Going to Sri Lanka for a thirteen day trip brought me back happy and sad. 13 days of intensive seeing, or ‘site seeing’ as tourist guidebooks put it, one may be ‘looking’ but not really ‘seeing’ after all! This was one of the most basic things that I learnt from our Tour Guide Mr. Gamini, who complained that Tourists look but don’t see, hear but don’t listen. Coming from a person who sees and listens for a living, this wasn’t just speech, it was articulation.
Having lived in the same country for ten years without a single foreign trip it took time for the reality of another country to sink in. I had to get thoroughly wet in a steamy Colombo downpour for me to know that I wasn’t in Karachi anymore.
The Pineapple followed us everywhere like an overeager host and we gorged ourselves beautifully on it, satiated for a lifetime. There was Coconut water in the mornings at the hotel and passion fruit in the afternoons at the market. Bright, green and yellow bananas would hang like organic chandeliers in the grocery shops. Men stood outside their shops clad in loungis and two patti chappals, listening to ‘kuch kuch hota hain’. An offered shahi supari and they would break into friendly offers of assistance. With their dark skins their white teeth appeared suddenly and startlingly. In the hot humid air the pinks, reds and indigos of their clothes, appeared like a dynamic smudge of colour.
From Columbo we traveled to Kandy a hill station, which had none of an urban metropolis’ western aspirations. The villa was situated on a hill that overlooked the whole region. Waking up one morning, all alone I faced a view that seemed like I had a show of National Geographic on a giant screen. Softly at first and then with power and surety, the sun rose amidst a song of colour and glory.
Being a Muslim in a country where Muslims are just one minority in a variety of religions brought a different kind of experience all together. Wandering through a crowded bazaar a seated beggar seeing my head covered switched from his expression of misery to a knowing smile and greeted me “Salam alaikum”. But outside the Tooth Relic Temple it became a bit of a different story. Any kind of head covering in front of a statue of Buddha was considered a sign of disrespect. So I had to wait outside. Which was great when I think about it, I sat and sketched the Temple elephant, Vigarath, but what I was unprepared for was the group of men and children that gathered some feet behind me watching and commenting excitedly on my drawing. I may have been a novelty for them, but their attention and interest was definitely a novelty for me. A policeman, also intrigued came up and struck a conversation. On learning that I was Pakistani he looked at me semi-seriously and asked ‘then you must be knowing Imran Khan, no?’
Seeing sir Geoffrey Bawa, the famous architect’s house was something that alone redeemed the trip. Walking through the garden was a bit more like groping through an organized tropical jungle. On a narrow pathway, dense foliage surrounded us on both sides, with the calls of unseen creatures around us. Suddenly the pathway ended and so did the claustrophobia for one was confronted with a view that extended for miles around. Right in front there were a cascade of steps that led to a well-manicured lawn from where one could view the mountains and wet blue sky completely forgetting about the denseness left behind. The whole garden was punctuated by such breathtaking surprises, including the open air shower room. Gargoyles peered from the corners of the stonewalls with the exception of a black pane of glass, that the guide explained was a black mirror, the only kind of mirror that could exist in this kind of weather. And he said mischievously, judging from the Sri Lankan’s dark complexion it didn’t make much of a difference anyway.
Kandy had two main stops that we had to make, the gem factory and the dancing show. The salespersons of the jewelry shops were perhaps the best that I have ever seen. Even though I told them that there was no chance of me buying a thing I managed to walk out a few hundred rupees lighter. And he also managed to keep a straight face when I complained about him to my friend in Urdu saying that he wouldn’t leave me alone. I later found out that he understood Urdu!
In the dance performance it was the men that took the laurels. Adorned much more imaginatively than the women with elaborate silver headdresses and shells on the chest, their each movement sounded the bells that hung from them. A blaring conch would stun they to a moments pause and then they would slowly resume their frenzied twisting and turning. Dancing with swinging stakes of fire they concluded with a walk on hot coals.
The trip had its moments and for us the end was the best. Driving into the driveway of our hotel at Newara Eliya we thought we must be dreaming. Our hotel was a beautiful white double story, colonial style house. The landscape all around was green dotted with little wild flowers. There were tea plantations that looked like vast lawns punctuated by figures of women picking away diligently. As the evening drew nearer, curtains of mist would fall veiling the splendid mountains around.
I came back feeling that I had always looked at Pakistan as if from behind the same shrouds of mist. When the mist cleared I saw another brilliant country rousing my interest and curiosity. I’m a tourist again, but this time in the comfort of my own country, and the time frame of more than thirteen days.