Glasnost in the Land of Serendipity

I thought I knew Sri Lanka. I lived here for a year in the early 90s. It was the focus of a good portion of my doctoral work when I returned to the States. What I didn't know was that the Russians had moved in.

A few cases in point:

1. I arrive in the Colombo International Airport earlier this week and make my way directly to the immigration check point. As the immigration officer (a Sri Lankan) pages through my passport, I notice on his desk, front and center, a 750 ml bottle of Smirnoff, half full with a clear liquid, the cap off. I consider snapping a photo, then think better of it.
2. Not long after, and the Russians are in town for a cricket match. Accompanying them is the Russian cheerleading squad, clad in very short, tantalizingly revealing suitlets, and shimmying their slavic hips like it's the last dance before the apocalypse. This makes the front page of the national paper for the next two days followed by a commitment from the minister of culture never to allow the Russian cheerleading team back into the country.
3. Last night, I'm driving through Colombo and pass a casino called Bally's with a large conspicuous sign that reads "Foreigners Only." This strikes me as amusing and I ask my Sri Lankan colleague for clarification. Turns out Bally's, the Bellagio, and the various other Vegas-rip-offs sprinkled across the city are simply houses of ill repute--the places to go to meet nice, or not-so-nice, Russian ladies. No locals allowed.

I've been stuffing myself silly this week with fiery Lankan curries. And yet, what I seem to crave most on this tropical island is a big bowl of borscht. (Well, not really, but this whole Russian thing does start to make you feel a little funny after a while.)