After a long day in Colombo

So, I got creative last night and wrote a comparative short write of Sri Lanka to something a wrote a couple years back entitled "5 Years from now"

5 Years From now...

The rhythm of the music keeps time with the racing of my heart as I soak in the sights and sounds and smells of the Bazaar with every sense of my being. I can feel the heat of the earth rise through my thin sandals as I compress the soot with every confident step. I glance through the crowd, in awe of the bustling interactions taking place – a woman draped in lemon garments, flowing down into the clinging hands of a scruffy haired toddler. The woman bargains with the shopkeeper over his merchandise, seemingly unaware of the young one pulling at her bottom hems, exposing her nude feet. Animals scamper around the feet of the crowd – such high commodities in this region. I think back to my Western raising – once so unaware that animals had more purpose in life than being displays in pet shop windows. I place the viewfinder to my right eye and snap a progression of candid photos, trying to capture all the beauty and life within one moment. It is simply impossible. I stare at the scenes once more, flooded with emotions of life, love, loss, and longing, then continue on my journey.
I pass a small boy selling dried figs from a basket tied across his chest and waist. I stop and buy a few of his wares and am rewarded with a gap-toothed smile of gladness. As I bite into the first fig, I savor its sweet juice and rough textures of its seeds. I recall my first taste of fig in papa’s favorite newton cookies which filled our endless kitchen treat drawer. I wonder if the little trader has ever tasted such deliciousness in his life. I let this somber thought linger as I continue to walk and place the other figs in my pocket to share with the others. I breathe in deeply and turn my head up towards the sun, bathing my fair skin with the glowing rays. The wind traces the round of my face, then blows my weightless scarf off my head. The scarf lays resting upon my auburn tresses which fall down my back, confined by a loose braid. I put the scarf back in its place, then turn around once more to catch a final view of the marketplace. I ready my camera and capture a few more moments in time, then turn down the ally to my left.
I weave my way through the familiar streets, trudging through the uneven ground of stones and soil and obstacles of fresh laundry. As the streets widen and obstacles vanish, my pace slows, and the silence of the lone road reawakens my contemplative mind. The realization of this place, this journey, this dream of mine brings a smile to my face. I wanted to be the change I wished to see in this world, and now I have the chance.
In the distance I see small figures running towards me. I cover my eyes from the sun with my hand and peer out towards them, trying to identify them. There are so many at the camp – so many children I teach and more that I love. So different, so unique, yet they are all the same. They are the future. I start a steady sprint towards the figures, arms outstretched, scarf flowing carelessly behind me, ready to embrace the future in my arms. Whoever said one person cannot change the world had never met someone like me...



And here is the comparative one (and more realistic one):

The rhythm of the earsplitting horns keeps time with the racing of my breath as I the stares and blares pierce through every sense of my being. I can feel the dirt and grime of the city streets cling to my sandaled feet as I rush through the crowd, eyes averted to the ground. I glance up, trying to catch no gaze as I jump into the hot red trishaw, and feel the thousands of eyes glaring with fire at my back. I ride – thump thump – swerve – honk – through the gray streets, watching out the open door as we pass; a poor woman begging along the street, seemingly unaware of the young emaciated one pulling at the bottom of her flowered sari soaked with mud, exposing her feet of kohl. Animals lie on the waste side as groups of machungs attack with sticks and stones and do not stop until there is one less, leaving bloody corpses for the crows. I think back to my western raising – once so unaware that animals were not always treated like my house pets. I hold my camera tight to my side, but do not take it out. I do not need to capture the candid scenes on film, as they will be engraved in my memory for years to come. I stare out once more, flooded with emotions of rage, hate, fear, and helplessness. I lean back in the trishaw – thump thump – swerve – honk.
I pass a young boy, selling nothing but hate from a gun slung across his chest and waist. He stops us and checks our IDs at the roadside checkpoint. We are free to pass and I am rewarded by a wicked wink and a dirty kiss blown through the heavy air. As I recline in the tiny red trishaw, I replay the scene in my mind, disgusted by just the thought of him. I recall the memory of my papa, and wonder what he would have done, would have said, if he were with me. I wonder if the young boy with the gun ever had a papa like mine to teach him how to act right. I let this somber thought linger as I continue – thump thump – swerve – honk – through the city. I breathe in deeply and cough at the fumes of diesel and the smell of rotting garbage on the side of the road. I pull my handkerchief out of my bag and wipe my face, bathing the white cloth in the dirt and sweat of the day. The wind traces the round of my face, bringing with it the cat calls from the side walk. Sudaa sudaa…hello beautiful….where you from lady…. I lean back further into the seat to hide my white face and auburn tresses which fall down my back, confined by a loose braid. I wipe my face one last time, then place the not-so-white handkerchief back into my bag. I no longer look out the door, no longer take any photos for memories. Then we turn down the alley to my left.
The trishaw weaves menacingly through the unfamiliar streets, throwing me wildly around as we serve to avoid stray dogs and beggars in the road. As the streets grow smaller and traffic increases, our pace slows, and the cat calls from the men in neighboring cars are reawakened. The reality of this place, this ideal journey that I have longed for, this dream of mine, brings tears to my eyes and makes my knuckles whiten with frustration. I wanted to be the change I wished to see in this world, but these people will never give me the chance to try. To them, I am just a sudaa and could be nothing more.
In the distance I see figures crossing the street ahead, as a line of trishaws approach quickly. I cover my eyes from the glare with my hand and peer out towards them, and I know. There are so many at the camps to the North – and so many more on the streets of Colombo. So many misplaced and mangled children of war – so different yet they are all the same. They are the future of post-war Sri Lanka. We continue driving, straight towards the crossing crowd at a steady pace, Sri Lankan flag flying high on the antenna of the hot red trishaw, the Sinhala Lion prominent in view. Whoever said one person cannot change the world must have been Tamil.