right around the corner from my hotel for an interview at 8:30am. Foolishly I thought that at that time of the morning it might be cooler outside, but my baseless forecast did not come to fruition and so I sloshed through the side street saunas on my short walk to Mr. Algama's abode. Once I arrived, I was received with great enthusiasm and hospitality. Mr. Algama brought me tea with milk dressed in matching white cup and saucer. Then he presented me with a gift- a gold-plated betel leaf, which was intended to be used as an ashtray (the real betel leaf itself is often used in conjunction with tobacco), but of course it could be utilized for other purposes as well. I suggested it would be a fine place to drop my house keys when I enter my apartment. Mr. Algama informed me that we would have until 10:30am to complete the interview because an issue came up with the choir at his church, and he was being called into active duty for Good Friday musical leadership. I let him know that, based on my recent experiences, the interview would not take anywhere near that long, so he should be fine. Before the interview formally began with the official pressing of the universal red recording button on my digital audio recorder, we talked for a few minutes about where I was from and my religious background (once you tell someone you're Jewish, unless they are a missionary, they are likely to accept that as a valid excuse for not attending church). Eventually this introductory chat came to a close, and the interview began. Again the interview was quite succinct, but the information I obtained was useful, and I felt that I was trending ever closer to reaching the point of theoretical saturation; that is, different people at different times were continuing to provide me with the same kind of answers for the questions I was asking. For a social science researcher this is a positive development, for it suggests that a potential explanation for a phenomenon being studied holds some intersubjectivity- a collective, if tacit, understanding about an issue. I thanked Mr. Algama for the gift and we made tentative plans to talk again on a more informal basis before I left to return to the US.

I exited the premises and landed back on the residential street from whence I came in order to retrace my steps. I stopped to take a couple photographs of Beira Lake and noticed some people playing cricket, the most popular sport in Sri Lanka (apparently the national sport is volleyball, but I haven't seen anyone playing volleyball in empty industrial lots like I have with cricket). I noticed that while a recreational match was underway in a nearby field, the real entertainment was supplied by a little boy, an aspiring batsman, who was taking serious swings at lobbed pitches. When one bowler would tire, he would demand that someone else take his place and resume throwing to him. The dedication possessed by the little cricketer was sweet and inspiring, especially because it appeared to come from within. He pursued his craft with tremendous persistence without any prodding from his mother, who sat nearby manning the snack station. I managed to take a few photos of the little boy in action and then I resumed my journey back to my hotel.

Because it was still early and all I had been eating in the mornings were meat pastries and bagels, I felt that I owed it to myself to have at least one real, substantial breakfast while I was out here. I recalled having passed a sign at the entryway to the Crescat Boulevard shopping mall advertising a "traditional English breakfast" for 900 LKR (~$7 USD) at a place called Sugar Bistro and Wine Bar. Having traveled to the UK I had some idea of what this breakfast might entail, so with thoughts of meat, jam, and beans floating through my mind like so many little heart bubbles I entered Sugar and took a seat by the window. After I ordered my English breakfast (as if there were any doubt as to what I would get), an old British couple sat down at the table adjacent to mine. It was about 10am, and the woman at the table was gushing over the prospect of ordering cinnamon and honey ice cream. But first, she made some important observations and articulated them with a certain seriousness to her husband. "This table is rather wobbly, don't you think? It seems like every table we sit at is wobbly. I think they must be made wobbly on purpose!" Immediately I hoped that my twilight years would not devolve into a running commentary on the mundane. The presence of British vacationers here is unmistakeable- the accent, the sense of humor, the pallid skin palette. Sri Lanka is a former British colony, and seeing the English here makes me wonder if they ever give pause to consider that their continued presence in the country is tantamount to a kind of de facto form of neocolonialism. At one time, the Brits set up plantations in Sri Lanka and staffed them with Tamil slaves from India. Now they come here on holiday expecting a certain level of treatment by the heirs of that misfortune. This made me wonder whether Americans will visit Iraq 50 years from now and similary act as if nothing illegitimate and devastating was ever perpetrated by them. While I was busy pondering the subterranean subtext of post-colonial leisure travel, the first portion of my breakfast arrived- an exquisitely plated assortment of fruit. Back in 2007 I found out I was allergic to pomegranates (or at least pomegranate juice), and so I'm particularly vigilant about consuming unknown fruits. On the plate before me rested three colorful treats- a disc of pineapple, a wedge of watermelon, and a slice of some kind of neon orange fruit I did not recognize. Boldly going where I believed I had never gone before, I ate the pineapple, then the watermelon, and finally started to chip away at the new world of sweet radiance staking a claim as the last fruit standing. After taking a bite, I was certain that I had never eaten this fruit before. It tasted like 85% fruit, 15% rottenness. It had skin like a melon, but it was thin enough to consume. With each subsequent bite I wondered why anyone would ever eat this particular fruit when so many superior alternatives existed. I just hoped I didn't break into hives as the fruit sought to exact revenge on me for my caustic review (later I discovered that this "mysterious" fruit was, in fact, papaya. With this quandary resolved, I can honestly say that the only kind of papaya I desire is Gray's). The rest of my breakfast was as characteristically British as my painfully boring table neighbors, but infinitely more satisfying. I finished it in a period of time that some might think impolite, but I had lots of blog writing to do. I settled my bill and returned to my hotel only a few yards away, full of eggs, beans, potatoes, toast, jam, bacon, juice, and coffee, and thoughts that needed to be penned (or, in my case, pushed).

The rest of the day I spent blogging poolside until my battery begged me to be rejuvenated and I retired to my room to charge my iPad and recharge myself. Several hours and two posts later, I continued my English culinary streak with a dinner downstairs at Cheers, a British pub. I will say this: the ethical complexities of colonialism notwithstanding, Sri Lankans sure know how to bake a mean shepherd's pie.

Today marked the beginning of the interview phase of my field work in Sri Lanka. First, I met with Mario Gomez, Executive Director of the International Centre for Ethnic Studies, at the ICES office in Colombo 08. Due to unforeseen circumstances, our interview was cut short. However, in the brief time in which we met, I felt that I obtained some very important insight about environmental rights in Sri Lanka, which is the focus of my research here. Mainly, I learned that Sri Lanka has already had extensive environmental regulations on the books since the early 20th century, especially where wildlife and land conservation are concerned. Although admittedly enforcement of said regulations is far from adequate, a substantial framework is in place to maintain and safeguard environmental quality, which is ultimately the modus operandi for adopting solidarity environmental rights (i.e. "Everyone has the right to a healthy environment," as stipulated in Nepal's 2006 Interim Constitution). In addition, Mr. Gomez extended me the courtesy of agreeing to meet again or follow up by phone should I need additional information. I left ICES and decided to walk back to my hotel (about 2 miles away) in 90F (felt like 98F, according to the Weather Channel) heat and 74% humidity. This decision, though perhaps idiotic from the standpoint of comfort, also yielded a wonderfully unusual (in Western standards) bonus.

I headed west toward the coast. Along the way, I came across Viharamahadevi Park, one of Sri Lanka's many municipal parks. It was a vast expanse of shady trees punctuated by a central lake bifurcated by a crumbling bridge. Given the unrelenting heat, I decided to seek temporary refuge among the park's promising verdant environs (at least this much I have learned as a result of studying the urban heat island portion of the LEED Green Associate exam). Unsurprisingly, I was approached by a man in a baseball cap alleging to be the park's gardener. "Have you seen the elephant?" the man inquired with feigned innocence. "Here, I can show you. I'm the gardener," I was assured. But before our interaction devolved into a redux of my first encounter with a Sri Lankan snake oil salesman I trotted away, firmly implying my resolve to avoid interaction. As casually as he had arrived, the man slowly retreated back into the urban forest. Perhaps he had spied a more unwitting prey. Yet, having only seen an elephant once so far on my trip, for a couple moments at a Buddhist temple, I was intrigued by the prospect of seeing a pachyderm again. Thus, I crept along the outer rung of the park following a semi-circular course until the constant gardener was far afield. Then, I turned about face and dove back into the park until I hit a concrete path which roughly traced the natural contours of the lake. After permitting the walkway to serve as my unofficial (and certainly more trustworthy) guide, I stepped out onto the cool grass in search of wildlife of the mega herbivore variety. Although I enjoyed the visual assistance of my prescription sunglasses, the interior of the park was rather dark, as the shade of long trees cast shadows that overlapped, obscuring the unfamiliar landscape. Yet, among the broad brown limbs scattered about the habitat I could perceive some kind of repetitive undulation occurring several feet above the ground about 200 feet away. To be sure, this was no national flag playing a patriotic song to the gentle park wind; the quietly rippling fabric was circular and gray. As I drew closer, I could make out that this steel-colored sail was affixed not to a metal pole, but a large mass which appeared to be moving, albeit with great deliberation. To my shock, I had found the elephant of which the gardener spoke. Given my childhood experiences visiting zoos, combined with the fact that I passed by a self-contained aquarium near the entrance to the park, I had imagined that any elephant I might see would be encased behind glass, or fenced off from onlookers at least. However, here stood a mighty elephant, poised as gracefully among trees as a humpback whale swims beneath rough seas, standing prominently, if slightly hidden, in the open space of a public park, with no discernible fence or glass barrier in place. Instead, this battleship gray behemoth was tethered by puny chains, objectionably reminiscent of slave bindings, to two nearby trees. My childlike curiosity and fondness for animals of overwhelming stature took hold, and I proceeded to get as close as I could to the elephant in order to take a photograph of uncommon proximity. No matter how close I came, the elephant stirred little. Sleepily the elephant chewed on what appeared to be palm fronds, its only remarkable movement the occasional lifting of its front right foot. Either this animal was no stranger to the presence of humans (even increasingly encroaching ones, such as myself), or else the fronds had a soporific effect on the elephant, lulling it into a state of relaxed serenity. After capturing the moment to the best of my ability while still being cautious enough not to rile the creature in case its more instinctual inclinations suddenly took hold, I exited the same way I came in, only this time I walked through the park with a cherished memory in tow. (As a brief side note, it was really charming to see the park populated by so many young, loving couples. Midday in Viharamahadevi Park seemed to be Sri Lanka's answer to the lookout point of American romantic lore. This contrasts greatly with Nepal, where public displays of affection are culturally shunned.)

My appetite for elephant viewing sated, I walked onto the suffocating streets of steam and sun. By the time I had returned to the hotel, I must have been at least a couple pounds lighter. I felt that the best course of action would be to hydrate, eat, and cool off before my next interview at 4pm. Internally I surmised that while two interviews per day would be technically feasible, it would be incredibly exhausting to attempt any more and expect to be fully functional.

I left the hotel at 3pm to meet with Dr. Jayantha Dhanapala, a seasoned diplomat and former UN Under Secretary General who had been suggested by Prof. Lakshman Guruswamy at the University of Colorado-Boulder, at his residence in Nugegoda, which is just outside of Colombo. As my taxi came upon the entrance to the home, thunder sounded convincingly in the near distance. As a native son of Florida, lightning capital of the world, I spent my formative years in an area where thunder and lightning were as commonplace as sunburns and Spanish. Yet, living in California for the past five years, I have been robbed of these elemental features which I came to associate with rain (i.e. water droplets which fall from the sky, for those of you in Southern California who are unfamiliar with this form of weather). Slightly pleased that I might encounter thunder, lightning, and rain reunited in beautiful concert once again, I greeted Dr. Dhanapala and we settled into his den, a wall-to-wall celebration of an impressive career in diplomacy, to commence with the interview. I was graciously welcomed into the statesman's home and fixed a spot of tea, as is customary in this part of the world. While we covered the issue of environmental rights to the extent it was possible given my respondent's background in diplomacy and not environmental policy, I was interested to learn that Prof. Guruswamy had been Dr. Dhanapala's best man at his wedding years ago. After the interview was complete, Dr. Dhanapala introduced his daughter, Dr. Kiran Dhanapala, a trained economist who works on environmental issues, specifically energy, throughout South Asia. In the middle of our conversation the lights shut off unexpectedly thanks to the lightning and troubled electrical system, and we relocated our ad hoc seminar to the porch. Our discussion touched upon a panoply of topics, from green buildings to American politics to student debt, and as a result of the storm, which was beginning to produce precipitation with monsoon alacrity, we retreated indoors to the living room. Our roundtable concluded around 30 minutes later, and a cab was ordered for me so that I could venture back to my HQ.

My day ended with a hearty Italian meal at Echo, a restaurant adjoining the Cinnamon Grand Colombo, and I made my way back to my hotel room to catch up on emails and prepare for the next day.