Sri Lanka Journal- Andew and Annette Dey: 3/1/2005

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Links from Andrew and Annette:

Pro Photographer Dixie's web site

Mondo Challenge set up Andrew and Annette's trip.

Unawatuna is the village where they're staying and working

In the north, Andrew and Annette are working with Norwegian People's Aid. NPAID is partnered with the German organization called Arbeiter Samariter Bund.

Bensonwood.com

Andrew

Annette wishes me “happy birthday” before I am fully awake. I have not told anyone that today is my birthday, but apparently Annette has, because when we arrive at the office, I am greeted by many well-wishers. As we are beginning to disperse after our morning meeting, Tony calls us back with “there’s one other thing.”

He produces a four liter plastic gerry-can, and hands it over to me with birthday congratulations.

“What, a jug of diesel for my birthday?” I unscrew the lid, and take a whiff of something that is more alcoholic than petrochemical. Tony explains:

“We had Lingam pick up some toddy for your birthday.”

Toddy has assumed a kind of legendary status in our group. None of us have tried it, but we have all allowed as how we would like to spend time in a toddy shop before we leave the Vanni. When we see a bicyclist who is particularly erratic, or a local man breaking out spontaneously into a howling song, we nod to each other and say knowingly, “toddy.”

Toddy shops tend to be located by the side of the road on the outskirts of villages, where local men can drink their fill undisturbed and undisturbing. The toddy in the north of Sri Lanka is produced from the flower of the palmyra tree. Toddy collectors walk on ropes from tree-top to tree-top. The flowers are bound so that that they will not produce fruit, and nectar is collected from them. The nectar is then fermented at the toddy shop.

We quickly decide that, because toddy is best drunk fresh, we should each have a glass now. It looks like thick coconut milk that is holding in suspension particles of indeterminate origin—possibly just dirt. We toast to my birthday and down our glasses. Grimaces all around.

“Tastes like monkey piss!” exclaims James. When my taste-buds have recovered from their initial shock, I describe it more favorably as having hints of honey and vinegar. I wonder whether it was fermented in a fifty-five gallon drum that had previously held chemical waste.

All of us but Kumar, Roy’s assistant, pass on the option of a second round. Since Kumar tends not to be all that energetic anyway, I don’t imagine that another glass will hurt. We decide to table until tomorrow the question of whether toddy should become a standard feature at our morning meeting. As I am leaving the meeting with the gerry-can in tow, James warns me to keep the cap loose—the toddy may still be fermenting.

When we arrive at the camp sites later that morning, we are disappointed to see that the carpenters have not yet begun work on the trusses, nor have they dug any more holes or assembled any more rebar for the concrete columns. Now when are they planning to start?

“This evening, when it is not so hot.”

Back in Kilinochchi, Annette runs errands while I catch up on work in the office. She appears mid-afternoon to announce that she has purchased me a bike for my birthday, and we are going for a bike ride to watch the sunset by a lake.

The bike is impressive-looking: it is a large, heavy black model, reminiscent of upright Dutch bikes.

“I bought you the Hero brand, which is made in India,” Annette tells me, “rather than a Japanese Lumala like mine, because we only have a few days to use it.”

When I mount the bike, I find that the handlebars are loose, and the seat wiggles. We pedal out of the parking lot past the bemused drivers and guards. White people on bikes are a rarity in Kilinochchi. Five hundred meters down the road, I hear a scraping noise, and pedaling becomes difficult. We are not completely surprised. When Annette bought her own bike, she passed on the three day service contract she was offered. This was a mistake, because it turns out that the stores that sell bikes are not qualified to assemble them. They may get all the pieces more-or-less in the right place, but if they all work together, it’s a happy accident. We limp along to the bike store where Annette had just purchased the bike, and they direct us to the bike repair shop farther along.

“Bring the purchase receipt,” they tell us, “no charge.”

The bike mechanic seems to know what he is doing. He spends a half hour tuning and tweaking the drive train, the wheels, and the brakes. He tightens the handlebars, and after ascertaining my desired saddle height, cranks on the seat tube nut.

Finally, we are on our way—for another five hundred meters—until the same pedaling problem occurs, and the seat tube begins to wobble to and fro. Our vision of a romantic sunset jaunt fades. Tony happens by in one of the NPA trucks. We heave the bikes in the back, and head to our lunch restaurant for the consolation of ice cream and fresh orange juice.

“Perhaps we can postpone my birthday evening until this weekend,” I suggest. We have been planning to stay in a hotel in Colombo for one night, to break up the drive between Kilinochchi and Unawatuna.

We hold onto this thought as Tony drops us at the orphanage where we will sleep for our remaining four nights in Kilinochchi. We and the other residents of the NPA house are moving out to make room for a European delegation that will be arriving the next day. Because the one motel in town is booked up, Tony found us guest rooms at the orphanage. During the delegation’s four day stay, he and our other NPA housemates will stay in guest rooms at the UNHCR compound.

Our guest room at the orphanage is narrow, and spare in all respects except for beds, of which there are four. However, the accommodations do have the benefit of being a short walk to the I-9 Restaurant, where we occasionally eat dinner. Annette and I enjoy a low-key dinner there this evening—the day has gotten the better of us. We are cheered by the appearance of Roy, the Singalese site supervisor who has won over the Tamil carpenters. He accepts our invitation to join us for a drink, and does his best to convince us to stay longer in Kilinochchi. If we did decide to extend our stay, it would mainly be to support Roy. He has already mentioned repeatedly that he expects our leaving to result in “more headaches” for him. Given his status as the sweetest man we have met in Kilinochchi and the most valuable player on the shelter team, our hearts are tempted by the prospect of extending our stay. However, the commitments we left in the south and our responsibilities back home are beckoning us away.

When we arrive back at the orphanage just after ten o’clock, we find that the gate has been locked. We squeeze through the strands of barbed wire in the fence flanking the gate, hoping that the police stationed across the street will warn us before they begin shooting. Safely in our room, we arrange two mosquito nets over two short beds and fall, exhausted, to sleep.