Sri Lankan Warmth

by Holly Buykx (Australia)

Making a local connection Sri Lanka

Squashed in the train aisle, I could move only with the crowd, as it swayed with every bump and leaned round every curve of the track, until the crush of people around me lifted my feet from the floor and I levitated until the next bump in the track brought me back down again. We thought the train was full when it left Kandy, but as the ancient train heaved and creaked its way into the hills towards Ella, more people managed to board at every station. The seven-hour trip was going to be uncomfortable for my husband and me. It was going to be a grueling test of endurance for our 18-month old son. A day on the track would also be a testing ground for our concerns around food hygiene for a young stomach, and for a blond-haired boy being the centre of attention. The attention so far had been friendly. Caught in a monsoon downpour one afternoon in Colombo, we were hurrying towards shelter. A man running nearby shouted, panic in his voice. "Baby! Baby get wet!" Sebastian, perched high in his backpack carrier, was getting soaked in the warm rain. The man's exclamation was the first indication of the excitement that a young child sparks in Sri Lanka, where they are greeted by all with smiles, gentleness, and generosity. On the train from Kandy, women reached out to touch Sebastian's cheek, to hold his hand, to stroke his hair. "Can I hold him?" asked one, and took him in a practiced, gentle embrace. He was captivated as she talked to him in the universal baby language of smiles, and pointed out sights through the window. The open windows permitted the stale air from the city to be replaced with fresher, cooler air as we climbed through vibrant green hillsides and tea plantations. Following contours of the hills where it could, the track ran through tunnels cut in the hills when the gradient was too great. The train, we discovered, was more packed than usual due to the start of a school holiday; parents and their children travelling home from the city, or to visit distant family. At the start of the first tunnel, children closest to the windows leant out as far as they could, their heads jostling for position. "Whooooop!" they hollered into the darkness. "Whoooooooooop!" called back the echo from the tunnel, as the children pulled their heads in and collapsed in laughter at their contagious exuberance. An aroma of curry leaves heralded a food vendor, sliding through the crowds like mercury, his livelihood dependent on selling dal vada, the ubiquitous deep-fried lentil snack food, piled in an open basket and cooked who knew when. He exchanged brief words with some, made a few sales, then his face lit up with a smile for the small Australian boy, whose hand was reaching, uninvited, into the basket. The vendor's grin broadened as he handed Sebastian a piece of the street food. "Never mind," I thought, any considerations of hygiene eclipsed in the moment. "He's unlikely to eat it; it will be too spicy for him," then watched as he devoured every crumb. As the day wore on, families opened their bags and boxes packed with food. The first woman to hold him, now offered Sebastian a banana. Another mother gave him a potted yoghurt, another still offered him aromatic curry-filled rotis. Never shy, he accepted with a smile, returned and magnified by the delighted women. The terrain became more mountainous and the tunnels more frequent as the train continued to climb. "Whooooop!" called the passengers into the dark tunnels, never tiring of the wonder in an echo, their smiles never dimming throughout the long journey. At Nanu Oya, the station stop for Nuwara Eliya, many passengers left the train, pausing to wave at Sebastian again as they left. The mountain air was cool, but kindness bathed the train in warmth. We were still smiling when we reached Ella. A long and uncomfortable journey had been a journey filled with generosity and joy. We disembarked carrying a contented toddler, a toddler with a full stomach and a new-found love of street food.