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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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