Gay World With Tim Warrington
Sri Lanka As Asian countries go Sri Lanka is pretty liberal, but societal disapproval and family pressures make life for the LGBT community complicated and challenging. I am tired. Nothing scares away high-altitude snooze time like a 10-hour stopover in Singapore airport with a marathon screening of Air Crash Investigation on the world’s largest flat screen. Just before I left Sydney I called my mother. “Dear, please don’t go to South America, someone might steal your kidneys.” Slight geographical error, but I assure her I’ll be okay. I also point out that Colombo isn’t in South America. It’s the capital city of Sri Lanka, a small nation, roughly the size of Ireland, much closer to home. It shares the Indian Ocean with the Indian subcontinent to the west. I’ve heard it’s like India with training wheels – smaller, less populous (by almost one billion) easier to navigate and generally more user-friendly. Two friends, Andrew and Paul who travelled there recently said, “We were massively impressed by Sri Lanka and experienced no difficulty travelling as a gay couple.” Similarly Peter, an old university friend who makes Quentin Crisp look like the essence of machismo, travelled about safely and unmolested. Still, I’m a little nervous as the plane begins to descend – more of my mother’s cautionary advice ringing in my ears, “Honey, don’t be too gay in Colombia” [Colombo]. And Lonely Planet’s commandment, “It pays to be discreet. Local members of the gay community report harassment and bribery.” It’s not the first time I’ve been to a country where it’s illegal to be... well me – gay, but I still worry. Homosexuality is illegal (along with 120 DNA
Buddhist monks at the ancient city of Sigiriya.
bestiality) under the broader provision of ‘gross indecency’ under article 365A of the country’s penal code. According to Equal Ground, a non-profit organisation seeking human and political rights for the Sri Lanka’s LGBT community, “Homosexuality is viewed as shameful and abnormal and is often termed as a psychological disturbance, manifestation of sins from previous lives and/or a disease.” It’s not often I wish I had a vagina, but as there’s no legal provision against lesbians, this
“I thought I would lose my job and my family would disown me. I wanted to kill myself.” is one of those times. Male homosexuality is punishable by a jail term of up to 10 years. It seems odd that vestiges of an antiquated 1883 anti-sodomy law (introduced by the British) remain while nearly all other reminders of colonialism have been swept away. It’s midnight by the time I land. I sail through immigration and customs unhindered; tired staff offer the most cursory of glances at my credentials. Travel-weary and flight-fuzzy, I fall
into a cab and head to the hotel. Whenever I go overseas, I usually know within the first hour whether I’m going to enjoy the experience. The measure of vacation bliss for me is culture shock. I don’t want a sanitised-pedestrianDisney-vanilla-holiday. I want excitement. I want an assault on the senses. Culture shock is common when travelling. It might be subtle differences like driving on the other side of the road. Sometimes it’s extreme climates or unusual and exotic languages. Occasionally, it’s experiences so bizarre you might be in a different universe. Within minutes of arriving in Colombo it’s the latter and my emotions crackle with sensory overload. The road from the airport to my beach-side hotel is a maelstrom of wildly-weaving vehicles with ear-bleedingly-loud horns. There is a young man perched atop a power pole fixing a highvoltage cable in the rain – screwdriver in one hand – an umbrella in the other. There is an old man in a wheelchair in the middle of the highway – in the dark. Although Sri Lanka’s civil war ended in 2009 there are occasional reminders of the country’s violent past, like a gun barrel in your face. Roadside checkpoints are everywhere in Colombo and you must keep your passport with you at all times. The soldiers are friendly enough but no amount of congeniality can make up for a face-off with a semi-automatic rifle. By the time I arrive at my hotel, adrenalin rush has faded to tiredness; autopilot kicks in, which safely navigates check in, shower and teeth-
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brushing. I’m already whistling out zzz’s before my head hits the pillow and squishy bed nirvana. The unfamiliar firmness of the hotel mattress wakes me early. I jump online to email my gay contact – he’s Sri Lankan, homosexual and willing to talk – an unusual combination. A human rights organisation in Colombo put me in touch. It’s all very James Bond: I know him only by the initial ‘M’. After some gentle coaxing, M consents to meet me and sends me a fuzzy photo of him, hugging someone with a roughly blanked out face. But he won’t come to the hotel – a young, single man of his persuasion won’t get past the hotel guards. We meet in a restaurant on the beach. M stands for Muthiah. He is short and well built. His photo doesn’t do him justice; he is disarmingly handsome. Slightly star-struck I pick up a menu. The dish I’m contemplating “might be fish/chicken”. Somewhat thrown by the indeterminable fish or fowl, I ask Muthiah to order and as we navigate the first few awkward moments of our meeting we both enjoy heavenly mango lassi and kottu roti. We exchange stories. We’re remarkably similar: small town, middle-class, English majors, bad at sport. But there’s one major difference, my sexual orientation doesn’t pose a major threat to my liberty. Muthiah is 28 and comes from a small village called Polonnaruwa in central Sri
Lanka. He has been working in Colombo for two years but plans to return home soon – village life is safer, if somewhat dull. Two months ago he was arrested by police after an undercover detective charged him with lewd conduct in a public place. He was cruising in a public toilet. It’s the second time Muthiah has been arrested. The first time the police officer let him off with a warning and a fine [bribe] of about $AUD 40. The second time it was double that. “Arresting and bribing homosexual men is a lucrative business in Sri Lanka,” he says. “I thought I would lose my job and my family would disown me. I wanted to kill myself.” Fortunately, his family never found out, but he fears the next time he may not be so lucky. Muthiah wants to settle down. He wants a relationship. Despite being illegal, casual same-sex sex is easy to procure, but anything more meaningful is nigh on impossible for most gay Sri Lankans. Muthiah explains, “In my country even straight people are pressured into marriage. What hope is there for gays? We must get married. We must have children. Parents and families don’t care whether we’re happy; they only care that we’re obedient, that we don’t bring shame on the family. And it’s not just my life I ruin if I marry. I ruin my wife’s too; she is innocent in this situation.” As the horizon turns crimson, I invite my
new friend back to the hotel for dinner. As we stroll along the sun-baked sand I can’t help but notice a group of local lads hugging and holding hands. Muthiah explains that these platonic signs of affection between youths are acceptable, homosexuality is not. As we approach the hotel, Muthiah’s speech becomes hurried and nervous. By the time the turbaned doormen swing open the highly polished doors to the hotel lobby, he is visibly uncomfortable. As we sit down to dinner, Muthiah explains that there’s a caste system – a dramatic rich/ poor divide. He’s not Govigama (high caste) and therefore unaccustomed to five-star surroundings. Suddenly I’m ashamed of the opulence, of the fruit-laden cocktails and glorious buffet dinner. “Come on,” I say. “I think we both need a drink.” I drag him to the relative quiet of the cocktail lounge – all potted palms and wicker furniture. I order him a piña colada and then another. As we relax over our cocktails, fey-looking bon vivants gaze down from sepia photos lining the walls. Muthiah points out the former British Governor, a luxuriantly moustached blueblood who built the hotel as his vice regal palace over 200 years ago. Legend has it that he (Sir Thomas Maitland) built the house close to the residence of his lover, a low-born dancing girl. It’s fitting that the hotel is a beautiful homage to a forbidden love; Muthiah tells me today it attracts lovers of a different kind – young Sri Lankan men congregate around the hotel, eager to meet gay travellers. I ask Muthiah about Colombo’s Annual Gay Pride Celebration, which was first held in 2005, drawing a brave crowd of 300. He laughs, “Would you be excited in Australia if 300 people turned up for Mardi Gras? There are no nightclubs (except in the rich gated communities), there are no gay bars – nowhere we can meet safely. I cannot live an honest and safe life as long as I stay in Sri Lanka.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “Things would be different if I were rich. I wouldn’t care what people think. I could leave Sri Lanka or I could stay. If you have the money, you can afford any lifestyle you want, even a gay one.” I tell him I want to pop him in my suitcase and take him home. It affords a moment of comic relief but his melancholy soon returns. It’s time to call it a night. I ring for a hotel car and despite his protests I accompany him to the city. He won’t show me his apartment and as the car stops he bids farewell with a firm handshake and quickly disappears. On my return journey to the hotel I wonder how many other men here endure a tormented half-life. The rich/poor divide is very real and very visible. And I can’t help but agree with Muthiah that it’s not so much about the gays and straights as it is about the haves and the have-nots. H DNA 121