Resorts Magazine

curd yogur t—delicious—ser ved with mint leaves and treacle (a palm flower syrup ak in to honey). During the trip, “Su” calls me “Superwoman.” “Why that nickname?” I ask . “ You never tire, you solve ever y problem, and you’re not afraid—except for your insomnia,” he adds, “to which you have no power.” Back to Colombo for the countr y ’s sole airpor t. My return flight depar ts from here. A new driver is assigned: silly, clumsy, late, and a stutterer. Hotel: Shangri-la. At the gate, a police dog sniffs our car to ensure no explosives are onboard. From my 15th-floor room, the view is a patchwork of slums, dilapidated colonial buildings, monstrous skyscrapers, and a futuristic telecoms tower. A distant futuristic bridge spans the Kelani R iver. Dinner buffet is excellent: crab sushi, lovely shrimp, soy-sprout salad, and a vegetable I usually only eat in Greece—ok ra. I taste tender red beans from China and tuna that ’s dark and flavor ful as in the Mediterranean. I visit Kelaniya Raja Maha Vihara Temple, 45 minutes from the cit y center. Not seeing the shoe rack , I don’t remove my shoes. Af ter ten minutes, a woman accosts me: “Madame, Madame,” she repeats in an insistent, threatening tone, telling me to remove my shoes immediately—“We are in a sacred place; Buddha cannot tolerate such affront!” I have no choice but to comply. As usual, it ’s raining and my feet sink into mud. I meet a tall, slender man with proud eyes and regular features—if not for his dark sk in, he could be called Ar yan. I ask him about frescoes: he k indly shows them. They are ex traordinar y, transpor ting me into a dream world. Each hall is different— colors, figures, perspec tives, light and shadow, propor tions—notes composing a magnificent symphony. Just yesterday I star ted Asceticism or The Saviors of God by Nikos Kazantzak is. I t ’s a roaring stream- of- consciousness, a visionar y decalogue pushing humanit y to transcend itself. I find a line fitting for this place: “Like an island, slowly, with tremendous effor t, man’s work rises on the ocean of nothingness.” I photograph a monk reading a newspaper—the curiosit y of these ‘sages’ about worldly affairs surprises me. I’d pic tured them always detached from realit y… I finally encounter a massive rec tangular hall, open on the sides, lined with columns. I nside, dozens of women—some elderly— sit or lie on the floor, eating, drink ing, sleeping, chatting. They approach me gently, curious about where I come from, ask ing for photos. Some join hands and communicate with a Buddha statue in a small shrine. A quick visit to the 24-hour fish market—around four in the af ternoon—ever ything’s sold. A team of grey herons efficiently cleans the floor of scraps. Lastly, I glimpse the Dutch Museum: arms, jewelr y, furniture, prints from the colonial era, a collec tion of pipes and snuff boxes. Curiosities : Cars are mostly impor ted from Japan; tuk-tuks, motorc ycles, buses, and trucks come from I ndia or China. On highways, men sweep the emergenc y lane with grass brooms. No toll tags, metros, or underground park ing exist; trains are crowded and lack air- conditioning. Highway are rare and lightly trafficked. Gas costs €1 per liter—1 euro ≈ 300 rupees. We see a vehicle traveling the opposite direc tion flashing headlights: “Are they warning us of police ahead?” I ask my driver. He nods: “ Yes.” Ever ywhere is the same. Police prefer to ex tor t cash than issue tickets; estimated honest y is about 3%. Politicians, likely no better. At least national banks exist: People’s Bank , Bank of Ceylon, Central Bank . The locals are clean, mild, cheer ful, polite, helpful—and nearly all speak English in tourist 109 R ESORTS M AGAZINE