natassiazc's journal

“Where are you going? Stop! Come. Come here and talk to me.”

Our travelling party of five stopped, as requested, mid-stroll to regard an older lady with hair pulled back tight and intent in her dark brown eyes. She sat on a ledge, with a backdrop of cows roaming vast greenery. Mountains could be made out in the blurry distance, while a stream cut through the landscape just metres behind her. The stream turns into the longest river in Sri Lanka, and that day it was playing host to families bathing and children playing in the water.

The lady glanced between us all, each varied in colour and size, and looked upon us expectantly. With haste, we introduced ourselves as hailing from Australia, Scotland and the USA. It was then that she began to get excited.

“I don’t like Barack Obama,” she announced passionately to our American friends, “he is evil.”

It was on that note that she asked if she could make us tea.

Exchanging quick looks with each other, we formed a silent ‘yes’ consensus and followed her down a path to her home: a house comprised of alternating walls of tin and timber. Large pieces of cardboard separated a small living room from a space that housed two wooden beds and a bench for cooking. She proudly introduced us to her husband, who held out his only arm to shake our hands.

“Sorry, I am poor,” she said, “This is my poor palace.”

Grinning, she ushered us into her living room. We took seats in the bare space, where a photograph of the couple on their wedding day caught my eye. Their traditional Sinhalese bridal wear was stunning, even in fading black and white.

Moments later she re-emerged with a tray balancing five teacups.

“I would have made curry but I did not know you were coming and I am poor.”

While we reassured her that her hospitality was perfect, and thank you, she continued her tirade of disdain for Barack Obama. “I think he will kill me,” she said.

As we sipped on the tea, which was sweet and syrup-like, she brought out a canister from which she drew a large poster and held it out to show us. It was a sepia image of her in her youth: beaming, refreshing and lovely in a nurse’s uniform.

“I was a nurse at a big hospital in Colombo,” she explained, “I studied English.”

She smiled sadly as she described her hospital burning down.

“Now today I am poor, but I am happy. We are happy, and so it doesn’t matter that we are poor.”

To such remarks, we could only respond with smiles and appreciation.