To every order its costume!

I have been living in the climes of my new order, Srilankakite, for some time now. Our colourful habit refers to the difficult local wind conditions. My monk brothers are adorned with the inscription “Gusty ain’t for pussy”, my nun sisters proudly wear the slogan “Size does matter” on their chests. Both remind us daily how much nature is our master here.

Our daily routine is characterised by the same meditative sequence of our monastic tasks: eat, kite, work, eat, kite, eat, drink, sleep. We perform our duties with the utmost fervour, some even claim that some of the monks have fallen victim to religious madness when it comes to “drinking”. Joining the loud music around the drinking area, their call “Arrack-Attack!” announces the next round.

The morning after is dominated by the silence of the wind. The stubbornness of the wind has grown considerably in Kalpitiya over the last few days. Like a symbol of life, one moment you are drowning, the next higher powers are hurling you directly and unintentionally towards the gates of heaven. Shouting for joy, we chant time-honoured chorales.

Called to proselytise the surrounding villages, most of which are predominantly Muslim, we are obliged to set off with our sails on extended pilgrimages to the outer Dutch Bay. Accompanied by flying fish and a boat assigned to protect our lives, we crossed seemingly endless shallow waters bordered by mangrove groves and palm trees.

At the end point of our three-hour crusade, in the absence of any convertible unbelievers, we were ecstatic in our praise of the divine winds, which swept over a small sandbank with great force. Close to heaven, we kissed the gates to paradise at great heights before boatman Ray took us back to the monastery for evening prayers.

Only the dreadful food here disturbed the sequence of our deeds. My tongue loves new flavours. Sri Lankan cuisine offers outstanding delicacies. My stomach is steeled by the regional dishes of dozens of countries I have travelled to. But the labby-British fare of the kitchen maids here far exceeds its resistance to germs.

Travelling in this country is a real chore. Not only do I not have an international driving licence. I also have to pay a considerable fee to have my licence validated in the capital, which is three hours away by taxi. Bribing the highwaymen in police uniforms who appear every 10 kilometres is still relatively affordable at five euros. However, Sri Lanka is certainly not a country where you should drive without insurance if you have an invalid driving licence.

The traffic rules of the natives here follow the simple laws of kinetics. The right of way is determined by the product of mass times speed, which makes it much easier for illiterate people in particular to get started in a motorised life. Trucks and buses are mainly driven by Muslims. Smaller vehicles such as tuk-tuks and four-person mopeds, on the other hand, are mostly driven by Buddhists and Hindus. As a result, Muslims usually kill a few “unbelievers” in “unsuccessful” overtaking manoeuvres, fulfil a basic rule of jihad and go straight to paradise. Hindus and Buddhists, on the other hand, attach less importance to this worldly life. A classic win-win situation.