SMALL TOWN BLUES
It is an old coconut estate not far away from the ocean but still in a remote rural area. The town close by was a small conglomerate of those small village shops along the main street like it is so typical for Sri Lanka. Packed and stacked from the bottom to the top shelf with western-like products. Just the so-called grocery shops are presenting the taste of Sri Lanka displayed on self-made shelves the harvest of the day. A richness of colors and tastes, of smells and variety one would never experience in the cold sterile food stores in western parts of the world. The vegetables here lie next to each other, on top of each other – an orderly arrangement of individual patterns. Natural excitement. Banana plants are hanging from the ceiling framing the small entry. The floors are simple concrete. Dust and sand are the carpet. Bags of rice, onions and potatoes are the aisle. The way to the counter is narrow. Packed and stacked with the flavors of Lanka.
Walk along the street. Every third step a new shop. An open room. A new unknown reality of an unknown face. Keep going. Follow the course of the street. Slowly but certain the Lankan shopping mall comes to an end, just to show up with the final highlight of a constant crowed petrol station. Scooters, Three wheelers, trucks supersede each other in a never ending longing for fuel. The drug of economy. Hustle and bustle, stress and tautness. Keep going. Follow the course of the street.
A new smell tickles the nose. Wooden stalls arise on the left side. Each of them an individual piece of architectural art. Emerged from the jungle around them. Timbered with hands and sweat. Simple and functional. Neither accurate nor normed. They just are. In the shade of the roofs is the smell arising. Piles of dried fish laid on old newspapers. Ravens and crows show off on the uneven ridges.
After passing the fisherman's stalls the smell is still part of breathing. Keep walking. Take the curve and keep walking. The smell starts to vanish. The picture of the stalls still stays in the mind and so does the smell. The gate to the coconut estate is close. A winding path lined with the greens of the jungle opens up behind it. You follow the trail. The trail opens up, leads to an open space. Old small brick buildings on one side. An open wooden barn on the other. The trail becomes one with green juicy grass. Piles of empty coconut shells complete the picture. Another gate branded with traces by time and decay opens up to a new world: the mansion.