Date: 16 June-23 Jun 2011
Location of accommodation: Dimila Inn, Mirissa
Activities: Body surfing, reading and writing.
Money spent: Avg:
800.00 Rs—room
500.00 Rs—dinner
100.00 Rs.—internet
Special experiences: the bay here is lovely, with almost perfect body surfing waves. They aren’t perfect, because they break too much over the top, but the back wash is powerful enough to give good experience for the beginner, with little danger since the water is only hip deep at the most and the bottom is beautiful sand all the way around except for rocks on both ends.
Insights: no matter what, and even if it is only a façade, it is better to be humble and nice then to be true and angry. A man refused to serve me at the market on the 19th, I think because I am white. But rather then carry the grudge of it I pretended within myself a fake modesty, and had soon forgotten the incident. I had other good interactions subsequently at the market. But the Sri Lankans seem to be particularly racist, and I have met zenophobia and racism at every turn here, although more so in Mirissa.
Thought of the day: false humility is better then truthful wrath.
Photo of the day:
Poem of the day:
The sky is blue today,
The air is green,
The sea is white with foam capped domes
Aspiring to the light. The dream is lavish
As the surf beats on the shore,
And I think that we shall not be coming
Back here anymore.
No, we shall not be coming back here anymore.
The love that once enthroned itself upon our hearts
Has beaten its retreat to other plains of wild grass,
Flowing seas of windy sweet grass,
Tall as leaves of grass upon the other shore.
This shore is not meant for us here anymore,
The sky has turned away its eyes
From crowning us forescore,
And we are left without the bud of grace that we once wore.
No, we shall not be coming back here anymore.
We shall not be coming back here anymore.
The long blue days of rocking stillness
That we once did enjoy. The sandy pearls
That once were left cast upon the moor,
The tumbler full,
The art-imbued,
The ever ready score.
The phallic traces of my heart long whistfully, for sure,
But we shall not be coming back here anymore.
For all the worlds on fire,
And this is the eve of a new sunrise.
The helicopters beat their tomtoms through the midnight skies,
Enforcing all the codes of heavy handed suicides—
The shores we knew are now so few,
So much has run atide:
The air is green with dreams I’ve seen
And faces painted black,
Under the hat they sit, while my heart hangs on the rack,
And all the faces painted green will never bring them back—
For those brave souls have gone to worlds
That mean the death of that.
And I know that we shall not be coming back,
Oh, I know that we shall not be coming back.
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