The cool and not so cool of this land
We are on the expressway to Matara. I have a close friend with me from the USA who is in Sri Lanka after perhaps six years. His wish is to visit the South to see the emerging townships and upcoming infra-structure as well as travel off-the-beaten track, possibly to dig at childhood nostalgia for he has been away now for over thirty years with only infrequent short visits in-between.
This is his third day and he thinks he is in Utopia. Staying at the swanky Cinnamon Grand and roaming the once familiar swathes, he has seen the rapidly changing facade of Colombo and is convinced that the island is on the right path on its journey to reach that Utopia. He is least surprised when I mention that international hospitality giants like Hyatt, Shangri-La, Sheraton and Movenpick have already committed large chunks of investment in the city to add to its fast expanding skyline. He is assured that once the “pearl” will always remain the “pearl”, and feels only fools could resist the “pearl” when it dazzles the way it does now.
On the lap of luxury on the Southern Highway (file pix)
“Man!” he says “this is as good as any I have in my backyard,” referring to the sleek highway.
“Oh! Lovely coconut plots, green paddy fields and rubber plantations too! Man, didn’t know south had such breathtaking rock formations,” he shouts.
“When did you guys start growing palms? Oh! This must be low-country tea….too heavy a flavour for my liking. Hey! What is that crop …. Aren’t the pink tender leaves cool?”
“They are cinnamon, of course we never saw them earlier on the coastal route because you find them grown only on these interior hillocks,” I reply calmly.
We halt at the service area…..
“Awesome! Aren’t I on cloud nine! As good as any in Europe! Pity, they don’t serve good coffee over here.” His American taste buds are disappointed at the predictable Nescafe.
“Hey! cool-down, mind the poor peacocks.” he yells, eyeing a sign-board to warn motorists. We have arrived at Matara in no time. He hails from these parts before his parents like many in their generation moved to the capital when he was only a child.
“Oh! The bustling thoroughfare…. how neat, how clean and how colourful, Man! You have managed to establish order here which was never there. I remember watching “Gamperaliya” with my grandparents here and we ate “maalupaan” later. The taste still lingers on you see.’“His spectacles on, he twiddles with his I-phone….
We are at the Matara Rest House by the roaring sea for our luncheon. My friend is jubilant at the restoration of the old colonial building.
“Man! Who is doing all this? What tasteful salvage! I am falling in love with the creator of all this.”
“Isn’t that dude the famous cricketer?” he whispers.
“Of course, he is the MP for Matara now.”
We greet the legendary cricketer turned popular politician Sanath Jayasuriya who is enjoying the scrumptious rest house buffet with his entourage.
“Today is my field day,” he flashes his benign smile in his usual civil manner.
“Hey! Thanks for the introduction. I am thrilled. Isn’t he adorable?” says my friend.
We share a bottle of Lager. “Ah! This is fine provided they put less tea in it.” he winks at me for that’s my favourite. But he likes it transparently light I know.
“What a spread! I just cannot stop my chow down… Will they mind if I pinch a few fried chilies and some more of that “bandakka” dish? It reminds me of an old servant we had. She must be long gone.”
“Words cannot describe the changes. Is this godforsaken Hambantota where we had a flat tyre back in the day? Remember tottering half a day to find some civilization. What splendour, Man! This is incredible! What a boom! This is what happens when you creep into one of the pockets of a generous, cash-rich super-power. Is it too early to think of retirement? Glad I have you here to facilitate a possible relocation when I want to hang my boots. Ha ha.”
“We turn left here. Remember the off-the-beaten track you were after? Leonard Woolf country…” I remind him.
Abject poverty amidst the drought
We have left the coast a good deal and are in the country now. To our horror there are dismal changes in the vegetation and what is in store for our unbelieving eyes is the parched and ravaged landscape that has not seen a drop of rain for months if not years. There is misery as well as brutality written all over the former agricultural habitat. Yet, we travel on a newly laid road, gleaming in the fierce heat for miles ahead, leading to where no ne knows.
Glum villagers exposed to harsh climatic realities are either lined up with an assortment of vessels for their weekly ration from the government water-bowser or are seen staring listlessly at the blue sky. Their once lush and leafy cultivations, are being systematically swallowed by rank shrubs and the arid landscape exacerbates the abject poverty they are living in. The shadow of a solitary palu tree etched-out in the forlorn dreariness or an abandoned farmer’s hut is the only shade for emaciated cattle. Obviously they are not entitled to any government rations. Occasionally, we pass a village tank or two that has the last of its water, perhaps set aside for the last of the wild creatures left. We are told that over two million people are directly affected by the prevailing drought in the dry-zone and we know that they take trouble to count only humans not animals!
“Man! This is shocking. I am on the edge. You can’t let these people die… surely! Don’t they deserve freebies? You gotta do something man!” His Yankee compassion oozing, my friend’s eyes fill with tears. He hasn’t spoken for a while.
“That does it. It burns me up. Let’s chill out.”
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We tread along the mile-long Tangalle beach which is dressed up for the fine evening. The dusk tinting everything else in orange, European backpackers are out on the beach. Their US$ 40 per night rustic beach chalets are found sandwiched between the lagoon and the placid sea, well camouflaged in the thick of the green mangroves. Restaurants, almost identical to one another with the traditional hurricane lamps burning and occasional bonfire at a porch to light the deserted beach, beckon. There are over a thousand tourists presently roaming the Tangalle beach belt we are told.
“I just love the cool vibe here. Man! Rich rewards of peace! I am happy for you.” my friend whispers in my ear….
Then he mentions as an afterthought what appears to be haunting him.
“Pity you couldn’t do much for those in need we saw. What a vicious world!” He is still troubled by the fate of the drought-stricken and is too sincere to shove it behind just like that.
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We are on the way to Odel. He has only a few hours left for his flight to Singapore.
“Man! City folks seem to be raking in the big bucks,” he comments watching BMWs’ sailing into Odel.
“All I wanna buy is a blue Sri Lanka T shirt, in fact two and one is for you.”
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“Thanks for the cushy ride. We are at the airport in a jiffy Man! What could I do in all the time left? Negombo can’t be that far. Let’s dig a crab or two and look at the Indian Ocean for the last time. “
We turn to our left yet again, on this occasion from one of those countless byroads and find ourselves in the heartland of old-Negombo. A maze of tiny dwellings attached to one another literally opens on to a lively alley and there are women; young, middle aged and ones on their last lap clad in their nightclothes gossiping in the middle of the road. Boys play cricket under the street lights and older boys ride fancy bikes in tandem whilst men play cards in discreet huddles. The surface of the minor road is immaculate though littered with garbage; fish parts and what not. Rubble left out of construction sites is dumped on the side. An occasional fisherman in a wide straw-hat, a relic from the past, his days’ catch on a line would stop-by to exchange a few words with the women. Young beach touts and gigolos in their tight fitting flashy outfits inch towards the vibrant tourist colony.
“Where are you taking me Man? What is this crummy place? Why can’t you educate them properly and give them a better place to live? Isn’t it is a shame to let them continue to live in this filthy manner?”
“I am afraid we are in the middle of urban-poverty,” I answer.
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We are looking at the ocean, not as wild as distant Tangalle but warm enough for the tourists to throng in numbers. We are here for beer and crab.
“Man! Thinking out loud either you are using the wrong strainer or the one you have is hopelessly clogged,” he says.
“What are you talking about? What strainer? We haven’t had even a bottle each yet!”
“Oh! You thought I am already high. What I meant was your economy man!”
“So what has that got to do with a strainer?” I show my annoyance.
“That’s what I am trying to explain, I mean the eye-opener. Your economy’s gotta strain to the masses adequately. It’s not happening man! The trickle that flows out is hardly sufficient for them to survive. It’s chicken feed man. You are gonna find out why the strainer is clogged and who is clogging it, willingly or unwillingly. At times I am disgusted with capitalism which is the goddamn filter you see. Now that you are riding the gravy train you must find ways to give them a better life and not throw only crumbs at them. Honestly, the ones we saw in those wretched villages and the less fortunate town-folks we saw a short while ago. It’s not fair man. I mean the ballooning disparity between rich and poor. It’s gonna leave a bad taste in your mouth soon.”
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“Hey! Time to split….. I am kinda in a bind, man, you know the way these economic disparities erupt like volcanoes, don’t you? These are unstoppable cycles you see. So you take good care of yourself. Who knows, five years is a long time. See what the last five did in your favour. Hope you have it in you to clear those clogs in the next five! Love this island and you of course.”
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Tears of truthfulness form in my friend’s eyes……..
“I guess it’s better that you go with the flow man!” were his last words to me before he disappeared among a sea of heads at the departure lounge. Since I was wiping my eyes, I hardly heard them……