A seven-hour bus ride from Tangalle on the south coast to the International Airport about one hour north of Colombo is ahead of me. I am on my way to pick up my best friend who has spontaneously decided to join me on this beautiful island for three weeks. We have known each other for more than ten years and share a passion for travelling, bright colors, and ice cream. Our friendship has developed in all corners of the world. She is one of the most open-minded and most flexible women I know.
I choose a seat on the left side of the bus to get the best view of the coastline. My big backpack remains in Tangalle; I am planning to return in three days and only carry the most necessary things (excluding my laptop). Even the big camera fits - I am so proud of myself and I know JFR would be proud too!
Just after the bus starts to move, a young Sri Lankan dashes from the last row to the free seat next to me. I raise my eyebrow and look at him. Before he can say anything, I interrupt: "I don't want you to ask me any questions. Otherwise go back to your seat." This might seem a little harsh, but was a reaction to the very obvious intention to fire off the usual checklist of questions. And I was daring a long bus ride where I constantly have to dance around very uncomfortable questions.
Of course he can still not hold back and I remind him once in a while that he is still asking too many questions. He is on his way to a beach party in Hikkaduwa. That kind of paints the picture of the conversation I was not really keen on. When a woman with a toddler on her shoulder enters the overloaded bus, I whisper to him that I think he should get up. He responds that things are different in Sri Lanka. Now a little louder, I insist with somewhat more pressure, making clear that otherwise I would give my seat.
Before I could move, he jumps up and offers his seat to the mother. I smile at her relieved face. High five, I think. As an acknowledgment to my young companion, I smile at him. In turn he does not move anywhere, but stands right there in hope of the mother getting off the bus at some point during our trip. To my relief she does not and I happily hold the little girl's legs on my lap. Before he gets off the bus, he makes sure to wish me well and dedicates a large smile to me.
It strikes me how even harsh words do not (seemingly) offend. In Europe this could have potentially ended in a heated debate. In Sri Lanka it is crowned with a genuine smile. In my heart I feel this is so much wiser.
I choose a seat on the left side of the bus to get the best view of the coastline. My big backpack remains in Tangalle; I am planning to return in three days and only carry the most necessary things (excluding my laptop). Even the big camera fits - I am so proud of myself and I know JFR would be proud too!
Just after the bus starts to move, a young Sri Lankan dashes from the last row to the free seat next to me. I raise my eyebrow and look at him. Before he can say anything, I interrupt: "I don't want you to ask me any questions. Otherwise go back to your seat." This might seem a little harsh, but was a reaction to the very obvious intention to fire off the usual checklist of questions. And I was daring a long bus ride where I constantly have to dance around very uncomfortable questions.
Of course he can still not hold back and I remind him once in a while that he is still asking too many questions. He is on his way to a beach party in Hikkaduwa. That kind of paints the picture of the conversation I was not really keen on. When a woman with a toddler on her shoulder enters the overloaded bus, I whisper to him that I think he should get up. He responds that things are different in Sri Lanka. Now a little louder, I insist with somewhat more pressure, making clear that otherwise I would give my seat.
Before I could move, he jumps up and offers his seat to the mother. I smile at her relieved face. High five, I think. As an acknowledgment to my young companion, I smile at him. In turn he does not move anywhere, but stands right there in hope of the mother getting off the bus at some point during our trip. To my relief she does not and I happily hold the little girl's legs on my lap. Before he gets off the bus, he makes sure to wish me well and dedicates a large smile to me.
It strikes me how even harsh words do not (seemingly) offend. In Europe this could have potentially ended in a heated debate. In Sri Lanka it is crowned with a genuine smile. In my heart I feel this is so much wiser.
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