She doesn't understand

"She doesn't understand" "She can't understand" "No, she doesn't understand". So went the rather repetitive conversation between 2 teenage boys on a very crowded bus just a couple of days ago. Clearly they were talking about me.They were speaking just loud enough for me to hear and using that tone of mild amusement reserved for clueless foreigners doing something seemingly inexplicable.

I was already feeling rather irritable from the close proximity of my fellow passengers; the bus was bursting at the seams and leaning precariously to one side, the driver was attempting to break some kind of Guinness world record for steering, braking, accelerating and horning (yup) simultaneously. I was wedged firmly between someone's armpit, a very bony elbow and a particularly full bosom. Add to that the fact that I was becoming quite convinced that I could smell myself (it wasn't nice), and I was almost certain I could see steam rising from the sweaty body mass in the bus as the temperature increased from unpleasant to unbearable. And now, apparently, I did not understand!

"What does SHE not understand?" I just had to ask.
"Gopher wood" he replied
"What?"
"Gopher wood"
"Huh?"
"GOPHERWOOD"
"I'm sorry, I really don't know what you are saying!"
"But we are speaking the same language, English no?"
"Well, yes, and no...(I figured now wasn't the time to be getting into a conversation about the fact that Sri Lankan English continues to delight and confound me on a daily basis and is clearly very much a language in its own right.I wasn't sure he'd understand my weird Brit's English to be fair, and my lung capacity was seriously restricted by the shoulder in my chest. I needed to conserve my breath)...but still I don't understand, what is gopherwood?"
"The inspector, he was telling you to gopherwood, you must gopherwood on the bus"

Finally the rupee dropped!

"Ah, go forward! Yes, I know the inspector was telling me to go forward. I did understand ACTUALLY!" I added childishly "But where do you suggest I go forward to exactly?!" "Yanne koheeda?!" I continued, gesturing wildly with my right eyebrow towards the elbow just one inch from my face.

This seemed to amuse everyone around me, particularly the armpit man to my left and and the big busted woman to my right. Aha, maybe SHE's not so clueless after all!

Unfortunately, I suspect the boys on the bus were right. The reality is, I really don't understand and can't understand the vast majority of the time. Whilst I am getting fairly used to the very simple shouted instructions on the bus of enna (come) isseraha (move forward) and bayiiiiiiiiinna (get down), I still don't understand the need to instruct me in this way! After all, I AM coming, going forward and getting down if I want to and when I need to thank you very much! Add to that the fact that, outside of this bus scenario, half the time I'm not even sure which language is being used, and you can begin to see just how lost I am.

Well, perhaps it's to be expected. There is the code switching to deal with: the common practice of alternating back and forth between Sinhala and English within a single sentence. I mean, my poor overheated brain cannot work fast enough to establish which language it needs to translate. Are we talking about the wood of an English or a Sri Lankan gopher here?

Surely I should be getting used to it, needa (no?)? I've been here for 10 months now! Aiyo (oh deary deary me), isn't it meant to get easier? The sad fact is, the longer I am here, the less attuned my ear becomes to what goes on around me. Habei Aeiiiiiy (but why), how can that be? There was definitely a point when I felt I was understanding more and communicating better. Nevertheless, for some time now, my most frequently used Sinhala phrase has been taerennenair (don't understand) and my brow has been fixed into a permanently quizzical expression.

Is it simply because I am not fully immersed in one language or another, or am I clueless after all? Is this all part of the experience, or have I just stopped trying? Perhaps everyone feels like this, or maybe it's just me. Could it be that my brain is hibernating in order to consolidate everything learnt so far and that some day soon all will become clear? I just don't know. However, if that is the case, until then one thing is for certain...I really don't understand.

Perks of the blog

Writing a blog has been a revelation for me in more ways than one. Not only am I enjoying it more than I ever anticipated, it has also resulted in some completely unexpected treats. Most recently the blog brought me a heavenly slab of bread and butter pudding served warm from the oven and topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream....delicious! But more of that in a minute.

Sharing the ups and downs of the past 10 months in this way has made me feel that little bit closer to home. Those who know me can get a pretty good idea of what I'm up to without me spending hours in front of the computer becoming horribly goggle eyed and entirely socially inept. And I will always receive a few welcome emails whenever I post something, bringing me much appreciated news from far flung friends and family.

A fellow volunteer recently told me that she had every intention of writing a blog when she arrived in Sri Lanka. She even went as far as setting up the page, but as yet just hasn't managed to get going. Whilst there have been many positives for her, she told me that the lows have felt too difficult for her to write about without sounding overly downbeat, potentially reinforcing the negative frame of mind she may be in.

For me, I have found it is quite the opposite. Of course, I love sharing the good stuff, of which there has been plenty. But when the lows have come, the blog has been far better than the most expensive of therapies. Giving only a passing thought to the interests and well-being of my audience, I often find myself hammering away at my keyboard attempting to stuff a nagging irritation, unexpected humiliation or blinding rage into what I hope might make a vaguely interesting blog-shaped read. And when life has thrown non-bloggable challenges my way? Even then, a couple of hours spent shaping up the next entry can be just the diverting ticket I need to feel a little better about things.

So, blogging...it seems to be generally rather good for my health and well-being. But more specifically, it's also pretty good for my belly and my ego. Last week, both got a boost and grew a little bigger when I received an unexpected dinner invitation all the way from Abergavenny! My hosts were Sri Lankan friends of my uncle and aunt who were, until last week, complete strangers to me. They have have lived in Wales for many years now, but also have a house in Colombo and split their time between here and there. It turns out that, unbeknown to me, they have been following my blog for some time, and for some reason they were keen to meet me in person whilst in town!

So, this is how I came to spend a wonderfully civilised evening at their peaceful and stunningly beautiful Villa a short drive from my home. I was warmly welcomed and treated to a delicious slap up meal (including that heavenly pudding) along with some great company and entertaining conversation. When some fellow dinner guests arrived, I was introduced like some kind of minor celebrity to an open mouthed and disbelieving reception. "What, the woman from THAT blog? YOU actually wrote it?! Really?! WOW!" I took it as a compliment, but perhaps it was shock and horror on her part at the thought of having to spend a whole evening in the company of someone who is clearly rather self absorbed!? Either way, I had a great night and was too busy stuffing my face and guzzling the wine to talk too much about myself. The perfect guest perhaps?

So...to my new friends, a very big thank you. I had a great time. How could I not blog about it? And to my fellow volunteer, get blogging! You never know, you might actually enjoy it. And, if you're very lucky, who knows what perks might come your way!

Getting high in northern india

getting high in northern india, a set on Flickr.

When a friend recently asked for my help in realising a lifelong dream of visiting the Himalayas, I paused momentarily to pinch myself before selflessly agreeing to lend a hand. And so, this is how I found myself heading from hot, sticky and monsoon drenched Colombo to the sunny city of Leh in the northern Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir. Currently bathed in stunning autumnal colours but swiftly racing towards a harsh winter, the city is situated deep in the Himalayas at around 3,500 metres above sea level. And what a magical place it is!

The holiday magic began very soon after landing as we arrived up at our guest house; heads giddy from the altitude, bodies charged with static from the dry mountain air, and faces already cracking from the sudden cold, we soon learnt that there was no running water (hot or cold) owing to some frozen pipes and extreme sub-zero temperatures. Oh, and not forgetting the lack of any heating of course!

Having managed to negotiate a gas heater powerful enough to warm a gnat's nose and established that we could request a thimble of hot water in which to bathe ourselves each morning, we piled on our begged and borrowed layers and set off to explore. Heading first for the main bazaar in the centre of Leh, we found ourselves quickly falling in love with the gentle Ladakhi people and the wonderfully multi-purpose greeting of julay.

Seemingly good for hello, goodbye, thank you, you're welcome and any number of other pleasantries, julay was offered to us by the locals at every opportunity in a warm and endearingly joyful tone. Even more charming, it was repeated endlessly by our hosts before, during and after every mealtime in a sing song melody that gradually descended into a whispered chant and, finally, an infectious chuckle that we couldn't help but join in with. Apart from the numb toes and our frozen runny noses, we were in heaven!

Now, this wasn't any old trip; it was a very special one, arranged to coincide with a particularly significant birthday for my travel buddy. As the big day approached, it was clear something extraordinary and mind blowing was required to celebrate. So we figured, what the heck, we're in India, let's get high!

And that's exactly what we did. Without the help of any illicit or mind altering substances (unless you count the daily bowl of magical porridge we were now entirely dependent on) we headed to the breathtaking Nubra Valley via the Khardung mountain pass, 6,502 metres up on the highest motorable road in the world. Taking with us Pinsu, our trusty driver, and some nerves of steel, we quickly found ourselves breathless from the dizzying altitude, sheer drops and stunning views. Accompanied by a convoy of Indian army vehicles, a reminder of the troubled border area we were heading towards, we wound our way onwards and upwards into snow and ice, past the rather concerning avalanche warnings and some less than reassuring memorial stones placed at many of the hairpin bends.

Yes, we got very very high indeed. But with every high, of course, there is the inevitable come down. And this one was particularly hard on the birthday boy. He suffered a fairly unpleasant case of altitude sickness as we wound our way down into the valley. Luckily, this was fairly short lived and, having survived a night without our trusty gas heater in the beautiful village of Hunder, we set out on foot to enjoy the scenery, befriending a couple of camels on route when we got a bit tired. We even spotted a few yetis on the way back! Although I have my suspicions we were still a little bit high. Perhaps they were yaks after all! Take a look at the photos and you decide.

The year in questions

If I were to describe my time in Sri Lanka to you in question form, it would go something like this:

Kaewada? (Did you eat?)

Which country?

Where you going?

Sri Lanka is good, no?

What about your lunch?
You married?

WHY??!!!!!!!

I cannot tell you how many times I am asked these same questions in a typical day. Of course if varies from one day to the next. But to give you some idea, let's just say it is more than I can count on my fingers (and toes), but less times than the number of rotations my ceiling fan makes in any given hour. On average, doing some very quick sums in my head here, I make that somewhere in the region of.......a LOT of times. 

Depending on who is asking and how I am feeling, my response can vary from silence to something a little more informative. And of course, the answers change depending on the time of day and from one encounter to the next. Typically though, my side of the conversation might go something like this:

Ow, Kaewa (yes, I ate)
England
That way *whilst pointing in the opposite direction to the one I'm moving in*
Ow, hari hari hondai, hari lassanaiy (yes, very very good, very beautiful)
There's an egg rice packet with my name on it at the canteen, and I'm on my way there now
Bandala nair (not married)
Dannair (don't know) *looking puzzled, shrugging shoulders*

Regarding the "why", I do at times respond with a genuine attempt to explain just how different things are where I come from.

"Not everyone gets married. The cultural norms and expectations are not the same. You see, it's not that unusual to be 37 and unmarried in the UK, honestly. No, I am not considered to be a total freak back home. Well, not much anyway!"

This is usually met with what appears to be a brief moment of silent contemplation and serious reflection....followed swiftly by some high pitched and hysterical plotting to find me a Sri Lankan husband.

And so, at other times I mix it up a bit; I invent myself a husband in an attempt to dodge that pesky sri lankan "why" and the conspiratorial wedding planners.  Of course, this leads to more questions, but they are questions for which I am prepared with an endless variety of responses.

"He's a doctor/space scientist/dog psychologist/vampire and we have 2/4/6/8 children/bat pups."

By far the simplest thing, however, is simply to let people know that of course I fully intend to get married. It's just that I will to look later, when I get back to the UK. I explain that, unfortunately, things so far have not really gone my way, and then I place the blame squarely and unashamedly at my parents door.

"They just didn't put the effort in. Once my sister was married off, they lost interest. Mind you, I suppose the inauspicious astrological alignment at the time of my birth didn't help matters...""

Sorry folks, it's just easier this way! And at least you can blame the stars.

Superhero flip flops

My Superhero flip flops

My name is Beth and I have a flip flop addiction. I am utterly dependent and really can't get enough. I have gathered quite a collection since my arrival in Sri Lanka. But it seems that however many pairs I acquire, the itch just wont go away. Every time I find myself skulking shame-faced in the flop flip aisle of a local store, I tell myself that just one more pair will be enough; once this particular transaction is complete, I will be thoroughly content. The problem is that true satisfaction seems to allude me; with the purchase of another pair comes a new yearning for more additions to the collection.

Let me explain that every other item of clothing I own doesn't quite feel fit for purpose. This is not for want of trying! I have purchased the best part of two entire (fairly unattractive) wardrobes since my arrival in Sri Lanka. And most of them meet the three essential characteristics that must be achieved to give yourself a fighting chance of not looking like a complete hot sweaty mess. 1  - 100% cotton, to increase the airflow 2 - Tunic style, for extra coverage & 3 - Patterned, to disguise the inescapable sweating. But regardless, I am not happy. Whatever I choose to clothe my body in first thing in the morning, within minutes of leaving the house, I am uncomfortable, irritable and sweaty. These days (much the same as any other days in the life of me) clothes are simply not my friends!

But the flip flop.....oh, the wonderfully functional and uncomplicated flip flop. How I love the flip flop. And surely I can't be alone in this passion of mine, for the beautiful simplicity of the humble flip flop is a truly joyous thing.

Now for the big news. I have recently found myself a pair of extraordinary flip flops. It's still too early to tell for sure, but maybe, just maybe, this will signal the end to my insatiable craving for more. The moment I spotted them in the shop, I was sold. But it wasn't until I actually slipped them on that I realised just how special they are...that I understood that they are, in actual fact, superhero flip flops.

These flip flops don't just look like the kind of footwear a superhero might wear (they're the same colour as Wonder Woman's fancy boots after all!), but more importantly (and this is their special power) the wearing of them is enough to make me FEEL like a superhero. When I don the flops, I am inexplicably 2 inches taller, utterly invincible and totally immune to all harm. And believe me, in a country where I have proven myself capable of more accident prone buffoonery than Laurel and Hardy, this is no mean feet (cue cymbal, Ba-dum-TSH! Sorry, couldn't resist!).

And so, at least 3 or 4 times a week, I arrive home at the end of a long sweaty day to dump my work bag, grab my ipod, exchange my birkenstocks for the superflops and head out the door to my local pool, a 15 minute walk away. It is during this walk that they truly come into their own. And their heroic work is not done in silence. Nope, they have a soundtrack all of their own. There are a couple of key tunes on this soundtrack, brought to me courtesy of two compilation making friends (thanks ladies!). If you want to get a real insight into the nature of these superflops, you can turn this into an interactive experience by clicking here and starting track number one. If you did just click, try to remain focused. I know it's easy to get distracted by cats playing musical instruments, but there is an alternative video in my world.

The opening seconds are indeed the sound me putting on the supercharged hero-flops....and from here, as the tune continues, the walk begins. I weave my way around the cracked crazy paving and plough, elbows at the ready, through the hectic throng of people at the bus stand. The tune drowns out the rude honking of the buses and accompanies each perfectly timed hop skip and jump as I skilfully dodge the many unexpected hazards in my path; it keeps pace with my feet as I stride confidently across a busy main road, impervious to the speeding trishaws, intrusive stares and crazy heckles.

But the magic of the superflops is at it's greatest (at 2 mins 17secs) as my right foot hovers dangerously over a pile of something freshly steaming and stinking, generously deposited just moments earlier by a local stray dog. Without the superflops, I am in big trouble. But, with them, nothing can touch me. As time pauses momentarily, and the world around me ceases to spin...my whole body is lifted involuntarily up into the air and scooted a couple of paces forward out of harms way, until........BAM, time restarts and, as if nothing extraordinary just happened, my flip flopped feet land securely back on sri lankan soil to continue their journey, without mishap, all the way to the pool.

On the way home, after a refreshing and invigorating swim, the soundtrack is different, cue music, but the magic is the same. I I I I... I'm so tired, but I just wont lose my stride! Come on superflops, don't fail me now! I got to walk on.....

Hanging like a bat

I..(pause for affect)...am flexible and adaptable. I AM flexible and adapatable. I am flexible...(another pause, confident nod of the head and eyebrows raised to stress the point)...AND adaptable! Oh yes I am....which is very lucky, because these are characteristics VSO say a volunteer must possess, and some of the key criteria by which they make a decision about your suitability. See for yourself and visit VSO's "what you need" page if you like. It's right up there second only to self-assurance, which I most definitely have in abundance...I think, although sometimes I'm not so sure. Anyway, who needs self assurance when you have flexibility and adaptability? It really should be placed at the top of that list. Because, boy, does it come in handy! So much so that it has become my mantra.

I find myself muttering it under my breath through gritted teeth on the bus; taking a deep breath and repeating it in my head over and over again in the middle of work meetings; declaring it out loud to myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror whilst home alone. Yep, it's a good one. Try it for yourself. Whenever things seem overwhelming, a little surprising or just plain crazy, give it a go. You'll wonder how you ever managed without it.

Well, my flexibility and adaptability has risen to new heights of late when I agreed to step into the role of bridesmaid at a Sri Lankan wedding. If you read my very special engagement blog post, you'll know this was on the cards. It was quite the event to say the least, and my mantra has been required frequently both in the build up and on the big day itself. I'm not sure I'll be able to do the whole event justice in just one post. So, instead I'll simply share some of my own personal "highlights" with you.

2 months before the big day at home
The bride to be: "oh, I forgot to tell you. The colour of your sari has changed again. It's now green"
Me "Oh really, that's good, I like green. But what shade of green?"
The bride to be: thoughtfully looking around my flat and eventually spotting something, appearing satisfied and pointing toward the kitchen "that sort of green"
Me: twisting round to follow her gaze and find it resting on some unripe bananas in my fruit bowl "...Oh"
The bride to be: "...and the sari jacket is yellow"
Me: "Like a ripe banana?"
The bride to be: "Yes"
Me: "Oh!"

1 week before the big day in a salon down the road 
Beautician/torturer number 1: plucking and threading the eyebrows of a wriggly non-compliant first time foreigner and having great difficulty undertaking the task.
Beautician/torturer number 2: holding the jaw and forehead in a vice like grip whilst pressing her fingertips into the foreigner's eyeball sockets in order (I can only assume?) to gain some leverage and assist beautician/torturer number 1 to continue her work.
Me: whimpering, palms and soles of feet sweating despite the a/c, eyes watering uncontrollably "why did nobody tell me it would hurt so much? Can I go now? Just leave the other one, honestly it's fine"
Beauticians/torturers 1 & 2: ignoring mad mutterings of foreigner and moving onto socket and brow number 2.
Me: continuing to whimper....

On the morning of the big day back in the salon with the beauticians/torturers and a few of their friends

10am
Me: being squeezed into my banana sari jacket and underskirt "is it meant to be so tight that I can't fully inflate my lungs?"
Beautician/torturer number 3: looking slightly concerned, unzips the underskirt a tiny bit and wanders off.
Me: "oh great, thanks!
Beautician/torturer number 3: returning with a safety pin, overlaps the open zip by a couple of inches and secures the underskirt even more tightly with the pin!
Me: lungs deflating involuntarily "pfffff....oh!"

10:23am
Beautician/torturer number 4: backcombing my entire head of hair until it is defying gravity and standing totally upright and away from my head.
Me: "oh"

11am 
Beautician/torturer number 2: trying to dress me in green pearl earrings
Me: "oh, no. You wont be able to do that, they were pierced 20 years ago, and I've not worn any for years"
Beautician/torturer number 2: appearing to lose interest and wandering off
Me: allowing myself a brief smile having won a small victory.

11:15am
Beautician/torturer number 2: fiddling with something near to my left ear.
Me: looking in the mirror and noticing a small pearly thing stuck to my earlobe, then glancing back at my torturer to spot a yellow tube of something in her hand. "Is that superglue?!!!!!!!"
Head Beautician/torturer sounding incredulous and slightly tired of all my chatter "it's not superglue.....it's uhu!"
Me "oh!"

11:36am
Head Beautician/torturer: moving towards me with the make up brush
Me: "I don't want very much make up. I already told Sewandi (the bride to be) and she said that was fine"
Head Beautician/torturer: moving closer with the brush "I know"

11:45am
Head Beautician/torturer: applying a 3rd layer of something very wet and sticky to my face "so, is this the first time you have worn heavy make up?"
Me: "What?" repeating silently to myself "I am flexible and adaptable. I am flexible and adaptable. I am flexible and adaptable. I am flexible and adaptable."

12:05pm 
Me: sitting up and seeing the results of my heavy make over in the mirror "OH...MY....GOD!!"
Head beautician/torturer: "You look beautiful."
Me: "@*&£%"
Head beautician/torturer: "This is how we do things in Sri Lanka.We say in Sri Lanka, if you can't stand up straight like this (stands up rigid to demonstrate), you may need to hang upside down like a bat (folds at the waist to demonstrate bat pose)"
Me: "In England we say "when in Rome". Is that what you mean?"
Head beautician/torturer: laughing hysterically and punching me on the shoulder "you are so bad!"
Me: "Oh!" glancing nervously into the mirror and wincing at my reflection "but is that what you mean? Or are you just saying I need to be flexible and adaptable? Because I am trying, honestly."
Head beautician/torturer: continuing to laugh and punch me on the shoulder "you are so silly"
Me: "But really, it is a serious question" muttering quietly under my breath "I am flexible and adaptable. I am flexible and adaptable. I am flexible and adaptable. I am flexible and adaptable."
Roomful of beauticians/torturers: Laughing hysterically
Me: Shrugging my shoulders and joining in with the laughter "Ok, well, I'll just try hanging like a bat today then, a very heavily made up bat, but a bat none the less. Lucky I am so very flexible and adaptable!"

Gremlins, monkeys & mischievous spirits

I have a very good friend who has been working for several years as a translator and interpreter. She's highly professional, loves what she does, and seems to earn a decent living doing it. If you know who I'm talking about, or live anywhere within a 10 mile radius of central Brighton, you'll have heard the distinct sound of her blowing her own trumpet. And so she should. She has great hair, is well respected in the linguistic world and has a serious and enthusiastic following in the blogosphere. At least, so she tells me. I've certainly enjoyed talking to her about my encounters with the language barrier whilst in Sri Lanka; the joys of painstakingly clambering over it, cunningly negotiating a way around it, or just clumsily ploughing headlong into it. However, I must also admit to some friendly teasing over the years in view of what appears to be a fairly easy gig. So...you can speak a couple of languages and type a bit! But I mean, really! How hard can it be? In truth she seems to spend more time drinking coffee, lunching, or hanging out at geeks & their games dot com than she does doing actual work. However, my time in Sri Lanka has highlighted just how much skill is required in the trade. So, perhaps the refreshments and games of scrabble are deserved after all! She has been pestering me for some time now to dedicate a blog post to her line of work, so here goes.

I've been working with a couple of the occupational therapists at the hospital to run a group for people who hear voices as part of a mental illness. The group aims to provide a non-judgemental space for people to discuss their experiences and also attempts to normalise them to some extent. The stigma surrounding such things remains shockingly present. And yet, did you know that up to 10% of people across the world have experienced voices; that a number of talented and well-known people past and present have heard voices; that it is not always a sign of mental illness, and that many people can lead meaningful and fulfilling lives despite hearing voices? And, be honest, have you really never heard or seen something that others around you did not? I for one had an unshakable fever-induced belief in the imminent destruction of the world after watching an episode of Knight Rider as a kid. It was one of the most terrifying couple of hours I have ever endured. But that's whole other blog post. The point is, focusing on these experiences purely from a medical perspective is not always helpful. Most importantly, the group teaches new skills to tolerate difficult experiences and encourages individuals to take positive steps towards their values and goals in life.

It's the first time such a group has been run at the hospital and I feel very pleased to be involved in it. I am extremely grateful to my UK and VSO colleagues for providing resources, advice and peer support. Running a group like this is hard work at the best of times, but this has been particularly challenging as I am facilitating the sessions through an interpreter. This is a completely new experience for me and I've been especially glad to know my trumpet blowing friend who has been able to offer me some insider top tips. As funds for interpreters aren't so easy to come by, one of the OT's is stepping into this role. Whilst he is not a professional interpreter, he appears to be taking it in his stride and doing a great job.

In order that we stay as true as possible to the original concepts, we have been having some interesting discussions. One of the most fascinating has involved a long conversation about gremlins. I don't mean the fluffy but evil mogwais from the 1984 film of the same name, but rather gremlins in general; those imaginary mischievous sprites thought to be responsible for unexplained problems. One of the sessions shared by my UK colleague used the metaphor of a gremlin to represent those unwanted experiences we can all have. Participants are asked to imagine their voices are like having a gremlin telling them unpleasant or upsetting things. They are then encouraged to consider how they might manage this irritating visitor. The main point is that we do not have to listen to the gremlin, do what it tells us or believe that what it says. Whilst it is helpful to acknowledge their presence, we can end up giving them power they do not deserve. If we instead refuse to engage with them on any meaningful level, it is possible to put more energy into the things which are important to us.

Are you still following me? I hope so. Well, it turns out that gremlin is not a word or concept that has made it's way into Sri Lankan culture. And so, we were faced with a linguistic quandary. I was rather pleased with my idea of changing it to a monkey. Whilst not invisible, they are certainly mischievous and often unseen. They seem to cause all sorts of problems here in Sri Lanka, be it looting a shop of it's wares or cheekily swiping snacks left out on the balcony. However, this suggestion was met with an unimpressed silence. I was reminded that for many people in Sri Lanka, monkeys have a sacred status. So, that wont do then! Returning to the definition of a gremlin, we went on to discuss sprites, elves, fairies, imps, ghosts and ghouls.

By now, a huddle of interested staff had gathered around us. The first suggestion from the group was that of a boothaya. In Sri Lankan culture, there is a strong belief in karma; if someone has been bad in life, they might come back as some kind of spirit. One such spirit is a boothaya, thought to cause trouble to the living but also capable of good deeds. This was therefore dismissed in favour of a yakshia. The yakshia, emerging from the same karmic process, is also a spirit. However, it is considered to be much more problematic and never the source of good deeds. If someone is having difficulties in life, they might attribute them to a yakshia. It seemed to fit. And so this is what we settled on. But not without a certain amount of trepidation on my part.

I was concerned about how the translation might be misunderstood by the group, so much so I considered removing the whole session. I was especially anxious that we might reinforce certain unhelpful beliefs; for example, that mental illness is the result of bad karma and some kind of punishment for bad deeds. This was certainly not the idea! The gremlin was intended purely as a metaphor, a tool to help people understand their inner experiences, and I wasn't totally convinced that the yakshia would be taken in this way. And so, I quizzed and questioned my colleagues and Sri Lankan friends. And then I quizzed them some more. I was reassured again and again that yakshia was a suitable translation and that my concerns were not founded. In the end, I had to trust them.

I'm pleased to report that the session appeared to go well and people seemed to get it. However, this whole experience has made me realise just how much responsibility and power is held by the translator/interpreter and how much trust is placed in them. Perhaps it's not such an easy gig after all! If you are Sri Lankan and reading this, perhaps you have another suggestion? I'd be interested to hear it. If you are a translator or interpreter, hats off to you. Go treat yourself to a fancy lunch and pour yourself another coffee. You deserve it!