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.