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.

I arrived in Singapore at the ripe hour of 3am, early enough that the alleged "24-hour" restaurants at Changi International Airport were not yet open. Although I had managed to eek out 4 hours of sleep along my journey from Los Angeles to Tokyo to Singapore, I found myself exhausted and in need of at least 40 winks more. Zombie-like I trudged through the empty airport in search of slumber. Luckily, I stumbled upon one of Changi's famed "snooze zones." Yet, as I walked past the semi-barricaded zoo of sleeping humans, I came to realize that all cots were occupied. It was then that I elected to pursue the next best (though costlier) option- short-term room rentals at one of the airport's Transit Hotels. Glassy-eyed and verbally incomprehensible, I inquired with the concierge about the possibility of securing a room for 6 hours (the standard length of a reservation at such an establishment). No vacancies were to be had. Still, I knew I would need at least some supplemental shut-eye were I to function effectively as a Western wanderer later that same day. With the arrow of my fuel gauge teetering around "E," I dragged my body along the vast expanses of immaculate carpeting and closed vendors in the hopes of finding some venue for rest more appropriate than the ground I fought to overcome while buzzards of delirium spied me from overhead, clamoring for the inevitable demise of my sanity.

After turning a corner, I encountered a sign advertising for a spa called the "Rainforest Lounge," which immediately conjured pleasant childhood memories of meals at the theme park restaurant Rainforest Cafe, which was housed curiously in the Sawgrass Mills Mall back in the South Florida of my youth. This particular spa offered temporary sleeping quarters, and, more importantly, appeared to open at this unsavory airport hour. Robotically I ascended the winding staircase bedecked in faux jungle foliage until I arrived at a lobby where several fellow journeymen and women sat contently in plush couches, imbibing late-night cocktails and rekindling their romance with humanity by checking emails. I approached the desk attendant with extreme malaise, too dead to care the result of my imminent inquiry, but still clinging pathetically to the unjustified arrogance of hope. To my tempered delight, I was informed that there was a bed available for me to drop my weary bones. Wanderlustus, the patron saint of travelers, had finally heeded my call for mercy with a mattress and sheets that I could call my own for all of 3 hours (S$35). Graciously I gathered my belongings and slowly slithered to a dimly lit cavernous room, flanked by twin vertebra of micro-accommodations on either side. The layout of the space reminded me of the scene in the movie Taken when Liam Neeson found himself furiously rummaging through a concubine warehouse in an effort to locate his kidnapped daughter. Had I been any more alert I would have been alarmed at the lack of privacy evident, as a mere two curtains, slotted wood partition, and no doors separated me from my involuntary "roommates," or anyone else for that matter. Idiotically I sought the cheap comfort of curtain-blessed intimacy in the way a small child might draw the covers over his head in an attempt to psychologically evade the frightening advances of the boogie man. Security be damned, I set the alarm on my iPad for 7:10am (so as to not violate the stipulations of my contractual agreement) and drifted off as quickly as I had purposively set my things down for the night.

I awoke at 7:18am to the ire of my iPad, which flashed several push notifications indicating that my alarm had sounded (however silently given that I forgot to adjust the volume prior to falling asleep) and that I had not been a considerate owner who responded with alacrity to the demands of my electronic companion. Fearing I might be charged some kind of financial penalty for illegally occupying my bed a paltry 3 minutes beyond my allotted reservation, I bolted out of the partially enshrouded cot-room to use the shower. After enjoying an unnecessarily hot shower I cleared my bill with the concierge and learning that no additional charges had been levied, I grabbed a small breakfast consisting of toast with kaya butter, soft(?) boiled eggs in a paper cup, and a cup of coffee from a nearby kiosk (S$4.50) and headed on my merry way into Singapore in the hopes of getting a jump on my sightseeing in order to avoid getting caught in sweltering midday heat.

Prior to my arrival in Singapore I decided that I would embark upon not the free tour organized by the city (which does not allow for alighting the tour bus to see sights up close), but rather the City Sightseeing Singapore tour aboard a double-decker bus (which does allow and indeed encourages hopping on and off the bus to see the sights at one's own pace). When I informed a woman working at the visitor centre of this decision, she happily agreed it was for the best. Following a 30-minute ride on the cleverly-acronymed "SMRT" (Simpsons fans should pick up on that reference), Singapore's public rail system (S$2.10), I came to a couple of early conclusions: (1) Asia clearly understands how to properly execute a major public transportation endeavor (corroborated by my experiences in Hong Kong); and (2) America, with its crumbling network of asphalt arteries evoking a strange sense of pride and an environmentally criminal obsession with misguided notions of "individuality," probably won't "get" public transport for a long time to come. That we as Americans feel a bizarre entitlement to inefficient road mongering and pollution mitigated by mechanical regulations not behavioral change is beyond the comprehension of this environmental researcher.

Once I navigated the labyrinthine underground CityLink Mall and made my way to the Suntec Hub, I purchased my tour ticket good for 24 hours (a reasonable S$33), and set out to explore 4 areas in Singapore. A brief synopsis of each location is provided below.

Little India: On my first stop, I came to this cultural enclave. I walked along Serangoon Road and entered Sri Veeramakaliamman Temple. Once I had walked around the temple and paid my respects (as much as a foreigner with a camera could, anyway), I strolled along the streets, ducking in and out of various shops. I was surprised at how inexpensive the clothing items were (save for Levi's jeans, which command something of a supernatural status throughout Asia), given how the rest of Singapore I had seen read like a who's who of high end fashion (I saw no less than three Prada stores while I was there. Isn't one enough for a tiny country?). After purchasing a couple items (and being given a bottle of water for free by the merchant), I walked back to the bus stop to venture to my next destination.

Chinatown: Unlike the American incarnations of this major city mainstay (from the glorious version in San Francisco to the seemingly apocalyptic attempt in Portland), the Chinatown in Singapore was surprisingly dense and heavily trafficked even on a Sunday. Brits, Aussies, and occasional Americans crowded the narrow streets in search of trite novelties they will proudly boast upon returning home (think T-shirts that read: I ❤ Singapore). Famished and flushed, I traversed the side streets to find a spot for lunch. After perusing several menus placed outside candidate restaurants, I decided to enter Feng Bo Zhuang, a place that, until I became a sworn patron, did not feature the presence of any Westerners (i.e. the sign of a reputable local establishment). I ordered hot tea (against my better judgment given the temperature hovered at a suffocating 90F with 74% humidity), spicy beef with glass noodles (more like a powderkeg of pepper flakes drowning in seasoned broth guest starring 10 pieces of mediocre meat), and steamed pork dumplings. Hungry as I was, I ate without abandon, testing the limits of my gastrointestinal fortitude by lapping up nearly every bit of the cilia-searing soup and chasing it with bouts of tastebud-dissolving tea. This meal would prove sufficiently satisfying for hours on end (and those of you who know me understand what a challenge that can be!). My strength restored, again I found my way to the bus in order to embark upon the architectural portion of my jaunt.

Marina Bay Sands/Gardens by the Bay: In a country where East meets West in myriad ways, perhaps there is no greater example of this sensibility than in the creative amalgamation present in Singapore's built and natural environments. While evidence of a pan-Asian tradition is unmistakeable, it is the modern feats of architectural achievement that truly and literally stand tall. In Singapore, the buildings walk a fine line somewhere between grandeur and audacity. The Marina Bay Sands, ostensibly a hotel, looks as though a mighty typhoon picked up Noah's Ark and placed it carefully atop three existing colossal pillars. The resulting marriage is strange, but not overwrought. To observe it from afar is to stare into the capacity of human imagination. All of a sudden curing cancer doesn't seem that far off. Once I passed through (as if into a new dimension) the hotel, I followed a bridge over to an installation of gargantuan proportions, the Gardens by the Bay. Aside from the numerous adjoined gardens paying homage to various ethnicities and hedgehog-like biospheres (the Flower Dome and Cloud Forest), the most notable visual structures are the grove of Supertrees. These wire-frame saucers poised atop trunk-like obelisks seem like props developed for an upcoming cross-over film based on Avatar and Independence Day (Will Smith has already signed onto the project). These Supertrees are nothing if not inspiring and breathtaking. They should be considered part of the pantheon that is the 7 Wonders of the World. After gawking at unfathomable exemplars of human ingenuity, I headed back to the bus stop, where I rode the red city route to its conclusion and hopped aboard the yellow city route to my final point of interest.

Botanic Gardens: By the time I arrived at the Botanic Gardens, it had begun to thunder and the evening was falling upon me. Little did I realize (though given Singapore's unabashed embrace of magnificence and nearly peerless conquering of scale perhaps I should have been more keen) that these gardens were so massive there was simply no way I could see everything the park had to offer in one day. Dauntless and yet cognizant of the possibility that it might literally rain on the tail end of my parade, I zoomed along the paved paths, ignoring the protestations of my Toms-protected feet. At the behest of my mother, I decided to visit the National Orchid Garden. The normal charge for a student is S$1, but seeing as how I was by myself and it was the early evening on a Sunday, I was granted entrance pro bono. Once there I found species of orchids I had never seen before in hues of bright pink, leopard print purple, and pollution dusk yellow, and coming in an array of shapes that resembled everything from starfish to peeps aligned consecutively on a branch as if reporting for military duty. The exhibit also featured rare orchids in the Tan Hoon Siang Mist House and eerie Cool House (both of which could have easily ruined my iPad or camera due to moisture intrusion). Fearing that the thunder might produce something even more sinister, I galloped post haste through a large field where the public had gathered to hear a youth jazz orchestra play in the bandshell and sprinted toward the bus as it began to pull away slowly.

I feel like I covered significant ground in a single day thanks to the well-oiled City Sightseeing Singapore tour. I was certainly glad to make it back to the airport, however, where I retrieved my stored luggage (S$3 for 24 hours) and sprung for a much needed shower (S$8 including toiletries and towel). I would say I "treated" myself to dinner, but that would not accurately describe a situation in which I ordered a bowl of "lunch meat" (read: Spam-like substance) with ramen and a scrambled egg, two BBQ pork buns, and a 7-Up from an airport restaurant, but suffice it to say that I left Singapore showered, shaven, and sated.

Next time: Fear and Phoning in Sri Lanka