The elephant orphanage

 

The elephants of Pinnawala orphanage line up before marching to the nearby bathing spot in the Ma Oya ganga

Six kilometres off the Colombo-Kandy road is Pinnawala orphanage, a sanctuary for rescued elephants. Against a backdrop of thick jungle and rocky outcrops the animals go about their business like silent giants.

Twice a day they bathe in the nearby Ma Oya River. It is a fascinating spectacle as fully grown adults, adolescents and shy calves stand in line and wait for the mahouts’ signal, before setting off on a slow lumber through Pinnawala village to the water. Trumpeting and splashing sounds echo around the banks as the calm river is turned into an elephant-fuelled tempest.

They spend two hours in the Ma Oya. In this environment it is much easier to see their individual personalities: the desires of the bulls, the mothering instincts of the cows and the playful juvenility of the calves; the younger trouble makers and less sociable adults. Evidence of their troubled past is also visible – one elephant has no ears, and several have old scars and broken tusks.

Bathing in the Ma Oya

PK

Learning exchanged

EU programme learning exchange in Batticaloa

Along rural lanes of undulating sand was our venue for the second of several learning exchange events. We were in Batticaloa District in eastern Sri Lanka.

The EU programme brings together five partners, each with different areas of expertise, and these events are to share learning. The theme for this event was conflict sensitivity and transformation and it was led by Peace & Community Action. In February, South Asia Partnership hosted an exchange on gender equality.

Learning exchanges, learning tours in the field, district level engagement events, a national conference, and on going capacity building with associate partners and community based organisations, are the main activities of the programme.

Shits and giggles

Did you hear the one about the Englishman, the Welshman and the seven foot giant in a filing cabinet? No? Well read on.

It could have been the pièce de résisistance of some freakish social experiment. Put three old friends together in a car the size of an upturned washing machine for a week-long, 1000km shindig through a tropical island. Add in scorching heat, bumpy roads, few toilets, less toilet paper and even less common sense, and brace yourself.

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The tone for the trip was set on the very first day.  The Giant, of Portuguese descent, believed his fair skin to be immune to Colombo’s burning sunshine. Result: much ointment, blisters, incessant moaning, and a quite superb lobster tan.

Here follow the censored highlights from the log book.

Day two. The journey up to Anuradhapura passed pleasantly enough. After stops to quench The Giant’s burns and heat rash with dodgy sunblock and lollipops we reached Yapahuwa rock temple. This is a slightly smaller yet infinitely less developed alternative to the famous rock climb at Sigiriya. Monkeys, rock geckos, and a party of German girls took cover as three white boys passed. (Dr Moz: to German girls everywhere – das ist gut, ja? Fantashtic!!)

***This video has been confiscated. WordPress Management***

The Giant, to avoid further sun exposure, had decided on a thick hoodie and a rucksack consisting of a mountain survival kit (water purification and torch included) and a 4-litre bottle of mineral water. I was concerned he may not make it. Point to research later – how much sweat is there in a 20 stone man?

Three thambili were consumed just south of the ancient city of Anuradhapura. There were no straws, so we gunned them native-style. The Giant’s pink T-shirt, and subsequently the backseats of The Beast, sport an interesting mix of ‘curious’ sunblock, aloe-vera infused moisturiser, and king coconut juice.

Chill out at the guest house, run by a pleasant old Buddhist man whose hairy ears obscure his hearing. The Giant insists on chain-smoking in the living room. Delicious Sri Lankan feast, followed by beers and cards.

Day three. The night before turned into some hellish game of toilet-tag, as both The Giant and I felt the full effects, I presume, of the straw-less thambilis. In a moment of madness we sucked on unpeeled fruit from a man in a palm frond-lined shack. A mighty crack brings me back to the present - The Giant has accidentally broken the toilet seat, mid squeeze. Quick goodbyes and a hasty departure.

The journey to Batticaloa passed pleasantly enough. Except for the fact I felt like I was dying. The Giant and Dr Moz decided to snooze in The Beast’s warmth and left me to drive, solo, the very long, straight and empty road to the east coast. I hallucinated that I saw elephants in the distance. Or perhaps they were just elephants in the distance.

Batticaloa is a beautiful and friendly little town, with the air of a final frontier about it. What gives it its charm? After much consideration (having lots of time to think in the car) I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s aware of its own identity. (Dr Moz: WTF???). We stayed with our good friend Michael, and many beers were consumed. This included a couple at a small fishermen’s bar under the stars.

Day four. Dr Moz felt the full effects of bottom inferno, hellfire and damnation during the night. Sadly, I was sharing a small double bed with him. Today we saw some of the sights of Batti, including a Hindu temple that had been broken in two by the force of the 2004 Tsunami.

In the afternoon we rocked up at a paradise beach and challenged half a dozen local boys to a game of beach cricket. Dr Moz, First XI captain, got bowled for a duck. Perhaps not fully on his game. I got stumped after peppering the boundaries. Point to research later – do the rules of beach cricket stretch to stumping, when there is no crease and a makeshift wicket? FFS.

Day five. I can report there were no toilet incidents during the night. The journey to Haputale in the Hill Country passed pleasantly enough. I am impressed at the range of detritus now littering the back seats of The Beast.

We reach the ridge-top town in evening cloud. On the 3 Km walk back from the guest house it starts to rain and visibility drops to a few metres but, luckily, we get picked up by a local tuk-tuk. We are treated to a hair-raising, fragile-gut wrenching journey into town as the tuk-tuk crawls blind past steep drops to plantation workers’ huts on our left below. The potholes at the side of the road mark the moment to ‘edge a little right perhaps, friend?’

Haputale’s Heathcliff bar is a drinking hole of sinister skulduggery. Leary, noisy and smoky, it suited us three reprobates perfectly. It was dark and they only had warm beers, but that was OK. Our dinner consisted of a dried, deep fried fish and pieces of rubber cheese on cocktail sticks.

Day six. Dr Moz and I were rudely awakened, twice, by The Giant’s alarm clock that may well have surpassed the decibels of a full scale nuclear attack. He went to watch the sunrise, apparently. The photos confirmed this, showing The Giant, fag in hand, sitting next to the guest house’s friendly dog, Mutley (The Beast’s alternate namesake).

The journey to Colombo passed pleasantly enough. Except for the hellish A4 from Ratnapura onwards that makes the M25 seem like a countryside jaunt. I took a short cut and got us lost. We were riding on petrol fumes and fighting our way through a market of local vegetables, as a tropical deluge hit the area. The Giant and Dr Moz were both remarkably quiet at this stage.

Our final fling was a night at Bellagio Casino. The Giant started chucking chips around on the Black Jack table like a naughty toddler in McDonalds. Perhaps it was unfair to unleash a recovering gambling addict on the fair people of Sri Lanka and Chinese prostitutes who made up the clientele. Alas. Any thoughts of my boys leaving the casino with some rupees were dashed at the Roulette table when they bet all their remaining chips on black…and lost.

Final thoughts: The Beast is a machine of balanced perfection. German girls rule. The Giant should have gone with lobster red.

PK

The gecko’s mocking chuckle

Colombo before dawn is a different city. It’s the time when the resident animals go about their business, when their cries, clicks, barks and calls echo through the empty streets. Two mornings each week we rise before the sun on our way to Ultimate Frisbee. The lights go on and we stagger tired and blind around the house (our daily contact lenses are always everywhere except where they can be found), startling the mosquitoes and our friendly gecko.

I noticed this morning that he’s a different creature at this time of day, emitting a noisy clucking sound that fills the room like a mocking chuckle.

The Beast takes us through the quiet streets and junctions where the traffic lights flash amber until the morning rush begins. The air is thick with night time dew. Dogs, so sleepy and lethargic during the day, trot around completing important chores. Thousands of bats chatter like old ladies following their nights hunting mangoes, papaya and jack fruit.

PK

What is normal, anyway?

Rajagiriya at rush hour. Swarms of tuk-tuks and commuter buses belching fumes crowd the streets; an ox stands in the middle of the main road, oblivious amid his own mayhem. Further chaos is caused by an old man on a rusty bicycle with what appear to be 10 foot iron poles – the kind used to reinforce concrete – tied to the back, leading to a precarious balancing act.

Every evening I fight my way through the melee on my way home. Rush hours are chaotic in big cities the world over, but it’s the local mayhem specialities – the driver of an overloaded truck dashing from his cab to be handed his bushel of errant bananas by a traffic policeman – that create a very individual madness in each metropolis.

I skirted past the ox and the old man last Thursday and it was then that the thought occurred: this kind of thing feels normal after six months in Colombo, but if I was to go to London, would the lack of dangerous masonry and farmyard animals in the highways seem unusual? The variances and the individual elements here have become part of the common theme.

I started delving deeper into this definition of normal. In the Sri Lankan context normal should not be confused with mundane, as mundane would suggest boring, which is certainly not the case. Perhaps exciting normal would be an apt way to put it. And I went further: Sri Lankan normal and normal normal are different. Sri Lankan normal is common place now, but would not happen as a matter of course in London.

I superimposed the exciting Sri Lankan normal definition on to actual scenarios, with interesting consequences:

1. Being pulled over by the police six times since buying The Beast, once on a charge of dangerous driving due to not indicating when overtaking a petrol tanker. This kind of thing is most definitely normal, even to be expected, in Sri Lanka. It didn’t happen to me in London.
2. Receiving an unexpected two-palmed bottom grope whilst standing at the urinal in the gents’ toilets of a Colombo bar, within 72 hours of arriving in Sri Lanka. This is not so clear cut. It hasn’t happened since, but it did also happen to my colleague that very night. So it may just be a one off or common practice in that particular bar.
3. Feeding bananas to a bull elephant on the roadside. Scenarios with wildlife encountered on the road are certainly exciting and normal in Sri Lanka. If it’s not elephants, it’s slowing to allow monitor lizards to plod nonchalantly across the dusty tarmac, swerving to avoid tortoises, frogs, mongooses, and even snakes. Regrettably, I hit an egret near Hambantota that decided to swoop into the path of The Beast. Luckily the latter is not normal, as animals, apart from scratchy old dogs, tend to be avoided at all costs by motorists.
4. Locals who go out of their way to help, even when the consequences result in more confusion and uncomfortable situations for everyone involved. Yep, this is very normal. An example is when we asked a man at the Sinhala Institute of Culture if they did Sinhala lessons. He said they did, and that he himself could teach us there the very next day and even free of charge. After two hours spent passing scribbled Sinhala script back and forth on bits of old paper and a discussion about Shakespeare, we discovered he was not a teacher, and indeed had never taught Sinhala before. In fact he appeared slightly shocked at the suggestion.

The author, sporting an interesting hair parting, after feeding an entire bushel of bananas to a bull elephant

PK

 

A grand tour: part two

Our visiting guest blogger, James Willsher, reflects on a memorable journey through Sri Lanka.

First read: A grand tour: part one

Tangalla, a coastal town of which Lord K has previously written. The guest house is on the beach; palm trees, white sands, paradise rebuilt. Gaze at the ocean, the thunderous waves. We realise that after two days of dust-seared road, dressing for dinner is perhaps advisable. Followed by welcome beers, then platters of exquisitely fresh fish, caught the same day.

More beers, and I decide I can speak Arabic. Small dogs pad about, cheeky like children. We are joined by the owners, and Lord K produces Scotch and cigars. Sprawl in deckchairs on dimly-lit sand. More whisky, sir? Chasing crabs which motor around in the moments after waves drain back. I require enormity, disrobe, and stand amid the waves breaking, sometimes rushing with it, joined by Lord K and the Tsarina. The power is at once intoxicant, euphoriant, and sobering. Exhausted, and electrified, to bed.

The storm clouds roll in on Tangalla beach

Up as soon as daylight allows for a pre-breakfast swim, followed by reassuringly strong coffee, with mango, pineapple, banana and toast. Do you sarong? I didn’t. But Lord K makes it a noble illustration of poise and comfort. Blazing sun, relieved by dips in the water. I pick up War and Peace for the first time since the flight, astonished to be on a summer holiday during February. Devilled vegetables for lunch give way to a looming downpour, cliffs of rain sailing in with misty grey skies. Eventually it passes, prompting another sojourn in the ocean, discussing chronically angry middle-aged swimming instructors from school years. Train carriages roll sideways toward us: under or over? Under. Magnitude.

Next morning back to Colombo, via Hambantota. A waterfront city seeing the construction of a new port and international airport, road signs direct you to a new cricket stadium. A vast and angular feat of architecture some miles out is an in-development conference centre. A crumbling statue by the harbour is losing its limbs; local lads tell us he was a fisherman.

Busy country roads once more; cows, a town strangely bearing German names for houses and businesses, then back to the Southern Expressway, zooming back to Colombo. Evening, and winding through metropolitan congestion to a Human League tune on the radio. Garnished by palm trees, a hospital block disguised as a multi-storey car park from Coventry catches the eye. Spectacularly unexotic, functional, familiar. It is five and a half thousand miles away – from what, a question? Flickering ambition stirs.

Dinner in the financial district, beers and lamprais, a superb dish of rice and curry baked in a banana leaf. A guessing game: the Tsarina baffles delightfully, with famous lines from books and films unread and unwatched by Lord K and I in decades. We stick to Gladiator and Top Gun. And Highlander. Back to the house, and arrack.

A brief goodbye at the airport the next morning. Flight back stopping off at the Maldives. A watery fiction, the plane sinks lower and lower to land on what appears to be the Indian Ocean. Touchdown: ah, the Maldives are in fact a series of well-marketed aircraft carriers. The plane stands on an island runway for an hour as middle-aged Europeans disembark, while the President is apparently deposed. Boats in a nearby harbour bob about, unconcerned. Turbulence, two meals, three films, frozen London.

Thank you both so much, it is impossible to express adequately the gargantuan debt of gratitude. You will always be welcome in Baku.

James Willsher

A grand tour: part one

Our visiting guest blogger, James Willsher, reflects on a memorable journey through Sri Lanka.

Palm trees: everywhere. Out of the airport’s beige interiors, met by the Tsarina, into a waiting taxi. Now that’s what I call weather: valleys of sun-stained cloud roof Colombo’s gleaming broil. Banks, tuk-tuks, billboards, banks, shaded grocers and elephantine fruit, peeling Victorian megaliths, banks. Massive construction works: a China-financed motorway.

The sacred city of Kataragama

Arrive at the residence, for a resplendent cup of tea. Exactly an hour’s sleep on an overnight flight from Heathrow. Lord K returns from the office, and then a blast around central Colombo in The Beast. The driving intense, but the traffic forgiving: you elbow through with everyone else, fist-waving and language curiously absent.  Towering trees veil grand villas, then McDonald’s, Mango, skyscrapers, metal-and-glass.

To a charming Korean family for dinner, Scotch, and Sri Lanka’s Three Coins lager. A quick slink out to a nearby supermarket for a bottle. Back to the table, a glass, and there it is before me. Arrack: gold malarial; hours drift, oozing to a shudder. It is gorgeously drinkable. I bid you good night.

Next morning a whistle-stop tour of Colombo sights by tuk-tuk, driven commandingly by Dudley. Through rural-tinged suburbs to a grand temple, ancient dusky brown, where Buddha trod. He reclines inside, a shining giant amid infinite and fading illustrations. An enormous blinding white stupa adjacent, devotees march around the requisite banyan tree, brightly coloured strips of material tied to anything available. Then on over a railway line to a huge Hindu temple, comprised almost entirely of little painted statues, some men chip away on a smaller version behind, years of work ahead. Fort, Galle Face Green, lunch. Challenging: press curry and rice into a ball using only one’s right hand. I’m left handed, a slow process, and much ends up on the face.

A brief stroll to Vihara Mahadevi Park. Schoolchildren chatter, fruit bats repose in multitude, occasionally shriek or take a flutter unfurling that notorious wingspan. Saatchi & Saatchi beside a roundabout, a turn down a street of colonial residences, now offices. International PR titan Ogilvy announces itself on a plate outside one, the Iraqi embassy another. An iced tea and back home.

Up early next day, through mild traffic in The Beast and onto the newly-opened Southern Expressway, verdure either side. A turn-off to country main roads, where single-decker buses are overlords of the right of way. Demented minibuses and cranking lorries slow the progress, as do tuk-tuks – collective noun: an inconvenience – to the hill country. Roadside stall, king coconut hacked open, straw inserted: thambili, an immensely refreshing juice, a celebrity health fad waiting to happen.

The heat chills, the roads precipitous, tea plantations emerge, and the small hillside town of Haputale. The White Monkey Dias Rest House, little cottages with a million-dollar view. Dias is a splendid gentleman, very welcoming, with whom Lord K and the Tsarina have stayed previously. A half-hour walk into town, which quietly bustles with commerce. A Sri Lankan Lion lager in a bar, where I put the jumper back on for the first time since the aeroplane; a very English train station; and in a bakery some invigorating sweet spiced tea and a pastry containing hard-boiled egg. Tuk-tuk back to the rest house for dinner, thank heavens for cutlery, and an arrack sat in front of that view. We are at the same height as the weather.

Miles of unfinished road in The Beast on the way to Kataragama

Next morning a visit to a country mansion built by a plantation owner in 1931. With the cold, the light rain, raked leaves and picturesque gardens, it could be a National Trust jaunt on a grim Sunday in November. Back down into the heat, heading south. A three-foot monitor lizard struts between speeding cars, minus half its tail. A deleted scene from Jurassic Park 4. Detour to Kataragama, sacred town for Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims. The approach is a country lane, then a dirt track, then crawling along miles of unfinished highway. The potholes. Is your exhaust pipe, ahem, well hung, sir? The heat. We press on. Finally a main road, and Kataragama. The sites of worship in a park, thousands throng, monkeys conspire and from pilgrims pilfer fruit intended as offerings, leaving overflowing rubbish bins to roaming cows and goats. A turn around the stupa reveals elephants chained beside a car park. Marauding monkeys with the same faces as sour old men in East End boozers.

Back on the road, and in the absence of a radio station I instigate a truly appalling barbershop trio treatment of Frankly Mr Shankly. Which is swiftly matched by, er, Boom Boom Boom and Here Comes the Hotstepper. An evening of louche behaviour on the beach beckons.

A grand tour: part two

Animals in focus

Plod the Monitor lizard, Anuradhapura

Look-out goat, Badulla

Proud garden lizard, Anuradhapura

Mischievous monkeys, Anuradhapura

Contemplative monkey, Yapahuwa rock temple

Goat in tea leaves, Badulla

The curious crab, Puttalam

Monitor lizard, Polonnaruwa

Giant squirrel, Mihintale

Sleepy dog on the steps of a temple, Matara

Cockroach in my bathroom, Colombo

Yellow fin tuna, Weligama

Sea eagle, Batticaloa

Solitary elephant, Uda Walawe

Young elephants play fighting, Uda Walawe

Aloof cows, Akkaraipattu

Patch the Dog, Tangalle Beach

Arnold the Peacock, Habarana

The pride of Kirillapone

Down through some of Colombo’s most affluent districts that nestle around trendy Havelock Town and the tiny streets of Narahenpita district is an area called Kirillapone. It is not an easy place to get to and can be easily missed, as on two sides are the Dehiwala and Kirillapone canals, and on the others big roads lined by seemingly impenetrable housing blocks and light industry.

Focus group in Siddhartha Pura Community Centre, Kirillapone

This area is a focus for the project I’m working on. Some of Colombo’s poorest residents live here, in the shadows of the mighty developments that are growing up around them. Last week I held the first of many focus groups in Kirillapone. We were expecting 20 people, and had prepared as such, but over 70 turned up. And, despite the difficulties of facilitating such large groups, the heat, the mosquitoes and the language barrier, all were fully engaged throughout and were hugely grateful to be part of an EU programme.

South Asia Partnership has a long history in this area and has supported residents to develop slum housing into more habitable places. The area is very welcoming and exciting, and a contrast to the many gated, patrolled areas of their more affluent neighbours. Here community life and Sri Lankan culture is very evident on the streets. Social and physical ties, support networks and relationships make up the fabric of the place and bind it together like super strength glue.

I returned to the area yesterday evening to drop off some documents. I was remembered and assisted as I wandered around to try and find my bearings, and taken into a house of one of the families I’ll be working with. I told them I thought the area was very beautiful, and the pride on their faces was heart-warming.

This aspect of pride of place, it strikes me now, can be lacking in the big cities of more developed countries. But it is an important factor of strong communities and leads to high social capital. Kirillapone will be an interesting place to work.

PK

2: Hunters, tea leaves, and golden sand

Vaddas re-enact a traditional hunt

First read: 1: Temples and lizards, potholes and dust

We’d been on the road a week by the time we reached Dehiattakandiya, 50 kms south of Dimbulagala. My Director had arranged a guide for us for a day, a local man who spoke little English. Our Sinhala allowed basic conversation, but for the most part we gestured at each other and were completely in the dark about where he was taking us.

Shooting an arrow with the Veddas

We travelled deep into the Maduru Oya National Park along tiny roads unmarked on maps. At one stage, after a gentle ascent, we emerged from forest onto the western bank of the Ulhitiya Reservoir. To our right were the central plains leading to the foothills of the Knuckles Range, and to our left the reservoir stretched to the gently undulating hills of the park. Elephants wallowed in the shallows and painted storks, destinguished by a flash of pink on their tales and huge orange bills, fished among the water lilies and lotus plants.

Our guide eventually gestured for us to stop. Miles from anywhere and in the baking heat we were confronted by half a dozen hunters,wearing only loincloths and carrying sharpened stone-headed axes. They were indigenous Veddas or Wanniya-laeto (forest dwellers), with direct lineage to the first inhabitants of Sri Lanka during neolithic times, some 18,000 years ago. They performed ritual dances and re-enacted hunts. Bearded and weathered, the hunters seemed a natural part of the landscape, a vision of ancient life that easily preceded the sacred cities of the ancient kings.

A goat eating delicious tea leaves in the hill country

We left the dry zone plains behind us as we headed south into the hill country. The tiny A5 took us from Bibile to Badulla, winding up and up through dense forest, around stunning gaps with views of the eastern province, and into the tea plantations. Small villages of corrugated iron huts and few amenities provided hubs for workers and their families. Goats lazily munched their way through neat rows of tea leaves and monkeys screeched in the forests below.

Badulla is nestled on a plateau between some of the hill country’s highest peaks. It is an important trading hub and gateway to the east. Scattered amidst the bustle of the modern town are colonial gems such as a redbrick post office, churches, and a converted rest house. Badulla is the end of the line for the hill country railway that crosses ridges and mountain passes en route from Kandy and Colombo. The centre of town has a grid of thin streets, lined with medium height shops that come to life with garish neon after dark.

From Badulla we left the hills through the sublime Ella gap, a steep descent of over 1000 metres. The A2 was wide, clear and recently resurfaced, and The Beast quickly gobbled up the hundred kilometres to Hambantota on the south coast. Hambantota is the birth place of the President and subject to ambitious development plans, including an international airport and harbour. The town had recently failed in its bid to host the 2018 Commonwealth Games, missing out to Australia’s Gold Coast. Unfinished dual carriageways led nowhere through the dry scrubland, obviously part of a planned road network to service an industrial boom that had not yet arrived.

Fishermen haul in the night's catch, Tangalla

Following 10 days on the road we reached Tangalla, described by the Lonely Planet as a gently bending beach of coconut coloured sand washed by lazy azure waters. It was a working beach with a small harbour on the western stretch, where rusty fishing boats departed with splutters of flame and blasts from their engines. Every morning a dozen fishermen would drag a huge net to the shore, hauling in the night’s catch. The spectacle was like a dance or ritual; a great tug-of-war with the sea.

Under starlit skies we got chatting to the owners of our guest house. They were both local men, residents of Tangalla for many years. Our conversation meandered through all sorts of subjects, typically including the cost of things, and whether I would accept an advance payment for The Beast to guarantee our sale to them when we left Sri Lanka. Then the conversation moved to the Tsunami, giving a sour edge to the taste of paradise.

Our guest house and its owners, Tangalla

The two waves that ripped through Tangalla in 2004 were as high as the palm trees lining the beach, one owner recalled. At the time he was sitting on the very spot where we were then, watching the sea recede and the curiosity of locals and foreigners rise. He told us that 33 foreigners and 128 locals died on the beach, including members of his own family. Along with his personal tragedy he was left a poor man. The waves washed away the guest huts along the beach and most of the harbour, including the restaurant he had owned for 20 years. The other owner was at the market. The first he knew of the Tsunami were the people running from the beach. “The sea has risen to kill us!” he remembered them cry.

The next day we packed up and drove the 200kms along the coast to Colombo. Our memories were colourful, exotic, ethereal, painful, but without question they were positive. Such is the nature of this delightful island.

PK