Impending departure
Our impending departure was hanging over me like a shadow. I cried a little when we drove back to Negombo on the following evening. The house was dark and abandoned. John and I were together, but we felt alone.
Things looked up a little when Gizmo returned later in the evening. Shy at first, he quickly mellowed when I gave him food. He had lost a lot of weight.
After he had wolfed down his meal, he scampered up the stairs.
“John get him,” I said exasperated: “If he hides upstairs he will get locked in when we leave!”
So John grabbed a straw broom and set off after the cat. There was some shoo-ing and hissing then Gizmo ran back down the stairs, climbed on his shelf under the fridge and, this time, looked wounded. John’s heart melted.
“He was lying on the bed,” he said sadly: “On A’s side.”
He beckoned the cat over. Hesitantly, Gizmo approached, but jumped up onto the sofa when John padded the cushion beside him. Tentatively, he set one paw onto his lap, then another and eventually climbed on top of John’s sarong. So the two of them remained for a long time, John gently stroking the cat. For the first time that day, Gizmo looked content. Later he retreated to a chair and slept peacefully. By then Gamini had also made an appearance. For one last time, we had our little menagerie around us. Soon we would be gone and the animals would be on their own again.
For a while we debated whether it had been cruel to feed the cats. I would not have started it, but S and A had argued that it was a kind of holiday for them. Cats are street-smart, they would quickly re-adjust. I wasn’t so sure anymore, considering the amount of weight Gizmo had lost. He had clearly been pining for A. At least, he would miss us less.
On our last morning, I dragged John along on a cycle tour down the lagoon road 
but it did not yield the promised views: the area between the beach and the lagoon was built up with rows of expensive houses.
At last we reached a gap between the dwellings and pushed the bikes through a coconut grove between a prawn hatchery and a villa. The beach stretched on either side as far as the eye could see.
There was nobody in sight except for a young man who sat under the roof by the hatchery, eyeing us suspiciously. The waves crashed into flattened rocks directly in front of us. This was not a place for swimming. I bent down to study the algae that were growing on the rocks. A healthy and diverse community, indicative of clean waters. Perfect for the hatchery’s supply.
After a while I became aware of a man who had approached us from the villa. He was pleased to see us, he had not talked to tourists for a long time. His English was flawless and although he was dressed casually, he radiated wealth. The villa belonged to him.
“I was lucky to retire on time,” he said wistfully.
Not long ago there was a beautiful resort hotel a little further down the road called the ‘Blue Bay Hotel’ where he was in charge of supplies. Then the LTTE bombed the airport.
“Now it is gone,” he said sadly: “Bust. But at last the visitors are coming back!” He smiled and shook our hands.
On our way back through town we bought a bag of short eats. While we munched away at our lunch, I read the packaging which was in English, as usual. However, it was not a page from a textbook or newspaper.
“Look at this”, I said: “It’s a contract of employment from one of the sweat shops in the Katunayake Free Trade Zone.” We read it together. From what we could surmise, the company was contracted by Disney to sew garments. This is where the cute Mickey Mouse T-shirts are probably made. The thing read like any piece of American legalese I have ever come across, especially the paragraphs concerned with working time:
“4. I know the BOI Rules and Regulation [sic] about working time. My normal
working hours are 45 1/2 (forty five and a half) hours per week, the company
may required [sic] me to work up to 60 (sixty) hours per week during the normal
production periods and up to 72 (seventy two) hours per week during four
months of peak production periods.
5. I know that I can decide whether I want to work overtime or not. I understand
that our company policy do [sic] not allow my supervisor to make me work
overtime if I do not want to.”
‘Yeah, right’, I thought. Later I asked A whether they have a minimum wage in Sri Lanka. She just snorted derisively. I suppose it won’t be necessary to ask the workers whether they “want” to work overtime. Think about it next time you blow your money on a present from the Disney Store.
Tags: The Whales of Trincomalee, Tag Index
Denni