Things Not Finished
In my life there are some things not finished. Other people, looking in on my life, might not realize these certain things are not yet finished, but inside me I can feel the blank space on the canvas, sense the unfilled record of the experience. For the past four years, Sri Lanka has been one of these things.
The December, 2004, tsunami not only truncated an anticipated tourist journey, it linked me to a time, place, and people with an intimacy I did not fully conceive until after I had returned to a life quite removed from it all. Yet, I have always known I would need to go back to Sri Lanka. Ever since moving to Japan in August, 2005, I have played the airfare to Sri Lanka game on a variety of travel search engines, but never has a trip there been financially feasible again until a small window of time this past autumn.
On my first trip to Sri Lanka, a wood carving of a stilt fisherman caught my eye in a wood carving shop our tour group visited. We had not seen any stilt fisherman; indeed, at that point, we had only explored the interior regions of Sri Lanka. Nishantha, our tourguide, promised me, however, that we would see stilt fisherman when we traveled the south coast at the end of the tour. I bought the stilt fisherman a couple of days before we arrived at Yala, an animal reserve situated on Sri Lanka’s southeast coast, and the next morning the tsunami struck. We were evacuated inland first and then over to a hotel in Negombo, near the international airport on the west coast. I never saw a stilt fisherman.
This December’s trip, Jennell and I commenced with five beach days on the south coast of Sri Lanka. I saw stilt fishermen.
Christmas Day Jennell and I arrived at Yala Village, exactly four years from the Christmas Day I had arrived there before. We booked an afternoon safari into Yala National Park, where we did find that elusive leopard—two of them, in fact. The next morning, the anniversary of the tsunami, our driver drove Jennell into a nearby town in pursuit of a possible diving trip. I wandered over to the beach, the beach where I probably would have gone the morning the tsunami swept in if I had not decided to return with a few friends to Yala National Park to look for a leopard.
Alone on the beach, except for two fishermen watching me (or maybe just the sea) from their shacks, I removed my flip-flops and walked—a journey along a sandy stretch of coastline, but also a journey through memory and thought and emotion. In the end . . . a tsunami redemption?
Although I would certainly travel to Sri Lanka again should the opportunity come my way, I have designed the canvas and completed the record. Sri Lanka can be finished.
In my life there are some things not finished. Other people, looking in on my life, might not realize these certain things are not yet finished, but inside me I can feel the blank space on the canvas, sense the unfilled record of the experience. For the past four years, Sri Lanka has been one of these things.
The December, 2004, tsunami not only truncated an anticipated tourist journey, it linked me to a time, place, and people with an intimacy I did not fully conceive until after I had returned to a life quite removed from it all. Yet, I have always known I would need to go back to Sri Lanka. Ever since moving to Japan in August, 2005, I have played the airfare to Sri Lanka game on a variety of travel search engines, but never has a trip there been financially feasible again until a small window of time this past autumn.
On my first trip to Sri Lanka, a wood carving of a stilt fisherman caught my eye in a wood carving shop our tour group visited. We had not seen any stilt fisherman; indeed, at that point, we had only explored the interior regions of Sri Lanka. Nishantha, our tourguide, promised me, however, that we would see stilt fisherman when we traveled the south coast at the end of the tour. I bought the stilt fisherman a couple of days before we arrived at Yala, an animal reserve situated on Sri Lanka’s southeast coast, and the next morning the tsunami struck. We were evacuated inland first and then over to a hotel in Negombo, near the international airport on the west coast. I never saw a stilt fisherman.
This December’s trip, Jennell and I commenced with five beach days on the south coast of Sri Lanka. I saw stilt fishermen.
Christmas Day Jennell and I arrived at Yala Village, exactly four years from the Christmas Day I had arrived there before. We booked an afternoon safari into Yala National Park, where we did find that elusive leopard—two of them, in fact. The next morning, the anniversary of the tsunami, our driver drove Jennell into a nearby town in pursuit of a possible diving trip. I wandered over to the beach, the beach where I probably would have gone the morning the tsunami swept in if I had not decided to return with a few friends to Yala National Park to look for a leopard.
Alone on the beach, except for two fishermen watching me (or maybe just the sea) from their shacks, I removed my flip-flops and walked—a journey along a sandy stretch of coastline, but also a journey through memory and thought and emotion. In the end . . . a tsunami redemption?
Although I would certainly travel to Sri Lanka again should the opportunity come my way, I have designed the canvas and completed the record. Sri Lanka can be finished.
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