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| Sunday, 25 May 2003 |
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Features |  |
| News Business Features Editorial
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The adventures of an innocent at large: Little Lanka in Napoli by Namal Lokuge Clutching on to my Lonely Planet, the gospel of the independent traveller, I walked the age old, litter-strewn, cobbled stone streets of Naples. When visiting a new city, I have to admit that I'm plagued with kind of a Protestant work-ethic approach which compels me to explore its every nook and corner, in order not to feel a sense of guilt for sheer indulgence. I suppose this is inherently my Sri Lankan upbringing.
Thus I conceptualised holidays as a maximum of two to three day excursion, to a hallowed place where we invoked blessings on our mortal coils (meaning, lest we accumulate yet another electric contraption in the threshold of the open economy) and muster good karma for the lives ahead. Invariably, there was the other type which took us to places with historical interests with a view to strengthening our academic skills. So later, we would be even fitter for the fight ahead. Seldom did we go on holiday in the same sense of holiday as the holiday makers in Europe, or in the west. Such a sombre introduction to deny the pleasures of the flesh, in terms of lying on the beach, completely giving into what desirous instincts dictate has an effect on me, even today. So to say, I've never been wholly satisfied to embrace the holy trinity of sun, sea and random sex of the average Mr. European whose sanctified three weeks of summer forces him to take refuge, for instance, in Amalfi coast, a stone's throw from Naples. At the expense of tantalising Capri where crusaders head for post-coital pleasures, I settled for Corinthian columns of a cathedral. And believe me, there were many. Braving the crowds whose bag-snatching contingent is detrimental to any guileless wayfarer in Naples, I perused the streets. At times, my neck felt strained for its umpteenth twists and turns to absorb the architectural marvel. Each street was an open air museum but failed to sustain the interest of the viewer, owing to the neglected facades and the disenchanting debris around them. Very little was posted in English which made life difficult in deciphering the anecdotal glamour and glory behind their August past. Simply, one who has been pampered by the orderliness of Paris and even Rome, Naples was a headache and any prolonged stay may even prove it to be a migraine. Amidst these insurmountable obstacles, I sallied forth, as determined as a gold-digger prospecting his fortune, in the pullulating streets which inadvertently culminated in grand piazzas. Human contact Unlike the stolid faces I encounter in Oslo - which has been my home way over a decade - everyone looked worn out. Blake's lines celebrating the drudgery and dejection of the Londoner, 'and mark in every face I meet, marks of weakness, marks of woe' splashed in my mind as an apt description of the Neapolitans. Perhaps, it was the oppressive heat which made them feel exhausted, or simply the tendency to whoop at each other on the most trivial issues. At the same time, there was a discernible life-giving quality of human contact that my fellow Norwegians are deprived of. The bus driver's rage against an unruly mob was immediately culled down by the presence of a Dolly Parton look-alike whose anatomy alleviated the pain of driving. An old woman merrily chatted away to me, unburdening her pathos as if I were her long lost grand nephew. A single bus ride, from piazza Garibaldi -seedy station square which our own Pita Kottuwa is designed after - to piazza Cavour was enough to get a taste of the hype Naples was heir to. Yet her people revelled with unrestrained clamour, glamour and ribaldry. If Rome is where the world gathers to anoint each other in the back drop of papal blessings, Naples is where the common man rubs shoulders against each other in her tumultuous, ill-paved streets. And all this hullabaloo left the newcomer totally flummoxed. When I caught the sight of the emaciated African street vendor packing his meagre life-possessions after a hard day's work, I too decided to drop my ambitious plans to visit yet another undiscovered piazza where yet another cluster of churches was waiting to welcome me. So, I hopped into a bus. I was knackered. Vomero, a hill perched suburb known for its panoramic views and its excruciatingly thick smog, billeted me during my stay in Naples. With the usual the air of uncertainty that any one is engulfed when introduced to an unknown area, I looked around. Mine was a desperate look, a cry for help. To my surprise, the immediate bystander was a fellow Sri Lankan, to be precise a Sinhalese. (Well, I have fifteen years of practice in distinguishing South Asians from Sri Lankans and Sinhalese from our Tamil brethren). Mother tongue Kamal, my new acquaintance from Veyangoda was not sure at the outset. But having been convinced by my dewy-eyedness, a lost soul in a strange place, decided to take pity on me. Having been on the road over two months, I was elated just eliciting a few words in my mother tongue, which is often left like an unattended armour. Instead of just giving me the direction to my friend, Francesco's apartment where I was to retire after a frantic day, I felt lured in by the vivid world my fellow Sinhalese unveiled. Kamal was off work; his workplace was nearby, in Vomero itself, he declared. And he was heading back down town. Then out came the revelatory remarks about his sense of belonging to Naples. My previous visits to Milan and to other northern cities in Italy have made me aware that there is a sizeable Sinhalese community who have been infiltrating into Italy, looking for better pastures. Particularly after the near-disaster of boat people (who were rescued by the Norwegian vessel Tampa) I often contemplated the fate of a seafaring fugitive. However, I was never prepared for the world Kamal shared with me from that very instance when I decided to join him to piazza Dante, congress for the Sinhalese. My longing for a decent rice and curry meal which I've been deprived of forced me to welcome Kamal's invitation to join him for dinner. The very sight, soon after turning to an alley from the piazza, resembled Pita Kotuwa, if not Maradana. Flower-like, circuitous Sinhalese script on dribbling and dilapidated walls glistened in the receding sunshine. They communicated the rage against the 'present government's plot to sell our resplendent island to Tamils" to the arrival of a popular tel-drama artist in Naples. A few metres into the street,there were giant billboards in Sinhalese. They varied from tele-communication centres to money laundering-cum-cafes. Evidently, I was in the thick of Mecca for the Sinhalese. And interestingly enough, it gave a run any other 'ethnic ghettos' I've seen during my extensive travels. Age-old tradition Kamal assured me that Hansa Cafe was his pick among half a dozen authentic Sinhalese eateries in that particular street. I beamed at the prospect of gorging myself. And the taste affirmed Kamal's promise. Here, I've to confess all my fastidiousness regarding cleanliness, the right ambience for dining and other minute details had abandoned me at the sight of the freshly stacked string-hoppers which came along with a meat curry. It is no exaggeration, if I were to confide in you that I was in awe. Kamal - part and parcel of this rough and ready set up - ate leisurely, responding to the amiable hostess. She was nosy but took care of all her guests, as they were her own family. As for me, it took a while to realise that my colossal appetite fuelled by fatigue made me immerse in the world of eating, and nothing but eating. By then, I noticed that my gracious hostess had given up on me. Instead poor Kamal was held responsible to unearth the mystery my existence, my very being, my whereabouts. Hansa Cafe was seminal for the Sinhalese community. At the absence of a kopikade even in today's suburban Colombo, the new emigres have revitalised an age-old tradition. Like Kamal, many dropped by after a laborious day's work. Here, Sri Lanka loomed in a nutshell. An array of home-made dishes at an affordable price comforted those who sought solace after a 12-hour shift. Compared to the extortionate prices I'm used to in Oslo, it was almost embarrassing to pay a meagre sum of Euro 3.10 for a full meal. Mind you, the seconds were free. Many being illegal arrivals or 'boat people' had little hope of coming home, even for a holiday as they lacked what was referred as the koile or potha in the popular lingo. Thus, those who hovered around Hansa Cafe did not mind its chatty hostess. I suppose, it never dawned on them had she was intrusive. She played the same role as the one who runs the local pub whose duty was not just serving a pint but to take care of his clientele. As the evening progressed, I noticed I was in a pickle. Having thanked for the brilliant meal I finished in frenzy, I summoned up my gumption to bid farewell to a place which slowly started to get to my nerves. Unequivocally, the place was a pit. No other European city would have harboured a place of such an insalubrious setting. Once I'd been relieved of my hunger, I began to notice the crammed kitchen gasping for air, its dogged utensils and above all, the smoke permeating the cavernous room. I was truly happy with my meal; yet the initial interest that I took in my fellow countrymen, by then, had faded. I thought how ironic it was to see Dante's majestic gaze darting across the piazza whose Divine Comedy has transpired near tragedy on my people. I was ready to leave. Here, I was proven wrong as my hand was seized by hospitality itself. This time it was Sumith with whom I exchanged a few words, early that evening at the call centre. My knapsack, sartorially hippie-look and the brick-heavy Lonely Planet to Italy all emanating an air of a hobo amused him at our first meeting. Upon his insistence, I joined him for a drink. There were no frills, nor were there any Martini, Grappa, Campari and other exquisitely Italian liqueurs. One nod and a grin on his face acknowledging the hostess' gesture brought us four fat glasses with a half a bottle of Arrack and a dish of bistek. I had much explaining to do. Firstly, it took sometime to make them understand that I'm just a tourist. Which in their eyes meant spending my hard-earned money in Italy instead of making money. Mainly, my missioni to Italy didn't make any sense. Secondly, there were the other trivialities like my marital status, possession of the potha, immigration laws and lurid stories about Scandinavian women. Almost everyone was genuinely interested in me; I wondered whether they felt as if I were from Mars. This proved that our words were beyond each other's comprehension. Passage Here is a group of people who has risked their very existence in paving their passage to Europe. As George Orwell stated in Down and Out in Paris and London, most of them shared the universal ethos of the worker whose Paris and London was restricted to the animalistic rhythm of work and sleep. Similarly, the august culture Naples and the neighbouring historical jewels like Pompeii, Herculaneum had to offer meant very little to anyone like Kamal. Their very sojourn was an ordeal, an ordeal of paying back the astronomical sums they were forced to pay to tycoons at home. Then there is the kith and kin waiting for hard currency to raise themselves from their squalid living. So all the Kamals were cash-cows. The commonest trade among many was working as domestic aid at Italian homes. Yet, what I failed to understand was whether we have been reduced to such a level of penury that our fellow citizens had to struggle in Naples, a city ravaged by poverty and petty crime. If not for one's love for Greek and Roman edifices, Naples is no-no-land for many, even for the Italians. Viicaria, a down town tenement area which has no access to proper sanitation and heating is known to have the highest population density in Europe. It is no secret that an average worker in Naples makes less than half of what his Milanese counterpart makes. In such pandemonium, the Sri Lankan community thrives, out numbering any other ethnic group. The estimated number exceeds ten thousand. Alas, nobody knows, certainly not the municipality of Naples, as in its eyes many do not exist. In an arena of such an existential trial, no one cared to relish the relics of Pompeii or any other form of culture vulturing. Just before clock struck eleven, I said 'good bye'; not 'good night' to Kamal whose second job summoned him away from our company. I told how grateful I was for the opportunity to commune with my fellow Sinhalese. As the evening gave into late night hours, one thing was clear. The whole event of meeting Kamal, Sunith and enjoying their hospitality left me with a disconcerting mixture of guilt and a sense of cultural dislodgement. The former came from my clinically Scandinavian living in Oslo where the idea of entertaining a stranger never crosses my mind, just because he happened to be Sri Lankan. The latter was more of a post modernist quest for my identity where the gulf between 'us' and 'them' was a disturbing issue. I felt crushed with guilt for taking an anthropological interest in them, the same resentful feeling I've abhorred among the Norwegians whose interest in me is triggered off by my being exotic. With all this mind-boggling stuff razing in my head, softened by steady slugs of Arrack poured down at a professional pace, I skunked off. Yet, their farewell words left me with a piercing effect. When Sunith invited me to spend the rest of my stay with them, or upon my return, I panicked. We exchanged our addresses, yet from my part a lurking reluctance pervaded as I left my whereabouts behind. I agree on the fare before hand, exactly as one does in Colombo with three-wheeler chauffeurs to avoid any hassle. With a stroke of luck, I arrived safely in Vomero where a futon adorned Francesco's spacious study. I crept in with much caution not to make the slightest noise. And having shed my scanty attire, I fell into a coma. Relentlessly bright sunshine had already nuzzled me into embracing another eventful day. Having resisted I decided to enjoy my zombie like state, lying in. Regrettably, that cosy plan didn't last long. Slightly ajar door was bang opened and finding my naked body prostrating itself on the futon, a panic-stricken voice whimpered, beckoning at his buddy - already squatting on the floor with his dripping mop - 'Machan, mara wede, Signore aluth ekkek vedata aran wage!!' |
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| Editorial | Security Produced by Lake House |
It was an era of duty, diligence, and other doldrums of any aspiring
middle class' child whose childhood was groomed with an inevitable sense
of conscientiousness. Unlike today's more emancipated teenagers, we had no
notion of teenage rights to exercise our interests to please ourselves.
Nor did we have the strength to say 'no' to our parents' cocksure attitude
to pursue life's best things. So, having fun meant what they perceived as
fun.
