Dear Anonymous...

Dear Anon (and not so anon),

I was feeling like sh*t today, and then I saw your comment appear on my iPhone. I’m sorry I have let you down - I feel horrible for not updating my blog in a while.

Not that I didn’t want to, but every time I sat down with my laptop to write something down, I hit a wall. There were many brilliant topics - they sounded brilliant in my head but looked like crap once I gathered them in words. Creative block, I assume. Had so much to say, simply didn’t know how.

Sometimes, words don’t come easy.

Hopefully, I will start writing again and keep this blog updated regularly. I have also promised my young (and gorgeous) prodigy, my señorita, that I will start writing again – so I have to keep her happy most of all.

Yes, it has been a while.

Yes, I missed you, terribly.

Yes, I missed reading your thoughts and blabber. Forgive me.

Once in a while I managed to randomly take a peek at your blogs – left a note here and there – but if I haven’t been fair or consistent, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be selective or choosy in reading your blogs or leaving behind any comments, it was a random act that perfectly suited the available 5-10-minute-slot in my hectic life.

So, I was busy. I travelled quite a bit. Went to Lebanon quite a few times for work – shot some beautiful commercials and partied like a pornstar. I was in and out of Sri Lanka – my paradise – almost a couple of times every month too. First, it was my little daughter who came back to live in Sri Lanka; you know how hard it is to find a suitable school and arrange everything in the middle of the year... Her relocation meant a lot of groundwork and sacrifice on a personal level, but then again, family comes first.

Then it was my dad.

Thank God – and thank you for all your wishes and prayers – he has recovered remarkably and now he is back on his feet again. It was just God’s way of asking him to slow down, it was also a moment for me to realize the value of life and appreciate the little things that we take for granted, everyday.

Dear Anon, thank you. Thank you for snapping me out of my miserable mood today and making me do something that I haven’t done in a while.

Hopefully, I will find my words and ways, again, and often.

Happy 2011 to you too.

My Dad is Hairy...

My dad is in the hospital. My wife wants to visit him and wants my daughter to take down the details. (For those who don’t know, I’m out of the country and my daughter has a mixed accent.)

“Paap, so what’s grandpa’s full name?”
“Its H. B. Wijesekera, H as in Harry and B as in Bravo…”

Then I hear her shout at the background:

“I got it… Grandpa’s name is Hairy Bravo Wijee-si-keyra..!”

The Sale of Chicken Murder

Spent 10 hectic days in Paradise.
Drove to the Immigration direct from the airport, literally, only to be disappointed by the fact that they were having a “half-day” in lieu of Milad-Un-Nabi, the next day. On top of that, being the last day of election nominations, Friday was a disaster in my calendar. Saturday the proper holiday, followed by the Poya (full moon) holiday the next day, I couldn’t have timed my trip any better..! Three days out of my precious 10 days in Paradise, gone without much achievement.
***
To top things off, I get stopped by the cops in a little alley-way near Paradise Gallery. They were bored stiff and randomly checking vehicles – and I have the uncanny ability to get picked more often than not. While pulling out the wallet I realise that I have forgotten my Silly Lankan driving licence in Saudi. Managed to negotiate a deal and escaped with a small “spot-fine.”
***
Went to the nearest police station like the good citizen I am, and shared my predicament. Told them that I must drive out of town – even though my wife could drive I have to take turns I said – and sought their advise on how to go about without the licence in possession. The ever helpful traffic police officer gave me a ticket that enabled me to drive for 14 days..! Upon my return, I gave him a thousand rupees to pay the fine (well, I was leaving the country the next day, weren’t I..?) and he obliged with much hesitance.
I like the way things happen in Paradise.
***
Had to drive to Nuwara Eliya on Monday morning but discovered a little “miss” in the car. Sunday bloody Sunday... Luckily, there were the “mobile unit” that could diagnose the problem, but the stores were closed and I had to postpone the trip by another day. Which meant, leaving Colombo at wee hours in the morning and return the same night, but the drive was quite pleasurable.
***
Back to the immigration. No luck with my son’s residency, he needs to get a new passport. Let him be an alien in my country, I thought.
***
Aah, PG Wodehouse is back at Makeen.
While I was looking for the Alchemist, my son buys a book titled “1,000 most disgusting facts” for his birthday. And another equally off-putting book on puke, pee and poo or something like that. He loves the slimy, scaly creatures such as geckos, frogs and snakes – and I wonder what he would grow up to be one day.
***
Ask for a gin n tonic aboard Emirates on the way back. The good man serves a cup-full-of-gin to his fellow countryman. A drink that was more like a gin n gin; and I wanted to tell him that my eyes were red due to lack of sleep, not alcohol.
***
Back in Jeddah. In a new abode. Just got the internet connection sorted, so here I am.
***
And let me leave you with a taste of the Middle East, found in my inbox upon my return. ;)

From Beijing to Dubai in 55 Frames

At 10.25am, we were heading towards the Plateau of Tibet. “Distance to Dubai: 2,790 miles” read the little touch-screen. I look out of the window and see the snow-capped mountains just below my feet. It feels like 800 feet above ground-level. We were flying north of the Himalayas, 36,000 feet above. Sache to the left and Almaty to the right, we were cruising through the middle.

The scene outside the window was magical. Snow covered mountains and clear skies; nothing else but the shades of blues and the whites.

Jammu and Kashmir lay further south on the map.

The terrain below is impossible and impassable. It looked like as if it had rained mountains. Mountain peaks as far as the eye could see. The view had been like this for a couple of hours, only the size and the colour of the mountain-tops changed.

A scene from Ice Age flashed before my eyes and I tried not to think of the unthinkable. Surviving a fall of a few hundred meters and being frozen to death is not my style. I don’t think I would make a good exhibit in some Discovery Museum in 2375 AD, either.

I hate the cold. I recall my memory and find consolation in the fact that no aircraft fell to its death in this region since the World War II.

I grin to myself and look at the time. We still have four hours to the destination. We are going to cruise above the clouds for a few more hours. We would take a left further ahead to fly over Pakistan, cross over to Iran and descend over Bandar Abbas to head towards the big city.

Nine hours of scenic beauty is what I’m going to enjoy this time. A few movies, two meals, and capture the view from the window with my mobile every so often – so I could put them together, quietly.

Of Bestie’s Air Massage and Christmas Shopping in Arabia...

It felt like time travel. I was walking through the alleyways of an Arabian souq (market), and for a moment, I thought I was wandering across the movie-set of The English Patient. There were vendors selling spices, silver trinkets and various nuts and seeds in their little kiosks or just by the wayside. Arab women clad in their burkas and abayas sat behind their arrays of gadgets and knick-knacks. Their eyes pierced through the inch of opening in their burkas like the full moon on a dark night: mesmerising and inviting, and capable of alluring the vulnerable young men to buy utterly and completely useless things for a riyal or two. Some fell in the trap while the others just stopped for a good bargain. Muffled in the hustle and bustle and the chattering, I could hear the women giggle behind their black masks. Men sat in long, wodden benches in little coffee-shops, smoking; enjoying the mild wintery breeze. There were small stalls and trolleys piled up with layers of gum that looked like honey-bee combs, and there were wheel-barrows that were portable corn stands. The far side of the wheel-barrow had a little coal-fire burning, and the vendors sold freshly cooked corn to the young, old and the hungry – trotting around the souq. Occasionally, my eye would spot the beautiful prayer beads in array, and I fought to resist the temptation to be the world’s largest bead collector.

Walking under the canopies, weaving through the narrow alleyways, I ended up in an open area that somehow reminded me of the Pitt Street and Market Street in Sydney. Only a hundred years earlier, and in a basic, primitive manner. Or was it a flashback of the Fort World Market, I wondered for a moment. But this was grandeur in scale and much more intriguing and interesting in sight. A little boy ran behind a football, and disappeared in to a narrow passageway as I tried to find my bearings.

As I made may way through the open square to reach the other end, I discovered another fascination: the silver shops that sold beautiful Yemeni jewellery. Rough and uneven, with coloured glass-work, they told stories about the nimble hands that crafted the designs. I imagined those beautiful Arab women sitting in their corners in their humble abodes, tinkering with metal to crate these fabulous ornaments. No wonder they wear them with so much pride on occasion, I thought to myself.

Beyond the silver jewellery were the fabric shops. Like the good old story about the black abaya in Prophet Mohammed’s days (peace be upon him), the fabric sellers were the highlight of the market. Yards and yards of beautiful designs in psychedelic colours, drawn like canopies from the roof to the ground covered my sight. From black-on-black designs to everything imaginable under the sun were on offer, and the shop assistants were serenading us to just walk inside and take a look. They knew that if we stepped in, we wouldn’t be able to resist their charm and the attraction of the selection. An occasional tailor shop displayed with much pride some wedding gowns that adorned amazing needle-work. I knew that under the abaya, the Arab women were very fashionable. But this, was far beyond what I have ever imagined. This was Paris, this was haute couture for the average Arab woman.

Just two days before the Christmas, I was discovering the downtown Jeddah. The old market, where sailors from around the world met the Arab merchants long before the dollar was born. Thousands of years later, only the buildings have changed, but not the habits of their inhabitants. They souq is still old-fashioned, they still like to drive a good bargain, and offer you a cup of seylani chaai if you were a good customer.

Wondering through the maze, we were looking for a shop that sold something that was supposedly banned in Saudi Arabia.

And finally, we were directed to a little shop that sat by the waterfront. It looked like mini China and the shop was (cleverly camouflaged?) with cosmetics, cheap electronics and all kinds of fancy items at the entrance. We look around and approach a shop assistant who gestures us to follow him up a wooden staircase. Up the staircase, zig zag through the aisles, we are taken to a back corner and the shop assistant points his hand to a rack, with much delight.

As we see what’s on display, my friend’s face lights up. Underneath a pile of “elegant” lamps that had a not-so-elegant penguin on the box and “Bestie’s air-massagers,” we’ve finally found what’s impossible to find in Saudi Arabia: Christmas Cards.

And they were musical too.

The elegant lamp, the forbidden cards and the Bestie’s Air Massager: New Concept ot (sic) Health

Very Merry Christmas!

So it is Christmas. The first, since the guns have gone silent in the North.

Part of our country still lives in limboland, not knowing how or where they would be, tomorrow. Homeless, refugees, IDP’s, war-victims – call them whatever you may. It is sad to see some people still live in tents, five years after the tsunami. Like they say, here in Paradise, change comes very slowly. Sometimes, painfully slowly. How long would it be before we hear the Christmas carols from homes beyond IDP Shelters, is still anyone’s guess.

Reality around us quite sad and sombre.

The world beyond our little island is infested with floods, natural disasters and other calamities. There is a volcano waiting to exhale in the Philippines.

There were floods in the middle of the desert in Saudi Arabia and Oman, the penguins are bracing for a smaller Arctic, and the Chinese have bought Volvo and Saab. What is going on in our little planet, I wonder.

Then, under the blue skies of Paradise, I discover that a bad week or a lousy couple of decades cannot take away the legendary Sri Lankan smile. This Christmas, I notice an aura of happiness, contentment and relief around us.

Amidst disaster and general misfortune, we find a reason to smile. We are known for our smile, and the optimism behind. We are known to forget the yesterday easily. We are known for our ability to look beyond petty issues like global warming and worry about more important matters such as who should be the next President. Or who would win the game of cricket tonight. Or would there be enough parking at Odel.

Be it politics, cricket, shopping or life-at-large, we live in eternal hope. When hope fails, we move on with a big smile and a bigger level of optimism. All in all, there is hope in Paradise. Abundant.

We, the islanders of Paradise, are a happy bunch. Or a funny bunch, rather. And I like being one.

Let’s hope for a better tomorrow for all of us.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Computers for Baboons

So there I was. Counting the minutes at the Gate 7 at the Colombo International Airport since 5 O’clock in the morning. I had arrived early, the Emirates flight carrying my kiddos were due at 8.30 am. Nope, I’m not bonkers to drive to the airport that early, it just so happened that I arrived in the island the same morning.

After what felt like an eternity – and a few random conversations with some strangers on transit – the kids arrive sound and safe as I flipped the pages of Who moved my Cheese for the umpteenth time.

Hugs, kisses and pleasantries exchanged, documents signed and kids are “formally” handed over to me by the ground staff. And off we go – rushing to meet my wife who has been eagerly waiting at the arrivals lounge. We proceed to the immigration counter and I produce all three passports. The immigration officer punches a few keys on his computer and informs me that the kiddos aren’t eligible for visa on arrival. Me being the Paradisian, has no issues, but my own kids aren’t allowed entry to the country.

He tells me that there are only 80-odd eligible countries in the list and the passports that my kids carry aren’t in the list. I know they are, this isn’t the first time they are visiting the island.

I request the officer to check by the passport numbers – since they’d previously held Sri Lankan Residence Visa the reference should be in their system. Bloody hell, this is my country and my kids should be granted visa on arrival, even if they came from Mars.

As I peep across the counter to see what’s going on, I discover the officer punching-in the passport number without selecting the matching country from the drop-down menu. The guy hammers the “enter” key even without glancing at the screen.

The result: Afghanistan. The country at the top of the list. And no visa for Afghans on arrival.

I grit my teeth, take a deep breath, count to 10 and ask him to select the country carefully. The blithering idiot repeats the same performance and insists that I should have applied for kids visa before arriving in the island..!

I was too tired to argue with idiots, or to spare him a lesson from Computer for Dummies. I demand to see his immediate boss.

The supervisor checks the kids’ passports, puts a note on the disembarkation cards, walks over to the same counter and orders the man to stamp the passports. The circus monkey stamps the passports and enters the details – yet again under “Afghanistan” in the computer. Suddenly, I had kids who are related to Mulla Omar and those long-bearded extremists that sleep with their goats.

I have no idea how many tourists were awarded the Afghan nationality that morning at the Colombo International Airport. Hope none had any issues on their departure.

At least my two didn’t, thankfully.

Holy Sh*t!

Just arrived in Jeddah last evening. As the plane descended, there were rain-clouds a few hundred meters above the ground level and the evening light reflected on the puddles and pools of water down below in the city. I never imagined Jeddah to be this wet. This was unusual.

Jeddah and rain doesn’t happen that often. When it does, they don’t blend well either.

While I was away enjoying the good life in Paradise, the city of Jeddah had been greeted by millions of Hajj pilgrims. Along with them came the heaviest rainfall in the recent decades.

On the 25th of November, a few hours of heavy rain unleashed “flash floods” that killed a little over a hundred people and rendered thousands homeless. Closer to a thousand people are still unaccounted for and an estimated six and a half thousand homes have been destroyed. Closer to 5,000 cars have been written off or washed away, not to mention the hundreds of brand new cars that went under the water in their storage facilities. The damage runs into billions of dollars. All this, in just four hours of heavy rain.

But this, is nothing compared to the biggest problem.

Imagine a typical “Lanka” petrol tanker (bowser). Fill it up with sewage. (Yes, sewage). Multiply it by 3,000. Empty them in a lake. Continue this practice for over 10 years, every single day.

Now imagine this sewage-lake at a higher level of a mountain and a city built in the valley below.

That city is Jeddah. What separates the city from the invasion of sewage is a tiny dam built with reinforced sand, not concrete. This dam has shown signs of weakness with the unexpected rainfall that filled the reservoir to the brim. The city of Jeddah was about to get flooded in sewage if the rain continued non-stop. Thankfully, the rain ceased and mellowed down giving room for the emergency crew to ‘pump’ the sewage out of the reservoir and bring the situation under control. But the situation still poses a threat with the continued sporadic rain.

Imagine a city flooded in sh*t..! Now that, is a real problem.

And we think the uncollected garbage bag in front of our gate is a cause for concern. ;)

Memories of Lebanon...

I sat in the butt-freezing cold, staring at the distance. There’s at least an hour before the sunrise. The cold breeze sweeping across the lake went piercing through my skin and chilled my bones. It must have been around five degrees, but the breeze made it feel like sub-zero.

The misty haze was slowly clearing away from the vast plateau that stood beyond the waterfront. The lake was slowly turning from a dull gray to a beautiful transparent blue shade that reminded me of Farah’s eyes. She was gorgeous. Her gray-blue eyes were mesmerising.

There is something magical about the Middle-Eastern women.

They are blessed with the ivory skin and the black hair – a beautiful combination that appeals to most men from the Paradise isle.

Black hair on ivory skin. Exotic. To say the least.

Farah was one of the receptionists at the hotel we were staying. She must have been in her early twenties, if not barely out of her teens. We knew that she existed only at the time of our departure; our all-day adventures in Beirut kept us away from the daytime staff. Next thing we see is Farah signing off from work and a black Mercedes SLK arriving at her footstep. When you are gorgeous, you are never going to walk in your life. Ever.

Salah gets me a nice and hot Arabic coffee, and breaks my train of thoughts. He tells me in Arabic that there are cheese manaeesh and zatar for breakfast, if I’m feeling peckish. I’m in no mood for any food but the warmth of the tiny coffee cup helps. I wish I had a pack of Davidoff Lights in my pocket like the good old days.

I love these unusual adventures. I love the randomness in life. I like being in the middle of nowhere, being close to nature. The vast emptiness around me reminds me how insignificant I am, in the grand scheme of things.

Lebanon is a tiny country that is abundant in natural beauty. Just like our little paradise home. Within a couple of hours from the warm and sunny Beirut, one could end up in the misty mountains where the snow-covered peaks make ideal skii slopes in Winter.

I try to remember the last time I was in this region. I remember driving through this valley with Fadi in his red Chevy listening to Celine Dion duet with Barbara Streisand for the first time. Not that I’m a huge fan of the Canadian diva, but the memory of that drive through this beautiful land is still stuck in my mind. That Christmas, I bought myself Angela Dimitriou’s “Margarites” from Beirut, and left the rest of the world to buy Celine Dion.

I also remember Nabil’s stories of their Defender getting stuck in the mud in this very same region and how they had to leave it for a couple of days till the rain ceased, before it was pulled out with the help of a big yellow Cat.

Its funny how a stranger in a strange land feels somewhat homely when there are memories that connect the two.

I’ve been to Lebanon quite a few times since 1996 and I kind of like this place. The only thing that I hate though is, whenever I introduce myself, most of the Lebanese ask me “kohomada?” with a smile. Either they, or their kids, have been brought up by a maid from Paradise.

I hate when the world classifies Sri Lanka as the country where the maids come from.

Beirut Shop Window: 28th October

So, What takes you to the toilet?

I know quite a few folks who find inspiration in the bathroom.

I also know creatives who find ideas while they are in the bath, having a shower or sitting in the throne. (No wonder some ads are shisse, right?)

Jokes apart, taking a piss could be quite an inspirational moment too. So much so, a colleague of mine who is a Chicago-based senior creative, used to call every loo-break an “opportunity to find an idea.” Do we find inspiration, do we find ideas, or do we “come-up” with an idea is another point of discussion, but what genuinely baffles me is the connection people have with their bathroom to their brains. Be it a quick dump or an hour-long soak in a bubble bath with a glass of bubbly and someone to share. Both bath, and the bubbly.

I know someone who would take a good book, a pack of cigarettes and shut the door behind – only to spend the whole night on the throne and emerge in the morning with a big smile on her face. A night on the throne without any disturbance and a book covered from cover to cover. (I often used to wonder if she read naked. I wasn’t married then, and I was allowed to have such wonderful thoughts.)

Going back to the topic. I also know people who take the Daily Mirror to the toilet. Then there are some of us who read trash and gossip columns while attending to the matters. Then there are the ones who go in with a book of Sudoku, or a crossword. Oh, the intellectual type.

I’m not even going to talk about the ones who take Playboy to the bathroom.

The new generation (jeez, I feel so old) has their inseparable gadgets and their digital life continues non-stop without a loo-break. Soon there might be a day when there’s a little stamp at the end of a mail that reads “sent from the loo, via my Blackberry.” Be it the Blackberry, the iPhone or a simple phone with a tiny monochrome monitor, 140-character input is all you need to stay in touch with the world. Besides, one’s private life ain’t so private anymore thanks to social networking, and there is no harm in letting the world know that you are taking a good dump. Besides, that’s a sign of good health too. Right?

So what do you take to the toilet? A book? The newspaper? Your mobile? Or just a quick cigarette? I’m not talking about the days you are constipated, I was just wondering about our habitual rituals and morning regimes...

In the Meantime...

Finally, the storm has subsided and there is calmness in my life. Last three months have been extremely hectic and chaotic. Four new business pitches: two short-listed and one won. Eighteen-hour days for three straight months is potentially dangerous to one’s health – I would’ve strangled someone if not for the two quick trips to my paradise isle in-between. Sri Lanka, the small miracle, is an amazing stress reliever. A quick trip is a quick fix, and it works like magic, always. A drink by the sea, a bite of seafood, some quality time with the family and friends and a long drive around the country is just what the doctor ordered.

Then there was Ramadan: the season of fasting and feasting. It is also the season to contemplate and reflect upon life. Since it is the time to forgive and forget, I made some sincere efforts to iron out some hostilities of the past, and succeeded. I’m not the one to hold any grudges, life is too short and too precious to be upset with (and continue to be upset with) people.

Ramadan came and went, sending me off to Sri Lanka just before the Eid-break. Would’ve chosen Beirut or Istanbul if the circumstances were different, but home is home always. Missed out on the usual feasts of biriyani and watalappam – especially the yummy one that comes our way from Spikey’s grandma every year. Instead, we were cooling off in our Kataragama retreat, enjoying the wonderful food and company of “Pans” and the clan. The river seems to have a consistent water-flow since the dam was built, making it the ideal natural spa all year round. A sip of Cranberry+Vodka when immersed neck-deep in river-water tastes a million times better than any Cape Cod I’ve tasted anywhere in the world.

Anyhow, I’m glad that the mad rush is over. I’m rejuvenated and ready for the next lap, back in the holy city of Jeddah.

In the meantime, amongst other worldly happenings:

• Got tagged. Will define what love means to me, in due course. Promise.
• Hijinx and Delilah contemplated quitting. They even wrote the last chapters. Glad they didn’t.
• Got the Saudi driving licence in a day. Was pleasantly surprised to discover that their “computer exam” is offered in Sinhala too – even though I chose English to be on the safer side.
• Received a Dentsu global nomination for some work I’ve done last year.
• Was a member of the jury judging a public awareness campaign in Saudi Arabia.
• Bought the brand new Golf. Being a car that runs less than 10km a day, it is going to take a long time for me to break-in the engine before I could take it for a spin...
• Dee does the much-awaited video collage. Nice.
• My birthday passed by without a sip of alcohol. A record in 15 years, if not more.
• Realised that I am much happier than 10 years ago – even though I have less assets and less people to boss-around.
• Got in touch with the kids, thanks to the ex-wife who decided that the communication channels should now be open. So there’s a lot of Skype and time online. Much to catch up; much less time for blogging. Sorry, priorities are priorities.

Five that Came in a Tag

I shouted out loud, “Adoh, Suddo...” and I get answered by the black variety. Kalusudda tags me in Five that Came in a Tag.

The rules are quite simple really.

As stipulated by the inventor of the game – the drummer in a high place:

• You write five words to describe how you feel about recent events in Sri Lanka.
• You tag five bloggers.
• You sit back and relax (and hope they’d keep it going)

Recent events in five words:

1. Success
2. Relief
3. Pain
4. Camaraderie
5. Hope

And I hereby tag:

1. Jerry Berry – the favourite, but not so edible fruit
   
2. Makuluwo – the Spiderwoman in the making
   
3. Chavie – the one that’s on the run
   
4. Lady D – oh, the divine one
   
5. Santhoshi – the temporarily superstitious one

Good luck people!

Making People Happy

Boycy sends me an interesting link at 2 am. Its a news item from BBC on how to make people happy. I of course have my theory on finding my arcadia (that's my definition of happiness), but this one is about planting the seeds of happiness. They list out 10 steps to happiness, and hope to change the psychological climate of Slough.

The 10 Steps to Happiness according to BBC:

1. Plant something and nurture it

2. Count your blessings – at least five – at the end of each day

3. Take time to talk – have an hour-long conversation with a loved one each week

4. Phone a friend whom you have not spoken to for a while and arrange to meet up

5. Give yourself a treat every day and take the time to really enjoy it

6. Have a good laugh at least once a day

7. Get physical – exercise for half an hour three times a week

8. Smile at and/or say hello to a stranger at least once each day

9. Cut your TV viewing by half

10. Spread some kindness – do a good turn for someone every day

Let’s hope it works, perhaps we could learn how to be happy from the people in depressingly grey weather.

Getting caught in the Island Life

I have been a total waste of space the last whole-month. There were far too many holidays, far too many friends and far too many "good times" to celebrate. So much so, even my bottle of Lebanese "Arak" - which, usually gets sniffed and kept back - found it's way to the table. Desperation, in good times.

Life in the paradise isle is great. I've lost some weight since I arrived, but gained a thin layer of "comfortable fat" around my belly. Time to consider working out; but haven't found a gym that opens early enough, yet.

Have spent some quality time in Mount, Galle and Bandarawela - the holidays have been amazing.

There are two significant changes taking place in my life.
1. I’m beginning to sleep a bit more than my usual four-hours. It's becoming six hours, another reason why my blog hasn't been rolling as usual.
2. I’m beginning to develop a taste for, or rather learning to appreciate, the brown skinned women with 'long' hair. A radical departure - considering that I've always fancied the fair-skinned, with short hair.

I guess the only achievement in the last month has been the APP (Apple® Product Professional) Certification, which, in a way proves that my grey cells are still intact.

There's Vesak holiday around the corner. I don't think I will ever be able to recover from the holidays in this country. Too much, too often, it's killing me.

Warning: Pedestrians cross everywhere!

Driving to Water's Edge Sunday morning on the Baseline Road, I get stopped by cops for speeding. True, I was driving fast - but when I spotted the cop with a camera from a distance, I slowed down to a speed that I thought would be “reasonable” for a three-laned highway.

Having driven in a fairly good amount of countries, I made the first mistake of calculating the “reasonable” speed in the fast lane to be around 80 kph. What a mistake that was, I was caught at 79; apparently 50 is the limit.

I have been driving in Colombo for the last 8 months, but have failed to see the signs that indicate the speed limit. Eventually, I managed to discover some: hidden on pavements, camouflaged by trees, lamp-posts, election posters and parked vehicles.

Apparently, the road signs are for pedestrians, that's why they are fixed on the pavements. So that, when they jump to the street - as they always do - they would know how hard they are going to get hit. Fifty kph doesn’t kill you; that's why it’s the limit. Beyond sixty does (as it was advertised in Australian tv sometime back). That way, one would get a hefty compensation and a well deserved rest, and of course a great topic to boast about in dinner tables.

Driver's shouldn't know the speed limit. That's why there are no warnings (such as “This road is controlled by radar”) or the speed limits on the central divider for the drivers to see. If they knew, how would the cops survive?

I think it's just that my Taprobane is too developed for me to fathom; they expect everyone to have the sixth sense in driving. I’m just new here, I shall attain it in due course...