Back home
All good things must come to an end – our six months finished last week and we have now returned to the UK. I not sure what to do with the blog but I am hoping to keep it going. In the meantime here are some final reflections on leaving and arriving.
Once you fix a date to leave a place it gets easier to enjoy living there. The anticipation of returning home increases the intensity of everyday experiences and hassles become easier to bear when you realise that they won’t be there in a month’s time. Furthermore, my memory seems to quickly airbrush out the grimmer moments – like improbably sunny recollections of Scottish summers, Sri Lanka at a distance is swiftly morphing into a paradise. Before this rose-tinting happens I thought it might be interesting to jot down my feelings and observations from the first few days back home.
The first and most obvious thing that struck me coming off the plane was the change in climate. When we left Colombo it was a humid 38o; I was sweating sitting still. You’d get out of a cold shower dry off and be wet again before you could get your clothes on. Apparently, conception rates tail off significantly during April and obstetricians get a lull until nine months after the rains have come. At such an extreme torpor sets in – you cower inside hiding from the cosmic laser gun, and the brain slows down as if your synapses have melted or congealed. Clothes are worn only for decency and protection – any insulation is unpleasant.
Back here in early April spring is in the air, the days are lengthening and the optimistic Brits are already barbequing and wearing shorts. However, there is still a chill around that cuts through my inappropriate clothing. I have started to feel my bones again, in a way that doesn’t happen when everything is at body temperature. It is a vague rheumatic ache in the knees that conjures images of threadbare carpets, inadequate radiators and cat-flap draughts. Lying in bed there is a stark temperature difference between my core and periphery – my nose and toes are cold to touch. Clothes become a cocoon – a cosy shell within which to shelter and a line of defence against the elements – I shiver at the very thought of wearing a sarong. For me it is a pleasant change; a return to familiarity where my overworked sweat glands can take a well earned break. I miss the less extreme heat of Kandy and the mood it engendered but it is good to have more control over my thermostat – it is always easier to heat up than it is to cool off.
The higher temperatures of the tropics accelerate the processes of growth and decay and the air was rich with the smells of fetid sewage, decaying waste and over ripe fruit. Even after six months I was struck by the density and diversity of buzzing, creeping, swooping and microscopic life; stuff feels alive and mobile with an excess of living. This sense of vibrancy is compounded by the noise, bustle and fumes of Sri Lankan cities. Drag-racer buses with belching exhausts and oil tanker horns terrorise pavement-less roads as you jostle with countless dogs, pedestrians, bicycles and buffaloes to make headway. I strove to dull my senses to filter out the onslaught.
In contrast, the land-, smell- and sound-scapes of the UK are more subtle. With winter still ascendant invertebrate life is not yet stirring, migratory birds have yet to return and feral pigeons, dogs and cats cower for warmth. Inured to the extremes of smog in Sri Lanka, the air of Oxford and London is almost fragrant with its bouquet of catalytically converted fumes. In Sri Lanka I breathed through my nose with trepidation, wary of encountering a stench and always ready to switch to my larynx at the first hint of rotting offal. Back here I inhale vigorously, confident in the likely intensity and offensiveness of aromas – I have yet to be struck by a powerful pong, or the sort of smell that moves you to a memory or a déjà vu. The immediacies of urban street life are also much more pleasant. Until moving to Sri Lanka I took pavements for granted and thought little about how accessible and public they make the city. Outside of Colombo, paved space beside roads is almost nonexistent and there is no where to wander and observe – the Sri Lankan flaneur is a hardy specimen.
Visiting my sister in Camden starkly illustrated the seeming homogeneity of Sri Lankan style. Back in the land of tattoos, piercings, hair dye and myriad accessories it is great not to be stared at and cast in a racial stereotype. The anonymity of difference heralds the return of private space in public areas but it also has its downsides. Gone are the ready smiles and flashing teeth that surrounded us in Kandy – where questioning was persistent and repetitive but it was always courteous. In the metropolis the faces on the street wear wary scowls or give blank stares – up close on the Tube eyes pass through and past you and the comfort of strangers is tinged with a vague sense of loneliness. Like a man from the countryside I find myself smiling at people and engaging with service staff.
I write this on a train speeding up the East coast mainline to Scotland. We are flying through the Fens in smooth clean bubble of ergonomic furniture and wipe clean plastic; everything smacks of order and efficiency. I know we are supposed to have the worst train service in Europe but this feels hyper-modern in contrast to the antiquated railways of Sri Lanka. There you could hang your legs out the door, eat the fiery chick peas and pineapples thrust through the window and smell the landscape as it rattled past. In contrast he we are severed from place and thrust forward to be delivered, pampered and relaxed on time at our destination. Picture windows and elevated lines frame the landscape, while air conditioning erases the cold and the changing air chemistry.
In a previous entry I wrote about the fluidity of Sri Lankan time and the open-ended nature of schedules and plans. The contrast is clear on this train – the nasal tanoy voice is currently apologising for a four minute delay and several fellow passengers tut and sigh. Four minutes in Sri Lanka is essentially the same moment in a culture of time that works in days, punctuated by lunch and tea. I have certainly found myself more relaxed when the Tube stops in the tunnel or when I get waylaid in meeting an appointment. I doubt this will last but my watch is broken and as it is being fixed I am giving myself a gradual run back in to minute accounting, diarising and getting stressed.
Overall it is good to be back. I left with the option of returning later in the year and thus my departure lacked the finality it might otherwise have engendered. It would be great to return with my experience behind me and in six months we just scratched the surface; I still feel there is much to see and a lot more to make sense of.
