Sri Lanka

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I was on my way to Sri Lanka - this marked the halfway point of my trip, and the first non-surface travelling.

The plane was only half full, and it was only a short trip, less than four hours. This did nothing to help the fact that the flight was from 11pm to 4.45am (Sri Lankan time) so sleep was a trifle lacking that night. But what did I care, who did not have to work that day (/week/month/year)? On board I gratefully accepted a gin and tonic - my first drink since the homemade 'syrup' in Tehran. The steward obviously thought I needed fortifying, as when he poured me a glass of wine with my meal, he then said, "Have another", and duly filled a plastic tumbler for me. This was quite a difference from the Islamic countries of Iran and UAE. Another difference was the dress of the women on board the plane. Whereas the Islamic women were almost completely covered up (by law in Iran), the uniforms of the stewardesses of Sri Lankan Airlines revealed quite a bit of flesh (and one or two of them seemed to have much to reveal).

I caught a taxi from the airport into Colombo, and was immediately annoyed at myself for not getting public transport - which would have allowed me to see more of the country, meet more people and of course save money. Somewhere between those drinks and the lack of sleep I was not thinking ethically. We passed under a big sign: a smiling picture of the Minister of Irrigation welcomed me to Sri Lanka. (Of course, who else but the Minister of Irrigation?) Tuk tuks, the three-wheeled motorcycle-powered little taxis, buzzed about everywhere, reminding me of Daleks on Prozac.

I wanted to head out of the big noisy city and explore some of the south west beach area, famous for decades, and apparently making a comeback after being devastated by the Tsunami a few years before. I caught a cheap and lovely old bouncing and rattling train toward Galle, from where I could easily reach Unawatuna, one of the renowned beach villages.

When I got on the train I was grateful for a young man who suggested, via some dexterous gesturing, that I would have a better view of the sea from a seat in another carriage, on the other side of the train. I followed his suggestion, and he then produced a card explaining that he was deaf, and would I kindly consider giving him a donation? He showed me a list of names and nationalities of other people who had apparently each donated 1,000 rupees to him. I dutifully did the same. My second regret for the morning - it was only about $10, but for one beggar in a country full of very poor people, from a backpacker on an evaporating budget, it was probably $9 too much. I had been fooled by the old psychological trick of suggestion. Look - others gave 1,000, you will unthinkingly do the same! My fellow train travellers, locals, were not impressed and told me so.

The journey was relaxing after that, despite the bounciness, and we were shepherded by the sternly uniformed and named 'Railway Protection Police'. The train wasn't busy, but trains coming the other way were overflowing, presumably with commuters. People kept coming to chat with me, sitting on the seat opposite, but I must have appeared rude or stupid, as it was difficult to hear them over the rattling of the train. And I refused to shut the window I was sitting next to, because the sea views were great - waves almost crashing onto the side of the train for miles on end. A sight worth 1,000 rupees?

In Galle I wanted to have a rest and a quiet wander around the old town but there were too many helpful amateur tour guides and tuk tuk drivers for that to happen. One guide showed me his 'official' tour guide pass, and made me promise to only take government-registered tuk tuks, and to only pay the official rate of 68 rupees per km. He then secured me a tuk tuk for that rate, but I went off walking, and soon found other 'official' rates of varying prices. When I did catch one the seven or eight kms to Unawatuna, I simply negotiated a flat fee with the driver, who was happy to accept the discounted rate of 300 rupees. This was after a mostly harrassment-free walk around the old portugese colonial buildings and beautiful sea walls of Galle. I heard several times about the generosity of one Shane Warne in helping to rebuild parts of the town after the Tsunami. Good on ya, Warney.

My driver (I like that phrase) helped me find a hotel in Unawatuna, a large beachy one, with balconies and open terraces abounding, for a good price. The hotel was called 'Cormoran', Cormorant' or 'Cormara', depending on which sign you looked at. Every time I asked for something, for my whole stay, the member of staff had to phone someone else to ask. I felt it was a good use of underemployed staff when there was only one guest. Things were still slow following the tsunami. My room was large and white, above a huge part-open-aired function room, set for a dinner for 150 that had not yet been booked.

I had a cool shower and slept in the early afternoon for two hours. I walked along the beach, and thought it looked like a normal beach scene, although there did seem to be much building work going on, and maybe some of the newer buildings were a tad too close to the sea, as in built in the sea, so that in order to walk along the beach you needed to do a fair bit of wading. A few young local men were in swimming, or impressively executing reverse handsprings on the sand (goal celebration grandstanding stuff). There seemed to be no more than a dozen tourists on loungers, walking or reading on balconies.

I melted into the warm sea, out of the hot air, keeping an eye on my shoes and shirt, as a stray dog did the same. A hand-sized piece of timber hit me in the back; one of the dozens of bits of rubbish from the building work. The sea and beach were not that clean, but still refreshingly lovely to float on. I read for a couple of hours them swam again. On the quiet end of the beach only a couple of people wandered past. A 'Glass Boat' dawdled past, carrying a dozen Sri Lankan adolescent boys and a late-middle-aged white man.

I sat alone on the edge of the hotel's function space and ate a dinner of delicious 'leek and cheese' soup - made especially for me I was told, and with the chef's compliments. Then chicken and rice, watched all the time eagerly mouthful by mouthful by same chef and waiter. Afterwards I found an internet cafe and drank some local Lion lager. I didn't stay out too late - feeling guilty about keeping up the staff, being their only guest!

Wednesday 4 November

No brilliant sunrise for me on my first morning at repudedly one of the world's best beaches. It was grey day, but still warm. Breakfeast again alone, with that sea of prepared tables, and the hovering chef and waiter. I am reminded of how poor a country Sri Lanka is when the chef asks me if I have a pen he can have.

My plan for the day is a quick trip back into Galle to visit an ATM, for I foolishly thought Unawatuna would have one. After two weeks in Iran with not a sinlge ATM I was being too relaxed! Apart from that I was going to take it easy for a change... A luxuriously long swim - more of a float than a swim - all the while grinning and even laughing out loud to myself at what a good experience I was having. Then it started gently to rain, which didn't matter, as it remained warm. I dozed on a lounger under cover on the balcony of the hotel until mid afternoon when the rain eased. I hadn't fancied a dash along windy roads in the wet in an open-sided skiddy three-wheeled tuk tuk.

In the slightly drier conditions, in the tuk tuk to Galle, I found myself again grinning and laughing slightly madly to myself - this time enjoying immensly the tuk tuk ride along the coast, passing trestle tables laden with freshly-caught fish for sale, passing cows munching on green verges, and being passed by three - and even four - people crowded onto the back of single motorbikes. In Galle I bought some fruit for a healthy supper - hands of tiny bananas, apples, a guava. And another pen.

I also checked the train times for my departure, after getting through the barrage of, "Hello!" "Hello, Mr! You want tuk tuk?" "You want taxi? Where you wanna go?" A quieter man wanted to advise me about Kandy, the ancient former capital in the hills, where I planned to go the following day.
"Which hotel you staying at here?" he then asked.
"Cormoran," I replied.
"Ah, yes. I am the chef there. You like my cooking?"

I was speechless for a moment, knowing that he wasn't the chef who had cooked for me twice and watched me devour each mouthful, but thinking that maybe this man had been working backstage in the kitchen. But then I remembered from my previous trip how much some Sri Lankan men are prone to lying. Not for any obvious gain, necessarily, but maybe to increase their status in the eyes of a stranger? Later, after I leave a spice shop, and old man sidles up to me and says, "I hope you enjoyed your visit - that is my spice shop." And a casually-dressed man on the train platform, just as the train pulls in, announces to me that he is the train driver for the next journey.

Thursday 5

No electricity or water greet me in the morning, but I have a swim in the sea before breakfast so I don't seem to care. A new face talks to me over breakfast, and I ask if he is staying for long. He tells me he is the owner, but I think he actually might be. I phone a guest house in Kandy, and think I have reserved a room, but the woman's English is not good, so who knows. My tuk tuk waits at 10am, as arranged the day before. It is now pouring with rain, so no final beach pictures.

On the train station in Galle I meet some travelling Czechs and we all board our wet train - wet seats and floors - and head off to Colombo. The train is full with a procession of men and women selling food. Several singing blind people, some with drums they beat as they sing, beg for rupees. I ask about the train fare to Kandy in the tourist information office, and end up declining their offer of an all-expenses trip for US$100, and instead book my own train ticket for $2.20.

Before the train departs I have time to wander near the Fort, and chat to local stall holders who insist on posing for photos and talking about Warney. In amongst all the meandering tuk tuks, uniforms and guns (an army not convinced of lasting peace) I am told off for trying to wander into a restricted area of the port.

The train to Kandy was amazing - at first rice fields and palm trees, and an almost imperceptible sensation that we are ascending into the hills. Suddenly dramatic views of misty blue mountains appear, it gets cooler, and dusk descends. In Kandy I stay with a family apparently known to the taxi driver I engage to take me to the guest house I had phoned. His friends, one of whom is a doctor, are cheaper, friendly and the house is clean and welcoming. They normally take paying guests, and even though they are full that night they make up a room they don't normally use. It belongs to their son who is studying business in the US.

Before bed I walk back into town and wander around the lake, taking in the picturesque temples and Bhudda statues that dominate the city. Tomorrow I will visit the Temple of the Bhudda Tooth - a joy I had not anticipated when I was planning this trip months ago. A tuk tuk glides past with a similar passanger list to the glass bottomed boat I had seen the day before.

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