Saturday, February 27, 2010
Back to Colombo
The trek back to Colombo from Kalapitya was interminable. Big pre-elections rallies slowing our progress over and over again. Some men, drunk on cheap alcohol or high on drugs zigzag across the road. Some groups are quite large, all young men, eager for some excitement. I start to worry for our safety and tell our driver to accelerate without attracting attention. He has been living as an ethnic minority in his homeland all his life and doesn’t have to be told not to honk and to stay as unobtrusive as possible. I am glad when all the blue flags fade and we are again passing through sleeping towns, stopping occasionally for a stretch, fruits, coconut water, and hard boiled corn to much on.
We buy lottery tickets for 20 rupees, only the numbers legible to our western eyes. Many people are chewing a red root that leaves their mouths and gums bright red. They smile willingly. The women flutter their eyes coyly when my driver asks permission for me to take their picture. The colours of their blouse and skirts shining like jewels against their brown skin and long shiny black hair. Many are plump. Not as many as back in Canada, but reassuringly, more than I expected.
Getting out of the small jeep and entering my house, I look down at my dirty feet and sticky hands. Life is good.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Dolphin Beach, Kalapitya area
We left as the sun was emerging and got on a boat that must surely be a bit small for the treacherous expanse of water before us. The motor sputters while my mother and I look at the receding shore with growing trepidation. The young captain lays down his cell phone briefly to focus on the task at hand. The motor decides to wake up and we are on our way at last. We crisscross the immense bay looking for dolphins. There are 20,000 of them; three breeds I am told: Small, Medium and Large (!).
When we first rest eyes on them, we stand up in the small embarkation, too excited to be cautious. I eventually lie on the flat bow with my camera, furiously taking pictures, as they swim in graceful curves, up for air, down to gorge on small fish, in perfect unison. Dozens of schools of 4, 6, 10 surround us. Sometimes they disappear and reappear much further. We follow, keeping a respectful distance. After their feeding they accompany us back towards the shore. They propel themselves in the air, twist and splash through the surface. They swim under the boat and jump in front of us, making a whistling sound. The small ones jump and turn in spirals before diving, showing us their pink bellies. Sometimes a whole group dives at once, waving their fan like tails in a neat row. Unbelievable. I have never seen so many of these extraordinary creatures.
I hate to imagine what will become of them once the tourists come to this unspoiled coast in droves. Having seen tourists in the Caribbean, I expect they will want to feed the dolphins, get too close with huge motor boards and otherwise disturb and pollute with the complicity of the local and foreign tour operators.
Even more important to cherish this morning in all its glory.
Kalapitya, later in the evening
I am reminded of an exchange overheard at Pearson Airport a few months ago in the Customs queue that winds for what seems like miles after the 14 hour journey from Dubai. A husband and wife, 6 feet behind me. “Jeez Marge, he says, where do all these people come from”! Marge responds: “Don’t worry Dear, they are probably just passing through. I look ahead of me and see Caucasian men in suits , behind me tourists like Marge and hubby, coming back from winter holidays. I seem to have gotten separated from my fellow travelers from South Asia and the Middle East who are a few bends ahead, quietly making their way towards the wicket by the dozens.
Therein probably lies the origin of the comment. These people can’t possibly be Canadians. They must be passing through, from where to where doesn’t matter. They are not staying Dear. As the queue winds and winds, I look closer at some of the passports, many of them already in hand, the navy colour screaming of their Canadianness. I overhear some of the children with their unmistakable Canadian accent. These children are shades of brown. Maybe they will be passing through Canada, ending up in another place where they will not mind being branded a foreigner.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Kalapitiya, Sri Lanka North West
The wind in the coconut trees has a staccato sound like rain on paper. The sky is a pale blue haze over the fishermen’s boats in faded colours, partially covered with little thatched roofs, ready to be launched when the fish call. The boats are launched at dawn, but when the wind is right and ripples in the water give the fish away, these fishermen go out a second time, at dusk.
The beach is not a place of leisure, but a backdrop to industrious families. The men mend the nets and the women cook or mind the vegetable patch. The sea is a dangerous world, where only the ones who swim go the distance to find the diminishing bounty. The fish are smaller, the large prawns rarer. Their taste in light curry, something I want to take away. The villagers eat the crops of the season. The wet season is shorter, the dry season hotter, the climate is changing slowly, the consequences unimaginable.
Moors, Tamils, Singhalese, Burghers interact with each other with a slightly uneasy familiarity. The devil you know. We are the only foreigners for miles. The team at the small bungalow didn’t expect us to be Brown and eat spicy foods. They stare, ask questions through our driver. Aren’t real Canadians White?
So I give a lecturette on our history, telling them about the fugitive slaves of the underground railway, the Black Loyalists, the Chinese labourers, our two official languages, our First Nations, our urban mosaic, which includes close to a quarter million Sri Lankans. They look at me with a mix of interest and disbelief. Over 90% are literate and what I say contradicts what they have read about us.
In Canada, I get asked all the time where I am from. Looks like the dance is continuing 15,000 kms away. It seems less complicated to say I live in Canada then to explain that I am actually Canadian. Sad.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
What does the breeze have to do with coaching
There is a soft breeze that starts blowing a little past four in the afternoon. It blows in from the sea I can’t see from my rooftop, although it is only a few miles away.
The wind rises in the East and waves its way West while the sun rests lower and lower on the horizon. I liken this wind to the wind of change that affects most of us in the afternoons of our lives (yeah, I know I couldn’t resist the metaphors). A restlessness that won’t leave us and demands that we freshen our perspective, rethink our well-worn path. In Colombo the wind is like a fan that cools the big city down after another hot day. For many of my clients, the fan of mid life actually fuels the embers deep inside, and propels them to make changes they had never thought possible.
Just as everything is settling into a soft routine, here comes the irrepressible desire to tell the organization to go take a hike, to tell the selfish off springs to find their own way, to wonder if life will only amount to “this”, whatever “this” is. Some come for a coaching session or two because they are restless, but quickly find the exploration too fraught with danger. I can understand why a successful professional would think twice about taking another direction they know nothing about. My goal is not to have them change for the sake of change, but simply to help them listen to what they are really telling themselves and then make decisions that support who they feel they are, or better yet, have the potential of becoming. The alternative seems to be a complacency that leads to smaller and smaller horizons, while a gnawing dissatisfaction creates dis-ease physically or spiritually.
For many the changes can be small, hardly a ripple to the outside world, but a profound wave inside. The result can be a settling into the life they have chosen, but with a new attitude and a bounce in their step. Now they know what they know and choose mindfully, rather than feel victimized by their circumstances. For others, their waves are tsunamis that impact their career, their partner, their family. When you see them after a year or two, they look more vibrant, as if more pixels had been added to the image they project. Their former entourage won’t speak to you J.
My role is only to catalyze. It’s their life after all, and their movement must be theirs. But it is hard to repress the awe and excitement that comes from seeing another human being take charge of his or her life, guided by a strong intention.
The wind rises in the East and waves its way West while the sun rests lower and lower on the horizon. I liken this wind to the wind of change that affects most of us in the afternoons of our lives (yeah, I know I couldn’t resist the metaphors). A restlessness that won’t leave us and demands that we freshen our perspective, rethink our well-worn path. In Colombo the wind is like a fan that cools the big city down after another hot day. For many of my clients, the fan of mid life actually fuels the embers deep inside, and propels them to make changes they had never thought possible.
Just as everything is settling into a soft routine, here comes the irrepressible desire to tell the organization to go take a hike, to tell the selfish off springs to find their own way, to wonder if life will only amount to “this”, whatever “this” is. Some come for a coaching session or two because they are restless, but quickly find the exploration too fraught with danger. I can understand why a successful professional would think twice about taking another direction they know nothing about. My goal is not to have them change for the sake of change, but simply to help them listen to what they are really telling themselves and then make decisions that support who they feel they are, or better yet, have the potential of becoming. The alternative seems to be a complacency that leads to smaller and smaller horizons, while a gnawing dissatisfaction creates dis-ease physically or spiritually.
For many the changes can be small, hardly a ripple to the outside world, but a profound wave inside. The result can be a settling into the life they have chosen, but with a new attitude and a bounce in their step. Now they know what they know and choose mindfully, rather than feel victimized by their circumstances. For others, their waves are tsunamis that impact their career, their partner, their family. When you see them after a year or two, they look more vibrant, as if more pixels had been added to the image they project. Their former entourage won’t speak to you J.
My role is only to catalyze. It’s their life after all, and their movement must be theirs. But it is hard to repress the awe and excitement that comes from seeing another human being take charge of his or her life, guided by a strong intention.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
