Rubbing shoulders (or should I say wings?) with the stars

So, how did I find myself doing a chicken dance in front of 60 people and an award winning Sri Lankan actress? Good question! It certainly has to be one of the more bizarre moments of my VSO life so far, but one I took to with great enthusiasm and, dare I say, a certain amount of natural flair.

It all started early on Wednesday as I arrived at the hospital. Within minutes, it became clear that almost everything I had planned for the day was not going to happen. Despite the now familiar sinking sensation triggered by this rather common turn of events, I resisted the urge to melodramatically throw my arms up in the air, adopt a self-righteous grimace and mutter idiotically under my breath about the virtues of using a diary to no-one in particular. Nobody likes a moaner! Instead I gave myself a good talking to and went in search of something a little more positive to do. And, I certainly found it.

For the past couple of weeks, one of the rehabilitation units at the hospital has been home to a series of sessions run by Anoja Weerasinghe, the afore mentioned star and Director of a local Academy of Performing Arts. Involving some 40 inpatients and almost as many staff, the sessions have been running all day, 3 days a week for the whole of this month. The hope is to demonstrate the therapeutic use of dance drama and other activities for mental well-being whilst training up staff to use the techniques in future. All good stuff, I'm sure you'll agree. And so I was happy to be invited to join in with the morning session and felt my spirits lift as I witnessed something truly great happening in mental health services in Sri Lanka.

Starting with some basic mindful walking, the session moved on to yoga, singing, and then finally some dance. After taking part in a gigantic pulsating conga, an enormous circle was formed and the music turned up a notch. The spinning of a pen was used to invite individuals at random into the centre where they were encouraged to dance, whilst those on the outside copied. There is something quite magical about seeing some of the most stigmatised and dis-empowered individuals in society being given the chance to call the shots and take a lead in such a visual way. I found myself thinking that maybe if we were to organise a massive dance-off in the streets of Colombo, or a flash mob for mental health, it couldn't help but go some way towards combating the all too present stigma. I was amazed at the confidence with which people took to the centre, all the while noticing the growing unease in the pit of my stomach as the pen was spun again and again and again. And so, to calm my nerves, I made a plan. I considered the various options available to me should the situation require it. Pirouette? Never did take ballet lessons and not feeling particularly graceful today. Tap? I'm barefoot, it wont work. Cossack? Already sweating far too much and my knees aren't as young as they used to be. Moon walk? Bit too showy and I haven't got my slippers. Chicken dance? Yes! That's it! I was struck by the perfect simplicity of it, a basic flap of the elbows accompanied by some bendy knees and maybe a spot of side stepping. What could be better? And it was with that thought that I watched the pen spin round and round and round, as if in slow motion, until it came to a stop pointing right at me.

Turning Sinhalese (I think I'm turning Sinhalese, I really think so)

There's a motorbike with a family of 5 careering towards me as I leave my house in the morning and make my way towards the bus stop. The family of 5 are undertaking a bus that is charging along the pavement in order to race past a woman on a scooter and a dawdling car. The car is undertaking a cow as it wanders nonchalantly down the middle of the road. So far, so normal.

As I arrive at the hospital, the bus doesn't quite come to a standstill, but it's ok as my legs now know what to do. They catapult me (almost) effortlessly from the bus into the path of a speeding trishaw. The trishaw is heading straight for me, but no need to worry. I've observed the impressive turning circle capacity of these vehicles many times and know that it's better to stand my ground than make any sudden movements. It works out ok for me and, calamity averted, I head up the broad leafy driveway towards the hospital. The sun is hot and sweat is dripping into my eyes and running down my entire body. But, all is well. I have the obligatory umbrella in hand, my trusty handkerchief ready at my brow and I'm wearing a patterned top to cleverly disguise the sweat. No-one will notice! I enter the OT hall and am welcomed as usual with a chorus of enthusiastic greetings "Hello Miss Beth" “Good Morning Beth Miss” “You are sweating Miss Beth”. “Yes I am sweating" I reply with a slightly strained smile.

After a morning supervision meeting with one of the OT's, I drink a cup of plain tea with enough sugar in it to give me diabetes from 10 paces. I barely grimace. Later, I pop to the canteen to get my daily fix of rice. I arrive early knowing that the popular egg rice packets will sell out by 12:30pm. I want that egg packet! Stringing together a few words of Sinhala, I manage to secure the goods and explain that I owe them money for the biscuits I bought yesterday when I was short of change (you can never consume too much sugar in this heat!). Debts settled, I return to the OT department to await the beginning of the weekly OT meeting. It does not start on time but this is not a problem. I do not expect it to and am therefore prepared with my computer so I can get on with some work for the OT degree programme.

During the meeting, I am almost fluent in Sinhala (I can understand at least 1 word in every 100 and am sure I hear someone mention lunch). Lunchtime arrives and I unwrap my rice packet to take in the glorious sight of my boiled egg nestled tantalisingly amidst the rice. I wonder if I should share it. In fact, I know that I should. It's the right thing to do. However, I decide against this action. Instead I try to divert attention by insisting others help themselves to my sambal (I am sure I've spotted a sprat in it, and I'm not gonna risk it). Whilst I use my fingers to expertly break my egg into bite sized pieces, the fingers of others deposit piles of pumpkin, beans and dahl onto my rice from all directions. I am not in the least bit fazed by this, but do begin to feel slightly uncomfortable as I realise one of the OT's is peering over my shoulder watching me eat. “What is it?” I ask slightly concerned that he's going to ask for some of my egg. “I am observing your fine finger functioning. You are becoming almost Sri Lankan Miss Beth” he replies. I proudly waggle my head and feel compelled to tell them all about my canteen exchange, eager to check my grammar and receive some praise for my progress. “Wow miss Beth, you are speaking Sinhala better than some Sinhalese!” (I think there is a strong possiblity they are making fun of me, but I allow myself a rather smug grin anyway).

On the way home, I spot a white person I've not seen before and do a double-take followed by a spinning wide eyed stare. I may not be Sri Lankan quite yet, but I think I'm fitting in pretty well.

  

A very special engagement

Despite the highs of sari shopping, I was nervous about the actual wearing of my glitzy new outfit and the many potential dangers I envisaged. However, this was to be my first Sri Lankan engagement and I was determined to enjoy it. 

Here in Sri Lanka, the engagement is the legally binding event and therefore holds far more importance than the wedding itself. Usually the two happen on the same day, but in this instance we were to celebrate the engagement a full 4 months prior to the wedding. I'm still a little unclear as to exactly why. However, as is the way in Sri Lanka, it has to do with the calculation of the most auspicious time. Sri Lankans regularly consult astrological charts to decide on the best time for many of life's important events. For the bride and groom in this instance, the most auspicious time was deemed to be at 10am on may 9th, and so the 9th may it was. 

The day was to begin early and so we stayed at the hotel where the ceremony would take place. Myself and another volunteer were to host the bride and her helper in our room from 6am where she would get dressed and be made up in good time for the 9am photo shoot. We had been told that the "help" in question was a boy who would also assist us into our saris. There was much speculation ahead of time about "sari boy" (as he came to be known) and some concern and amusement about how he might cope with a group of foreigners parading round in underskirts and sari jackets. Further questioning revealed that the sari boy was in fact a 25 year old man, but a very "innocent man"we were told, leading to further hilarity. However, SARI BOY (a Sri Lankan superhero of the highest order) turned out to be a professional through and through. Having worked his magic on the beautiful bride, he effortlessly wrapped, tucked, smoothed and folded us into our outfits.  

Freshly wrapped, thermostat working

A little later...getting hotter and pinker

And so, the day itself. After the signing and witnessing of the engagement and a declaration that they were now husband and wife, the celebrations began. Despite having a decidedly Sri Lankan flavour, there are clearly some things that are universal at such events. There was the cutting of a cake, a band, some bad daytime dancing (I speak only for myself, it's rather tricky dancing in a sari), a slightly sozzled uncle in the corner, plenty of food, and a few speeches. It was a great day. The bride's family were incredibly warm and welcoming of the strange foreigners and everyone had fun. 

As for the anticipated dangers of wearing a sari, I was pleasantly surprised. Yes there was rather a lot of material wrapped around me, yes it was hot, yes my face was rather pink and shiny, and yes I did almost trip up on several occasions. However, limiting the sri lankan rum to just a couple of drinks was a wise move. And having a gaggle of Sri Lankan women around you at all times is a great help. Not only can they advise on the logistics of a sari toilet visit, but I learnt from experience that they are also ready to intervene at lightening speed and with great proficiency when your sari threatens to undo!

My bat girl sari cape and very pink
face, inspiration for the wedding colour scheme

So, I look forward to the wedding in September where it seems I will be ................drum roll............... one of the bridesmaids! Yes, you heard it here first! And rumour has it, the bride is planning the colour scheme to match the colour of my hot and sweaty face. Me in a pink sari! ?!?!?!? How did this happen?

Sari shopping: a non shopper's paradise

I went Sari shopping and I liked it. I never thought I'd be writing those words, but it's true. A Sri Lankan friend is getting married in September. But first there is an engagement to celebrate in a couple of weeks time. And it seems that only a sari will do. Those of you who know me, even just a little, will be aware that I am not really a shopper. However, the experience was far from stressful and, dare I say, even quite fun.

I have long dreamt of a world where shopping was simplified by establishments dedicated to a specific item of clothing. It has always been a source of irritation (and occasional rage) that when I need to buy trousers, I have to traipse from one place to another, rummaging around in various corners of a shop to find a couple of pairs of completely unsuitable and unflattering pantaloons. Why oh why is this so? In my dream world, I would simply pop along to Trouser World and be spoilt for choice. And when I need some football shorts, I would head for Not Too Short Sports Shorts For Women Shorts Shack. And when I need some tops for work.....well, you get the picture. Back to the sari shopping. 

The good news is that when it comes to saris, my dreams can be realised. And so, off we went to Pettah where just such a one stop shop exists. In fact many exist, but we only had to go to ONE! Great!

Smiley sari magician

And so we entered a world where colourful material is piled floor to ceiling for as far as the eye can see; attentive shop assistants do not simply follow and stare, but actually assist you (whilst staring a little it must be said). But most importantly, one size fits all. Not only does this mean no sweaty changing rooms with distorted funfair mirrors, it also narrows down the process of decision making to “do I like this colour?” and “does it suit me?”. And to support you in deciding, there is a helpful smiley man who is only to happy to show off his expertise by folding, wrapping, smoothing, gathering and twisting your chosen material around your body until....TADAAAA...it's a sari!

Remarkably, the first material I selected was declared by all to be a very good colour for me. And so all that was needed then was the obligatory underskirt (this was just handed to me, no need to make further decisions) and the sari top (this does need to be made to measure and did involve accompanying a very serious woman with a tape measure into a sweaty changing room. However, on the whole it was relatively pain free).



And so, I am now the proud owner of my very own sari and look forward to a very special occasion on a most auspicious of days. All I need now are some glitzy shoes and blinging jewellery and I'm set. Don't panic, there will be photos, but you'll have to wait.

Are you being served?

Blogger's block

So, it has happened. 3 months in, and after a fair few rambling attempts to capture some of my experiences online, blogger's block has hit me and I appear to have run out of steam. It has probably not helped to have had an enforced 2 week break after spilling an entire glass of mango juice over my netbook (resulting in a broken, sticky and ant infested keyboard). But whilst the keyboard has been replaced and my computer returned to me in full working order, my brain might as well be crawling with insects and floating in a vat of juice for all it's usefulness right now.

Perhaps it is the heat. April is the hottest month of the year in Colombo, and both the temperature and humidity have been gradually increasing over recent weeks as if some omnipotent sadistic clown has his hands on the thermostat and is gleefully twisting the dial as I melt!

Maybe it's the rain. Monsoon season has arrived and, as well as ramping up the heat, the clown has been watching and waiting until I'm out in the elements before pressing a button to release giant bucket loads of water over my head whilst clanging thunderous cymbals and sniggering to himself! Despite the welcome coolness that accompanies the rain, this daily deluge leaves the streets awash with oversized puddles strategically arranged to ensure a high chance of me either falling into the middle of one, getting drenched as a passing bus ploughs through one, or being run down by a trishaw/bus/motobike/cyclist/cow as I attempt to navigate my way around some.

Or it could simply be that 3 months in, life in Sri Lanka is becoming more familiar. At times, it feels as if both everything and nothing seem worthy of a blog post and I struggle to know what to include and what to leave out. And so, I thought I would put some suggestions to you all and ask for some help in deciding on my next blog topic. Here are a few potential titles:

A Thai photo blog

Charging elephants

Peace and quiet in Bangkok

Coming home to Sri Lanka

Sringlish

A trip to the cinema

Why I am a creature of great fascination (part 1) or alternative title “just like Lady Di”

Let me know what you think. I do greatly value your opinion. Although, I can't promise I wont completely ignore it. 

Beautiful Jaffna

Beautiful Jaffna, a set on Flickr.

I have just spent the weekend in Jaffna, a 10 hour bus journey from Colombo and situated close to the northernmost tip of the island. The town is nearer to India than the Sri Lankan capital and is home to a largely Tamil and Hindu population. It really couldn't feel more different to the the city in which I live, not only as a result of the language spoken and the religious buildings and symbols on show, but also owing to the signs of the 25 year conflict which most profoundly affected this part of the country. Bullet marked, bombed out and abandoned homes still serve as reminders of it's recent history. Only now accessible to visitors after many years, it is difficult to put into words the sad and strange beauty of Jaffna, a place which is also so full of life, vibrancy and colour.

My first taste of a Hundu puja at the Nallur Kandaswamy Temple was an experience that I will not forget for some time. My heart definitely beat a little faster as I watched the noisy, colourful and slightly chaotic ritual (although I can't be sure this was not at least in part due to a sugar rush following the super sweet bowl of ice cream consumed just before our visit!). So too with my first trip in a Jaffna trishaw, which comes with added luminous lighting and blaring Hindi music. And the intensity and variety of staring that I was subjected to could most definitely provide me with a whole new chapter in my Sri Lankan classification blog post.

Thanks to my fantastic hostess, Jo, and the rest of the Jaffna crew for a wonderful weekend of scooter rides to the beach, Rio ice creams, hand-washing with a view, expert walking tours, delicious home cooked curry, exceptional puddings and a fantastic (if a little underused) slidey dance floor. I will most definitely return. Here are a few shots of the place that demands to be captured on film. I hope I have done it justice.

Please don't call me madam

One of the things that has been particularly notable to me since my arrival in Sri Lanka has been the importance placed on verbal etiquette and forms of address. At the hospital, for example, the consultants are referred to by staff and patients as “sir” or “madam” to indicate their position of importance. When I tell people it is not unusual for me to address the consultants I work with in the UK using their first names, they look at me with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Other staff lower down the pecking order are referred to as “mister” or “miss”. For the most part, I have become Miss Beth, or Beth Miss. And I think it rather suits me! 

Whilst I'm getting used to the shouts of “taxi madam?” “where are you going madam?” and similar which follow me everywhere in Colombo, I have been relieved to escape being called madam at work. That is, until recently. I have been doing some teaching sessions with students on placement at the hospital. Not only do they all stand as I enter the room, some of them insist on calling me madam. And it just feels very very wrong. On bumping into one of the students on my way to work, I was greeted with a enthusiastic “good morning madam”. I decided it was time to try to put an end to this once and for all. Unfortunately, what began as a promising exchange, quickly descended into the faintly ridiculous as I tried in vain to make my point.

“Please don't call me madam”

“Sorry madam?”

“You don't need to call me madam. Just Beth is fine”

“Yes madam, but it is important to be calling you madam”

“No no, you really don't need to. It actually makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.

“Yes madam, you see the thing is madam, we must be showing you respect madam”

“Ok, but in my culture you can show someone respect without calling them madam, simply by how you behave”

“Ah, but madam, here in Sri Lanka our behaviour it is coming first from our verbal actions. What we say madam is influencing how we are behaving”

And so there I gave up and accepted my fate. Perhaps I'll even get used to it and demand similar treatment on my return. And maybe, just maybe, a little of all this politeness will rub off on me and I'll return a better behaved person.