Morgalogue

A few weeks ago, in an attempt to do something native and as a way of combating the kind of pot-belly prolonged curry abuse will give you, I joined ‘an aquatic club’. I’m not talking about a bunch of health fantasists with shaved chests meeting up to discuss the best swimming cap here – we’re talking old photographs on the walls, flunkys, wicker chairs, billiards, a bar, and arguing across tables full of food and glasses, the kind of men who thankfully haven’t squeezed into their speedos in years. Yes, it’s true folks … I am living the colonial life. And ironically, it’s about the most native thing one can do in Colombo. 

Before I left, Sarah (an expert in all things Sri Lankan) gave me a bit of a crash course that included a detailed political analysis of the country, eating curry with my hands and a take-away archive of books I was never going to have time to read. One of them, called ‘Culture Shock – living in Sri Lanka’ amused and appalled me with its tone. There were chapters with opening lines like – “One dilemma facing many expatriates on arrival is – should I hire a manservant ? And how do I go about finding an honest one ?”. I remember the chapter geared towards bored, tag-along housewives, bigging-up the social merits of the Colombo Bridge, Rotary and Swimming Clubs. It sounded like the most excruciating thing in the world … were there really people pretending to live in a bygone Ceylon, elephant guns still at the ready ?

Well, a month in and my sweating belly forced me to at least have a look. The whole frivolous concept of health and fitness doesn’t yet exist in the developing world, so hotels and posh places were the only option. Bugger running outside - I’d get shot, run over or just melt. The Colombo Swimming Club - somewhere amongst the security barricades of British and American Embassies - thankfully wouldn’t have me, so I joined one of the aspirant, Asian middle-class equivalents. The Otters Aquatic Club, it’s called – crap name.

It’s been a real education so far. Not to mention somewhere to hide from Colombo, eat, hang out and avoid sitting in my room. The first night I got my membership, my workmate Bandula and a visiting doctor from India came over for a bevy. I was busy trying to play down the fact that I’d just spent a family’s monthly wage on a temporary membership and no, I wasn’t a member of a club like this in Scotland. I was halfway through explaining exactly how unglamorous the modern British institution of the community leisure centre is, when I realised I was talking to myself. Bandu and the Doc were outdoing eachother with accounts of ever more exclusive clubs: “… Back in India you can pay 6 Lahks …  and that doesn’t even guarantee you a permanent place. You have everything though – great whisky, jacuzzi, tennis … “,  “Really ?, I know the president at this club and it’s 8 lahks. The waiting list is 10 years“. It was then that I realised the nature of Asia’s love-hate relationship with colonialism.

I’ve tried to tread carefully upon the whole issue due to my ignorance. As a Scot I’m always (wrongly, I know …) nationalistically inclined to think of the British Empire as the English Empire, with Scotland as a colony of it. Though it makes little difference to them, I’m just another Bertie Wooster who’s lost his monocle and Scotland Yard is in London, no ? I’m going to read a lot more about the Empire on this trip but what’s already struck me about it, is that it was lead by the private sector. It was an earlier incarnation of globalisation. A competitive international market based on the exploitation of a cheap foreign resource began and before long, protection of the East India Trading Co. became in ‘the National Interest’ of the British Government and its hungry economy. Eventually we decided that it would just be easier to take over these countries and run them as a business rather than have to co-operate with existing government. That’s what happens when your government shakes hands with the Giants of Industry. There’s virtually no difference in the objectives of today’s globalists we just don’t have the gall to repress as openly. But watching the cargo ships chug past the dubious ‘Nike-town’, free-trade zones you can bet these people know exactly what we’re up to.

So, again if you’re Scottish (sorry Jack), you’d obviously expect regular Braveheart, smash-the-Brits style epics at the cinema. Well, I’m sure there are but there’s also a pragmatic understanding about “What the Britons did for us”. Railways, roads, sewers, hospitals, legal systems and basically, infrastructure. What I didn’t expect, until Bandu put me straight, was that they’d inherit cultural aspirations, that sounds like Stockholm syndrome to me. Yet the success of ‘The Club’ is total proof.  We’re trying to get rid of our class system and they’re keen on developing it ! Bizzare.

Back at The Club I can see it all more clearly, G+T in hand. They’ve evolved the British model into something more Asian. True British blue-bloods aren’t showy with their wealth and open competition is a tightrope of embarrassment. Asia is all about cash, if you’ve got it, flaunt it. Fat, mobster Dons sit by the pool joking and tipping waiters without looking at them. In the pool, chest-slapping bravado is king, despite a level of swimming skill that is, quite frankly, special school. Imagine a hippo doing an impersonation of a splayed, drowning mosquito and you can imagine some of the sights I have seen. They’ve got heart man, and I love it.

I sat down to order some food yesterday. There are waiters standing about everywhere in little waistcoats and bow-ties. Most are big-game tip fishing with the Dons and walk straight past me. You are unofficially allocated ‘your man’ and after a while no-one else will serve you. I’ve been given this wee guy who’s never to be seen but is friendly enough. I was getting hungry and caught myself thinking “where the hell is he ? … god, the staff in this place…” – Oh my god! It’s started. Where will it end ? I’ll be saying things like “you know they let anyone in here these days … it’s going to the dogs” before long.

Anyway … until next time. Toodle-pip.

Some crap photos: