Sri Lanka, Ceylon, a prologue, a coincidental destination, a half conscious dream dreamt by the hypoxic minds, a grey humid piece of land surrounded by nothing, spicy, muddy, slow.
We’ve never got to know Sri Lanka. Our creased London outfits set along with white western faces lost its anonymity from the moment we stepped out from the plane. Tight budget planned for months and exhausted faces lost any meaning, we became illuminate.
Begging arms reached out. Good old West. Gold West, the land of excess, jobs, money, currencies with the ridiculous exchange rates. The moment we stood on the sacred land of Ceylon we become The Other, the one from the privileged side, no debts, no crisis, no brexit, no currency drop, no ridiculous rent, all gone, disappeared behind the whiteness of my face.
On the land of Ceylon we became The Other and would remain one for the next two months.