ABDF

Thursday, May 8, 2008

Hi everybody!

So when I ended my last dispatch, Shantha and I were driving up to Hatton for the May Day rally early last Wednesday.

The drive into the Hill Country is really quite dramatic. You start out in the wet, tropical plains and suddenly you begin to climb. The vegetation changes from tropical shrubs and palms to hardwood trees and dry climate bushes. The roads themselves get narrower and curve back and forth up the mountainsides. Sometimes there is an abrupt drop on the side of the road, which gave me the willies as there are few guardrails or curbs. It’s just the edge of the road and a drop. And you get these big top-heavy buses careening from town to town, barreling along at top speed; I’d hate to have to ride in one.

Hatton is a small town smack-dab in the middle of tea country. As it clings to the mountainside, the streets aren’t really a grid pattern, and many buildings are multi-storied, with an entrance on one street, and another one story below on the next. Hatton is one of the few majority Upcountry Tamils major towns; in fact the whole district of Nuwara Eliya (pronounced Noor-el-i-ya) is the only majority Upcountry Tamil district, with just over 50%. This is why the tea unions are so powerful within the district. And Hatton is the spiritual center, if you will, of the tea union movement. So this in turn is why the May Day rally in Hatton is such a big deal.

One of the cardinal rules given to foreigners here is not to attend political rallies. This is due to the ethnic conflict, and most politicians are on the LTTE’s hit-list. Rallies in various parts of the country have been bombed by the LTTE, and so security is VERY heavy, and often the people tense. Let me quote from the Lonely Planet’s Sri Lanka Guide:

“Do not attend political rallies or street demonstrations. The political situation is very tense and events can quickly spiral out of control.”

Well, you know me. Broke that rule without a moment’s thought.

Actually I thought the Minister was giving me a ride to Hatton, and I’d watch the rally from afar, maybe take some pictures, relax, have a tea, and meet up with him afterwards. Nope. Firmly grasping my arm, the Minister marched me straight down the middle of Hatton’s main street, through cheering and chanting throngs of the pre-rally parade. I was whisked right through the security point, where the official who wanted to search me (like I look like a Tamil Tiger or something) was cowed with one glance from the Minister. I ended high up on the raised platform, center stage behind the Minister and another big-wig Presidential advisor, second row. There were photographers. There were TV cameras. And all pointed right at me. Well, not exactly; they were pointed at the two Ministerial bigwigs, but I was right there in every shot. Later I was told by people both in other Hill Country cities I visited and by people in Batti that they saw me on TV and in all the papers. So much for maintaining a low profile! I’m trying to find if anyone has copies of the papers; what a souvenir!

And thank goodness I’m really good at what I call my “Tamil Face.” It’s a slightly smiling, politely attentive expression I wear when I’m stuck listening to long speeches in Tamil. As a foreigner and guest of honor, I’m frequently right in front, and everybody can see me. So I have to look attentive and interested. I’ve even learned to yawn without moving my facial muscles. It’s a skill you quickly pick up here. My Batti friends laugh when they see me put on my Tamil Face, as they know what’s up. Sometimes I think they invite me to stuff just to have a laugh at the Face.

Anyway, the Face was in full form that day, which turned out to be a good thing. At one point during the rally, Shantha, who managed to escape being onstage, sent me a text message “Nice face!” I looked down into the crowd to see him standing their, laughing.

To be honest, I found the experience extremely moving. I mean, how many people get the chance to have such an experience? I was sitting there, looking out over the crowd of chanting, fist-pumping workers who were getting riled up by the fiery speeches of the politicians and union officials. The Ceylon Workers Congress is one of those old fashioned fiery leftist European-style unions that was started at the turn of the 20th Century and had to fight tooth and nail for every tiny concession. So despite getting a few officials into government, they are still rather militant in their rhetoric. It was fabulous; like stepping into the past and seeing the old rolled-up sleeve type of activism. Like watching “On the Waterfront.” Or more accurately, I felt like I was in the Ben Kingsley movie, “Gandhi,” in one of those massive rally scenes. I got so into it, I almost jumped out of my chair, threw up a black-power fist and shouted “Up against the wall, motherf…!” However, I figured that even those few who knew English wouldn’t understand the 60s radical references and so I restrained myself.

The rally itself was some three hours or more, but I was so engrossed by what I was watching that it flew by. It was awesome seeing the power of a unified community, unafraid of the political establishment that has ignored them, and unafraid to speak out. I know that some unions in the US are past their prime and hinder more than help. But here was a very much needed dynamic social movement, and I was sitting their right in the middle of things. Again, how many people, especially foreigners, are allowed to glimpse this? Darn few, so I was very grateful to have such a rare experience. It was exhilarating.

As he was climbing into his vehicle, Mr. Sivalingam turned to me and said “I’m going on ahead to Nuwara Eliya. Stay and have lunch with Shanta, rest, change, and meet me at the Government Rest House there this evening for dinner.” Um, OK.

I thought I would have dinner, spend the night and the next day catch the train that would eventually get me back to Batti. Nope. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After lunch, a quick shower, and change, Shantha and I drove to Nuwara Eliya. At 6,100 feet, Nuwara Eliya (Noor-el-i-ya) is the coolest city on the island. And by that I mean at it’s hottest it’s like springtime in California. That evening I even saw Sri Lankans walking around in jackets!

Nuwara Eliya is the old British Hill Town par excellence of Sri Lanka. In India, the British retreated into the hills during the summer to escape the heat. Those who have read EM Forester, or the “Raj Quartet,” or even watched “Masterpiece Theatre” will be familiar with this. In Sri Lanka, the main Hill Town for the British was Nuwara Eliya. There they proceeded to do everything they could to replicate small-town England. The place has a traditional stone Anglican parish church, and the grand old houses, which are beautiful period pieces, all have names like Haddon Hill, Glendower, and St. Andrew’s. As a result the city is still called “Little Britain” by Sri Lankans.

So Shantha and I drive up through all this, my nose flattened against the window as I try to take in all this weird contradiction of proper England dropped in the middle of tropical Sri Lanka. We then turn a curve and drive into what was once the estate of the British Governor. The landscaping is impeccable, the house itself enormous and VERY British colonial period. Shantha said “For the next few days you’re the guest of the government. Tomorrow the Minister will give you his car and driver, and you can see the sights here, before we move on. Tonight we’ll room together at the Guest House” I was very pleased, as you can imagine, although I was taken a little aback by the “before we move on” part. I had thought I’d be going back to Batti the following day, and since I have a lot of work to get done, I had already put myself into that mental space. But I decided to shrug it off and see where things led. And when we drove up the long driveway and finally saw the beautiful Guest House, I had to laugh out loud. I was marveling “How on earth did I end up here? I mean, me how did this happen to me; how did all this come about and what did I do to end up like this?” Crazy.

Dinner was a small affair. Mr. Sivalingam invited me to go with him to a series of official events deep into Upcountry over the next few days. He promised a most unique and educational experience, with access to areas that few people visit. How could I refuse? I mean, let alone the kindness and hospitality, but you know me; if there’s a chance to see and learn about something no one else has seen or knows about, I’ll grab it. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but so far I’ve been spared.

I went to bed that night very excited about seeing Nuwara Eliya the next day. Little did I know.

I woke up with a mild case of food poisoning. It was the chicken from the night before. Damn. I did manage to use the driver to see the sights for the morning, but had to return to the hotel, where I slept the rest of the day. And all night too.

As I said, I did manage to see some of the sites. Victoria and Hakdoga Gardens were lovely. But I loved the Seeta Amman Kovil, just outside of town. This was a small unique Hindu temple located in a gorge by a small flowing river. You literally enter at the top and walk down steps to get into the temple. Other than the priest and my driver, I was the only person there. The priest was performing puja when I arrived, so I sat and soaked up the tranquil sound of a lone temple bell ringing and the low chanting of the priest, all to the background sound of the rushing stream. It was very atmospheric, and I wished that I had quality sound recording equipment to capture the moment. Peaceful… lovely…

The following morning my stomach had settled down, although I still had a case of the runs. Thank goodness for Imodium.

Normally the drive from Nuwara Eliya to Matale (pronounced Mata-lay) takes several hours, especially since you have to go back through Kandy, where the traffic is ferocious. Not, however, if you are a big government official. We made the trip in 45 hair-raising minutes. This is because the security guys in the front van had what I call The Magic Gloves. Each guy on one side of the car had one, to use either on the right or left as needed. The Magic Gloves look sort of like the protective gloves worn by hockey goalies. They are white with two wide red strips diagonal across. And when they stick them out of the window and motion for an oncoming vehicle (or one we’re trying to pass) and point to the side of the road, the vehicles part and let us through. Think Moses parting the Red Sea. Even the biggest laden busses and trucks edged over to the side of the cliffs to let us by. See? Magic! I want a set. Think of the fun.

Of course, zooming through those mountains did nothing to ease my vertigo. Hairpin curves were taken at some 70km an hour (I could see the speedometer) and all I could do was hang on to the door handle and try and stare straight ahead. Let me tell you, I white-knuckled it all the way to Matale. All the time Minister Sivalingam was unconcerned, making his mobile calls and chatting with the driver, who at times, actually took his eyes off the road to reply. I nearly passed out. “Don’t worry,” Mr. Sivalingam reassured me, “We do this all the time, and nothing has ever happen, thank God.” Thank God indeed! I nearly kissed the ground, Pope-style, when we finally stopped in Matale.

The next two days sort of meld together in my mind. On both days we went to a series of local events; road openings, the initiation of bringing electricity to rural Estate settlements, opening of school buildings, the initiation of construction of a kovil, and so forth. At times we went very deep and high into the plantations to tiny hamlets of no more than a few dozen people, along dirt tracks that wound through the fields of tea clinging to the mountainside. It was like being in a different country altogether. I’ll describe a couple things that happened.

One time we went to a small community to open a road. The road itself was barely bigger than a wide bike lane, but was better than the dirt track before. The community was maybe 50 residents, which is why they are only just getting a road. Still no electricity, but hope springs eternal. After Minsiter Sivalingam cut the ribbon, there were firecrackers, traditional drumming and flutes, many garlands and much smudging of the forehead. We huffed and puffed (remember we were at a high elevation) up the road a bit, before climbing to the top of the mountain. There was a small, faded kovil at which we had puja. But the thing was that this mountaintop overlooked the whole of the valley, including back down Matale itself. The air was crystal clear, the view a full 360 degrees and stupendous to see. It’s no wonder the community had decided to put it’s kovil up there.

Later that day I had an amusing experience. We were opening a new building at a local school. There was the typical ceremony, including speeches in the school’s main hall. The speeches were exceptionally long at this event, and the Tamil Face was becoming a burden. Frankly I was getting tired of being on display all day. Then a local politician showed up, having heard that the Minister was in town, and of course politeness required that we let him speak. He was an exceptionally bad speaker, and droned on and on into the microphone. I had hit the wall, in terms of patience. So I turned to Shantha and said to him “You know, if your god really exists, he would be merciful and make the electricity go out. Then the speeches would be over.” And lo! Ten minutes later the power did indeed go off! However, that didn’t stop this local politician; he kept right on speaking, albeit with a louder voice and no speaker system. As did the others who spoke after him. I then realized I should have been more SPECIFIC in my request. Like a sudden case of mass laryngitis. Apparently there is no force in the Universe, not even God, who can stop a politician when he wants to speak!

I’m not sure how the system works, but each plantation has a government appointed Manager. The workers sell their tea to him, and in turn he sells it to the government tea board, making his own profit from the sale. Thus wage negotiations are done between the workers (unions) and the individual Manager, not the government. This makes coordinated labor action difficult, as each Manager negotiates separately. Such a system also leaves open the possibility of abuse, if the Manager is a cruel, greedy type.

At one Estate community, way high up, we attended a ceremony for newly-arrived electricity. We showed up, and the cringingly sycophantic Manager began to harangue the Minister with a request to fund the repair of a Line House damaged in a recent storm. Apparently this is part of the expected cost that the Managers must bear, to the detriment of their profits, and this manager was trying to get the government to foot the bill. Mr. Sivalingam lost his cool with the fellow, who had clearly not anticipated this reaction. Rather than give his usual speech for such events, the Minister upbraided the manager, in front of all his workers. He told the man that if he can’t do his job and take care of his workers, the government would be delighted to find someone else who could. He gave the man two weeks to complete the repairs at his own cost, and randomly selected some men from the crowd to report to Shantha two weeks from the day. The Manager (I won’t say poor Manager) was ashen and quaking in his boots by the end of the lecture. But the workers were all smiles, and as the minister stormed back to the car, the cheering was more genuine than what you often hear. I must remember to ask Shantha in a couple of weeks how things turned out.

Both days were long and I was quite exhausted by the end of each. It was lots and lots of driving, and lots and lots of speeches. However, the Hill country is gorgeous, poignantly so because of the contrast of that beauty with such desperate poverty. It’s this contrast that the Minister wanted me to see and experience, as it is something that 99.9% of travelers here never do. He told me that while tea provides 40% of government revenue (the biggest single earner) less than 5% of this revenue is spent in Upcountry Tamil communities. Mostly it goes to the military. To illustrate, he told me that this year’s budget for the Ministry had been cut 75% from last year. He felt that the government is trying to kill the Ministry by starving it of funds.

This isn’t meant to guilt anyone into not buying Sri Lanka tea; rather the opposite. Minister Sivalingam said he’s opposed any type of tea boycott. As he explained “We only get a little back from the tea, but if the tea isn’t bought by the West, we would get absolutely nothing.” He wants us all to drink more tea, as that would mean a little bit more for the Upcountry Tamils.

Nor does he want the Upcountry Tamils to move off the Estates and into the larger society, which surprised me. Upcountry Tamils are constantly harassed and abused by other Sri Lankans on a day-to-day basis. And in times of tension, they are the targets of mass violence, even though they have nothing to do with the civil conflict. As he told me “We should be left alone to our communities and culture. We’ve had bitter experience with co-existence.” I didn’t point out that roads, electricity, and so forth, and especially education, inevitably leads to greater exposure and integration.

Sri Lanka is an extremely hierarchical society. The vast majority of people, being poor and uneducated, are used to being told what to do when, and the educational system does nothing to promote problem-solving and initiative. This was a big problem in Batti after the tsunami, when to my astonishment I found displaced people sitting around waiting for someone to dig the toilets in the temporary camps, rather than getting together and doing it themselves and getting it over and done. Many Westerners have noted this tendency to wait for someone else to do something, an attitude that is strange to us, especially us Americans. I don’t intend to be judgmental, but that is the fact here. Self-motivation and initiative, even in the face of horror and misery, is rarely to be found.

When in Matale, I was the guest of Shashi, a friend of Shantha’s. The night before I left for Batti he and I had a conversation over dinner at which I lost my temper a bit. Now, this guy, Shashi, is one of the few Upcountry Tamils to make it in the wider world, and is quite wealthy by Sri Lankan standards. So you think he’d be all about hard work and getting things done. Wrong.

He started out by complaining that all the NGOs are in the north or east, among the Sri lankan Tamils, and the Upcountry communities get very little help. Why was this? I told him that most agencies respond to conflict crisis situations and thus are in those areas. But he persisted to complain; the government does nothing, the NGOs do nothing, no one does anything and the Upcountry communities are desperately poor and suffering. On and on. He was obviously trying to make me feel guilty for working on the east coast, and not in the Hill country.

Finally I cut him off: “OK, so what are YOU doing to help your community?” He said he couldn’t do anything, as he wasn’t involved in politics, and people who try to do things get in trouble, etc. etc. More excuses.

“Have you even tried?” I asked.

No – and still more excuses.

Finally I had had it. I began to lecture. “Look, stop complaining. If you wait around for the government to do something, you’ll be waiting forever. The government doesn’t care about you. Accept that. If you want NGOs to come and help, go and get them. If you can’t do it alone, get together with others and go to Colombo and lobby them. And don’t stop until you get their attention. If you don’t even try, then you’ve already failed. You’re a rich man, and so you’re not powerless. It’s not like YOU are living up in the Estates. Do something! An American would never approve of your attitude, waiting around for the government. Just do it yourself!”

I don’t think Shashi was convinced, as he is too trapped in his way of thinking. You can take the Upcountry man out of the Hills, but can’t take the Hills out of the Upcountry man. That low caste thinking is just to ingrained in him. Or you never know, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope.

As I was lecturing, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Shashi’s wife sitting there, nodding in agreement. Have the Upcountry women got bigger balls than the men? Maybe that’s the key; mobilizing and empowering the women. After all, when there’s suffering and poverty, its women who suffer the most. They do all the work, eat only after their men folk are done, have to raise the kids, worry about buying food and clothing, etc. And if the women take charge of creating change, maybe it’ll shame/goad the men into getting off their butts and doing something. Well, maybe. But it’s not my thing to do. Here there is so much that needs to be done, that you learn to be sympatric but concentrate only on what you can do. Otherwise you go crazy.

So last Monday I finally returned to Batti. I took the bus from Matale to Pollunawara, and then switched to a Batti-bound bus. It took over seven hours, including all the checkpoints once we entered Eastern Province. Every 10-15 kilometers the bus had to stop at yet another checkpoint and everyone offload to stand in queue to be searched. The only exception is the elderly, women with children, and, apparently, foreigners like me. Not once did they search my bags. The bus is also searched multiple times. Supposedly these searches are to prevent arms smuggling and to find wanted persons. I wonder if they’ve ever caught any LTTE cadre, or ever found a cache of weapons. I mean, the Tigers are much too clever to do something so obvious. If the Tigers want to move men and material, they can easily do it. I suspect they’ve never caught anyone at the checkpoints, and these searches are merely to remind people of their place, and thus keep control. But as was awkwardly explained to me by one army official “We have to do this. It’s for your own safety.” I half smiled back, and said “Oh, REALLY…” and left it at that.

So that was my adventure over the last couple of weeks.

Meanwhile I’m back in Batti. Things here are getting interesting; another series of elections, this time at the provincial level, take place tomorrow. And our projects are starting to come together.

But I’m hot and tired, and want to send this out. So expect another email in the next few days!

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

B.

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