Reposted from:  http://tinybackpacker.com

I’ll let you in on a secret – the trip to Sri Lanka is actually the beginning of my solo backpacking experience.  Last week in Istanbul I was accompanying my mom to an international psychotherapy congress.  Couple days ago I put her on a plane to Kiev and went in the opposite direction.

Being finally in Sri Lanka feels like waking up after a long cold.  Which partially what it is.  After rainy Istanbul, sun-bathed Unawatuna is hard to contemplate.  Especially considering that it took me 2 long days to get here.

I’ve picked a budget airline of course.  The said airline (Air Arabia) is flying to all sorts of cool locations in south Asia via a bizarre airport of Sharjah.  I googled the hell out of Sharjah and knew better than to expect much comfort, but it was the cultural differences that proved to be most…. emm… peculiar.

You can say that I’m somewhat biased against Muslim destinations.  Being a girl who is traveling on her own it’s hard not to be.  Stuck in Sharjah for 17 I had a trip to the city in mind, but was advised against leaving the airport without a male companion.  Which didn’t upset me much after I learned that it is a “dry” emirate (no alcohol of any kind, anywhere, period – except for the airport that is, where I was charged USD10 for a small bottle of Stella Artois). 

In Istanbul I didn’t think much of the 6 am loudspeaker broadcasted prayers.  It went with the territory – our tiny hotel was trapped between Blue Mosque and Haiga Sofia.  If anything, it was a handy wake up call.  I was somewhat taken aback, however, when on the plane a deep male baritone repeated “Allahu Akbar” three times and proceeded to read a prayer.  It appeared that all Air Arabia flights begin that way.  It appeared that you can watch a number of American sitcoms in UAE – but they will be interrupted with a prayer too.  I have also witnessed that many of the Emirati women don’t know about 100 ml liquids limit and as a result security control takes twice the time.  And when their half-a-gallon bottles of body lotion are being tossed into the garbage, they get cross with security guards and start lamenting noisily, which is a little disturbing when it’s a group performance by – say – 5 adult chicks.  (And sometimes they even proceed to hop up to the trash can, pull out a bottle of confiscated deodorant and spray it all over them, head to toe – not to let the good stuff go to waste.  After which the entire plane smells like a duty free perfume department.)

But all these things – the prayer, the security circus, the weird combo of showing no skin other than nose and forehead yet wearing the brightest make up imaginable – are somewhat odd, but not intimidating. There was something though, that spooked me, made me concerned about the psychological well-being of these women.  How do I put it?  Oh what the hell: some of the women dressed in all black, for the lack of better word, stink.  As in produce overwhelmingly intense odor of unwashed clothing and/or body.  Which given the climate/fashion combo is understandable, but still quite sad.

Seated with one of such foully smelling ladies on the plane, I’m almost too quick to judge her.  She comes across as angry and nervous ad her black elbow is sticking out far beyond the armrest.  Suddenly she leans in and touches my seat belt.  She’s making sure that I’m buckled up safely.  She still smells, and is anything but smiles and happiness, but I can sense a motherly note in her.  I recall one of the speakers saying at my mom’s psychotherapy get-together: “You might be immediately repulsed by the client.  The client might seem weird, illogical, counterproductive and downright stupid to you.  But don’t forget – he or she has been following a long path and did their best to adapt, to survive.  Everyone is doing the best they possibly can, in the conditions they are in.”

We land.  The black ghost detaches herself from the seat, but only after two men in the row in front stand up to leave – I’m guessing the husband and the son.  Abruptly she turns, stiff, unsmiling, seemingly irritated – and makes a little wave at me, then swiftly catches up with her men.  I remain contemplating the energy of this gesture – it’s more intense than any of the typically western über-friendly goodbyes.  I’m staring at her back.  She’s alright.