A Unique Sri Lanka Adventure: The Menstruation Party

Beruwela, Sri Lanka, September 1991. I woke to what I thought was gunfire. By the following evening, I was at a family celebration, trying to eat dinner with my fingers. Christiane, meanwhile, was having an even more educational time.

Not the wake-up call I had in mind

Sri Lanka was in the middle of a civil war. In the southwest, where I was staying, my own encounters with it had been limited, although military roadblocks and news of bombings in Colombo were reminders that this was no ordinary holiday backdrop.

So when loud bangs woke me in the night, my first thought was not, “How lovely, a celebration.” I sat up in bed, convinced the fighting had reached Beruwela. The noise sounded very close to the hotel and went on for about a quarter of an hour.

Then silence. I stayed awake. Apparently, my imagination had volunteered for the night watch.

An invitation I certainly hadn’t expected

The next morning, I asked my German friends whether they had heard it too. Then Lale, a local friend we had met on the beach, explained what had happened. A girl nearby had had her first period, and the family was celebrating. The bangs were fireworks.

That was quite a change of programme. I had spent the night imagining a military emergency. The neighbours had been announcing a family occasion.

Lale invited us to the celebration. We knew neither the girl nor her family, but we were warmly welcomed. It was a coming-of-age celebration, and none of us had ever attended anything like it.

Unexpected guests of honour

That evening, we went along with Lale. There were four of us Germans, including Christiane, my friend’s wife. Loud local pop music filled the air, and the girl being celebrated wore a white dress and looked proud.

Before long, we were receiving rather more attention than we had expected. Christiane, with her blonde hair and blue eyes, attracted a small audience of curious children. She later told us that being watched so closely had felt rather strange. I suspect none of us was entirely prepared to become part of the evening’s entertainment.

Inside, we were seated at a table while the other guests gathered around. As guests of honour, we were supposed to eat first. The room was swelteringly hot, the food smelled wonderful, and everyone was waiting.

There was just one small difficulty. No cutlery. And four Germans whose confidence had suddenly deserted them.

Dinner, with an audience

We began cautiously, using our fingers and making a fairly unconvincing job of it. Lale took pity on us. He showed us how to gather the food with the fingertips of the right hand and use the thumb to push it into the mouth. He also explained the importance of using the right hand rather than the left.

An audience, unfamiliar table manners and a meal that was becoming hotter with every mouthful. Nothing like a relaxed dinner to help you settle into another culture.

The flavours were wonderful. The chillies were enthusiastic. Soon our faces were red, our lips were burning, and my ears had joined the protest. We were offered grated coconut to help, but by then my taste buds were struggling to provide a detailed report.

Oddly enough, that evening helped turn me into a fan of Sri Lankan and Indian food. Apparently, I like a meal that introduces itself properly.

The water was not a drink

Outside, a young man came around carrying a brass bowl of water. Christiane, understandably thirsty, took it from him and had a generous sip. For a brief moment, the rest of us were rather envious.

Then came the startled reactions and laughter. The bowl was part of a ritual. We were supposed to touch it briefly from underneath with both hands. Drinking from it had not been included in the instructions.

Unfortunately, neither had the instructions.

Christiane was embarrassed. The young man retrieved the bowl. I was quietly relieved he had reached her before me, because I was thirsty enough to have made precisely the same mistake.

Eventually, someone brought a large bottle of cola. At last, a drink whose purpose we understood.

One last chilli

You might imagine that was enough excitement for one evening. Then another young man appeared with a bowl of green chillies, which the guests were eating as casually as we might eat pretzel sticks.

Christiane asked whether they were hot. He moved his head, and we understood the gesture as “no.” She took one and bit into it.

Her face supplied the translation we had missed.

We had clearly misunderstood his answer. Whatever confidence we had brought to the evening about reading gestures had now joined our table manners in the corner.

I felt sorry for Christiane. Somehow, she had managed to collect nearly all the misunderstandings while the rest of us watched and learned. But I also remember the warmth of being invited into a celebration by people who owed us absolutely nothing.

We arrived knowing very little. We left knowing a little more—and with considerable respect for a green chilli.

For more memories of the country, continue with Sri Lanka, Where the Sun Still Rises With Hope.