The first head massage

Well, it wasn't the first. The very first head massage came with a haircut, a magical experience in Jaffna in 2013. The second, a few months later off the Galle Road in Mount Lavinia, was almost as good as my first experience. How do barbers in Sri Lanka know these things? But my vintage, village head massage in Mihintale set a new precedent. A couple of days earlier I had asked my driver – guide, Mr. Amara, where I could get a head massage. He took me right to the place, a hole in the wall barber shop next to the village tea room. It's name was something like "Sexiest sexy." Do you sense my skepticism? Anyway, it was closed. "That's the best place in town" Amara told me. But each time we passed the place, its shutters were down. Anyway we were very busy with our research on small tank landscapes. We were barely in Mihintale and when we were, we were dead tired. 

Amara took me to what he considered the second best place in town, across from the university entrance. They were busy and it looked like they scowled at him so we took a rain check. This was my last day in Mihintale and it did look like rain, so we decided to part ways until evening. I took a slow walk to back to "Sexy" and voila, it was open. 

A couple of customers were already in the shop so I just stood outside the door, conspicuous as the only foreigner in Mihintale. "Come in, Sir," I was told so I took up the invitation. 

The first customer that morning was a very young girl maybe two years old. Her father held her in his arms while her mother stood close. Mr. Assanta shaved a horizontal line around her head just above her ears. Then he shaved everything under it and trimmed the hair above. Never a peep out of the little girl and her parents were calm and present with her. Both parents were smiling and beamed with pride and warmth of family. It seemed like a kind of celebration or rite of passage but how could I know? I don't have a word of Sinhala, something I hope to remedy soon. 

The family paid and arranged themselves on a scooters outside.  They held the baby in between. Both parents wore helmets but not the child. 

Next customer was a surly looking teenager. Just a few words between him and Mr. Assanta and a quick trim. Then the teenager sort of dissolved into the back of the shop. You are with people but alone in these places. So many unknown relationships and interactions and movements. It's hard enough to decipher the people we know and with whom we share a common tongue. What about the social constructs in a place where you're the alien?

These differences melt away though, during certain interactions. And this was one. 

Mr. Assanta invited me onto the barber chair, a rickety affair but steady enough for what was to come. In front of me his glass work shelf was arranged with orange marigolds and deep yellow cosmos flowers. He told me, "No English," and I grinned back as I pointed to my mouth , "No Sinhala." Both of us smiled and contact had been made. 

The only words that came were his as he cut and sheared his way through my thinning locks. Pointing to his plastic electric shearer, frowning, he said "American, no Chinese. American." Checkmark. Onto my list of things to bring next time. Pack barber equipment. But I'll have to find antique shearers. Won't everything we have be from China? 

He kept pointing and telling and I'm pretty sure I got the message. But where was the massage? "Medium short, Sir?," he asked as he went to work on my unruly mustache. Nice job but no massage. 

I thought the encounter was over when the oil started flowing and my shirt was unbuttoned. More oil, many fingers on top of my head and suddenly it was quite a different story. In a minute my head felt like it was spurting oil from the top and the more he worked it the more a mysterious cold emanated from the very crown of my head. 

Soon my head was reduced to a small stone being thrown around a rushing stream as Assanta's hands worked back and forth, around, and seemingly through my skull. Another kind of oil and more work through my shoulders, along my arms, and between and through each finger, ending with a snap of closure. What was this? Not the pallid head massages of yore! His hands seemed to grow as they worked vigorously, aggressively down my chest, grabbing, kneading, squeezing, releasing. Back up to the head, a whisper, "Please relax" and a neck crack. Where was I? What was this? And all silence. The stream at rest, gentle waters lapping against the oiled rock, my head. But in a new incarnation. 

I opened my eyes and saw a changed Assanta (his name means "uncountable"). Larger by a few inches, he had a look in his eye that explained something to me. 

I first heard in Ritigala that the monumental public works projects in ancient Sri Lanka were accomplished by people in an altered state of consciousness. Somehow they achieved superhuman strength and understanding in a trance. I realized this might apply to what I just experienced. Even as a stranger to his culture I could see that Mr. Assanta was acting way outside the boundaries of the persona he used for his previous customers. The fact that he treated me with respect was beyond doubt, even when his hands and fingers were working overtime in unexpected parts of my body. He was doing professional work and his profession took him to places hidden, places of power, and places of efficacy. I think he did the work in some kind of trance. 

Later Amara told me Assanta was from a village and caste whose people specialize in head massage. Whatever he gave me for the Rs. 400 (about $3) he asked for so meekly was something old, something handed down and well polished (like that rock in a stream), and something I will try to repay in kind to the people I know. 

Water at every scale

The ancient Sri Lankans worked with water at every scale from the tiniest trickle to the deluge off a spillway. They were stewards of water. They managed water, persuaded water to do what it does naturally, rather than simply impounding it and releasing it. Their descendants do the same. 

Contemporary agricultural practices  reflect many changes, especially in the use of machinery, hybrid strains of rice, and chemical interventions like fertilizer and pesticides. But in terms of water, many of the old ways remain. 

I saw rivulets of water running through fields, channels of water dug and maintained by hoe, valves and slots and slabs and dikelets all maintained by hand. This kind of labor-intensive engagement with water is part of a profound knowledge of the substance and how it works. 

I was drawn to the shapes through which water was managed. These ranged from straight lines and surprising 90° angles to the gentlest curves. A compendium of water channels of Sri Lanka would be an encyclopedia of curvature. 

This brings me to thoughts on the tanks, 30,000 mysterious, gorgeous bodies of water built by humans since antiquity and still at work irrigating and improving the land. No master plan existed for their development but a master intelligence, a mastery of water and its ways, was the basis for their phenomenal success. 

We see the tanks today as bodies of water. We understand many aspects of their dynamic nature--their complex ecology, their pulsating chemistry, their functionality as agents of environmental betterment. But do we understand their inner dynamics? The flows, the pressures, and the movements inside the tanks? Do we understand the structural basis of these processes?

I started this project as an exploration of small tank landscape. Part of landscape is contemporary human use and utility. We see it in broad daylight, in the movement of people and their artifacts. Part of landscape is hidden and historical. We must infer it through careful observation and guesswork. How the tanks were formed, how common hydrology practices were used to construct monuments of water, and how these designs persisted for millennia, almost self-perpetuating, are the questions that flood my mind. 

Finding Mannar

I've always been curious about what lies in Mannar, an ancient community at the foot of an island on Sri Lanka's west coast. In May I got to stay there as part of a visit to my friend and colleague Dominic Essler, who's working on an ethnography of the nearby village of Adampan. 

Mannar meant farewell to the North Central Province and my friend Mr. Amara. A few days before he had said he wanted to see Mannar and he would come there with me for a day or two. But as we were driving north from Mihintale he told me he had "forgotten" his overnight things. He could drive me to Mannar though. It dawned on me that he wasn't keen on the Mannar trip and for me, a bus would be much more pleasant than sitting in the back of a tuktuk. It wasn't a matter of money for either of us. He was paid handsomely for the work we had done together. 

So we said our fond goodbyes in Medawachchiya after a quick cup of tea (half a cup for me--I didn't want to have to pee during the interminable bus ride) and he dropped me across the street at the surprisingly modern bus stand, where I started a nearly hour-long wait for the Mannar bus. 

A great thing about Sri Lanka is that once people see you waiting for a bus they start to look out for you. It's a mutual thing I guess but super helpful when there's a minimum of signage--or in many cases none at all. This way you'll get on the right bus with people going the same way as you. 

The trip to Mannar took more than three hours. I slept part of the way thanks to getting up at about five AM for our supposed road trip. It poured down rain a lot of the time, which never really makes your trip into the unknown that happy. But I had the name of my guesthouse and a screenshot of the google map. I was prepared at least with the knowledge that reality on the streets of a Sri Lankan town is never as neat as the tidy lines of the map. I would be lucky if there was any street signage so I knew I'd have to feel my way. Lucky I had packed light, with most of my weight in presents I was bringing people. My heaviest item was the tube of sunscreen I was bringing to Dominic. 

Arriving in Mannar, quite a small place, was less disorienting than most places I've been in Sri Lanka. The main road that brings you into town after a long causeway continues NNW up the island and right through the center of town. There are few turns as you enter and, at least on a Sunday morning less congestion, so leaving the bus stand is a fairly straightforward affair. 

The rain had stopped but my way to the guesthouse was interrupted by massive block-long pools of water. These pools came to characterize my impression of Mannar. The cross lanes had turned to lakes and the going wasn't easy. But I found the guesthouse and its affable host, Mr. Jerome, who was sweeping just inside the metal gate, with no trouble. He quickly made me comfortable while he shouted orders at his houseboy to get my room ready. 

No need to describe my room which was very basic. But it had all the working parts and clean sheets. So I felt at home. Matter of fact, I love Sri Lanka but the place I feel most at home is in the north. This happened to me last time I visited, falling head over heals for Jaffna. Same feeling in Mannar. I had to get out and explore. 

I took two walks that day. My first walk took me through town and out to the edges of Mannar. It was dominated by unpaved flooded streets and a couple of dilapidated tanks. Ancient no doubt but in serious disuse. I knew this to be a problem in Mannar from my talks with Jeremy Liyanage and his Australian crew, who I met in Colombo two years ago. They come out to Mannar every year to do community-based infrastructure projects and Jeremy actually stays in the Baobab Guesthouse, where I was sleeping. Even hearing about their work I was surprised by the state of things on the ground. The number of tanks and their state of disrepair was disheartening. 

My second walk took me into the active parts of town including what looked to be a scene of watery devastation? Tsunami? Rising ocean levels? It turned out, Jerome later explained, that over time people had neglected the inner-city tanks, built along their periphery and ultimately inside them, and that seawater had encroached. A lot of Mannar, as I could see myself, lay below sea level. 

A stunning impression of town, which I saw close-up among my fellow inmates at the guesthouse, is just how much NGO activity there is in town. I stayed with a small crew from Japan who were working with nearby farmers and just about wherever you looked there were signs indicating an NGO presence. Mannar has so many problems from infrastructure to reconciliation. It was a real eye-opener of the slow process of rebuilding that this part of Sri Lanka faces. 

Mahamaankadawala tank discovery

It had been several days in the field. My driver and guide, Mr. Amara, put everything he had into showing me, cajoling me, convincing me to wrap my head around the facts and features of small tank ecosystems. 

It started with the curve of the bund (dike), the enclosing structure for each tank. You'd think it would be curved inward, like an archway against the water. Or, like every depiction, including most of the topo maps I looked at, flat against the water. But my feet and eyes and camera saw something else. All of the bunds were convex, spread across the water like an open pair of welcoming arms. How many questions did this bring up? How many new ways of considering tank structure, how water behaves in tanks, and looming large--the question of tank evolution. 

Further on in our walks he showed me the trees, mangosa and kumbuk, the latter he explained to clean up the water in the tank. "Sure," I answered, as I struggled to learn their names, recognize them, and reckon them--their placement, their characteristics. But when I read about kumbuk out of curiosity (clean the water? Really?) I understood that Amara had shown me the real deal. Kumbuk as a dike protector. Kumbuk as a shade producer. Kumbuk as a water cleanser. Structurally and physiologically the kumbuk absorbs, covers, sequesters. 

Many details over many days. Small and large details recorded with the camera, on paper, and mentally. Watching the uses. Learning the angles, literally, at which the water was persuaded to flow. Tiring each other out with so much walking. So much stopping. So much feeling the breeze on a hot day at a certain position on the bund. So many floating flowers, some, like the lotus, attached at the bottom. Some fallen and floating on the black surface of the water.

 

On day four, after steady work, Mr. Amara needed a break. Maybe I did too. His usual maximum gig is about three days, taking tourists to Anuradhapura, Polonnaruwa, and Mihintale. We did a couple of half days, finally just an hour one morning when I had my head massage by Mr. Assanta, the village barber, and took a walk out to the amazing Kaludiya Pokuna. My second visit there. Now drenched in oil. 

That afternoon, which was to be my last, Amara drove up to the university guesthouse excited and animated. He had done a little bit of asking around and found out about a tank with its ancient infrastructure intact. 

We drove out late in the afternoon, a moment before the sun started to go down. To get to the tank we parked along a busy road. A bit too busy for comfort. A road bisecting the stream from the spillway to the left and the rice fields to our right. A British road. 

We walked along the stream captured from the spillway. Made our way over slippery rocks and an intermediate dike, past a dozen villagers bathing under the spillway. And up to the tank. Facing the catchment, to our right, a huge boulder. The only way up was by grabbing an ant-covered branch and swinging your way up to the top of the boulder. I stayed down. "Because you're too old!" Amara mocked, and took my camera for some photos of the spillway. Then down just as fast and in the fading light, across the bund to the other side. Through tall grass that he skipped into and I followed, avoiding snakes he didn't mention. And on to the secondary spillway. 

You can see 2000 year old stones anywhere. And they can be found in structures more imposing, more beautiful, and more monumental than the spillway. But here I learned my lesson. 

Amara had pointed out, and you can read it in the scientific papers too, that the dikes are anchored on either side by rock outcroppings. I'd seen it  20 times but jetlag and disorientation and dehydration and the strangeness of it all had muddled my senses. Now. Here. In the weakening light of early evening. The Mahamaankadawala tank spillway taught me: when a rock outcrop wasn't available the ancients had to build one. The massive structure of finely finished stones, this one with an ancient, still-functioning sluice gate built inside-- took the place of a rock outcrop. 

What did this teach me? Something you might consider a quintessentially Sri Lankan lesson. The spillway is the most important part of the tank. More important than the structure holding the water is the structure that releases water. More important than the water impounded is the water that flows out. More of this to come as we move forward with this project. 

Secret places and close relationships

Over the past few weeks I had an amazing experience. I spent two weeks in Sri Lanka, came home to Boston for a day, and then went to the Azores.

I had planned the Sri Lanka trip since March. I spent one week in the back country exploring small tank landscapes and visiting with colleagues at the University of Rajarata. I also had a chance to reconnect with an amazing guide/driver who took me to many hidden small tanks and taught me a huge amount. 

The second week was spent in Colombo working with colleagues at the University of Moratuwa and the Fulbright headquarters. I've worked with the people at Moratuwa before so it was great to spend time with then. An amazing amount of time was spent hearing Singhala and trying to make something out of it. 

Both parts of my trip to Sri Lanka provided me with an intimate look at closeup landscapes that are not generally seen by outsiders. More importantly I got to visit several times with colleagues who I had met before, but who became closer to me on this trip. What an experience to share many meaningful conversations with new friends.

The trip to the Azores was shorter, only three days. I had spent time there last year but again, this trip gave me the opportunity to get close to old acquaintances and make new friendships with them. So the past few weeks have been an experience in deep conversation with people from different cultures with whom I share a lot of intellectual affinities. 

One night in the Azores as I was eating with a friend's adorable family, I kind of lost track of my whereabouts thanks to jet lag and thanks to the fact that here I was surrounded by people speaking Portuguese when only last week I had been immersed in Singhala culture and language. I don't think I would have felt this kind of strangeness had I just been traveling and sightseeing. The strange thing, if you can even call it that, came from the fact that there had been so much sharing during both of these visits. 

I was lucky enough to be granted a Fulbright fellowship for the upcoming academic year. If these visits, so rich in human interaction, were an indication of what's in store, then I can predict and incredible set of experiences for the months to come. 

Making new learning traditions

A year ago I was leaving the Ponta Delgada airport in the Azores with the motion that I probably wouldn't return. I had just participated in a conference on "interdisciplinarity," in which I was just about the only speaker with an interdisciplinary approach. During the conference I was treated kindly, spoiled actually, and taken under the wing of my friend and colleague Joao Cabral. I took the attention of this professor from the University of the Azores as a special courtesy that was being extended to me as the (unexpected) keynote speaker. Joao and I enjoyed hours of discussion, touring the main island of San Miguel and finding a common language of interests. 

A year later I got an email from Joao asking whether I'd like to visit the Azores again. Sure, I thought. The idea of convening a two-day seminar on teaching and learning sounded interesting. Later as the details started lining up I admit I felt some trepidation. A seminar on teaching math in elementary school? Where did I fit in there? 

Turns out that after not a little wrangling and departmental give-and-take Joao had gotten his way to bring me to the Azores. He wanted me here because of my expertise with teaching in an interdisciplinary environment, not because I'm a math person, which I'm not. Still, unsure of my role before coming I decided to bring some zometools as a gift to the department, especially his ebullient and talented colleague Elena, who teaches geometry, patterns, and symmetry through origami. I have to say as an aside that my colleagues at the University of the Azores are some of the most energetic and creative teachers I have ever met. They wear their erudition lightly, with a sense of humor and the deepest commitment to their students. 

The first day of the conference I handed out Zometool kits to student participants. And after my presentation Joao, who should have gone up next, offered, "why don't we ask the students to play with the zometools next?"  

I've used zometools with spectacular results with my Boston University undergraduates and design students at the Boston Architectural College. They did the same job here at the University of the Azores. Students used them with engagement, energy, and a spirit of exploration that bubbled over to the faculty who were there. In fact that afternoon we did a professors-only session with the zometools. My colleagues had the same experience as the students. When they presented their projects to our small afternoon group there was a great feeling in the room. The air had been cleared, people had done some serious play, and the energy was intense. The materiality of the zometools brought out patterns of experimentation, collaboration, and fun. Adults, kids, graduate students, undergraduates, budding designers, would-be business people, and teachers-in-training find the zometools irresistible. Could we make new learning traditions with these?

After the morning session the second day we tried the zometools again. The big box of toys was emptied onto the floor in front of the podium and we began to play. Elena had brought her students, an unexpected change in the program that required some adjusting. But that was the tone of the seminar. Keep communication open, learn from each other, and stay flexible. That's the way of the classroom too. It's a cognitive sanctuary where we need to encourage play, dialogue, and reflection. And as always, students are the center as we make new learning traditions.