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Karapoththas, kan-kun, kokis and kakussiya
By Tissa Devendra
Reading an old travel book about Brazil I discovered that the local Portuguese word for an all-too-familiar insect pest was "carpatos"! Intrigued, I fired off a query to the Royal Asiatic Society [SL] which published it in its journal many months ago. What I wanted to know was whether we in Sri Lanka had no cockroaches (karapoththas) till the Portuguese came here 500 years ago in their vermin infested wooden ships and 'gifted' us these pests, together with the Portuguese word for them. Or did the Portuguese never have 'karapoththas' till they landed in 'Ceilao' and took these pests, together with the Sinhalese name for them, back to the other Portuguese colony - Brazil?

In spite of the RAS boasting of many scholars of the Portuguese language among its correspondents, none responded. Nor did any entomologist, who should have been able to cast some light as to when these insects were first found in Sri Lanka. It was left to the Sinhala scholar Professor Vinnie Vitharna to venture an explanation. He felt that we did have these pests before 1505 and called them 'deliyo'. But he could not cast any light as to why the Sinhalese began calling them 'karapoththas'. Nor could he imagine how this name got to Brazil, unless there was some Iberian connection. I do hope some alert reader of this newspaper (which has a far wider readership than the RAS journal) will be able to cast some light on this conundrum so that, if cockroaches did come with the Portuguese in 1505, we'll have yet another grudge to curse them for in 2005 !!

Kan-kun
I always believed that the leafy green 'kan-kun', growing wild along canal banks and cultivated in soggy market gardens to be sold in green 'bouquets' in 'polas' and by loud voiced 'keera-karayas' was truly indigenous to Sri Lanka. The imagination with which Sinhala cuisine transforms it into many dishes, rich and strange, bolstered my belief. My insular assumption was punctured when my wife and I sat down to our first meal at a Chinese restaurant in Bangkok - where the menu positively bristled with dishes boasting 'kan-kun' as a ingredient. I asked our host as to how the Chinese had learnt to cook a 'Sinhalese vegetable' and also retain its name. He looked at me pityingly and said "Don't you realise that, from its very sound, kan-kun just has to be Chinese? We Sinhalese must have got it from them. As to how and when - I just don't know."

Chastened and disappointed though we were that Sri Lanka had not made inroads into Chinese cuisine, we had to admit that ' Kankun a la Chine' was extraordinarily delectable.

It is intriguing to work out when 'kan-kun' came to Sri Lanka. Was it brought by the Chinese artisans who worked on the magnificent stone 'Peking lions' lining the stairway to the Dalada Maligawa in Yapahuva? Or was it brought by Ching Ho's (Zeng He, as he is now called) army as they marched inland from Galle and took away our king and left 'kan-kun' behind as fair exchange. I wonder whether our archivists will ever be able to research ancient Sinhalese cookery olas to discover when kan-kun entered our kitchens.

Another dimension has now emerged with some scholars claiming that Admiral Ching Ho (Zeng He) made landfall in America's Pacific coast, before Columbus. Who has not heard of the city of Cancun in Mexico? Did Ching Ho take kan-kun there - or did he get 'can-cun' from the Mayas or Aztecs ? Intriguing questions, indeed, about this flavoursome green leaf.

Kokis
Urban myth has it that kokis, that crunchy delicacy so integral to Sinhala Aluth Avurudu, is a culinary transformation of a Dutch sweetmeat whose name sounds rather similar but is spelt (in the inexplicable Dutch orthography) as 'koekjis' - or something like it. This is totally unbelievable. Inquiries in and around cafes and eatinghouses in Amsterdam never produced anything remotely resembling the Sinhala kokis.

Nor can one ever expect the Dutch to ever produce this crisp, lotus-shaped delicacy, which leaves behind a delicate aftertaste of the now almost-illicit coconut oil in which it is fried. None of its ingredients is native to the Netherlands and, as such, it could never have evolved there.

The only explanation I can venture is that when the Dutch came across this sweetmeat they called it a generic term for a fried sweet -'koekjis' or something like it. Our ever adaptable Sinhalese, liked the crisp sound of the new word and promptly adopted it, cheerfully jettisoning whatever time-honoured name was used earlier.

Kakussiya
'Kakkussiya' is already an archaism, having been replaced in colloquial Sinhala by another transformed borrowing -"lat-eka". Kakkussiya was the Sinhala word most used for the outside lavatory (another word now fallen into disuse). I never gave a second thought to the origin of this name - perhaps vaguely sensing it was Tamil in origin, like the poor outcaste scavengers who cleaned these units.

But one day we were at a gathering where there was a young Belgian woman - a Dutch speaking Fleming - who went into peals of laughter when she first heard the word being used, and its meaning. Then she enlightened us as to its origin. It was from the Dutch 'kak-huis' -'huis' meant house and 'kak'…..was self-explanatory. She said it was now an archaism never heard in polite circles and probably used only by aged rustics. We assured her that the Sinhala derivative was rapidly going the same way.

This sampling of exotic words which came to be absorbed into Sinhala show how hospitable we were in accepting Portuguese insects, Chinese vegetables and Dutch toilet architecture and making them our own!

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