Eight hours in Gampola

Lesson in the moonlight

Aditha DISSANAYAKE

The most memorable moment during my visit to Gampola last Poya, takes place as the sun makes his way home, reluctantly, with the last rays lingering longer than usual on the horizon as if he too did not wish the day to end.

Those very rays had been young and fierce when we entered the Gampola town around 10.30 in the morning having spent four hours on the Colombo-Nuwara Eliya road with only two short stops to break the monotony of gazing at the never ending line of houses, shops and walls covered with the faces of politicians (all smiling, all asking for my vote, all promising the sun and the stars), by the roadside. The first stop is in Gampaha to purchase a pineapple.

Though the stalls on either side of the road advertise pineapples at amazingly low prices (the range is between Rs. 20 to Rs. 50) when we select a medium sized fruit and ask the Mudalali how much it costs he says, Mahathayalata nisa ekasiya thihakata dennam, (to you sir, I will give it for 130). When I wonder aloud why the boards kept in front of the heaps of pineapple display cheaper prices, he gives a betel juice stained smile and says, “Oh, those signs were painted about ten years ago”.

The second stop is for refreshments in an air-conditioned tea shop which also has a juice bar. As I sip a cup of tea picking at an asmi which looked so ancient, an archeologist could have spent a happy hour detecting its pre-historic origins, I ask the young waiter, (clad in the white national dress but with the length of the sarong considerably shortened it barely reaches his knees), how old the asmi is, he turns his head towards the lady at the counter who assures me “It’s fresh, it’s fresh”. In spite of this recommendation, I decide not to have anymore of the white mesh on my plate covered with a thin line of sugar syrup when the waiter mutters under his breath, “fresh in April when we bought them during the New Year.” Lucky for me, I have no time to moan over the loss of the asmi because a young man in spectacles who sits on the high stool at the juice bar draws my attention.

“Water melon” he growls at the waiter, in the manner of a cowboy who had just walked in from the desert in a Western movie. “No water. No sugar”. The waiter smiles apologetically and says, “No water melon”. “No, no. I want the water melon. I said no water. No sugar”, the growl deepens. The waiter’s smile widens. “We have water and sugar but no water melon. We are out of stock”. The young man opts for a cup of tea.

Ten minutes later when a lady sits on that same stool, I watch with interest to see if she too will join our ranks and end up having a cup of tea. Fate decrees otherwise. When she asks for a glass of carrot juice the waiter is ready with the mixer and the carrots. Since the price of carrots has come down lately, instead of that one glass of carrot juice priced at Rs. 450, the lady could have had a glass of juice everyday for a month had she bought some carrots at the market and made the juice herself.

“She’s paying not so much for the carrots as for the tall glass and the beautiful little umbrella on top” says the one who has a Masters in Business Management among my three travelling companions. I try to calculate how much the cost would have been if she had bought the carrots, a glass and the tiny paper umbrellas and made the juice at home but its time to leave and without the table top to write the figures on with my finger tip, I give up the calculations.

We know we are in Gampola when the air we breath becomes heavily scented with the smell of waraka. As Hitchchi Punchi Amma (youngest aunt) welcomes us to the ancestral home with the open verandah, low wooden chairs, clay tiled roof and the friendly canine companions, we know instinctively what will be served for lunch - brown rice, kiri kos, kossata kalupol, dried fish and murunga. We are not disappointed when we finally sit at the dinning table after a tiring (to the vehicle) trip to the top of Ambuluwawa.

The conversation at lunch centers round our ancestors, the four legged kind - monkeys. “It is extremely difficult to keep anything on the trees,” laments punchi amma. “They eat everything. When I go out during the day, I cover my tomato plants with an old mosquito net so that the monkeys can’t reach them”. Grandma from next door who has dropped into see us, with a dish of waraka for desert, agrees. “They have very keen eye sight. I can’t take my usual nap in the afternoons now. The moment I sit in my armchair and close my eyes they invade the garden”.

In the evening, shortly before we begin our journey to Nuwara Eliya, as darkness begins to descend on the front veranda, reminding us times chariot wheels are drawing closer, I make my way towards the Gampola town on an errand. When I spot a three wheeler speeding past me I wave my hand thinking a taxi ride will make my mission less time consuming than walking. The three wheeler stops, I get in and give directions…zing...before I have time to settle down and enjoy the ride we reach the town.

As I get down, I hand over the fare to the driver, dressed in the uniform of the young, ponytail, ear studs, long-sleeved faded t shirt and denim pants. He shakes his head and refuses the note I give him. “I don’t do hires,” he says and waves goodbye and speeds away. In the light of the full moon I read the words painted on the back of his three wheeler - “no job, no money, no girl, no problem.”

As the shops in the Gampola town begin to put up their shutters one by one, as flocks of crows begin to make their way home and as I stand gazing at the almost empty street where the three wheeler had stopped, I think I hear the voice of Socrates expounding the theory of minimalism. The secret of happiness is not found in seeking more, but in developing the capacity to enjoy less. Hats off to the unknown young man who has taught me as much.

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