Under the Stars

 

GotaGoGama

The protests and demonstrations have swollen and ebbed. For the moment. In outrage over a hike in gas prices, a crowd in Rambukkana set tuk-tuks and tires ablaze. When they turned their sights towards a fuel-filled bowser, the police dispersed the crowd with live rounds leaving many injured and one dead, not the first -- but hopefully the last -- death of the current crisis. 

It's been quieter since in what has become a war of attrition. A trickle of diesel shortened queues at service stations for a day or two and, perhaps, mollified the populace for the time being. Yesterday morning, I ran down to the tent city, dubbed "GotaGoGama" (the president's name is Gotabaya Rajapaksa, and "gama" is "village" in Sinhala). It was serene, devoid of the usual raucous crowds, though there were more than the usual number of youth in black t-shirts milling directionless about, almost as if in a haze. Banners and flags flapped in the light breeze coming off the Indian Ocean. I was impressed to see medical tents, the Red Cross, and water stations set up throughout the village. 

Most Sri Lankans I talk to never fail to mention the crisis has brought Sri Lankans together.  Most any narrative on Sri Lanka references the bloody 26-year civil war and the deep ethnocommunal divisions. And yet, the people have come together. 

We try to maintain some semblance of normalcy around the house. For two years, every decision was predicated upon whether it was safe enough to do a certain thing because of the coronavirus.  Now, every decision is predicated upon whether we have enough petrol. Plus, a weekly -- if not daily -- hunt for provisions, milk, butter, eggs. Frankly,  it's exhausting. 

This week, it looks like we'll make it to the end of the school year. Two more months. We'll see what next week brings. 

Return to Dodge

We reluctantly, yet inexorably, pulled through the giant wooden gates protecting the peace and solace of Uga Bay from the outside world. The long stretch of road running the length of Pasikudah Bay, dotted with seaside resorts, was deserted. A plastic purple ice cream cone teased from across the street, standing crooked in front of a hut with its metal rolling door closed.

Greeting reality was like a splash of cold water to the face; on the east coast of the island, economic calamity was quiet. We drove near the town of Batticaloa in search of petrol before turning inland toward our next destination, Ella in the island's mountainous interior. A length of rope strung across the drive of the first gas station we came to. Orange traffic cones blocked the entrance to the second. A man sitting on the black and white striped bollard in front of the inert gas pump returned our questioning look with an upturned, empty palm. 

The drive inland was surprisingly peaceful. The road less crowded than normal. Either due to the lack of available fuel or the long holiday. Perhaps, some combination of the two. The landscape gradually rose. Wide expanses of scrub suitable for roaming cattle gradually gave way to low hills and islands of palmettos. The two lane road became more sinuous. Jungle palms crowded the asphalt, edging out the long plain of the east coast. 

We eventually found an open gas station and waited 45 minutes for 5,000 rupees, or about 11 liters, of petrol. I asked for more, but was told that was all I could have. I wasn't in a position to argue, as 30 men on motorcycles stared me down from beneath their helmets with yellowed, hallow, hungry eyes beneath, another 30 with gas canisters crammed in behind them. They carried two liter soda bottles and milk jugs. They would fill their baby's bottle with petrol if they could, and the pump attendant would dispense petrol into your uplifted palms for a 500 rupee "tip". It was enough to get me to 3/4 of a tank which would get us to Ella.

As we neared the last turn to Amba, the tea estate where we stay, the sky darkened, lightning flashed, and fat raindrops splattered the windshield. Soon, the skies opened up, and we rushed up the mountainside against a torrent of rushing water. We made it a kilometer from the main road before meeting a wall of water gushing across the road as though freed from a fire hydrant. The road had been washed away. We parked behind a tuk-tuk, idling alongside the newly-created riverbank. Two motorcycles stared us down from the opposite bank, their cyclopean headlamps barely cutting through the rain. One of motorcyclists braved the raging water once. Then, twice, rainwater running over his blue jeans and up to his knees. Eventually, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and the water slowed. First, the motorcycle crossed. Then, after some times, the tuk-tuk, too, before we were confident enough to attempt our own crossing. 

The next three days were restorative. Clove Tree Cottage is perched on the edge of a valley overlooking tea plantations. Across the lush green valley, Ella Rock guards the north end of the valley, a stone protuberance jutting into the sky. Opposite Ella Rock stands Eagle Rock. Over breakfast of toast and mango-ginger jam, one can watch the clouds roll over the face of Eagle Rock. Later in the day, as thunder rumbles ominously at one of the valley, and curtains of rain hide Ella Rock from view, a rainbow leapt over Eagle Rock. 

Peter and I climbed Eagle Rock with his friend and his father. Then, when we reached the bottom, immediately set down the trail leading to the slot cave, a narrow passage between one rock leaned against another, eerily reminiscent of the wadis in Jordan. The city is harsh and not conducive to outside play. When the kids get too loud, we aren't able to banish them to the yard. Ella was the panacea all had been seeking, a curing tonic. The kids ran away from themselves, chased by a more fearful version of themselves, wild, care abandoned. Yes, they mainly ran through the knee-high grass to escape leeches, but they also shed the shackles of school and the constraints of the city, the wind whipping their hair, splashing in cool mountain watering holes, and petting the farm's menagerie of cats and dogs. 

We finally had to leave Ella on a Friday with but a half a tank of gas. We heard reports the service station on the highway was empty the day before. We decided to pull off the freeway outside of Mattara and join a queue of cars easily more than a kilometer or more long. We waited two hours and 15 minutes. Fortunately, the queue stretched past a small supermarket where we could all go to the bathroom and Elise could buy crackers and processed cheese wedges to tide us over. 

The protestors in Colombo have erected a tent city near the President's palace. Last night, the streets were full and the green clogged by the demonstrations. It remains to very seen what the police will do to break ot up by Monday morning, the end of the long Tamil and Sinhala New Year week. 

Snorkeling the Pasikudah Reef

Get Out of Dodge

It was bound to happen. It was only a matter of time, really. I accidentally found myself in the middle of a protest.

I was riding my bike home from work. Galle Road converges in front of Kolpetty Market, two rivers of vehicles flowing together at the muddy confluence, and every car coming from the right wants to go left, and every car from the left wants to go right. It sounds crazy, but the safest path is to ride right in the middle of all five lanes. Sometimes, the calmest path through the rapids is right down the middle of the river. Plus, I'm as fast (or faster) as anything on the road anyway.

I weave between buses and tuk-tuks. Traffic crosses in front of me, first from the left, then from the right, like a video game, until I'm face to face with a drab khaki-donned policeman standing in the middle of the street. The first thing I see is the white of his outspread glove. I slam on the brakes. The second thing I see is the crowd of protesters on the curb in front of Liberty Plaza. Shit.

The demonstrations have been and continue to be peaceful. I had nothing, really, to he afraid of and I wasn't scared, per se. I knew they weren't mad at me. I didn't do anything. I didn't have a hand in causing their country to crumble around them. But it is crumbling. Around all of us. A natural disaster or pandemic knows no sides. No difference between castes, creed, or class. They take down all equally.  That's perhaps putting too fine a point on it. It's more nuanced than that, but when the bricks fall, they will strike you or me or the protestors with equal force. I think that is the reality Sri Lanka is waking up to.

The country has a long history with trauma. All you have to do is reference the 26-year civil war. But what we are seeing, and what people are discovering, is the ethnocommunal lines are blurring. And the country, perhaps, isn't as divided as many were led to believe. Myself included. 

The old are joining the young. The salaried, middle class stands with the daily wage worker. Tamil, Sinhalese, and Muslims line up shoulder to shoulder. The protestors carry dates with them for Muslims when they break their fast and bottled water for the police.

The crowd wrapped black bandanas around their head and waved placards on the air. They shouted a few feet from me. I turned the other way and mentally begged the traffic cop to do the same so I could bolt past him. I doubt the protestors even saw me, but I could feel their anger rippling off them like the waves of heat coming off hot asphalt.

We left Colombo Saturday morning.  It's the kids' spring break. We rolled the dice and drove to the other side of the island, hoping we could find enough petrol to get us back. That morning planned protests were to bring 100,000 to central Colombo, and though we fled in the opposite direction, we hoped to beat the rush. The crowds were smaller than predicted, but trucks with water cannons guarded like ready sentinels and antenna looked like the vames used by Tatooine moisture farmers scrambled social media and kept bloggers from livestreaming the crowd.

We are fortunate and found solace. For now. We will have to go back to Colombo eventually, and like everyone else wondering what we will find when we get there. 

The Not-So-Calm Before the Storm

We came home after the Easter party, stopping for gas on the way. We got a hot tip there was no wait at the LIOC station on the way out to school. Sam watched "Friends" and cooled off after a morning spent in a fur bunny suit. Peter did French homework,  Clementine and I watched "Night at the Museum" (again). 

At some point in the movie -- when Ben Stiller is trying to tame all the creatures and historical persona that come alive in the museum at night -- the president announced a curfew from tonight until Monday morning, an effort to silence a protest planned for tomorrow morning.  We grabbed our scooters, bikes, and skateboards and hit the streets.  

We walked to the end of the block while Peter rode his bike, Clem on her scooter, and Sam on his skateboard as people closed shop and rushed home. A gardener, seemingly oblivious to current events, diligently went about his business trimming the hedge outside a high-end hotel. A couple of young Sri Lankans came at his heading toward the heart of where the protest would originate, carrying a sign that read, "Evil will prevail, if good men don't stand up."

At 6:00, the hour the curfew went into effect, firecrackers erupted outside. We remain unsure what they portend. 

Thank You, Easter Bunny!

It wasn't so long ago, Sam was the boy in the yellow Izod. Now, he's the Easter Bunny. 

Red Go the Ironwood Trees

The leaves on the ironwood trees blush. The national tree of Sri Lanka seems to bleed in solidarity with its people. The leaves, withered and wrinkled like the back of an old man's hand, look like splashes of gore on the ground when they eventually shrivel up and fall. It's mango season, too. The tops of trees are full of still green, unripe fruit, far out of reach of the man on the bicycle with two broomsticks and a wire coat hangar all fashioned together into a long pole to pluck the fruit from the branches he can't reach by hand. A falling mango will make the occasional thump in the road. Bats favor them, too, and the pits litter the street, orange pulp clinging to what's left of the seed making a tasty treat for crows. 

The birds don't seem to commiserate the way the trees do. As during the pandemic, they are oblivious to the grim state of human affairs. They fly high above it, wake the same time every morning, greeting the rising sun with song. Their nonchalance and insouciance is a reminder that as dire as things seem, life goes on. Just as it did during the pandemic. Perhaps, then, this, too, shall pass. 

Two men standing in line for petrol swoon, pass out, and die, overwhelmed by the heat. The queues have grown testy, and there is at least one reputable report of a man stabbing another waiting for gas. Lorries and busses loiter for kilometers at gas stations. As of yesterday, there was no diesel at all. Anywhere. On the entire island. Don't even bother waiting, the authorities would caution. The well is dry. There should be some relief soon. At least on the fuel side. A loan from India will pay for a tanker parked offshore. We're just waiting for our ship to come in. Literally. The oil tanker will dock, and we will suck it dry like a litter of puppies scrambling at its mother's teets. A fleet of gas trucks will deploy from Colombo to points all across the island, slowly, one by one refilling every gas station in the country. The process will take time, and the gas won't last forever. A billion dollars of petrol and diesel will last a few weeks. Maybe a month. Then, we are right back where we started. No long-term solution in sight. 

A crowd gathered outside the president's house and drew the ire of tear gas, water cannons, and rubber bullets. They were eventually repulsed but not before setting an army bus ablaze. This is the second such demonstration in as many weeks, and signs point to things getting worse before they get better. A larger march is planned for tomorrow morning, despite the president declaring a national emergency and the government instituting nightly curfews.

At the grocery store, the entire shelf where the milk should have been was taken over by boxed coffee, as though we wouldn't notice and pour coffee over our corn flakes and put coffee in our coffee. 

We've bounced from birthday parties to teen pool parties to horseback riding, navigating neighborhoods plunged in darkness under the cover of the night, trying our best to maintain some semblance of normalcy while keeping a close eye on the needle on the fuel gauge and our own stock of UHT milk. We are better off than almost everyone else, an entire land exhausted, unable to sleep at night because it's too hot and the power cuts keep the fan from coming on, stumbling through their days after having been up all night. 

The kids had a short week due to parent-teacher conferences (here, three-way conferences because the student participates, too), still on Zoom. You can see the exhaustion rimming the teachers' eyes. Most of them live further outside of central Colombo where power cuts are more frequent and last longer. Most of their homes don't have generators. We didn't glean much from the conferences on academics, but we did learn Clementine has been assisting a student who only returned to in-person learning last month reacclimate to the classroom, Sam is quote-unquote, "The glue that holds the classroom together," and Peter has been asserting himself more in Language and Literature (L&L). So, at least the kids are all right.