Colombo is a confusion of districts, traditions and traffic. Taking a tuktuk across town, despite any motion sickness, I see a dizzying display of temples, churches and mosques. Any serenity brought by such overt spirituality is soon quashed by the sound of violent beeping rising from the exhaust fumes.
My house is like the jungle in captivity. Leafy plants and tropical flowers sprawl into my living room. Designed by a student of legendary architect Geoffrey Bawa, the open-air layout and natural light evokes a sense of meditative whimsy. I feel like a fairy hopping around a moss cave. My bedroom looks out on the garden and the odd lizard sometimes pays me an impromptu visit.
Stepping into the street feels like falling into a bowl of warm soup. The air is hot and viscous, cushioning my body in sweat. Colourful saris float by and lingering eyes stare at the recent addition to their neighbourhood. I sweep my eyes across the landscape, taking care not to meet everyone’s gaze.
Crossing the street is an adventure in itself. Designated crossings are no more than yellow lines painted on the bitumen. Timing is everything! Step in front of a motorbike and you’ll get cleaned up! Pedestrians walk slowly across while the vehicles slide around them like tetris pieces.
Not everyone is always so lucky though. On the road from Colombo to Panadura, a bloodied man lay very still on the road. He had been hit by a runaway bus. The driver did not stop for fear that bystanders would bash him and set fire to his bus. Rather, the witnesses chased the bus cursing in Sinhala and throwing bricks, stones, rocks through the windows with great force.
The sight hit me with a solid reminder. This oasis called Sri Lanka has a recent past. The very diversity that renders the country so appealing is the very hubris that brought the country so much pain.
