Eagle i: Sri Lanka - Connecting to the Land

John Moulton is an artist and creative designer who is spending several weeks in Sri Lanka. His job in the textile industry was eliminated when his Miami-based company closed and sold its equipment to a company in Sri Lanka. Moulton will be working for a company there training its workers and he’s writing about those experiences for Marco Eagle readers.

I surrendered the van and driver today and walked the path that I had only thus far driven. In this simple action, my previous opinion of this avenue was changed. Now that I was moving at a pace that would allow for an emotional attachment, the tempo of this street became noticeable.

There is a detachment from an area when you transverse it in a vehicle. Your investment in the moment is tempered with the knowledge that you are going somewhere or leaving someplace. The images and people fill the visual void of time until you reach your destination.

Many a visitor has walked this same road that I strode, leaving the gate that separated a first world hotel from a third world neighborhood. They too were greeted with the site of a four story resort building left derelict from a tsunami.

The walls and windows had been washed away, along with the contents that they once protected. Vines and young coconut trees crowd the long unlooked after grounds. The debris has been cleared and any usable detail incorporated into the surrounding dwellings. Milling groups of men awaited the call from the hotel to carry a tourist off to town in there Touk Touk’s (three wheeled, motorized rickshaws). They greeted me with offers of transit at good prices which I respectfully declined.

There are a few small shops and eateries just beyond the resort ruins. Jewelers and local nick-knack vendors introduce themselves and their wares. Restaurateurs proudly present their menus for my perusal. I always smile and thank them, they always smile and understand. The formalities behind us they ask about my origins.

People here haven’t met many Americans, and by many I mean none. There are plenty of Germans, Brits, Serbs, Russians and a few Dane’s, but no Americans. My only answer for this might be that when we Americans make the trek to Asia, we usually go no further then India. We never think about going the extra miles to visit a remote island.

“Look I traveled to India, what do you want me to do? Find an ancient civilization in a rain forest?” (Like Sri Lanka?)

The other day at breakfast I was engaged in a conversation with one of the waiters. His name is Laul, and he lives 220 km (136 mi.) from the hotel. He sleeps on the premises and works for 10 days straight, then boards a bus to make an eight hour trip home. Four days later he returns to start a new cycle.

He poured me some water, and as I inspected it for any visible parasites, he asked:

“Where are you from?”

“America” I replied.

He leaned in closely and gave me the once over. Then with knotted brow said, “Are you sure?”

You would think that the answer to such a query would be swiftly rendered. Inwardly dazed, I could only muster a weakly trailing, “ … Yep.”

Continuing on my hike, I soon found my pace had slowed and my mind decompressed. My hike became a walk, my walk a stroll. The palms towered majestically above, some tied to others to restrict their fall, and they all danced on the ocean winds. The walls made of differing materials; stone, wood, bamboo and, thatch bracketed my path and marked personal living boundaries. The lawns inside these enclosures were swept; the houses open to the morning breeze from the visible surf. People were up and about their business; a walk to town, or a talk with friends. Shopkeepers plied their wares with soft spoken convoke. Men gathered to discuss important trivialities in native tongue. Women walked and accompanied their playful youths to be deposited at school. Workers greeted me with a smiling, “Good morning,” and children grinned and waved. I as the cosmopolite have distanced myself from many basic needs. How easily I allow the superficial to become the foundation of my life. Now I do not envy the man without time to greet his neighbors, or view a sunset.

Time is in ample supply along these palm shaded back roads. Rupees are spent as they gather in shallow pockets. Pleasures spring from conversations stolen at a fence post. A wisp of gossip and some small secret shared, conspire to fill a soul’s hunger. And for desert: The rolling crash of the sea water just over a distant dune.