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?"

After a brief flight delay and 3.5 hours traversing the skies over Asia, I found myself at Bandaranaike International Airport in Sri Lanka at 1am local time. My next step was to make it through customs, although this would not happen effortlessly due to a financial hiccup that originated in Singapore. You see, I withdrew funds in Singapore, but neglected to inform my bank that I was traveling abroad (I had managed to inform virtually everyone else I know, including my credit card company). Therefore, when I attempted to withdraw additional funds prior to my arrival in Sri Lanka, I was denied, my bank account frozen until further action. So when I finally made it to my next destination, I was unable to take out money I needed for cab fare until I passed through customs unscathed. In addition, I wasn't allowed to change my Singapore dollars into Sri Lankan rupees until I had made it through the customs stage. Fortunately, I was permitted to pay the requisite entrance fee ($35) by credit card. One hurdle had been overcome.

Once my passport has been stamped and tattooed, I walked into a region of the airport that looked like a Brandsmart USA. Instead of the usual duty free shops consisting mainly of high end perfumes and alcohols, this area laid claim to aisles of durable goods like refrigerators and stoves. Business was booming. I collected my suitcase from baggage claim and headed through an automated doorway intended for foreign entrants to the country. My heart raced as I prayed that I would find a currency exchange booth and a cellphone vendor, both of which were absolutely essential to my ability to perform my research tasks and for the sake of my overall mental health. To my delight, as I crossed over into the land of accepted visitors I found multiple kiosks that could address my pressing needs. First I wheeled over to one of three currency exchange posts. I willingly submitted all of my Singapore dollars (save for the few coins I had remaining in my possession) and even tried to convert my lingering Nepalese rupees, but, as I have now come to understand, one cannot exchange Nepalese rupees anywhere in the world except for Nepal. At least now I had some working capital with which I could execute some important tasks. My next stop was one of three cellphone vendors. I opted for Mobitel, which featured signage boasting that it was Sri Lanka's official mobile carrier. I decided to purchase a SIM card stocked with 100 minutes of talk time and 1024 MB of data (600 LKR = $4.73 USD). Once the attendant got my phone up and running I walked over to the booth for my hotel, the Cinnamon Grand Colombo. On the way there I checked my Gmail and saw that my bank had contacted me regarding the potentially fraudulent activity on my account in Singapore. With the clicking of a button, I reassured my bank that I was indeed the culprit of said transaction and access to my money was restored. Tired though I may have been, what little excitement I could muster at that late hour was soaked up by the sheer jubilation I felt knowing I wasn't going to be living on $220 USD for the next 9 days. At the booth I was given a bottle of water (note: water quality is poor, so bottled water is literally a way of life), provided with free Internet access at the desk computer, and had a taxi ordered on my behalf. In only about 20 minutes, I would finally be on my way to my hotel, where the promise of sleep enticed me.

The drive from the airport to coastal Colombo took about 30 minutes with virtually no traffic to speak of. While the streets seemed reminiscent of those of Kathmandu where I conducted field work last year, I could not help but marvel at the religious installations occasionally dotting the sides of the road. Every so often we would pass what looked like a small Buddhist temple, only instead of a solemn, tranquil homage to Buddha, carnivalesque light shows assaulted one's visual field. It was as if the architects of these worship stations drew influence from Hunter S. Thompson's hallucinogenic sojourn into the neon belly of Las Vegas. Eventually the religious icons bathed in garish halos of hypnotic luminescence gave way to the pure and steady blackness of the sea as we approached Colombo.

As the taxi pulled into the Cinnamon Grand Colombo, I was immediately struck by the opulence of the hotel. As I began to exit the vehicle, a gentleman donning white gloves proceeded to open my car door and another gentleman swiftly attended to my luggage before I even had a chance to get to the trunk. Upon entering this magnificent white palace I strode up to the concierge and informed the attendants that I had indeed arrived (as if my entrance was not already ceremonial and indicative of this fact). While checking in, a man in full butler regalia appeared at my side and offered me a choice of fresh juices- black currant or guava. Drawn to its creamy pink coloring, I chose the latter. It became readily apparent that this experience would be very different from my time in Nepal.

A different gentleman led me personally up to my room while another man brought my luggage up separately (talk about a division of labor!). After I was acquainted with my room I settled down for the evening (morning?) and fell asleep without any difficulty.

The next day I awoke to the sound of birds chirping and the welcome slit of sunshine that shone through the area in between my curtains that did not overlap. After checking email and showering (not at the same time, mind you) I headed downstairs to Coffee Stop for a late breakfast. Knowing full well that I would be consuming plenty of spicy fare over the next few days, I opted for ethnic comfort food- a bagel with lox and cream cheese. My bagel arrived toasted, just as I had asked, although instead of a traditional bread heating treatment my bagel had been thoroughly warmed in a panini press, causing it to look like an oversized, circular crinkle cut French fry. It was excellent. Why had I never seen this before in all my years of professional bagel eating? The rest of the day I focused on securing interviews and writing my first blog post. Unlike in Nepal, where most of my meetings were arranged via email, here in Sri Lanka most of my contacts urged me to call them upon arriving to schedule my interview (this is why having a local cellphone number was so crucial). After making several phone calls and sending a few emails, within an hour I went from having one scheduled interview to four. Satisfied by my progress, I spent the remainder of my day putting together my blog post, which involved having to rewrite the entire thing from scratch on the app I'm using (which is actually intended for an iPhone but I'm using it on an iPad), and needing to use the business center to fix two of the pictures that had failed to upload the first time around. I also decided to stay close to HQ for dinner, so I found myself at a popular Indian restaurant in my hotel called Chutneys. However, as I was unaware of the evening dress code, upon entering I was provided with a black and white striped sarong, which covered my utilitarian khaki shorts and instantly upgraded my outfit to meet cultural standards (sadly, I do not have a photograph of this. Please just imagine me wearing a navy polo shirt, glasses, and a black and white striped sarong). The food, not your traditional Americanized Indian food of tikka masala this and saag that, and the menu was arranged by both geographic region and dietary preference. I ordered a Lion Lager, steamed white rice, a mutton dish, and a chicken dish (I won't even bother committing the injustice of trying to recall the names of these entrees). In general, the food was quite spicy, and although Chutneys is a high end restaurant, the quality of the meat was akin to that which I ate daily for lunch in Nepal (smaller, bony morsels). For dessert I had a small, yet saccharine treat- two deep fried milk balls floating in cardamom syrup. Aside from a maple sugar cookie I once ate in elementary school, I'm not sure I've ever eaten anything sweeter. I settled the check and headed to my room where I watched one of my favorite movies (Closer) on HBO, although it had been severely edited for content. Full of regional cuisine, again I fell easily into a deep slumber.

Next up: A Brave New World