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A few days ago I got quite a shock when I realised my friend was serious about December 21st possibly being the end of the world. At first I was irritated by what I considered irrationality, and was dismayed by … Continue reading
Here in paradise, the sun shines on a world of lurid greens. A bunch of orange thamibilly* punctuates the middle distance. To the north, a bank of octopus ink clouds is advancing toward us, a stark and dramatic backdrop to the world outside my windows. White herons are flying to safety from their feeding grounds in the paddy fields down by the canal; the last of Hanuman’s Troupe has bounded across the roof, off to … wherever it is, they go, to shelter from a storm. In the garden, the three new flagpoles of black bamboo execute a staccato gavotte, powered by the blustery breeze that’s flying ahead of the storm.
It grows darker, and darker. Now, the monsoon-feed clouds collide in an almost continual roar. Is that the sound of distant cannon fire I hear? Am I in my aerie on the rise behind the Parliament in Sri Lanka, or with Pierre, listening to the sound of Napoleon’s Grande Armée advancing on Borodino?
What am I doing in the middle of this raging battlefield?
The battlefield is in my mind. It is a conflict begun years ago, not long after I returned to live on my paradise island. On the one hand, the Voice of Reason, covertly whispering snippets of financial reality in my ear as the strands of the global economic crisis began to enmesh me into the growing maelstrom. On the other, an expanse of emotional certainty, which steadfastly refused to be anything other than enchanted.
Not entirely unmindful of the likelihood that what was threatening to bring down countries, must also affect me, I sought to achieve a compromise. I moved. I relinquished my dream home; the garden I had created. I uprooted The Girls and brought them here to the edge of the city. Significant savings were envisioned. Then I fell down the stairs, and a third protagonist entered the conflict. “What if it had been a stroke, or a heart attack, Parkinson’s, cancer?” “You think you’re helpless now, because you have your leg in the air and can only negotiate those steps on your backside?”, this new voice jeered.
Physical incapacity is not something I’d ever experienced. The thought of it had never entered my mind. It shocked and frightened me. Equally, I knew now what my mother and father had felt, at the end of their lives, unable to do for themselves, without me.
Very soon it will be a year since I began clawing my way back to full mobility. In this year of a myriad small cuts I’ve learned a thing or two about life, and myself, the least palatable of which is that I’m overwhelmed by the decisions I have to make, and have been procrastinating about examining my options. Lotus eating here in paradise is my preferred option.
Then, last weekend, a friend had a stroke – one he will live through, and, with a mountain of hard work and help, overcome. As did my mother. But not only did Dorothy have her redoubtable determination to drive her, and me to prod, chivvy and love her. She also had access to a team of stroke specific therapists in a rehabilitation centre not far from her home. How will G climb that mountain I watched my mother summit with so much difficulty? How would I? I know the answer to that now. Without family, without the type of medical help we’ve grown accustomed to in the West, I wouldn’t be able to.
So, it’s clear. I must go back home. Experience, and my old nemesis, the Voice of Reason, tell me I must do it while I can – while I have options, and time to create a new life for myself.
But I quail at the first decision I have to make – it is the reason I have been unable to face it these last several months. I must leave my girls behind**. I must find them a new home here in paradise. Not until I have done that will I be able to think about where I might like to live, what I would like to do with the rest of my life, how I might make a little extra money, figure out the complexities of a large physical move to a place unknown, or cope with having my wings clipped.
The rumbling continues, the storm moves slowly, inexorably on. The light changes hue – no longer black-purple with lime, but the smoke flecked fire of a distant battlefield …
Notes: Thambilly – Bright orange king coconut. ** Seven months quarantine, six in Singapore, one in Sydney, alone, is jus too cruel. This isn’t a sympathy seeking post – no commiseration, if you don’t mind.Come. I want to take you somewhere special: a village hidden deep in the forests of the Knuckles Range, right in the centre of my paradise island, Sri Lanka. (You remember – we watched the sunrise there just the other day.)
We could walk, it’s only fifteen kilometres from the lodge, up through the bald black pillars of Corbet’s Gap, and down into the forest, following the river past the waterfalls, but the road is often washed out and treacherous, and the trek back up is too steep for me these days. I’ve asked for a three-wheeler – I had to abandon the car, last time, when Mo and I went. Bring water bottles, and don’t forget your swimming gear – and a towel. We can cool off at one of the waterfalls on the way back.
There’s a new cement road down the last few, steep, kilometres. All around is the sound of water rushing over rocks, and wind in the trees. The pillars of the Gap reappear momentarily above the canopy, or through the sudden gash of a valley; the great massif of Lakagala draws close, on our right.
I remember – just around this bend, we heard the sound of disembodied laughter. Turning off the road a little, we crested a hill to see a village work party about to break for lunch. The buffalos had been set free of the ploughs and had found wallowing holes, like personal spas, in the boggy ground close to the stream. Across the stream – a succession of rocky cascades – terraces painted that exquisite, limey green of new paddy marched away into the jungle. Great grey rocks rose up behind us. Presently we arrived at a flat expanse of freshly swept sand, and a shady tree – the terminus, for the road ends here at Meemure.
“Meemure is a very ancient village and there is a legend that the last king of Kandy, Sri Wickrama Raja Sinha, and his family took refuge there at one time when he was being pursued by the British … [It] is also said to have been a place of exile to where, because of its remoteness and isolation, persons who had offended against the king were banished.” (1)
On that rise, to the right, the steps lead up to the school. The monk teaches everything from letters to fifth form math and science. Beyond that, the children will have to go down to the towns of the Mahawelli to board with relatives, if they are to get ahead – get a high school education. Classes were just finishing when Mo and I arrived, the little ones as timid as forest animals – curious but ready for flight, the smallest staying close to the monk in his scarlet robe.
There’s really only this one street.
Just as we couldn’t see the village until we had arrived, it is also a little difficult to find where it begins. The entrance is over here. There’s really only this one street – contained within dry-stone walls, or neatly lashed Griselinia palisades – it’s barely wide enough for a handcart. It’s marvellous how it looks just as Robert Knox described villages he knew, when he was a prisoner of the King of Kandy (from 1659 till his escape on the 22nd September, 1680). Further up, around the 300 year old house, there’s a knot of narrow little pathways connecting some of the farmsteads that basically lead off from either side as the street meanders along the edge of the ridge, until it emerges at a wide valley planted to paddy.
Punchi Bandara
It was here, in the shade of the old storm-struck Bodhi, where the ‘street’ peters out into a network of grassy footpaths – across the paddy to the little temple, to outlying farmsteads, or further afield to even more isolated hamlets – that we met Punchi Bandara. He’s happy to yarn about the old days, but is more concerned about the future of his village, and his family. There we sat, on a pile of rocks at the edge of the paddy, looking over at the little temple on its rocky outcrop. Beyond, across the expanse of forest, is the cone of Lakagala – always present in our sight, and our imagination, for this is where, it is said, the demon Ravana launched his Dandu Monara, (his flying machine) to kidnap Sita.
Punchi Bandara told us only 400 people live in Meemure now. Sadly, he acknowledged there’s no future for the youngsters in a village with no postal service, piped water, or electricity, no telephone or television reception. The gift of a satellite phone to the monk had been a boon, he said.
Lakagala, at 4,324 ft., stands sentinel over the village
We’d noticed that even old women had been working the paddy when we arrived, and Punchi Bandara told us how the youngsters, after spending three or four years down in the towns, or in Nuwara itself (the great city, Kandy, seat of the last Lankan kingdom) found it impossible to return to a subsistence life in the village. It’s hard work, and there’s none of the excitements they’ve become accustomed to. With no trappings of modernity, there are no job opportunities for plumbers and electricians, mechanics, or designers – so they leave, to get jobs in the towns. Once the girls marry lowlanders, their lives move away from the village, forever severing grandchildren from an understanding of the lives of their grandparents.
The pitiful spectre of this beautiful old woman working in the paddy field broke my heart. As we left, she came over to say goodbye.
The conundrum lies with the twin curses of the loss of its young adult population, and the lack of more arable land. This was brought home to them just a few years ago when the government, keen to electrify even the remotest villages, installed a wood-burning generator, and a power line. The villagers went about planting the hardy and extremely fast growing Griselinia wherever they could – in rocky clearings in the forest, along the roads and pathways. But there was a problem. To feed the generator so that they could have a light and a little entertainment at night, they found they now had insufficient time – and land – to cultivate or gather sufficient food for survival, let alone to barter at the shop for things they’d become accustomed to from outside. The generator is now gathering rust, abandoned and maligned for promising so much, but bringing only heartache.
… until it emerges at a wide valley planted to paddy.
Some people, like Punchi Bandara himself, have been given a solar panel. These have been far more successful – though there’s often a tussle between Aamma claiming its’ power to run a light bulb for the night, and the children clamoring to watch a video (that’s right, one video, no more than two hours). We found it sad that even sisters and brothers, in giving such wondrous modern gifts to their families back in the village, have failed to recognize the need for such choices.
But come. Come and look around. What you’ll see is beautiful – serene and timeless, and achingly, romantically redolent of an unspoiled past, the people hospitable and gracious. But remember, this village isn’t a museum, it’s living history, and it’s vital, and fascinating, and filled with great characters. I hope you’ll enjoy my slideshow of Meemure, a village in the forest.
Click on any picture to enlarge and enter a gallery view.
Last time I spoke to you about my simian visitors, I was concerned they’d blackballed my place for stealing Mrs. Hanuman’s soul.
We’ve been having afternoon storms, and I think my strategic location on one of their escape routes has made it imperative for them to overlook my misdemeanour. You see, up here on my airy platform, I am very aware of the telltale signs of an approaching storm – the change in the quality of the light, and a freshening of the breeze, the alarm calls of the fat little brown sparrows – but it is the Hanuman Troupe which sounds the definitive alarm. All of a sudden, there will be one, then a couple, then, it seems, the entire troupe will stream up from the marshland to the north, bounding and leaping from tree to tree, across my neighbour’s fence, crashing through the leaves of the mango outside my bedroom. Sounding like a mini-thunderstorm themselves, they tear across the roof, heading south, away from the storm, the rain and the lightening – frightening stuff for outdoor dwellers.
By the end of the week, signs were that we were once again part of their Long Paddock. Mr. Hanuman senior has been loudly expressing ownership of the cinnamon tree, and various members of his family are loitering in the vacant land beside my house, waiting for a signal that they too, can gather those tiny mustardy coloured berries that grow from little candelabra on its upper branches. Every once in a while, the youngsters will challenge Papa, to which the old guy replies with mighty whoops, charging after the impudent scamps, who prance along the crest of the roof, leap to the coconut tree near the fence, up into the tall branches of the trees next door, and round, and round they go, till the old guy tires of the chase, and settles once again to forage.
Today, after one particularly boisterous game of rounders, I looked out the kitchen door to see three teenagers, and a preschooler, sitting on the fence near the coconut tree. Just sitting, their long tails hanging down behind them. Then, becoming aware of my silent eyes, one by one they rose, and stalked to the end, disappearing behind my neighbour’s garage. A while later I was sure someone was in the mango tree, but when I rose to check, whoosh! Onto the roof and far away. Or so I thought.
Creeping, with loaded camera, to the small window in my bathroom, I saw a young aunt, I think, or a cousin, wrestling with a preteen on the garage roof. Someone was lurking under the custard apple tree, and on the other side, three preschoolers were making their way toward them, carefully climbing down from the mango, and along the fence toward the back.
I missed every shot of the wrestling match, and the preteen, but did, eventually catch the aunt, sitting, deciding what to do next. A long grey tail gave away the hiding place of whoever was under the custard apple, but discovering who, it appeared, would be a waiting game. So I turned my camera toward the approaching preschoolers, who immediately scampered out of sight, except for one young chap, crouching as still as a mouse, behind an overhanging beam. By this stage I’d moved from the seclusion of the bathroom and was standing on the balcony, trying to look like a doorpost. While I was moving, she must have turned to watch me, for there she was, even her eyes like stone, amidst the branches of the custard apple. And then, of course, she and the bub, the aunt and the preteens dematerialised – over at the edge of the garage, and into the dense branches beyond.
Sad to report, Custard Apple Season has come and gone as far as we humans are concerned!
Imagine somnolent afternoon sinking to dusk. Crowds are steadily descending on the centre of the city – walking carelessly in family groups or in pairs, on the pavements, or spilling across the roads, for traffic has been banished since late afternoon – the Perahera holds centre stage now
At the temples, dancers and musicians, whip crackers, flag carriers, fire walkers and monks are putting the finishing touches to their costumes, marking the pattern of intricate choreography, tuning instruments and talking, talking. There is no tension, but plenty of excitement. The stars of the show, the elephants, are having a final bath at the fountain before being led, slick and dark, to their dressing stations, to be shrouded in cloth of gold, spangled in flashing lights and fed final titbits: a hand of bananas, a choice piece of sugar cane, perhaps. The buzz is building. Viewing stands fill to bursting. A boy from the Pizza Hut darts across the road, frantically taking last orders.
A cannon roars through the night, silencing the crowds. A collective sigh of anticipation.
Now the sound of drums begins to reverberate from hill to hill across the lake, permeating up through the expectant stands. From far off, the electric crack of a whip. Then another, followed by another and another …
Let the Perahera begin!
This post was inspired by Ailsa’s Weekly Travel Challenge: Rhythm. Follow the link to Where’s My Backpack to see a melange of rhythmic interpretations.
Animals – you gotta love ‘em.
After their breakfast this morning I took The Girls for their walk down the lane to do their thing, and exercise their olfactory senses, at least. Their delight was manifest in every squirming fibre of their being and we were enjoying a companionable time together, when I heard the strangulated vowels of an unhappy cat.
There was Princess Podi, standing at the open gate, yawling as though we’d taken off for Outer Mongolia. Even The Girls looked up, momentarily, from their ecstatic snuffling. I called and spoke to her, of course, and she came bounding down the lane after us, but stopped at the letterbox, four feet drawn together at attention, body arched in a bow, and began voweling again. No amount of coaxing her to join us on our walk would convince her to venture beyond the letterbox, but as long as she could see us, and hear my voice, she did subside a little, sitting within her tail, at the foot of the tree, shielded from view by said letterbox.
Apparently she was unhappy about running into the neighbour’s cow, grazing on the bright monsoon-fed grass growing on the side of the road.
The girl herself, displacing the bills on my desk
You would be forgiven for thinking things were on the up and up here since my Six Sixes on a Friday meltdown back at the beginning of May. And indeed they are.
And what seemed like the last straw at the time:
I won’t show you a photograph of the mould hanging off the steering wheel like moss in the enchanted forest – gross! But look at what’s happening at the Gene Pool today:
4.51 am Friday – It’s arrived! The monsoon has broken and the first storm of the season is overhead as I type. I don’t know when it began, but already the temperature has dropped and the sweet sound of rain falling, straight from the clouds, is like a balm to our parched and shrivelled senses. In the background thunder sounds a dull, almost continuous roar. But nothing can drown out the sound of that rain falling.
The days of those Olympian inter-monsoon storms are far behind us now. As March turned to April, and now May, the heat has risen, unabated: no rain, no cooling breezes, or fresh dewy nights. No more delightful cool mornings on the terrace, listening to the birds and monkeys competing with the temple down the hill to provide our joyful morning chorus.
It’s ten days now since the Met Department sent out its’ warning: the Southwest Monsoon is becoming active. Be prepared for ‘heavy showers’, it said, a euphemism for flooding rains and landslips in the mountains. Down here on the plains, nobody thinks of disasters. We’re avid for the rain.
Ten days of intensifying heat, and that imperceptible rise in pressure that nonetheless contributes to national grumbling and crankiness. Every day now we watch, ever more hopeful, as the clouds gather in the late afternoons, bruised black masses accumulating toward the west. Or in the mornings, lethargic and leaden as we rise from our sticky sleep, we look longingly at those encouraging, lowering skies, speculating – will it be today? Like an old tart, the monsoon taunts us with a couple of hammering strikes of thunder, a minute’s precipitation leaks from the sky, barely reaching the parched earth below, then again it turns away, insolently, like a practiced coquette. Oh the cruelty of waiting.
Farmers attended to their final ploughing weeks ago – Pied Pipers to flocks of canny white ibis, and fat little brown sparrows – as they turned the soil one last time, in preparation for the monsoon’s life-bringing rains. Parched, that land will be now: cracking and baking under the unrelenting sun. Each day that passes the humus is being burned out of the dark rich soil, changing its character, increasing the chances of hydrophobia, putting at risk the planting season to come.
You must remember: this is paradise. Where it’s hot, but not too hot, where the monsoons bring invigorating rain in the afternoons, perhaps a thrilling, cooling storm at night, where a twig plunged into moist loamy soil bears crops within the span of months. This is paradise; except in the build up to the Southwest Monsoon.
We’re all gasping for the rain. Waiting to be re-hydrated, to be cooled by the heavens.
Christine’s post in response to Jake’s challenge this week started me thinking about pets, and my relationship with them. I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I would be unable to live anywhere that would force me to forego the pleasure, and companionship, of a pet. Throughout my life – wanderlust notwithstanding – they have been the constant. Further, while I may enjoy my own company and love to be alone, there’s a predicate to that assertion of independence: with my animal beside me, or waiting for me when I come home. Let me introduce you to the animals in my life, and perhaps then you’ll understand how it is that I have come to these conclusions.
Ruggles was only six weeks to my toddler status when we first met. For a while I was bigger than him, a fact, which I’m sure, I exploited mercilessly, in the manner of older siblings. You will understand his satisfaction then when the unfortunate Rosemary arrived one Christmas to take his place at dress-ups, and in the pram. Good naturally (or was it because he was permanently on duty?) he would escort us as I sallied forth from our Willow Tree House by the dam to take the air, wheeling that battered perambulator up and down the dusty driveway, as far as the cattle ramp, down by the road. He was my playmate, my first friend. He was the first being on whom I consciously lavished love. (Of course I loved my parents, and showered them with hugs and kisses whenever cheeks were proffered for that purpose, but parents lavish love on their children, not the other way around, during those years of self-absorption.)
Almost 20 years later, returning to Canada to set up house after a year in a van in Europe, a little grey striped tabby singled me out at the ‘pound’ to be followed, miraculously, by her matching number in solid colours, an unwanted bundle of joy from a neighbour’s litter. Why was it that, even in Toronto the Clean, it wasn’t mandatory to have cats (and dogs) de-sexed in those days? Thea, the tabby, was an aerialist, routinely climbing up and down shingled or brick walls, leaping from roof to roof, from our third floor attic flat. Gaia, as you can imagine, was more rooted to the hearth. It was R’s first experience of pet-fatherhood, and those two girls were shameless; they quickly turned him into their slave. Luckily they did the same to his sister, whose house they invaded when we returned to Australia in 1983.
Amber and her friend (and eventual adoptive brother) Red ruled our lives in Sydney, going to live with their father after the divorce. Like many childless couples, we had the romantic notion of ‘letting her have a litter’, which she did, insisting on the tent under the sheets as her birthing room. A little lilac girl was driven all the way up to Queensland to brighten the lives of her grandparents, but that didn’t turn out well. Never fear, several years later my little sister Nangi and I came home to look after them. Ma was a terrible snob, and was heard telling that understanding animal that she wasn’t nearly beautiful enough to win her over. But Ma hadn’t counted on the fortitude of that very Buddhist cat – the more the old lady turned away in disdain, the more comfort that little moggie gave in return.
And you know the Misses Kotte: Maggie, Mischief and Podi the cat.
Excuse me if I’m stepping on anyone’s toes ripping off Six Word Saturdays, with Six Sixes on a Friday, but you can see the week’s gone from bad to worse:
And the last straw:
What I’d really like to do is close off the bedroom, turn the air conditioning to chill, and install myself on the bed with a good book – that is, if my Kindle copy of Diplomatic Incidents has downloaded in readable form. But there’s no food in the house, and while that wouldn’t bother me too much, my canine girls are ravenous greedy-guts Beagles, and we all know what an empty Beagle can be like. And that washing won’t do itself … I always said this house was way too big – way, way, way too big – for one woman and her Girls – now I’m about to experience first hand what that flippant assessment means in reality.
I don’t know whether I will be able to post regularly for a while – I hope you understand and don’t desert me – couldn’t cope with that too, right now. To reassure you I’m down but not (completely) out, some sunshiny yellow flowers from the creeper over the back wall …
… or as we say in Sinhala, Nelum, which is so close to the Latin Nelumbo, that it makes me wonder what the Sanskrit word is? Anyone?
Today’s post is simply a small gallery of my favourite flower in all its glory, From temples to stately gardens, a tin can in the sun beside the front door, or any of the myriad lakes, large and small, lotus grow in abundant profusion.
The pot I have at my front door is a Thai miniature,
And here she was this morning …
… and this must stop.
I’ve joined Robin Coyle’s dissident group, and disabled the email alert buttons for comments on my blogs (I hope!). Someone very kindly supplied me with an address which I am assured will reach a human behind a computer somewhere at WordPress. Under the subject “Do you know the extent of the current WordPress fiasco?” (subject lines apparently must be in the form of a question), I advised there were several components to my support request:
Five hours ago the WordPress computer chirped “Your message is flying through cyberspace to us as you read this. We will get back to you as soon as we can.” I am now about to break faith with my followers and delete the 316 unopened emails remaining in my inbox, an act of wilful destruction I will continue to perform daily until I hear the current fiasco has been rectified.
I love the camaraderie of our blogosphere, but I don’t need excuses to procrastinate. Imagine. Other than to keep myself and The Girls fed, myself and the house clean (well, the house slightly less so), all I’ve done since I came back from my little trip upcountry is try to empty my inbox. Now, normally I would just leave it, but at the rate of some hundreds of mails arriving daily, I began to freak out about when I eventually opened it. How much space on my hard drive will Google demand then? Do I have enough space for this, albeit temporary, annexation of my hard drive by an alien third party?
I’m sorry if all this means I’ll miss out on reading those marvellous, serendipitous posts that arrive, unheralded and unanticipated - with luck I’ll catch up with most of you through my Blogroll, or the chatter I hear there. And with luck, WordPress will revert to half a million happy bloggers in the shake of a lamb’s tail.
There is good news though. The Bougainvillea is in full flower. What doe you think of that?
A Jar of Bougainvillea
The storm blew in from the sea like a demented demon; hurling a horizontal wall of water ahead of itself, sending the flimsy seaside shacks flying into the liquid white air, its dark, malignant core following at a slower pace, dragging the sea behind it.
Shrieking round obstacles, or hurling them aside like matchsticks, the wind sweeps across the land. Frenzied, lashing rain whites out the day, overflows gutters, fills wells, infiltrates every crack and crevice, creating instant lakes inside, as though it were out.
In its wake, the coast is dark; all lights extinguished. A thin, meandering ribbon of road wends its way through a long, shallow lake, slick and shining like a patent leather raincoat. The palm trees have been groomed and the cottonwoods completely shorn.
An old man stands watching on three legs … the Matara bus ran into his house …
... silver-blue-green-white oceanic might.
Up on Dagoba headland, I discovered a blowhole; the seas are running high after last night’s storm. It blew right up at me – spumed way up, wide and frothy. I stand, braced against my boulder support, as each sonic boom announces the arrival of another flamboyant display of silver-blue-green-white oceanic might. No ordinary New Years fireworks could hope to compare: this was bicentennial in its scale.
In their sets of seven, one by one the waves collide against the rocks, hurtle a hillside of foam Dagoba-high, disintegrate into rainbows, recede in mounds of snowy white froth fizzing louder than a truckload of Coke cans opened at once. And again, and again, they come. Each wave creating its miracle of individual beauty, and enough power to light a city in each spellbinding, time-lapsed moment.
Kookaburras, Sulphur Crested Cockatoos, Galas, Whip Birds, Butcher Birds, Magpies (the list seems endless): the Australian bush is filled with the loud, raucous, joyous sounds of birds. It’s the only thing I’ve ever missed, and so of course, “K” must be for Kookaburra. Rather than present it’s genus and other biological credentials, I’d like to let my father tell you a about his first encounter with our iconic bird.
Papa arrived in Sydney on the Thursday before Easter, 1924, the remains of the Five Pounds his grandmother had given him as travelling money jingling in his pocket, and a precious envelope with a further Twenty Five, “to be banked”. As it turned out, his arrival wasn’t as anticipated, and instead of being met by his sponsor, the friendly farmer from Coonabarabran, he was thrust on the mercy of the Department of Immigration.
Times were different, back then. Instead of being handcuffed and led off to the nearest Detention Centre, young Nevis spent Easter with the Woods, at their home over near Manly.
His encounter with the infamous Laughing Jackass, that weekend, was the first of many faux pas the sixteen year old with the big hands was to make before somehow he became an Aussie, and is a story he loved telling against himself. But let him tell it in his own words:
“We swam every morning, except for Sunday, when we went to church. I was shown the Botanic Gardens, and on one afternoon went to the zoo, where I was to see the famous Australian ‘Laughing Jackass’. Well, I heard the wretched thing laughing alright, but when the family tried to point the creature out to me, I just couldn’t spot it – until Mr. Woods laughingly explained it was a bird. And here I was, looking for a beast with two large ears and four legs! “
"... and I was looking for a beast with two large ears and four legs!'
This fellow used to visit us frequently ,once the drought set in. Competition for food was fierce and the lush, sub-tropical gardens of the Sunshine Coast hinterland played host to a myriad of prey animals for a hungry Kookaburra and his family. He would sit atop this stump, still, barely moving an eyeball, watching for frogs, and lizards within the understory of the garden. But that’s not all – seems we also had a steady supply of snakes for this vigilant bird.
it’s true. A job agent who’d supposedly cheated his clients had his trousers taken off in the street at Maradana on Tuesday night. Trouserless, the man fled into a jewellery shop, steps ahead of a braying crowd. Fearing for his merchandise, the shopkeeper promptly slammed closed the doors, which further inflamed the pursuers. A baton charge by police eventually scattered the crowd, after which the trouser-less man was taken to the police station, where he was given a sarong. Enquiries are continuing.
Caught in flagranto delicte (sic), the headline screamed, in a report from the Panadura Group Correspondent. It’s a story about a coconut plucker; caught at the top of a tree, six coconuts in his hands. He pleaded “not guilty” to stealing the nuts.
Then there’s the one about the hapless snake charmer who, in the middle of demonstrating the correct way of handling snakes at the Madine Primary School near Kandy, had to be rushed to hospital. He’d been bitten on the ear by one of his own reptiles.
A procession of monks just passed by, announced by the bagpipe-tones of the horana, progressing to the deep thwonk of a tammatama drum. Four elders carry a brightly patterned orange canopy attached to slim bamboo poles. The monks, all saffron robed, hands clasped together, furled black umbrellas suspended on arms, walk at a measured pace, eyes downcast mindful of each element of the step – except for one young acolyte – handsome, flashing smile – who turns … to watch the effect they make.
To celebrate his 71st birthday, Nimal Prematileke, an Ayurvedic eye specialist from Bandaragama, will treat cataract eye patients free of charge at the eye clinic until 31 July.
