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.
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.
All that's gold glitters.
Divining writing inspiration from the aquamarine waters of the pool at the Cinnamon Grand Colombo.
RSS Feed