Invisible Migrant

A rumble random rant about burning bodies in the backyard.

2012-08-11T19:09:00.001+01:00

A rumble random rant about burning bodies in the backyard.

The smell of burnt bodies fill the air. The same smell you get whenever you drive past the Borella Crematorium when a funeral is in process. The mild August evening wind takes this smell of people barbequing in backyards everywhere. For someone like me who loves food, strange to be put off by this smell of burning meat. Unfortunately for me, this smell is from association at my dad’s cremation.

I go back inside closing the back door from the burnt body smell. The TV drones on in the background. BBC News. I look up to verify. The Olympics are soon gone. Tomorrows the closing ceremony. Mo’s attempting a double by winning gold at the 5000 tonight. He runs his last 400 meters in 52 secs. I can’t do that first time around forget about running 4600 meters first.

As the Olympics end, the football season starts to ensure peace amongst the housing estates spread across Great Britain. I look forward to a good season, being a MU fan for decades ensures my expectations are always met. But football will also usher in the cold; the windy cold or the wet cold or the both wet and windy cold. The sky this late evening still bright. Soon though even early afternoon will bleak, very like the bleakness in my mind.

Hat Ricks of goals for England and MU by Rooney even will not help relieve the autumn chill and winter freeze from my heart and mind. My external body, I control through regular exercise. But my mind crumbles. My heart aches.

I drink water and keep visiting the urinal until my urine eventually runs crystal clear. Imaginary toxins flushed away, unimagined blood sugar levels become respectable. I am restless. I wonder. I wonder more and more about all the wickedness in this world. Forget about the bigger ones, alike Syria, I worry about individual acts of madness.

I can’t watch anymore:

Please don’t make me watch you arresting a grandmother and her partner for murdering her 12-year-old grand daughter. Her body found inside their house after seven days.

Please don’t you see what I see when I walk down our high street. Everyday a new shop out of business, the neighbourhood bar steel shuttered, all closed for business. The irony of it all seen at the end of our high street, the TESCO superstore. Even they feel it, less and less customers.

Please don’t you wonder how the great people of Great Britain now queue in hundreds to watch fellow great citizens make racist and promiscuous fools of their selves on live TV.

The list is too long. The wickedness too big. Spreading like the angry wildfire.

‎"Yaam irukka bhayam eyn? Why fear when I am?" Kārttikeyan

Barack Obama.

Ussain Bolt.

Mohamed Farah.

The three people most in the news now. One in an election to select the leader of the free world. The other two Olympic Champions.

Why did you waste away four years Barack when you could have changed the world?

Why?

I am cold old mother please wrap me in blanket and bury me under the old mango tree, the one down Lauries Road. Next to St. Mary’s church.

Finally I will belong somewhere and nourish my mother lanka. I will be peace, for one thing I am sure of, more sure than of the God’s themselves, I am sure of death, when finally you are truly at peace.

It’s twilight now. Cold and windy, rain expected tomorrow.

I am cold old mother. Please take me now. Wrap me in my favourite tiger print blanket, the one that kept me warm in the USA.

Sunday morning at home

2012-07-15T10:08:00.001+01:00

Last nights excess is nothing now but a sharp headache. I have taken as much as painkillers medically allowed deadening the pain. The spliff I just smoked helps relieve the hangover. My tongue feels like sandpaper. The carton of soya milk I drank with the painkillers is helping somewhat to calm my stomach. I am hoping all the meds and the spilff will kick in soon.

I reach up to the side table by my bed and gulp down the mug of overly sweetened black coffee and look to see if the paper man has come. The air conditioner drones softly. I am protected from the Sunday morning heat that swells up from the tar roads of Colombo as the sun rises. Soon it will be just too hot to think about doing anything or going anywhere. My three Sunday papers, the Observer, Times and the Leader are unceremoniously dumped on my bed by the disapproving wife. She and the kid are slowly up and about getting ready for their usual Sunday plans. ODEL for shopping and strolling about and then return home for lunch. Always Chinese on a Sunday, always from Chinese Dragon. By then hopefully I have finished my newspapers, showered and feel a wee better. Ready for lunch and back to bed to sleep off any reminder of Saturday night. It was a good night, had dinner with the family at Kolu’s Kiss Kiss bar, dropped them home and hooked up with Paddy at Cascades. Mahesh and Leo joined afterwards and memories of Kiribath at Trans Asia at 5 in the morning ensured that the weekends partying was max.

The microwave beeps me out of my revere. Last night was at Cooka’s house in Ilford for his kid’s birthday. I as usual walk in with my compulsory bottle of booze and thrill all the yummy and not so yummy mummies at the party. ‘Aney Dhammika vut men this is a kids party no?’ WTF…

My kids on concert band tour in Spain, so its just Lems and I, she’s driving and I have the license to party. Ate a load of cutlis, patis and mutton rolls, drank lots of Glenmorangie, smoked some really good shit (mine) and enjoyed the wonderful company at Cooks. Nalin, Lily, Ruwan, Cader, Adrian, Mega and Eggy deserve special mention. Lily as always gave me my Bilal’s lampries to takeaway for Sunday morning. The short eats I ate last night are a weak memory, the microwave beep reminding me the food is ready. I am hoping all the painkillers, spliff and now the lamprie will finally sooth my hangover.

I am back. The lamprie was delicious. Oily but delicious and I do feel better. The hangover has reached the stage where it’s now a manageable dull throb somewhere near my temple.

Different weekends, different countries, same bloody hangover.

Khan lost in four rounds to Garcia last night in Vegas. Fights showing again on Sky in 30 minutes.

So I am going now. Bye.

Six Thousand Miles away from Smiles

2012-07-03T19:57:00.003+01:00

The incessant drizzle has been hours now. It had ceased for a while when I got home. Just enough for Jaspers run, walk and toilet. Now late summer evening, but unusually dark due to the rain clouds and that bloody drizzle. Like the last drops we squeeze out when peeing, but for hours.

Cooked a venison sausage curry (the joys of the stix – proper venison sausages from the local butcher) and ate with just white jasmine rice. Kids away on head start and Melo’s vegetarian today. So she will be British, something like olives, cheese and biscuits for dinner. Any health benefit spoilt by the Lucozade she chugs afterwards. Busy at work, so she’s not home yet.

I am set up on the sofa. Mobile, Laptop and TV remotes. Although I have left the back door open I don’t feel really cold. I am in a white skinny and my now new favourite, a Paradise Road sarong. Well worn with age I must add. The quick zoot fix for the days ends nicely settling in. One of the reasons I am finding the weather quite mild. When your head feels really heavy, the mild breeze coming in through the door and the Wimbledon on BBC TV in the background merge into this gorgeous feeling of contentment and comfort. My body has sunk into the leather sofa, moulding it to shape.

My mind wonders all the way back to Wattapuluwa, Kandy, and the outside weather adding to enhance my memories.

I can feel the bus shudder and the driver furiously grinding the gears as he coaxes the bus up the Kadugannawa mountain. It is time for me to perk up in my seat and wipe the journey out of my eyes. I am almost home. The silhouette of the bible rock is only an outline on this late Friday evening. I am on a Colombo – Kandy Intercity bus on my way home for the weekend. The worries and heat of the week left behind as the cool breezes of Kandy caress me as they flow through our groaning bus as it climbs the mountain.

All too soon we’re in Kandy. The wonder of mobile technology has allowed me to phone ahead to inform my parents I am close to Kandy. I am one of the quicker people to exit the bus, as I have no bags to encumber me. Quick stretch and I look around for the car. The bright cyan blue, yes BCB, Lancer station wagon is easy to spot as it shines brightly through the incredible clutter of the sights, sounds and exotic and not so scents of Kandy. Huge yellow buses, Red CTB buses, the KFC double decker, the private intercity buses with their bright plumage of advertising, vendors with their carts brightly lit in glorious fluorescent is a panorama of colour. Nighttime adds to the romance of the situation.

Kumara, our trusted driver, gardener, valet and Mr. Fixit greets me with a big grin as I jump into the car. He does not forget to pull over at a roadside liquor shop for my customary Friday night in Kandy by myself quart. Which is gulped down in three hefty swigs, quick Gold Leaf and I jump back in car. Kumara already has a menthol toffee ready for me to pop into the mouth in readiness for the meeting, worshipping and kissing of said parent now waiting in Wattapuluwa wondering why the five-mile drive to Wattapulwa from Kandy Town is taking us so long. My father silently suspecting it would probably be a tot at an aforesaid roadside tavern.

Finally we climb the mountainous roads of Wattapuluwa and get home. I jump out to open the gate for the car to take the sharp turn that leads to an incline directly to the top floor living room and front entrance. Everything is bathed in the headlights. Ninja my mothers Alsatian dog’s barking and jumping in delight. My nephews and niece are screaming the news of my arrival to everyone in the neighbourhood. The house lights up with everyone exiting their rooms and my mother who was sitting in the living room switches on the house foyer and garden lights.

There is a cacophony of sound. All blurring into hugs, kisses and screams of welcome. The big Alsatian dog has suddenly been overcome with love and is humping my leg at the same time. I am home.

The TV flickers incessantly very like the rain outside. It’s 7pm, the reminder for the famous US TV program COPS has come up. I switch it on. I am home. In England. The clouds have cleared. I can hear the steady distant drone of an aircraft overhead. We’re directly on a flight path but thankfully really high up. I hear the chirping of birds competing with the aircraft, a helicopter suddenly flies by. I glance up and outside. A blur of white, light blue, grey sky, brown garden fencing, green grass and a bunch of bullfinch are busily feeding on worms the rain has unearthed.

I have to go now, I can hear reality.

It’s late in the evening…

2012-06-25T20:07:00.000+01:00

It’s late in the evening…

Long summer evenings. It’s still light outside. Short nights, long days etc, etc. Summer in England’s still warming up. Never like a F1 engine but in fits and starts, along with the inglorious promise of rain.

It’s nice. I am home. Sprawled out on the couch. BBC news on TV provides background chatter. Cooked quick curry for dinner, showered away the days action, in my old P road sarong and a vest. The sport socks the only clash with the rest of the whole ethnic look. But my balls are free, so I feel free. Especially as the small spliff I smoked after my shower is reaching the ‘space’ stage.

Enjoying that perfect mild English evening. I feel fresh as my long hot shower, my Old Spice deo and cologne I splashed on after. The Syrian conflict, England’s Euro Loss, and Cameron’s conservative strategy to cut back on welfare take most importance on BBC news. The rice cooker beeps. Hot basmathi rice and my spicy Chicken curry. Shall open a Publis seeni sambol jar to mark the occasion.

25^th June is almost over. So is the month of June. Midsummer’s day already past. This June by far has been one of the worst months of my too long life. More days to forget, more days to wonder why you still live.

Life’s small pleasures. A hot shower, comfortable clothes, hot food and always the possibility/dream of winning the lottery.

Life’s big pleasures. In my case living in Kataragama. As close to Skanda as I can get. That right now feels almost like my chance of actually winning the lottery.

It’s late in the evening…

DD's Blog: THE ENGLISH FANS - COME ON ENGLAND!

2012-06-20T14:33:00.001+01:00

DD's Blog: THE ENGLISH FANS - COME ON ENGLAND!: For the English fans For the minge at the local pub with fake tan on but begins to look good after two or three pint goggles. Fo...

To the English fans

For the minge at the local pub with fake tan on but begins to look good after two or three pint goggles.

For the always skint, 30 something single working mother who works as a waitress at the Harvester who saves half a fag for after dinner.

For those of us who shop at Tesco first thing Monday morning. Wearing of course the Londsdale sweats we got on sale from Sports Direct. Not from the web, we go to the actual store in our retail shopping park.

To the teenage mom pushing her baby trolley on the high street. Tottering a bit as she had a couple of pints at her local.

To Tom, Dick and Harry. Their white vans securely parked outside their terrace home, now quickly putting on an England shirt ready for the pub to watch the game after a hard days work.

His mates already waiting for him at the pub. The ones on benefit. Those whose jobs all the bloody migrants have taken away.

To me mate and patron of purveyor of all goods related to civilised smoking. IT executive by day, want to be ‘rock’n rolla’ after 6pm.

To the old biddies from Manchester, the ones who carried posies all the way by train to hand them Her Majesty on her golden jubilee parade in London.

To the black cabbie that picked me up from Soho, took me to St. Pancras International and back, just to get to Chinatown, and yelled at me all the way to add insult to injury.

To the teenage girls from the English countryside. Those who give hand jobs to the local Moroccan drug dealer in exchange for drugs.

To the guy outside the West Hampstead train station stairs. The one who says good morning to me and gives me a heavy toothless smile in exchange for a few pence. Sir, I admire the collection of fan tattoos you seem to have collected over time.

For the bouncers at the worst pub on our high street, where even your pack of fags is checked carefully for drugs. Their thinking of putting a finger up the patrons butts too if the violence continues.

To the monthly, 25^th of the month binge drinkers. Both men, women and others.

To the English who get into debt just to fly for the EURO2012 to support England. The ones who put on the shirt even if it’s watching an England game on the home telly.

To the real English fans

The ones who breathe and bleed England!

Come on England!

A post untitled for a reason

2012-05-21T19:28:00.001+01:00

A post untitled for a reason

If you take what is considered dubious political language, I would be right. Yes, coming from a Sinhala, Buddhist, Govigama background and to add insult, from Kandy, I would be appropriately labelled as a racist nationalist.

But more to the intended post. Quite recently I was called an ‘Egoistical Bastard’ by someone who I considered friend. Maybe the introductory paragraph may have added to this new label. Many times I have been called a fool by my near and dear. A few times that I am proud. Those far and afar popularly call me ‘Crazy’.

You my reader I hope is reading with none of these preconceived theories of my impeccable character.

So egoistical bastard (EB) was quite new. The intended subject of my post. About three months are a past when this piece of information was passed on to me. Once seeing from my trained instinct of the said friend making a motion of kicking me when my back was turned, emotions were throttled due to expectation. Since then three months are past and this label kept going through my mind. But, why? I kept asking myself. So I hope hereafter, as I put pen on paper this is laid to rest.

“I am no different from anyone else. Otherwise this world would have never seen African Americans (pun intended), Israelites or Pakistani British, Jake Brits, Indian Americans etc. From a young age my parents encouraged me to explore. Beyond Sri Lanka. Everyone in the family believed in a good education opening doors to the rest of the world. I was the youngest. I believed the world was mine. I still do. I have seen more sorrow than happiness, hunger, depression and destitution. All strangely my own doing for my parents brought me up like a prince. Where ever I went, the US, UK, India, Singapore or anywhere I always did as I please. Looking back, I hurt myself and more, my loved ones by these actions. I still make mistakes. Still I refuse to but live life to the fullest. I wear my heart on my sleeve, what you get is what you see and I am one of the most loyal friends someone can have. So my friends are few, but all precious and real friends. People who’ll unsuspectingly lend me money. So racist nationalist I maybe, egoistical bastard, No Never.”

My dog? Yes.

2011-09-02T08:27:00.003+01:00

Reality and imagination merge. But these posts are nothing but my imagination. Stephen King is my favourite author. He relates to Maine his hometown and borrows from his real life experiences. I have endeavoured to do the same. I hope you enjoy reading these little snippets of my hometown, they are but imagined somewhere deep in my mind.

I am in the process of working on two other manuscripts. This is an exercise to judge if I do have the talent as a storyteller. Maybe one day I will publish or rather find an agent willing to pursue the publication of my narratives.

You will be one of those then who can say you read my first book online on a blog. With no grandiose aspirations as the booker prize, I write to relieve some of my frustrations. Please do comment on these posts, you will help my learning curve for I have had no formal training as a writer.

Thank you Stephen King for the inspiration.

Where do human rights apply? Plastic Bullets, Hosing and Tear Gas.

2011-08-10T19:05:00.005+01:00

The helicopter has been hovering overhead all afternoon. Dusk is dawning and I still hear its rotors whirring. I walk into the garden, look up and see the full black copter. It’s flying low enough for me to clearly see the words ‘POLICE’ printed on both sides. Nearby I see the main road that leads to the village shops and our new retail shopping centre. Police cars in their bright blue and yellow on white body drive up and down.

I am lazy to fetch the camera from inside. The kid laughs at me and warns me that when they see the glint from the camera lens, the filth will think I am a sniper and shoot me. I laugh; we both laugh and agree that the scenario would better fit the US Police, not in UK.

I need to make a quick visit to the post office. As the village is within walking distance I make my way at a cool walking pace. Light up a B&H, inhale deeply to enjoy that first drag of tobacco smoke. Body reacts immediately to the nicotine rush. A tall soy latte with an extra shot at Starbucks is a welcome thought. The riots have been four days now, far from our village of Elstree and Borehamwood. Our only claim to fame being the Elstree Film Studios where Big Brother was shot. Not by a gun, a 35mm camera.

I am however more aware of what’s happening around me than usual. The disquiet I feel is mainly because of the four blokes I see walking up the high street in red coloured hoodies, the white lettering ‘English Defence League’ on both sides stand out clearly. The word ‘Borehamwood’ in smaller print can be seen on closer inspection. I have to walk by them. Eye contact is carefully avoided. I can feel their eyes boring into me. Subconsciously I have put on one of my Che Guevara tees. Jungle green with the mans face large on the front flanked by two red stars. I smile to myself, managing to see the irony of this all.

Back home I watch BBC News. A quick clip is shown of Manchester City. The news reporter speaks to a young man who condones the recent violence and rioting. He believes that the English have been sold out and their jobs taken by Eastern Europeans, other migrants and asylum seekers from Asia and Africa. He believes that the UKGOV must listen more to the English. That rioting is the only way for the UKGOV to give heed to their complaints. The reporter loses all patience and is screaming ‘so burning all these shops will bring you more jobs?’

It’s proper dusk now. I am home, typing this post. I still hear the helicopter overhead.

Elstree, where the Jewish community prosper. Every driveway a marquee car.

Borehamwood, where the villagers roam. In their WWII town houses with the patch of garden in the back. The newer project tower blocks filled with families, all asylum seekers.

25 minutes to London St. Pancras by train. 15 minutes to West Hampstead. Jubilee Line to Bond Street, London, four stops right Joey?

I smile. I am the invisible migrant.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;

thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

psalm 23 - bible - psalm of david

Racing Raindrops

2011-08-04T16:20:00.006+01:00

Racing Raindrops

Everything has been washed. Everything is pure, pure like the rains that came cascading on a cool Colombo afternoon. I sit on the settee enjoying the complete feeling of being cleansed, bare bodied in an old sarong.

I am extremely comfortable. The settee’s long enough for my body to drape above it and settle on to the old indents made on it by me, for years now. Years of long Colombo rain showers, sitting and watching the rain come down. Watching it in full flow and then enjoying the very comfort of a monsoon storm past.

The rain drops race each other on the telephone wire strung across outside our balcony. The front door is open welcoming the fresh relief of the storm. As soon as one batch of rain drops race and fall, my eyes catch another, and another.

The wires seen through my front door seem to imprison me to the settee. Itself adding to my comatose feeling of inaction of a full stomach and lying still on the settee. My eyes blink, I breathe comfortably, my chest falls up and down slowly, the only sign of life, and yes, I am home.

Yet the open door itself is a symbol of my prison. For I do not exit it. The couch is the handcuff that holds me. Beyond the wires I see a clear blue sky, the church spire and the rooftops of the houses in front of ours. I new day beckons. Yet I lie staring, trapped in my own world, of inaction.

I dream yet only of my first cigarette, coughing, then that satisfying head rush that comes only to those virgin to the joys of smoking.

My first love, the most wonderful feeling in the world. Kissing her for the first time, that unbelievable feeling of wonder and love.

My first car, the joy and heartache of owning and running a constantly breaking down proverbial red beetle.

7 shri 4743, my chariot, the god gifts to those who believe. I didn’t bother.

Travel and tribulations in foreign lands. Lands where dreams come true in the physical manifestation of buxom blondes and all too willing brunettes.

Finding my Queen, then another and another.

Endless nights, brushes with death, pleasure and pain.

Life, beyond the racing raindrops, the telephone wire, racing my way, running away from the third world.

Realising too late, how much the world itself has prisoned me.

Tell me; was the grass any greener, the wine and women more willing than my true love? 11 shri 417 or was it 517, yellow Colt GLX for sure I remember. Only a few will.

I still think of her, does she know that? Will I have the indecency to disrupt her world of house, husband and two sons? Never. Even if it’s to say hi.

Will Charon, as I pay him be able to give meaning to the nothingness in my world?

Never, never, never, never, never ever will she allow me to hurt her again. Not her.

Now.

If I was American, I would have sat on that settee, shooting those racing raindrops down, you know?

We use to walk back from ballet class, all the way down Duplication Road. Bumping into each other, our hands touching, secretly. Her driver would walk behind us the chaperon, and the gatekeeper.

“When I go from hence, let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable.”

Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali

When does reality stop, and fiction begin?

2011-08-03T09:09:00.000+01:00

When does reality stop, and fiction begin?

Bury me; bury me deep in my Paradise Isle

Cremate me not, for I want not to be ash

Bury me for I want my flesh to nourish

The worms to breed in my carcass, feed from my past life

My flesh to rot away and seep into Mother Lanka’s soil

Oh bury me; oh bury me please in my Paradise Isle

For my rotting flesh and even in death

I continue to nourish my Paradise Isle…

Paradise Lost

2011-08-03T09:07:00.000+01:00

Paradise Lost

Friday. Summer. London. Spent the evening in canned air inside printers signing off the proof for our special offer ad on client’s internal magazine. Walked out on Marylebone Road to still bright sunshine at 7pm. Short walk to Baker Street to get on Jubilee Line tube. As usual popped into the bar right next to the station. My usual standing two large Absolut vodka’s with a can of Red Bull and into the underground depths of the tube.

Friday and everyone’s in high spirits, literally. Mostly suits like me, even the women. All hurrying home or on their way somewhere in readiness for Friday night. Finally on Jubilee Line, off at West Hampstead and short run to Train station that will take me to my part of the stix. Trains on time. Suns still out although evenings slightly cooler. A welcome relief. 15 centigrade and I am feeling pleasant. Couldn’t help but reflect on how over the past six years I have adapted slightly to the colder climates in old blighty. Train enters tunnel after Mill Hill and that tells me next stop is mine. Can’t help but scramble with others to the door to disembark. It’s become habit, I am part and parcel of the rat race, the moles who live three hours a day underground, no not the house music underground, actual tunnels and tunnels of Transport for London and the Thameslink.

The effect of the voddies are slightly waning, cross the street from the station and I am at the Crown, my local in the stix. Same ritual, two large Absolut, can of Red Bull, stand and deliver to the depths of my very soul. Meet my yardies from the stix, and they insist on a quick shot of the old Sambuca. Friday night is in effect, for them anyway. I am now looking forward to the home, bath, old Barefoot sarong, spliff and Indian takeaway, relax on couch chatting with the family. In that order. Kid’s got a couple of movies recorded for us on the sky box.

As I step out of the Crown I remember Ealing goddess temple early Saturday morning and the cleaners arrival to dust, mop, hoover and iron. Cash needed. Quick walk down High Street to retail park HSBC cashpoint. It’s past nine now and twilight has descended. Slightly chilly as I just do one button up on the old Kenzo suit. My favourite. When Lintas wiped the old SLIM’s the very suit I purchased at Odel that afternoon to wear that evening. I had called the then SLIM President and asked him one question. ‘I am about to go purchase the agency drinks for the night. Should I buy Red or Black label scotch?’ While he could not give me the result, all he did have to say was ‘Dhammika, go buy Royal Salute!’. That was all I needed to make a beeline to Odel from the then homestead on Kynsey Road. Oxford blue Kenzo suit, shirt, tie and CK black patent shoes! Reminiscing always reminiscing. The past, present and future, all blending into now.

Retail parks deserted. Shops all closed now. Take my wallet out and punch in numbers. Five crisp new 20’s cascade out and I slip them in wallet with card, drop wallet into back pocket and turn.

As I turn I see a blur of a blue t-shirt and denims. White male, 35 – 40, medium height and build, shaven head, tattoo on neck, cheap boots, stubble on face.

‘Alrite Bruv, handover the fricking wallet!’

His hand flashes towards me. I see the shining blade of the Filipino Visan Barong knife heading straight toward my chest. Years of challenge fights behind the Royal Junior School cricket pavilion, big match fights, stick fighting, boxercise at the gym, rough housing with my Indonesian black belt friend all reflex together and my body reacts as fast as my mind.

I grab and twist back the hand coming towards me and use my assailant’s momentum to slam back into his body. Surprise and shock in my mind as his own blade penetrates through his t-shirt and into his chest. Ever want to experience the feeling? Buy a shoulder of Lamb, take a kitchen knife and stab downwards into it. If the knife is sharp enough it will graze through the bone and sink into the flesh. Almost like jelly.

Pure instinct takes over and I throw my mugger to crash through the bank glass door. Mayhem of glass breaking and the loud ringing of the bank burglar alarm. I go into shock. The mugger lies inside the bank floor twitching. I see two pools of blood converging to one from his head and the other his chest. My hand is sticky with his blood. No blood is not red, its ruby black. The knife handle sticks out from the muggers chest.

I am in shock. I sit outside the pavement. It doesn’t come into my mind to dial 999. People from the Nando’s restaurant spill out for the commotion. Women scream. 30 seconds, an advertising TV commercial has passed. I wipe my sticky hand on my suit jacket and light up a cigarette.

Sirens scream as the cops arrive. Police quick reaction squads in two BMW’s. Heckler and Koch submachine guns gleaming as they cover me from behind their cars. They assess the situation in seconds. They go into execution mode. I am now face down in the pavement on cold concrete. My hands are clasped behind me. I am cuffed, both for their protection and mine.

From there onwards everything goes into slow motion. The ambulance arrives. I am shocked as I realise that the muggers dead.

You are captured on CCTV in England over 200 times a day. Something I have never ever been comfortable about. Suddenly I am very thankful. I am now in the back seat of a normal Police Vauxhall Corsa still cuffed. People are talking and I can’t help but notice admiring looks towards me. Police have pushed them right back but mobile phones are busy capturing the moment. Welcome to the Digital Age!

The Police Sargent un-cuffs me. They have been briefed about the situation by the CCTV operator sitting god knows where to what took place. They will also be able to get the HSBC ATM video recording of how events transpired. I have called home. The partner of the law firm I am a marketing consultant at screeches in to the parking lot in her gleaming Merc E320 which plates read W1LAW1. I finally remember to breath properly. A copper hands me a plastic cup of water.

Her Majesty the Queens well oiled system of justice efficiently rolls into motion.

I live to fight another day.

When does reality stop, and fiction begin?

Spring in Paradise

2011-07-29T09:21:00.002+01:00

Spring in Paradise

The normal hot humid weather gives way in May to chilly but pleasant Colombo mornings. I wake up as usual to the toll of the Church bells at 5.30am. The cold makes me burrow into my pillows and pull the sheet up to my chin. My cat Choco stirs annoyingly as I have woken him up too. I lie awake listening to the morning sounds of the birds chirping in the Murunga tree outside my window, whispers of the domestic and my mother and the clatter of cups being washed for coffee in the kitchen. My internal clock is timed to wait for the prayers from the Muslim mosque at 5.45am followed by the chimes of the Temple at 6am. I live in urban Colombo and I am within short walking distance to these places of worship. Multicultural diversity at its best I guess. Today is a holiday and excitement slowly wells within me in anticipation of the day to come.

My niece’s day nanny has arrived early and she brings me my coffee to bed. As soon as I see her I spring out of bed. The nanny and I don’t have the best of friendships and I remember the three Vesak Pandols I have hanging in the living room fan blades. How last Vesak the nanny switched the fan on to get my goat, successfully. Despite sleeping late the night before I am full of energy as I turn the shower on high in the bath. Morning showers in Colombo are incredibly cold as only the rich and famous have hot water showers. Refreshing nonetheless and the best way to fully awake in the tropics.

The night before I completed the three pandols and they hang waiting the last touch of the fluffy kite paper balls for the corners. They are really intricate to make and the speciality of my third sister. Patience is required, none of which a 15 year old will ever have. I have also finished all the bulb holder streamers with intricate joints to couple with one of the bulb holders hanging in the living room. The joints and extensions are many as everything is connected to light up the colourful streamer with blue, yellow, orange and red bulbs and three extensions for white bulbs that light up the white pandols. So far in my memory although I have managed to set the trip off many times over I was never electrocuted. Not seriously anyhow. I quickly dress in my school clothes although it’s a holiday. Smart white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and white trousers. Waking my sister up and taking the fuse off for the living room fan I set off at a run to the temple down our road. The Mettaramaya down Lauries Road in Bamabalapitiya. A brief stop at my friends house and we arrive excitedly to the temple.

As we enter the tranquillity of the temple even calms the teen tempest within us. The Bo tree surrounded by the white wall sways softly to the wind. The yellow sand all over the temple grounds crunch beneath our now bare feet. It’s surprisingly cool to walk on. The innumerable jasmine trees that dot the temple glisten with morning dew and scent the cool May morning as if we were in heaven itself. As always we enter the Buddhu Mandiraya to pray for the blessings of the triple gem, the Buddha, Dhamma and Sangha. I wipe my feet off the sand on the big coir carpets outside before entering the big prayer room. A reclining Buddha and a sitting Buddha, larger than life size welcomes you. The tiled floor is cooling, flowers of every form and colour are on offer from Frangipani, Jasmine to Lotus. Mingled with the incense and the burning of coconut oil lamps the scent almost hypnotises you into a trance like silent meditative state.

After offering our prayer we run off to see our friend, teacher, advisor and overall psychologist the Reverend Mahinda. Never forgetting to carefully circumvent the living quarters of the Head Reverend of the temple who we are mortally afraid of. Reverend Mahinda as usual is sitting in his hansi puttwa (reclining chair) drinking a cup of plain tea. He carefully unravels the huge bunch of keys tucked into his robes and presents us with the key to his famous cupboard. The cupboard is famous only for the goodies it secrets. Every foreign chocolate, fresh fruit and all forms of biscuits reside in this cupboard. All offering from the rich Colombo ladies who travel abroad frequently. The good reverend uses this key to good effect to keep all of us well disciplined during Sunday school. Good behaviour is well rewarded by delicious chocolates from far away foreign lands such as England and USA.

After our snack and chat we are now finally ready for the day and what we have anticipated from last Vesak. About ten of us have collected now to be marshalled by Reverend Mahinda. As we are in the temple we are quiet and industrious. We break up into two groups, one to fetch the long bulb streamers and white bulbs that we’ll hang all around the temple, Bo tree and Chaitya. The others fetch the long bamboo stems, white kite paper and wheat flour to mix with water for paste. A basic vesak pandol is built by cutting 24 thin bamboo sticks to one length. Then you proceed to tie them into square of four. Finally these are tied to each other to create a hexagon shape. This is then hung on a tree at reachable height. The white kite paper is cut into squares and carefully pasted on to the hexagon frame. White streamers are added to the bottom and the four corners. White kite paper is preferable but people to build more colourful ones with different colours of kite paper. We hustle around attending to our tasks and are careful not to disturb the gathering of sil mathas (usually old ladies who celebrate Vesak, the birth of Lord Buddha by observing prayers to the triple gem all day and fasting).

Late lunch time and our stomachs begun to rumble. Hunger is secondary when you are a teenager on a mission, but as all teenagers are, food is a must. So we quickly break up to head home. At home I quickly eat my lunch. My sister has finished the pandol décor and I proceed to quickly hang the colour light bulb streamers and the pandols. Superstition and habit prevent me from testing the lights, a ritual left for late evening when darkness descends. All of us gather again at the temple late afternoon. Now we hurry, hurry to finish all our tasks before the thousands of devotees flock to the temple to celebrate the birth of Buddha and offer their prayers. As usual we finish at the very last moment. Tired and weary our white clothes are now drenched with sweat and all the dirt accumulated during the day with the entire cutting, hammering, tying and pasting. Finally the Reverend Mahinda arrives to cast his final glance over everything and switch everything on. The pandols sway in the evening wind, the temple is now brightly lit with all the bulbs and we all now run home to get ready for the night.

I arrive home, have a quick dinner and complete my own ritual of switching on the lights of my three pandols and the streamers at home. My family is all there to see and everyone commends me on a good job. I shower quickly and this time around dress in traditional Sri Lankan dress of a white lunghi and a long sleeved white shirt with a low collar. White flowers have been picked by my sisters to take to the temple along with oil for lamps and incense.

The temple is a short walk away. As we all leave I look back at my decorations at home in pride. Back at the temple all of us teenagers assemble again to organise the lighting and hanging of the coloured Vesak lanterns all over the temple trees. We are encouraged by the Reverends to involve all the children who are at the temple. Everyone excitedly runs around lighting the lanterns with the candles inside them. Finally it’s all finished. The core of us who laboured during the day finally takes time out to admire the fruits of our toil.

Even as a teenager I still remember how my heart would swell with pride at the beautiful sight of our temple and a small tear of joy would gather at the corner of my eye. The temple would blaze with glory in light, a pandols rustling and swaying gently in the wind. Our parents, the sil mathas, worshippers and the reverends would all smile and acknowledge us as the architect of the most satisfying aspect of Vesak – Decorating and lighting up our temple for Vesak in home to the Lord Buddha and blessing of the triple gem.

Nights in Paradise

2011-07-27T07:56:00.000+01:00

Nights in Paradise

Nightfall is here and its pitch black. It’s slightly chilly as I wrap myself more securely in the blanket. I lie on the bed, scared to look out of the window into darkness, and spooked by the sound of insects. My only reassurance is the deep sleep breathing of my sibling fast asleep next to me and all the other cousins all scattered around us in what was called the kids room. I am born and bred a city kid, school term holidays otherwise when it was time for the families to visit my Grandmother in my village of Udispaththuwa, close to Kandy in the middle of farm country in Sri Lanka.

My fear of the darkness was aided more by the fact that I was also scared shitless of my grandmother. A tall stately lady, who used to wear long sleeved, white, lace jackets and a white Osari, the popular form of the saree, worn Kandyan style. We were to never venture to her room and my memories of her were glimpses of her smoking a cigar before bedtime or taking long walks down the corridor of her home. My siblings and cousins had better more pleasant memories and experiences but mine were these. The house itself was large with my vivid memory of the old but still working pinball machine and the brilliant actual Tiger skin hanging on the wall.

The corridor in the back starting with the prayer area leading to the huge smoke kitchen. The long table in the corridor where the less fortunate ate. A huge table in the middle of the dining room where the family would sit and eat. Memories of my father always saying that when he romanced my mother, he was entertained where the less fortunate sat, and how when he married my mother, all she came with was one pillow. Obviously one had to add about 750ml of alcohol into the pater to come out with these little gems. Warm goats milk for the children in the morning with jaggery. My aunt, Cheeti’s occasional forays to the kitchen area to cook us delicious tidbits. The much looked forward to evenings with my huge bunch of cousins, being one of the youngest and always being bullied. The fear of the dark coming from Sumith Aiya’s ghost stories. All of us going to temple. Wesak and all the decorations that came up around the house. Plucking the forbidden Coccoa fruit from the back garden. Thellija, (Honey distilled from coconut trees) each child getting a spoon each as one can become drunk with too much consumption. Walks through the paddy field for baths in the well. Our aunts screaming at the older cousins to ensure we do not fall in.

People, laughter, noise, pets, fun.

All of us have moved on now. Some of us to other lands far away where the ‘Sudhdha’ lived. Exploits of even how the house suffered slight damage in WW2 due to bombing. The house now quiet, locked up. The paddy fields unploughed. Only signs of life being the people hired by my aunt who live in the kitchen area. My grandmothers grave area with the jam tree and cement seat sits forlorn. My daughter I take whenever in my motherland for she must know this is her heritage.

Sinhala, Buddhist, Govigama people from Kandy. During recent years this is fast becoming a point of debate and looked down on. That we the Sinhalese subjugate the others into servitude. I am not ashamed to be Sinhala Buddhist. This is our motherland. Our roots, our culture, our heritage.

By choice my friends are of other cultures, multi-cultural or ethnically diverse Sri Lankan’s. My best friends and all of them Sri Lankan’s. They belong as much as I do. Especially the Tamils as they are part of our motherlands history and heritage. Not separately, in one motherland – Sri Lanka.

Waking to Paradise

2011-07-26T11:34:00.001+01:00

Waking to Paradise

I wake to the slight chill in the air and the blur of bright sea blue as someone adjusts the pillow on my head and covers me with a blanket. The steady drone I hear is the aircraft engine and the bright blue morphs into a smiling stewardess. I have slept for over five hours on my flight to the Paradise Isle from London. I stretch comfortably and slowly meander my way to the back of the cabin for a fresh cup of Paradisian tea, a shining red apple and some Paradisian chat. The Malaysian Tamil female passenger reads the palms of the stewardesses and mine. I smile as the stewardesses ask her the main question in any single female Paradisians mind, when will they marry? We all cross the fortune-tellers palm with silver and I meander my way back to my seat.

It’s early morning when we land in Paradise. In the typical Paradisian way everyone pushes each other to disembark. I make my way through immigration; pick my bags up, quick stop at duty free and onwards to book a taxi to take me to the salubrious surroundings of Pelawatte. After a prolonged dismal English winter and dodgy spring, the April heat of Paradise overwhelms me. I long for the air-conditioned comfort of my sister’s home.

As always I am delighted by the sheer colourfulness of my Paradise Isle. The painted and gaily decorated public buses and scooter taxi’s, cars as old as 1950, the latest in luxury SUV’s all jostle and bustle with each other as they proceed at breath taking speeds down the airport road to Colombo. The only differences are the slow bullock carts, cows and street dogs that sedately share this road with vehicular traffic. I look forward to the three weeks ahead as I flinch and close my eyes inside the taxi that’s taking me to Pelawatte. I flinch because the taxi driver keeps taking his eyes off the road to talk to me.

I jump into the shower as soon as I get home. After five years, the solar powered panels that provide hot water still surprisingly work well. I set the water from hot to really cold as I wash the journey off me. I am wide awake as I jump off the shower and what seems to be ages, which it actually is as I put on a pair of my GAP shorts, a tee from Abercrombie, slippers as my friend arrives in his jeep to pick me up. Its post election day so the sale of alcohol is prohibited, therefore all the clubs and bars are closed. We head to another friends house and I start my holiday in earnest as I sip my first long ice filled glass of Absolut and Red Bull. Helped down smoothly at dusk by the freshly fried chicken and prawn rolls from Tasty’s. My thirst and hunger sated it is late night as I head back for a long nights sleep. My stay in Paradise has begun. I awake refreshed late next afternoon. Meeting family, seeking funding and partners for business, the Sinhala and Tamil New Year, the post new year procession in seeking the blessings of Lord Skanda in the deep south of Paradise, Kataragama, the wedding of one of my best buddies, catching up with college mates, clubbing, bar hopping, binging on drink and food all await me. I am truly in Paradise. As I have been strictly warned to not mention smoking material from Pakistan and Thanmalwilla I shall detest. Ask any Paradisian they will know.

I blaze my way through the two most happening nightclubs in Colombo. Mojo at the Taj Samudra Hotel and the Silk nightclub next to the CH & FC rugby club. Highlights at Mojo are meeting the former Blue Elephant DJ Naushad who spun one complete night of house music for me, helped along with bottles of Absolut, Moet and Grey Goose.

At Hambantota, just before we come to town we are sent on a detour due to construction of the new port. We drive down a brand new fully carpeted road. I get my driver to stop quickly to take pictures of the peacocks hanging out by the roadside. The peacocks are fully alert and as long as we stay in the SUV they stay put. The minute I get off the jeep they run away. We pass the new International Conventions Centre in construction. The sheer size of the structure leaves all of us in the jeep impressed.

Usually extremely hot in April, Kataragama is pleasantly cool, as rains have fallen at night. We visit the Kirivehera Stupa and Temple to offer flowers, incense and light oil lamps to seek blessings of the Buddha, dharma and sangha. Afterwards we walk to the scared temple of Lord Skanda to seek his blessings and protection. In April I usually time my visits to Paradise in time for the procession of elephants in ball gowns and dervish dancers in homage of Lord Skanda. Firewalkers, various forms of ethnic dancers in brilliant costumes are a photographers dream.

Back in Colombo, family and friends take me to some of the best fusion, Indian and Chinese restaurants in the world. Sunday and poya day dim sum at the Wok in the Colombo Hilton, Mango Tree for Indian food and the Peach Valley Chinese restaurant down Flower Road in Colombo are most noteworthy.

Meeting old school mates and friends at the members only private clubs and bars in Colombo and bacchanalia is a special treat that one must enjoy in Sri Lanka. A prelude of our colonial past and a memento of the British, clubs such as the Old Thomians Swimming Club (OTSC), Orient Club and the Swimming Club must be visited to see true friendship and bonding amongst Paradisians.

My holiday is fully completed with my attendance at a best friends wedding. Quick purchases of fresh spices, Paradisian Tea, and souvenirs for friends from Barefoot. A pair of perfectly matching pink sapphire earrings for my wife. All too soon it is time to leave. The cab arrives late night as my friends help me load my bags in. Hugs, kisses and goodbyes.

Intermittent lights of Colombo blink below me as I look down from the Srilankan Airlines flight to Heathrow. This time back I get a seat by the exit door with loads of leg space. I stretch out and allow the drone of the aircraft engine to lull me to sleep. Dreams, sweet dreams of my motherland, and another fantastic holiday.

Sri Lanka, the Paradise Isle.

Missing Paradise

2011-07-26T11:32:00.000+01:00

Missing Paradise

Two days to Christmas. The DJ plays a soft bluesy number as the house lights come on. I look around with bleary eyes. The less inebriated amongst us have checked our coats out and the bouncers gently try to dislodge us to begin the journey home. As we stumble out the rush of cold air is welcome. Minus 10 degrees means none of us hang around and all bundle into the cab. Everyone’s still in high spirits and talking loudly.

No one notices as I sink into a corner of the cab and wearily watch the lights of London fly by. It’s early morning and the only one’s out and about are revellers like us, the East-Europeans heading off to their early morning jobs, milk and newspaper delivery trucks. I am looking forward to home, a hot bath and unwinding on the couch with a hot mug of coffee. Although tired I know that I will need that ‘me time’ to properly fall asleep.

Unconsciously my thoughts roam to the year gone by. As I grow older I have matured. My world has slowed down, while the rest of 2010 flashed by. My other four mates in the cab surround me but yet I feel tremendously melancholy. I call them my ‘mates’ as they are still not my friends. I am more than guilty as they think of me as a good mate, I take long to make friends, and again as I mature it’s harder and harder to change my Sri Lankanisms. I worry I am becoming a grumpy old man. Little things don’t worry me anymore, but the big things worry me more.

Christmas and Christmastime bothers me the most. To me it’s that specific time of the year you are sharply reminded of the income gap that bridges the haves from the have-nots. The homeless man I just saw sleeping under one of the Harrods shop windows as we pass Knightsbridge will haunt me like the ghost of Christmas past. How is he managing in minus 10 temperatures?

Last year I arrived in the Paradise Isle on Christmas day to party non-stop with my friends in Dickwella and onwards to 31st night at Galle Face. This year in the London-Elstree Holiday Inn Masquerade Ball. Actually my first 31st party in London. With my mates!

Non-Christian me will celebrate Christmas in our own special way. My wife’s relatives will come home early morning for mutton curry and milk-rice. Presents will be opened. Sash and San who are my sis-in-laws kids are still 2 and 6. They believe in Santa. One of the nice things about Christmas, Santa. Our kid is a teenager, she knows, but still expects as many presents under the tree.

I am home. The repeat of the Amir Khan fight’s on Sky Sports. I take a sip of hot coffee and snuggle under the duvet. Everything is ready for Christmas. As I drift to sleep I lay my soul for the good Lord to keep and pray I will not dream of the homeless man I saw earlier this morning.

Last call.

Life after heaven

2011-07-26T11:31:00.000+01:00

Life after heaven

Lazy Sunday morning. The aroma of fresh coffee wafts into the room. This is enough incentive for me to roll out of bed. Everyone eventually showers. All of us take off for Dim Sum at the Hilton Emperor Wok.

Full as we eventually head off to my piece of heaven in Sri Lanka, The Barefoot Shop, Gallery and Café. We immediately leave the heat and humidity of the day as we walk into the Barefoot Garden. The splash of colour never fails to surprise me. Sunday Jazz Band in attendance and the crooning voice of Jerome Speldewinde entertains.

Christmas hols and it’s almost like back in London. I spot many of the Diaspora. Wave, grin and cheerful greetings shouted across. Many of us carrying around the absolutely necessary piece of Diaspora kit, a digital camera! Picture’s taken, hugs and New Year kisses. I quickly look about and spot in relief that my mates have headed upstairs.

The true beauty of the Barefoot garden is truly captured from the balcony. The Jazz Band forms the centrepiece to a bustle of colour. The religious statues from far off kovils in the north, ethnic Christmas trees, the wonderful painting hung on the bar wall, a fusion of colour in the table cloths, huge ceramic pots teeming with little orange and red fish.

The Tiger beer I sip feels colder, much better than anywhere else in the world. I am home, in heaven, in my Paradise Isle. The two Diaspora kids who run up to see me are impressed. They believe that broad upper floor over the Barefoot Café bar is where I live when I am in Sri Lanka! Reluctantly I set them right.

I give up on the uber cool image I am trying to project and click away with my piece of Canon kit. Dom the owner of Barefoot spots me from downstairs. Grin, wave and a huge thumbs up.

Some of us head into the Barefoot shop to do some shopping. I have already been. Sterling statue of God Gnanapathi, the famous Barefoot stone Buddha’s, compulsory Barefoot sarongs, Table Mats, Napkins and a load of knickknacks for the kid. All for just under £100! All in the unimaginably glorious Barefoot colours of Sri Lanka.

With the mildly amused acceptance of Nas and the obliging grin of Dom’s I take a few shots of inside the shop that you enjoy now. Normally a strict no the shop staff looks at me annoyingly and are still suspicious despite the fact that I inform them I have approval.

Dusk arrives and all too soon Jerome and the Band pack up for the evening. Few pictures, goodbyes to everyone and we head off. Getting into my friends monster sports car I take one last look back. It’s Sunday, I leave my Paradise Isle early Tuesday morning. My heart aches, the lump in my throat and teary eyes I hide from my friends. I console myself that I am back in April for a friends wedding.

It’s twelve inches of snow and minus eight degrees outside as I sit here typing this from the stix of England. But in my soul I hear the voice of Jerome Speldewine. Brilliant colours mix in my mind. I am full from the café’s fresh fusion food. I am wearing the bright gold Barefoot sarong mixed with shades of black. The warm tropical wind caresses my back. The scent of frangipani flowers scatters everywhere. Lord Gnanapathi gazes at me in benevolence.

Colombo’s wonderful oasis for every weary traveller. Barefoot.

My paradise isle

2011-07-25T12:27:00.000+01:00

My paradise isle

It’s 30 centigrade and the sun blazes overhead. The humidity adds an extra dimension to the heat. Landing at the international airport in Katunayake I especially feel it as I had left cold miserable weather back in Heathrow. I have been dying for a smoke after the 12-hour flight and I quickly light up as I stand on the pavement in front of the airport passenger pick up point and look for Bandu and the car.

As soon as I landed when switching the mobile on I already had sms’s from my friends in Colombo welcoming me. Nice, very nice. Bandu rolls up and almost leaps from the car in welcome. As usual he tries to worship me and I stop him by giving him a warm hug. The sweat sticks to my body; my white linen shirt is covered with sweat. I don’t mind, I love it. I slide into the refreshingly air conditioned car but immediately roll the window down to light up another cig. Bandu helps the porter load my bags; I call out a warning to them to ensure none of the booze bottles purchased from duty-free break.

Finally as Bandu pulls out of the airport I just let the tension in my body, just let it all go and slide more into the car seat. I enjoy the incredible feeling of the suddenness of everything being completely right. I am home. Bandu wants to stop for a cool Thambili (King Coconut), I am more eager to get home, so we keep on. The school and work traffic has started and the goings slow. I greedily take in the sights and sounds of my Paradise Isle.

A fusion of bright colour.

The Buddhist priests standing by the bus stop.

The orange king coconuts in the wayside shop matching their saffron robes perfectly.

The little kid inside the bus on the way to school. Peering at me curiously and rewarding me with a brilliant white toothed smile and shy wave.

The private buses shooting recklessly by. Their coloured livery and signs make me smile.

‘Don’t kiss me’ stickers on Scooter Taxi bumpers.

The young lady in her pastel flowered Saree and umbrella to match walking to the train station.

The girls from the garment factories hurrying by, chatting one to a dozen. Pretty, very pretty.

Noise emanating from everywhere, the record bars littering the Wattala area blasts pop music from speakers placed right outside their shops.

A Policeman stands in the middle of an island on the road. His face in resignation to the chaos around him.

I am waiting to just get home and stand under the cold shower for hours. Wash off the dirt from the journey, all my trials and tribulations. For I know I am home. Home in my Paradise Isle.

I am surprised to find my cheek already wet as I wipe it. Jolted out of my dream I realise I am in bed snuggled under the duvet. It’s cold outside in my part of Hertfordshire, just 12 degrees this morning. The alarm from the mobile rings urgently. I quickly wipe the tears off my face and head downstairs to prepare my first cup of coffee for the day.

It’s OK, I am OK. I have my precious memories, my dreams. Home, my Paradise Isle.

Paradise calling. Weekends in Colombo. Friday!

2011-07-25T12:26:00.000+01:00

Paradise calling. Weekends in Colombo. Friday!

Weekends in Colombo must start with a liquid lunch at the popular Colombo Swimming Club in Colombo 3. The late Joanna Miles our then Brit creative director loved the place as all Brit expats and any tourist do. A left over of the colonial era, this swimming club’s main attraction is it’s main building. An old bungalow still preserved in its original condition. A long verandah at the back serves as the spine to the club where one can sit and watch the trains go by frequently on the adjoining commuter train track that connects Colombo to the deep south of Sri Lanka.

All this capped by a magnificent view of the Indian Ocean that the club overlooks. Aunty Jo as we popularly called her was the epitome of the British expat. Single and born to be, she loved her drink and got on famously with all the boys from the advertising and marketing fraternity in Colombo. She would unfailingly arrive most Friday’s around one o’clock at our desks and off we would go. Fresh grilled seafood, the proverbial Gin and Tonic and the weekend is off to a brilliant start as we sway off back to office late afternoon. Wherever you are in the nether world Aunty Jo, rest in peace, we remember you with love.

Last copy checks of art works, sending material off to press, last minute frantic calls to clients for approvals and everyone’s done by late evening. The start to the debauchery is always at a sports club that dots Colombo’s landscape. These clubs, a hangover from colonisation of Sri Lanka by the British, range from exclusive Golf, Rowing and Swimming clubs to the bit more rowdy Rugby clubs and little more refined Cricket clubs. Most have huge lawns that are readied every evening with tables, umbrellas and chairs for relaxation and quaffing of alcoholic beverages after a hard day of sport or work. A wee different from the rest of the world, this does not mean a couple of drafts of beer, no, Sri Lankan men and women alike love their spirits from the local arrack to whisky, brandy, gin or vodka. Bottles of it are consumed, not shots, especially on a Friday evening.

Our club of choice was the Old Joes Sports Club within the premises of St. Joseph’s, a boy’s catholic school! The main attraction to this establishment was the incredible fried pork that was served with fresh buttered bread to deaden the effects of various alcoholic beverages. Late evening when the sun sets the view you see from the club is the lovely green cricket field, the old chapel standing grim and proud with wonderful shadows giving light to many ad man and woman’s imagination. Old Joes serves to encourage every one of us to reach the correct stage of inebriation for someone to start clambering to go play pool.

Allow me to meander from this weekend of mine for a brief moment. If the reader is wondering where are the spouses, partners, children, boyfriends, and girlfriends of these people? Under the guise of one’s profession, Advertising, these loved ones all over the world suffers in patience. Not all but most. Ad people are very good at hiding behind their profession. The creativity, short deadlines, demand what we call letting off of steam with the team!

Now back to a late Colombo Friday evening where darkness, any party animals friend has announced its arrival. Groups of us stagger into our respective cars and zoom away to one of Colombo’s best nightspots. Owned by the genteel Russell Fernando ‘Rhythm and Blues’ is a club that offers live music six nights of the week and pool at any time of the day. Popular amongst Colombo’s ad and marketing fraternity, young expats and tourists, R n’B caters to a slightly older clientele through a delicate balance of live rock music with covers performed of songs from CCR, Eagles, Santana and Eric Clapton to name but a few. DJ Ben takes over during band breaks.

If Ben is exceptionally ‘smiling’, smiling the operative word, he can be persuaded to play a bit of house, drum and bass late into the night. And if you wish to ‘smile’ too, Ben will point you in the right direction!

The atmosphere is uber cool and relaxed starting from Russell and his lovely wife. One is required to be in pants and shoes and adequately covered on top. Our noisy entrance is usually accompanied by grins from the doormen, bouncers and waiters, and wry smile from Russell. We’re regulars, so tolerated for our various vices and curiosities. Again explained by ‘Oh ad people, no?’ Fiercely competitive amongst some of us, games of pool begin. Unusually or usually one finds games of pool where suddenly it’s creative vs. the suits. It’s late Friday night as I usually wean myself from the pool and enjoy my Jameson on the rocks with live music from the band.

R n’B’s small dance floor is usually packed with expats dancing their cares away. The crowd is eclectic, from Colombo’s executives to tourists, musicians, journalists, and the worldwide mandatory Russkies and Thai girls. Everyone’s cool. Universal love is always in the air.

Late night and the stronger souls stagger off to Clancy’s. Another Brit Pub themed bar owned by Russell’s family. Here one finds live rock music from the more modern era performed and an edgier, younger crowd with many young couple on night outs or dates. Clancy’s like R n’B stay open to the wee hours of morning. Finally Friday ends on early Saturday morning. There is still no hurry-to-hurry home, everyone chats about and finally heads off to Colombo’s premier 24-hour night restaurant ‘Pilawoos’ for breakfast.

Sri Lanka formerly known as Ceylon was on a world spice route via the Indian Ocean. Colonised by the Portuguese, the Dutch and finally the British, the food influences are many. Especially through the Chinese and the Moors who continuously did and still do business here. The Muslim and moor culture is part and parcel of Sri Lanka. So are their food and the origin of many of these night restaurants called ‘night kades’ in Sri Lanka. The choice of food amongst Colombo’s night lovers is called a Kottu. A Kottu is cooked on a huge metal plate heated from underneath. Pieces of delicious roast chicken, beef or mutton, eggs, onions, leeks, tomatoes, garlic, herbs and curry sauce are all fried with cut pieces of leavened bread parotha’s on this metal plate. The noise accompanying the cooking of this dish is loud, and usually the cook does this right outside the restaurant, so one can watch this dish being prepared. All part of the night experience and the food washed down either with cool incredibly sweet chocolate milk or lime juice. For the more adventurous party people all one has to do is whisper in a waiter’s ear either for more of Sri Lanka’s home-grown alcohol, arrack or a neatly rolled spliff. The Kottu roti is a Mongolian dish adapted to suit Sri Lanka’s palette for spicy food and is the best food guaranteeing the lack of a hangover in the dawning day!

Finally dawn breaks in Colombo, Sri Lanka’s commercial capital. There is an early morning chill, little forewarning of the humidity and a median temperature of 96 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade during day. The restaurant Pilawoos is on Galle Road itself that links the capital to the south of the country. Morning commercial traffic, huge commuter buses, lorries carrying large loads of fresh produce to the city thunder down the road. Wearily but happily sated and plied with alcohol and food everyone meanders to their cars. The last cig is smoked, hugs, kisses and goodbyes. The end of a busy week, the beginning of the weekend. Saturday morning has dawned and what happens on Saturday, another post from me.

Partying every weekend in Colombo is a must. An experience any visitor to Sri Lanka must experience. Seeing is believing.

Sri Lanka’s best-kept secrets. Playing in Paradise. Kandy.

2011-07-25T12:25:00.002+01:00

Sri Lanka’s best-kept secrets. Playing in Paradise. Kandy.

It’s Friday evening and darkness, a thick blanket has descended on Kandy. The only sound is the steady trickle of rain usually common to any late Kandy evening. We roll into home and my nephew springs out from the car to open the gate to our house. The spotlight brightens the gravel on the driveway, shining black stones shimmering. My mums rose bushes glimmer invitingly with dewdrops. Getting down from the car and stretching as the fresh mildly cold air hits you, refreshes you.

The kids run into the house screaming in youthful exuberance in anticipation to the week ahead. The dog jumps at you in welcome, pawing at you in impatience to be petted. Your home, in the city called Maha Nuwara (Big City) during the days of the Sri Lankan kings. Best known as Kandy, 72 miles from the commercial capital of Sri Lanka, Colombo. With evening traffic Kandy is about a three-hour absolutely wonderful scenic mountainous drive that really tests the skills of any adventurous driver. I usually successfully attempt to do in two hours.

Kandy, life is slow, uncomplicated there. Mountainous Terrain. Home to Sri Lanka’s dubious descendants of loyalty, sons of the soil. There is plenty of rain, so agriculture and rolling fields of paddy are common. The mornings hot with blazing sun and days that cools from the afternoon with a steady trickle of rain turning to majestic thunderstorms during the monsoon. Fresh produce in everyone’s backyard, an abundance of natural food, and a lifestyle very different from the rest of Sri Lanka, chilled would be the best word.

My friends in Colombo would always wonder why in the wide world I descend to this part of the world of perceived boredom every single weekend. But the secrets: the sights, the sounds and places of Kandy are many, waiting to be discovered, enjoyed.

I worship the statue of Buddha in our living room, then kneel in worship to my parents, say hi to rest of the family and go to my room to change in to Sri Lanka’s preferred choice of relaxing wear, the sarong. The domestic is awaiting my arrival and has a huge simmering cauldron of hot water heated by wood fire by the well in the back of our house. As I draw the first bucket of water and pour it on my head all the worries of the week from life and work in Colombo just wash away. I scrub the dog on his weekly bath and myself hard with Lifebuoy soap while chatting to the domestic. The dog loves it and splashes water all over us. Finishing with icy cold water drawn from the well and drying in the icy cold of the night outside feels wonderful with the terry cloth towel washed and dried in the sun. I head inside in anticipation for the night. Call my half Brit-half Sri Lankan gentile friend to check if he has made it home from Colombo too. Quick dinner and off to his house on the high mountains of Pitakanda, Kandy. About five minutes drive from our house in Wattapuluwa, Kandy.

We sit in his verandah overlooking the rolling mountains right above the Nittawella rugby grounds, home to the Sri Lankan champion team, Kandy Rugby Club. Infamous for its credentials of importing players from as far as Fiji and Samoa for an unfair edge in the national rugby league. A spliff is rolled, vodka poured into tall glasses filled with ice and we finally lay back on the antique long arm chairs famous only to Sri Lanka. The first sip of vodka with the spliff sends an incredible feeling throughout my body. We can’t help but smile. My friend’s partner is sitting on the cool tiled floor using his legs as a rest for her body.

We finally get out of our chairs lazily and head out to our favourite watering hole in the Kandy town, the Bake House. The feeling of euphoria and freedom is incredible as our trail bikes thunder around the Kandy lake to our destination, I can hear my friends partner screaming as we try to out do each other too see who corners the best. After the beers at Bake House we set off to one of the hotel discos or to hear live music in a hotel lobby. The choices are many but Mahaveli Reach, Earl’s Regency or the Tree of Life are personal favourites. Couple of hours in town and we are back at my friends winding down from the evening and weeks trails and tribulations of hot and humid Colombo. I am finally off home in early twilight to collapse on to bed for dreamless much needed sleep. Fresh cotton sheets, large white pillows filled with natural cotton all dried in the sun cocoon me in comfort. The dog flops into bed at my feet and I am too tired to push him away. I sleep by myself in the ground floor of our house in the annexe, the large Alsatian dog does give me a sense of comfort and security.

Wake up late next morning to hear the house hustling and bustling upstairs. A cup of coffee lies on the nightstand beside my bed, discreetly brought in by the male domestic. I open the door of the bedroom that opens out to our garden, quietly light up the first cigarette for the day and enjoy my coffee sitting on the step. My mothers jealously guarded visitor, a King Cobra glares at me from behind a rock in the garden. I acknowledge him nervously and hug the dog close to me. The Cobra is a venerated animal in Sri Lanka and it is believed that the gods send them to your home to guard you but also test your belief. Believe you me I have actually seen this Cobra come really close to my mother and just chill out when she ventures out to the garden.

I then use the bathroom; change in to shorts and t-shirt and head on upstairs to be greeted excitedly by my niece and nephews waiting for me to rise for the day. We eat a delicious breakfast of rice and mung beans soaked overnight and cooked in coconut milk with fresh-grounded chillie and onion paste and fresh river fish curry. Finally we all pile in to the car and head out to the Tree of Life hotel where we rent mountain bikes and go for a vigorous ride on the trails especially built by the hotel for hikers and bikers. Back after an hour and the kids all splash into the hotel pool. The Tree of Life hotel’s main section is over 100 years old and used to be the British Lord Mountbatten’s jungle hunting retreat and bungalow where as well as hunting for wild boar and deer, he sowed his oats as any good colonial sod did in Sri Lanka during the late 1800’s and as far as 1948 when Sri Lanka finally gained independence from British Colonial rule. Although much debated and unaccepted the bony Kandy lasses are amazingly beautiful. The tanned local heritage mixed with British blood and toned down over generations give these local lasses golden skin which contrast amazingly with their long dark tresses. It is not unusual to see some of them with light brown almost hazel or blue eyes. Beautiful is an understatement.

While the kids splash around, I head off to the hotels Ayurvedic centre for Herbal Treatment. Head, Face and Body Massage ‘Snehana’ (Oil Massage), ‘Swedana’ (Steam Bath), ‘Shirodara Kutisweda’ (Herbal Sauna), and Aroma Therapy. The hotel offers a genuine, reliable and traditional Ayurveda in Kandy, Sri Lanka. Ayurvedic therapy comes from an age-old formulation passed down from generation to generation of Ayurvedic families in Sri Lanka. After a good couple of hours I emerge a new man, now finally all the worries of the week massaged away.

All of us then head to the hotel buffet lunch. I stick to the traditional rice and curry from the buffet as the hotel maintains it’s Ayurvedic credentials by offering a range of Sri Lankan vegetables that sadly do not feature in the regular fare of Colombo’s home meals.

Afterwards we drive to the Kandy town for the afternoon. First visit is to the Dalada Maligawa, the former palace of Sri Lanka’s last king, Sri Wickrama Rajasinghe and now a Buddhist temple that houses the scared relic of Buddha, one of his teeth. Outside the palace the regular showpiece before entering the temple a huge tame elephant awaits the brave. It is believed that going under the elephant’s stomach and circling three times builds bravery and courage in children and also wards off evil! After offering the traditional araliya flowers and incense in the inner sanctum we head off to explore around Kandy town.

Kandy offers a labyrinth of streets more complex than those of New York City. Around every corner awaits a surprise, always pleasant. All though buyers must be aware as you may end up purchasing a useless trinket, for the discerning eye antique jewellery shops abound in Kandy. From genuine antique bracelets, earrings, and rings worn by the nobility of ancient Sri Lanka, one will find small shops selling silver rings woven with elephant hair for luck, leopard tooth pendants made from real leopard teeth from hunters of the past and various intricate jewellery items made from ivory. The elephant is a venerated animal in Sri Lanka largely, so buying ivory although needs to be at one’s beliefs and discretion, most ivory items are antique and obtained from elephant graveyards of old. I still remember the large leopard skin that adorned the games room wall at my grandmother’s home in Kandy. Gemstones and jewellery made from precious gems such, as rubies, sapphires, garnets and moonstones are a plenty. Unless you really can identify gems, I would advice a visitor to only purchase jewellery made from moonstones. These are really cheap and won’t be more than 10 to 20 British pounds maximum. All this and more such as local handicrafts made from brass, devil masks, and Sri Lankan drums and in the main though fare of Kandy, a Cargills supermarket and a KFC for a quick snack of chicken! Even a Pizza-Hut!

If visiting Kandy in July and August one has to book early to avoid disappointment as these months herald the beginning of the world famous Kandy Dalada Maligawa procession. A parade of over one hundred elephants in ball gowns brightly lit up very alike a Christmas tree with thousands of dervish dancers, firewalkers, whip crackers and traditional drummers. These processions are held to give thanks to the gods for life, gifts of nature that nourish and good health.

After our walk-about in town we finally head home early evening to beat the drizzle that gradually starts as small drops to steady. Fresh cups of tea for the adults and Milo for the kids, everyone crashes in bed for a nap. The kids head out to the garden for a noisy game of cricket. I switch the TV on and drowse off to the news and woken up again only when the domestic brings me a cup of coffee.

Darkness falls early in Kandy. It’s twilight when I wake up and refresh myself to head to Pitakanda to my friends house again for dinner. I have my dad’s driver drop me off as I plan to get properly sloshed at my friends. More spliffing, loads of vodka and a refined dinner. My friend’s family were restaurateurs in England. So we enjoy a refined meal of pasta with a lovely mushroom sauce all washed down with red wine. Chatting for hours with coffee made from freshly ground beans, the sun’s rising as my friend drops me off at home.

Awake unusually early for a Sunday morning and fast drive to the picturesque Victoria Golf Club for a couple of holes of golf, ride around the club complex on a trail bike and some much needed exercise. The English breakfast at the clubhouse later negating the benefits of the previous exercise. Then I head back to set off with the kids to the Polgolla dam a five minutes walk from our home in Wattapuluwa, Kandy. We have on our bathing suits underneath and carry fishing rods, as beneath the dam, in the flowing calm waters of the Mahaweli River is a perfect secluded spot for bathing and if one wishes to even fish. Not the hectic sport fishing, but the type that calls for calm patience with a line cast in the water and watching the world go by, not counting the seriously adventurous and curious Monkey families living on the trees by the banks of the river that glare at you for invading their territory.

The kids I take along with me as they provide the perfect credentials to my status as an uncle, therefore harmless to parents looking for prospective bachelors for their bony Kandyan female offspring. An insight to life of the people in Kandy, the girls are beautiful, respected and protected. Culturally with no real fuss or bother, they usually head off to school, socialise mostly with the family, an occasional chaperoned movie with friends. Otherwise home. On a Sunday the proud parents allow these girls to hang out by their front gate in the garden in their Sunday best. It is a very subtle way for parents to almost show off their offspring. Be proud. Believe you me the concept of an untouched virgin still exists in this part of the world. This was and still is the best eye candy I have seen any where in the world! And an important part of what makes Kandy, Sri Lanka what it is. One of it’s most jealously kept secrets.

Sunday evening dawns. Early dinner, worship parents and its time for the mad drive back to Colombo. This time more fun as driving in you climb, going back is downhill and much faster!

It’s early Monday morning. I am in office in London. The room is just 10’ by 10’, but I do have a large window that looks out. The winds howling outside, dark clouds make it seem like night, rain beats incessantly on the window as I type this post. The office tower blocks are foreboding, a Range Rover parked illegally is clamped as the owner runs up to it screaming. Traffic was especially bad this morning on the school run, the Jubilee line running late with the tube station closed and I had to get off and walk six blocks to work in the rain. Forgot my raincoat. Inside my mind the parrots with their lime green plumage and bright red necklaces call out to each other from the Mango tree in my parents garden in Kandy. I wipe the tears falling down my face, I imagine my clothes and my face is soaked from the fresh tropical rain of my country of origin, my Paradise Isle. I am OK.

Colombo’s best-kept secrets

2011-07-24T22:55:00.002+01:00

Colombo’s best-kept secrets

An Oasis in the middle of a city. Barefoot.

Either to drink long glasses of ice tea at its café on a Saturday morning to recover from a hangover from the previous night of debauchery or to chill out and listen to live Jazz on a Sunday afternoon, Barefoot is undoubtedly one of Colombo’s most famous but best kept secrets.

Galle Road is Sri Lanka’s busiest highway as it loops through the southern coast linking Colombo the commercial of capital to Sri Lanka’s other best kept secret, wonderful stretches of coastal towns with long stretches of beach and gin clear waters of the Indian Ocean. On Galle Road in Colombo 3, popularly known as Colpetty awaits Barefoot. A clothing store, art gallery and café. Barefoot is Sri Lanka’s creative Mecca where advertising people, writers, aspiring poets, artists, musicians and the expat community haunt at all hours of the day.

From outside the black and white ‘Barefoot’ logo against the white building with colourful store windows say little to the outside world. One must drive down the lay-by and park in the parking lot at the back. The first surprise is immediate as soon as you walk in through the arched entrance into Barefoot’s garden and café. You leave behind Colombo’s hustle and bustle, hot sun and humidity. A sense of calm and tranquillity awaits you.

The café experience is usually to be savoured unhurriedly after a walk-about inside the Barefoot shop. In the shop awaits a colourful selection of Sri Lankan hand-woven cloth. Sarongs and shirts for men and women, hand woven material, table clothes, handicrafts, antiques of every nature, trinkets and presents for friends abroad. A bookshop that boasts of every Sri Lankan author and every type of book on Sri Lanka.

With it’s long bar, high ceiling fans, the beautiful garden with tables strategically placed for relaxed dining one wonders if this is still the city. A fusion of bright colours, bustling smiling waiters await with blackboard specials for the day. The Kalu Pol Pork Curry is a personal favourite.

What really make Barefoot special however are the people. The ever-affable Sri Lanka’s top chef, colourful personality, wonderfully gay doyen, chubby Kolu who is ever ready to stroll over say hi and chat. The chilled out owner and world renowned photographer Dominic, bustling wife Nasreen are always around again to come over say hello or just simply to help you select something for your house.

Suresh the tailor who will help you choose the right kind of fabric for your curtains and sew them for a reasonable fee has always been a centre of attraction for the hoi polloi of Colombo. In fact even as far away as London, all our house curtains, cushions and chair covers are Barefoot fabrics carefully discussed, chosen and stitched by Suresh. Well placed warm lighting and the wonderful Barefoot colours always uplifts the mood of anyone venturing to our living room on a cold, foggy London morning.

Barefoot, no suits in attendance, calm, tranquil, chilled out. Native Shopping, Fantastic Food, Jazz, and Art exhibitions at the Gallery, Film nights, Colombo’s creative fraternity and much more. The scent of jasmine in the air, aromatic candles, incredible splashes of bright colour, the gentle trickle of water from the koi pond, cool air wafting amongst the garden gently caressing your troubles away, wonderful fusion cooking, the most relaxed shopping experience for a discerning visitor to Sri Lanka.

A true insight to the untroubled life of Sri Lanka and its people’s philosophy. Take it as it comes, always with a smile. A secret that is best shared.

Wild Elephants, Wild Boar and the deep rural South

2011-07-24T22:55:00.001+01:00

Wild Elephants, Wild Boar and the deep rural South

A young child stands bare bodied with a grin on his face as he waves at the SUV as we approach. The intense heat bounces off the tarmac in the long smooth road as I squint through its haze tapping the brake to slow down and see what the boy has to offer. He has been in the forest picking up the fallen feathers from early morning, the prize he now waves to us for sale. The bright blue and purple hues of the Peacock feathers wave in brilliant colour as we roll to a gentle stop. A scene I have seen many times on the southern coast stretch from the city Matara to Kataragama. Home to Lord Skanda who is venerated all over in Sri Lanka. A scene my fellow companions from London have never seen, a Peacock in its live glory.

I am taking my friends on a journey that I have made many times in my life. To the home of Skanda in Kataragama, Sri Lanka, 350 kilometres away from the city of Colombo.

Our journey begins past midnight from Colombo. In my opinion the best time to travel, as the nights are cooler, traffic less and as a person who loves quiet long drives the best time for solitude. My companions soon fall asleep, waking only when I pull over almost half way through the journey for my usual nicotine break. I wake them again only close to Kataragama. The morning is chilly as its 4am in the morning now. The full moon bathes the Weerawila stretch of road with its adjacent sugar cane fields in soft light. I have switched the headlights off. The lone wild elephant waits to cross the road, the promises of the sugar cane on the other side. He is nervous of the SUV and us as I am of him. My friends scramble around for cameras, their sleepiness all gone, everyone’s wide-awake. The bravest of the lot demanding to be let out of the SUV to take a better photo. My experience of wild elephants limited to viewing at wild life parks and chance encounters like this on the road demand that everyone stays in the car. I switch on my parking light and roll forward slowly as cameras click furiously inside.

We finally arrive at the Rossen Hotel in Kataragama. After the elephant experience everyone in the car is pumped up, wide awake and our chattering wakes the security guard up and he opens the huge gate leading to the hotel. The staff stir wake, the receptionist still manages to smile brightly at us and cheerfully wakes staff in the kitchen to cook my ravenous companions chips, eggs, toast and pots of coffee and tea. As we head out to our rooms the heated pool beckons invitingly. A mist escapes from the pool and the bellboy informs me that at the request of some visiting tourists the pool water has been heated to exactly 70 Fahrenheit. We are delighted, nip to the rooms, breakfast served by the poolside, everyone’s in the pool. It’s 6am and all the staff is out and about. Bright Sri Lankan smiles, the traditional ‘Ayubowan’ mixed with ‘Good Morning’. The other guests must be annoyed, an impromptu game of tag has the females in our group screaming. The pool lifeguard still sleepy looks on in bemusement. While three of our group stay back in the pool the others accompany me to the Lord Skanda temple.

I drive the SUV through the back and we park behind the temple. The flower vendors clamour for our custom. Especially the custom of my British friends. Incense, Coconut Oil for the lamps, and the traditional Sri Lankan flower - white and pink lotuses. I offer the pooja of light, scent and colour to the Buddhist Stupa and the statue of King Mahasen. My friends help eagerly all excited to participate in everything and enjoy their holiday. The suns up now and all of us are glad for our loose white linen clothes, the bottles of water in our hands and the stiff breeze that blows through the wind swept sandy ground beneath our bare feet. Pilgrims from all walks of life go about their business of worshipping. We get back in the stupa and drive to the Skanda temple. From the white clothes and the pilgrims at the stupa to the incredible fusion and splash of colour at the kovils amaze my friends. Camera’s click constantly.

I grin as we stay for the Skanda pooja, the ritual of cleaning the gods casket and sutra lying in the inner sanctum of the god where no one other than priests are allowed. A large curtain with a picture of the God Skanda and his two consorts cover the entrance. The pilgrims pull on the bells that surround the camphor filled outer sanctum of the temple. I grin as I now see my friends drenched in sweat. They smile, their OK.

We return to the hotel find the rest of our gang still lazing around by the pool. Long showers in our rooms, a late lunch in the hotel and a nap in air-conditioned comfort. The sun blazes overhead now, only a few ventures outside in the deep south of Sri Lanka as temperatures reach the 35 to 40 centigrade at noon. We emerge out of our rooms early evening. Tea, coffee and sandwiches have been served to our rooms. Some of us pile into my SUV, the others into the carefully maintained Land Rover of Suresh, the driver from the Udawalawe Wildlife Park who will accompany us on the short drive from the hotel to and in the park. Especially to see wild elephants. After this mornings experience, I hear my British friends narrating this to Suresh and egging him on to take us as close as possible to the elephants. After one close encounter with a heard of elephants, a friend climbing on to the track much to my annoyance and dismay of the tracker, millions of photographs we leave the park. Everyone is excited talking one to a dozen about his or her experience. In the parking lot I discreetly open the boot of the SUV and surprise everyone with my cooler filled with pint bottles of the best Sri Lankan lager – Lion Lager. We then pile into the SUV and wave our goodbyes to Suresh after much banter about the evening’s elephant experiences. Suresh leaves happy, his wallet much fatter than when the evening started.

At the top of the road on the turning to Udawalawe begins my friends experience to the wild side of Sri Lanka’s deep south. We stop at my favourite roadside restaurant. I discreetly inquire if the night’s fare includes ‘Meat’. We are lead to a table, wild boar curry, venison, and Potatoe curry in coconut gravy with freshly baked bread. All washed down with Sri Lanka’s fiery Ginger Beer and more Lion Lager. The night is cool now as we finish. We make one last procurement stop in Tanamalwila for the best and freshest green before returning to the hotel late at night. Deep in the jungles of Tanamalwila away from preying eyes there lies farms that rival any produce even grown in the jungles of Jamaica. A discreet smoke by the poolside puts everyone in the mellow but party mood. I have carefully packed the rest of it away in the bottom of a cane basket containing fresh green oranges on the top for the remainder of our holiday. Midnight and everyone’s at the hotel bar singing karaoke and drinking numerous numbers of Sri Lanka’s arrack and cokes. In a couple of hours I stagger to bed as we have a long drive ahead of us. I do not forget to drink a huge glass of chilled king coconut juice, Sri Lanka’s best hangover remedy. My friends I know will party on until the wee hours of the morning.

The soft sound of the A/C and the far way sound of my friends singing Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen at the bar lulls me to sleep. An end of another day of holiday in Sri Lanka. I dream of the day that awaits us. Hikkaduwa, more Lager, fresh Seafood direct from its source, Sun, Sand and Sea.

Surfs up, anyone? White linen shirts, shorts, Speedos, fresh white cotton sheets dried in the sun, sun tan lotion, flip flops, go to Sri Lanka.

The most beautiful girls in the world

2011-07-24T22:53:00.001+01:00

The most beautiful girls in the world

“She clings to me

Her hair, like fire streams behind us

Sleek, black, shiny

As she hugs me tight

I know that my mistress

Has fulfilled her

Tight jeans, wet

Her firm pert breasts rub through the thin cotton shirt

On my back

She screams, ‘faster, faster, faster’

I turn up the throttle

They both come together

180mph

I am the man who rides them

Fulfils them

I am god”

In loving memory of Pemraj Amal Peiris. Best friends in life and death.

My first memory of bikes were the Suzuki TS125’s on display near the Bamabalapitiya bus stop. Sleek gleaming colours, the proud trail bikes standing tall with their circular gas tanks and the stand up handlebars. Barely a teen, making my father promise that my 18th birthday present would be one. I still remember then when the rupee was valuable they seemed dear at a mere Rs.13,000 each.

Consequently the bike craze that spread like wildfire through Colombo. My childhood hero’s; Dallas Martenstyn, Milinda Halahakoan and Tissa Wimalasekara. The races in Katukurunda when we used to just remove the muffler from Lucky’s KH125 or my dad’s Mark11 and just track them.

At a mere 16 years, when my dad refused permission for me to travel to Nuwara Eliya, locking my bedroom door and having the domestic boy shave my head bald in protest.

Soon the norm, all the accidents. Leading to complete parental refusal to even consider buying a teenage son a trail or road bike.

Pemba’s subsequent entrance to personal wealth through flying for Air Lanka. His Yamaha DT175, Suzuki RM125 and the Honda 200R. Flying down Duplication road on the RM, and shifting from first to third on a wheelie. Back wheelies in front of innumerable Colombo all girl schools. Ruvin’s XL250s, Nauzers Yamaha RD200 and the best bike of all the RD350. Black and red, purring powerfully as I would showboat on the Viharamaha Devi Road stretch or all around Independence Square.

It was cool to slip and slide, fall. Bruises and bandages were a part of attaining manhood, to be gasped at and admired by your peers and the young Ladies College birds hanging out at Otters (Otters was cool then).

In memory, Ruvin died on his XL, people had serious accidents, limbs were broken and I settled with my dad for VW Beetle as my entry to 18 years of life. The posters of Barry Sheen and Kenny Roberts still shone from my bedroom wall but my dreams of owning a mobike fast disappeared to borrowing friends bikes and riding around town unknown to my parents.

Life was cool then. You fell, you went to the accident ward and you were treated. The millions of bikes ridden, the millions of falls and finally shepherded off to college in the US to stay out of trouble by anxious parents.

The devastating day when I received the call from a sibling with the news that Pemba had crashed and moved on to race with the gods in the sky. The sorrow and grief.

Living in the USA was similar to bike heaven with every kind of bike imaginable. Murali’s Kawasaki Ninja and my initiation and love affair with Harley Davidsons, the most beautiful girls in the world. My dreams of owning a bike still unfilled due to the simple fact of being a miserably poor student, but always riding and dreaming, one day I will own my own beast bitch – a Harley.

Forty now and I still ride, but still no Harley, but one day you beautiful bitches, I will own one of you, ride you, tame you, ride with you to the gods in Valhalla where I hope I will meet Ruvin and Pemraj again, and ride.

Ride on our girls with the sun beating down on gleaming asphalt, the wind streaming through our hair, as young teenagers stand by the road and watch and go, there go the gods and wish they were one of us too.

The man in my life

2011-07-24T22:52:00.001+01:00

The man in my life

When the last bus from Kandy to Wattapuluwa grinds its gears to begin the descent to Jaya Mawatha, he runs to light the fire under the cauldron by the well and then informs my mother that the prodigal son is on his way home for the weekend. He has already changed the linen and given my bedroom downstairs a good clean. My preferred beverage, a steaming mug of coffee awaits me when I reach home.

He is nonchalant while I greet my parents and sit in the living room drinking my coffee. Afterwards when I make my way downstairs he has fresh towels and my sarong ready for my favourite part of the day. My mothers dog Ninja, also knows what’s coming and excitedly runs around and around the well for me to start my bath. Fresh well waters drawn and mixed with the hot water in the cauldron as I begin scrubbing Ninja and myself with the bar of Lifebuoy we share. After my bath I dry myself and Ninja and we chill out in the long sofa in my room while he cuts and trims our nails. Then I finally have a chat with him over a Gold Leaf cigarette. While I sip my before dinner old arrack, he quickly takes his to the side of the garage and gulps it in one go.

After a dinner of string hoppers, fish curry and fresh pol sambol, I chat with my parents at the table drinking another cup of coffee. Wattapuluwa nights are quiet, blackness lies like a blanket and only the far away lights of houses can be seen. The noises of crickets are loud. He flitters among us at the dinner table lighting mosquito coils all about the house to keep the mosquitoes away. It’s chilly now and the usual Kandy drizzle of rain has started. My parents are old now and retire to bed while the women who cooks and cleans clears the table. Ninja has trotted after my mother to guard her while she sleeps.

Kumara, the man servant/driver/odd job man/security guard and my valet when in Wattapuluwa came to our house randomly through one of my Dads clients who wanted his son to learn to drive. So he was given board and lodging and in return he provided the aforementioned services to our family.

Most of all he was my friend and companion. He was the one who trimmed my nose, ear hair and nails, shaved the hair at the back of my neck I couldn’t get to, file down the stubborn corn on my right toe and ironed my work shirts with the creases just right. When I woke up hung-over he knew to exactly chill the king coconut juice to the right temperature and have it ready for me with two paracetamol tablets. Followed up with a glass of lime juice and a vigorous head massage with bay rum.

In return I shared my bottle of old arrack hidden under the bed, my cigs, got him the occasional pair of denims and shirt, and most importantly thought him to drive. With of course huge tips when he visited home for holidays. A more than fair enough exchange as far as Kumara was concerned.

Most of you who haven’t had this experience will think ‘rather gay’ but for what a barber, a taxi driver, waiter, masseuse, male grooming salon provides for hundreds of pounds in the west, many Sri Lankan men get for a couple of thousand rupees in the luxury of their own homes.

The popularity of the middle-east labour market has now increased the value of this man-servant and decreased supply in Sri Lanka, but yes it does still exist. In some families in has filtered down from generations where in your golden years the manservant now the dignified chauffer of the family will drive the ‘baby hamu’ and get back to you with a full report of nefarious or other activity on part of the ‘baby hamu’.

So why did I suddenly remember Kumara in this cold, clear Hertfordshire morning? Went to sleep last night with a niggling cold to wake up now with full blown flu. Nose bunged up, stomachs aching and feel squeamish. Begged for Lemses kindness and got a mug of coffee to bed but no soya milk and not quite made the way I like it. Marisa the Philippine cleaner’s banging away downstairs adding to my misery. Lems’s like take a nurofen or something and get on with it.

I want a bit of male, macho company. Where men can fart and discuss the various levels of smell in a fart and reminisce about the how a sexy female art worker in an ad agency would send out silent but extremely violent ones in terms of smell.

Above all, I need my eyebrows cleaned up, nose hair trimmed, and some hairs in the ear removed. I would also like a proper cup of coffee and manly chat. As I do not have the financial means to visit a male grooming parlour I have now come down to make my own cup of coffee and attend the early morning worship at the porcelain pinnacle.

I will sit down, light up a B & H, sip my cuppa and reminisce about Kumara!

Is it time to drink our tea without sugar?

2011-07-24T22:51:00.000+01:00

Is it time to drink our tea without sugar?

For my four decades of existence in this world, Sri Lanka has set an example for the region and the world with our population control. We have grown as a population during this time from 17million to 21million. Four million over 40 years is to be lauded. Kudos to the Family Planning Association and their famous ‘Preethi’ campaign in the 70’s.

Even at a leading school in Colombo I remembered we went to the college milk bar at interval to receive our free bottle of fresh chocolate or vanilla milk. A small bag of Marie biscuits accompanying it. The 90’s saw the advent of mainly imported milk powder and the slow but sure death of cows farmed for fresh milk. The milkman stopped their early morning visit to households. Elephant House diaries among many others withered, soft drinks were the norm. All in the name of ‘defined’ progress.

We had other things to worry about. Mainly the LTTE headlined three decades of my existence. I left the island, came back and the finally in this decade migrated. Everyone celebrated the sovereignty of Sri Lanka: at the cost of the past two years seeing passionate pleas from our commander in chief to tighten our belts. In the aftermath of our famous victory in May 2009 over the LTTE we didn’t care about anything else. The predominant populace in Sri Lanka, the happy Sinhalese still glow in victory. Media folk, Elections and Generals all came and disappeared. Some I believe are still missing with the General still incarcerated. But we’re a happy bunch. Un-noticed by many the two hundred and two thousand rupee notes came into circulation. Un-noticed by the popular masses as they did not have any need for it or the capacity to warrant withdrawing these denominations from their bank. This New Year the central bank proudly released newly designed notes and a brand new five thousand-rupee note.

I am neither an Economist nor a popular pundit, but every time I visit home, every commodity has gone up in price. But honestly not peoples salaries in proportion to these prices, nor warrant the use of a Five Thousand-rupee note. Other than for the INGO expatriates and the kultarr in Colombo who shop at Keells Super or Cargills Food City in Fort and Staples street. What worries me more is that in the near future commodity prices in Sri Lankado warrant the need for big currency notes, but missing from people’s pockets.

So is it time to drink our daily cuppa sans the sugar? Recession in the west nor the war can’t quite be completely blamed for the rising cost of living. The Arab countries, Brazil, our neighbour India, the new economic superpower China’s economies continue to perform exceptionally. In the west Germany has finally recovered and their economy is in positive growth. We try our best to change our economic policies to suit markets in China, India and the Arab countries. But our best industries: tourism and garments best cater to the west. Tourism thankfully sees a better Chairman with a strong marketing background who has realised the folly of looking for new markets. Why? Traditionally it is the people in the west whose work ethic and habits are to take at least one - two to three week holiday a year. UK alone has 22 million people taking a holiday annually. So while exploring new markets it is sound economic strategy to retain our traditional markets in the west.

Garment Industry, we managed to lose the European General System of Preferences Plus, a useful tax benefit for garments made in Sri Lanka for export. Why? Because of bad PR. When we do hire a proper international PR agency to help us move forward and regain the GSP+, the opposition scream in protest.

But all these factors due to war is no excuse for the rate the cost of living is rising. Tighten our belts we must, if we do see those in government following suit. The luxury lifestyles, the security detail or rather the huge sizes of it, the excesses of Ministers and their brats, government sponsored thugs and violence must stop. Democracy is not a must, Singapore and Lee Kuan Yu is an outstanding example. Even currently regimental laws exist in Singapore. 5 to 10 people who commit violent acts meet their death by hanging every month. Where is Amnesty International? Why do the west not boycott Singapore City, a financial capital in the world second only to New York and London? Because above all for good or for bad, the rule of law applies to anyone and everyone in Singapore, and all share its success. Not some. All Singaporeans have the same chance of being strangled to death.

Stop the violence Mr. President. Give our country free and fair governance. I am a staunch supporter. I will always be. Please reward my loyalty and 75% of the rest of Sri Lanka who stand behind you.

Tea? No sugar please. Do you have fresh milk?

Are you a Sri Lankan?

2011-07-24T22:46:00.000+01:00

Are you a Sri Lankan?

Despite journey to and fro to SL my last half a decade has unfortunately been in her majesty’s service, culminating finally two years back in the ownership of a travel document that confirmed the same. Oh the shame! The shame that despite living in SL for 34 years and even schooling at ‘the’ Royal College I was no longer encouraged to comment or discuss most things Sri Lankan. Most replies to my two cents worth were you no longer live here; it’s easy for you to say whatever living in England.

This is quite ironic as whenever I meet second generation Sri Lankans born and bred here I immediately adopt this very condescending attitude towards them too. Very like a genital wart, to be despised but acknowledged. The ‘kalu’ suddhas, brown coconuts white on the inside. When my SIL, her husband and our other SL friends visit the motherland I sneer. When they spend good money to go to West Indies to watch SL play in the world cup of cricket, I glint in veiled sarcasm.

Sorry allow me to digress. The MCBO (My cutely booted one) on Friday evening was off to the Wembley Arena to watch the Strictly Come Dancing Tour. Needing to stay close by to do husbandly duties of drop and pick up my SIL who lives in the Wembley environs kindly invited the kid and I for supper. Her two daughters who I desperately love meant this invite was taken upon eagerly. Especially as the SIL’s husband owned a restaurant and is a superb cook.

So as the night progressed, funnily in true SL style some SL friends started to call the house to say hi, as I said SL style this was after 10pm at night. Something an English person would never do, even after getting copped for DUI and needing a ride home from the Police Station. The Police themselves call them a taxi. Anyways I was obviously in the same room and privy to the calls steadily pouring in.

My lips started to curl, I was close to snarling. The main topic of conversation was the coming Cricket World Cup. Who was, where, why, and how these British born and bred people were all heading to Colombo for the matches. My snarl of course might have been because I am not going to be able to make it. My mood improved of course as the conversation then moved to the SL tour of England in the summer. As always these people were well organised and somebody knew of a capable somebody who had the actual itinerary for the tour and were organising tickets. My mood changed immediately as I was assured that tickets for the one-day matches were being purchased for the MCBO and I.

So the crux of the headline to this post is you a Sri Lankan lays here. When England plays Sri Lanka who do you support if you have been born and bred in England. Or whatever are you an English person or a Sri Lankan?

The answer is quite simple. If your ancestry is Sri Lankan, you are Sri Lankan. So there are Englishmen and Englishwomen, which those with SL ancestry living here are not. They are British, but not English. So their ties to Sri Lanka, the love of cricket, rice and curry, arrack, the sun, sea, sand and sex is part of where they are originally from. They are proud of their heritage and culture, as much as I am. We don’t live in SL anymore, but that does not in anyway not make us Sri Lankan. Especially those Sri Lankan’s who were born in England. Yes they maybe British for the want of a travel document, the free NHS, benefits and tax credits, but they are also Sri Lankan.

I am proud to be Sri Lankan.

I am off now; I need to quickly let the dogs know they are unfortunately English Brits and not Sri Lankan Brits.