Colombo, Sri Lanka. March 9, 2016.

---

At this point we are safely home after landing in Ottawa on April 6 in a blinding snowstorm! Welcome back to Canada!! The blog posts will keep coming as we take our time to remember, and write about, our experiences. Just one at a time now, though, as we have consistent internet access. We hope that you continue to enjoy our adventures. On to...

Colombo, Sri Lanka. March 9, 2016.

We came away from Columbo with a new appreciation of snake charmers. If there's an honest man in this city, he hid as soon as we arrived. Here, the lamp of Diogenes long ago exhausted its fuel.

Rogues and thieves, liars and con men; these are the people we met in Columbo.

Locals simply seemed incapable of playing it straight, preferring to use charm and deceit over honest negotiation. I'm sure there are lovely, honest, hardworking Sri Lankans in this city of over 5 million, but over two days we didn't meet one.

This is an old colonial city, still struggling to find an identity not based in British, Dutch or Portuguese leftovers. British-built government buildings and hotels from the late 19th and early 20th century dominate downtown, with the occasional modern office tower.

We opted for our own walking tour. Doug was feeling poorly, so Marianne decided to join us in our wanderings and we set off through the port grounds, dodging the aggressive cab drivers and tour floggers. We had been warned to verify everything, in writing if possible, before getting into a vehicle or committing to anything at all, actually. Drivers change the deals, the itinerary and the currency on the fly, from per trip to per person, from round trip to one-way . . . untrustworthy at best. Even when the deal is struck, they will try to bully changes into the mix.

Knowing this, we avoided the drivers and navigated ourselves out of the port and into the downtown area, where we found ourselves in a traffic circle outside the Grand Oriental Hotel, another British remnant, surrounded by shouting tuktuk drivers and tour floggers. We met up with Rick and Joy, who decided, wisely or unwisely, to join us in a wander.

We fought our way through the thick, badgering crowd with our elbows out and we kept a tight grip on knapsacks. Nevertheless, a most tenacious small man remained attached to our group as we moved into the city.

I told him several times we had no need of a guide or of any assistance, as we were headed for the Pettah Market, and I knew how to find it. He tagged along, insisting that he could help us out, that he wasn't asking for money, and that he wanted to sell us tours for the next day. Indeed, he had several proposals, none of which interested us enough to enter into bargaining. We continued to tell him that we didn't want a guide, that we had no intention of paying him anything, put he was persistent, charming and helpful.

It was the helpful part that finally led us to stop trying to chase him away. Like a sneaky puppy, he endeared himself by helping us cross busy streets and pointing out interesting sights. When we reached the bazaar area of the market, he explained that we were easily marked as tourists and that any prices we would be given would be grossly inflated. So he helped us skirt the clothing and trinket markets and led us to . . . the food market.

Wow. This is where he proved his best value, and we started to think that he may be useful after all. He led us deep into the covered warehouses where perhaps I may have ventured on my own, but never would have with our little group.

We saw more bananas in one place than even at plantations in Central America. The smells were hypnotic, almost jungle-like in their richness and variety, and more than once I just stood still and closed my eyes, letting the noises and smells wash over me. The stifling, crowded humidity of the building was only increased by the heat of the workers pushing through with their heavy loads. A passageway of sorts led laterally down the back of the building, and our stubborn and unshakable guide pointed out unfamiliar peppers and fruits and vegetables, and grinning vendors tried to entice us into a bite of small green deadly-looking habaneros.

We popped out near the floating market, where more tourist shops on lake barges waited to tempt us. Rick had come out without sunglasses and our lamphrey-like guide led him to a few stores, offering to broker a deal. Rick didn't find anything suitable, and after we had a little water break at the picnic tables by the lake, we headed deeper into the city.

As we passed one of the shopkeepers, he caught our eye, pointed at our guide and waggled his forefinger and rolled his eyes under raised eyebrows, clearly indicating what we already knew: he was not to be trusted. Rick and I exchanged a few words, and resigned ourselves to the fact that we were likely in for a messy confrontation by day's end.

The shops district was amazing. Pedestrians crowded the streets and small trucks and taxis inched their way through. Row upon row of stalls sold identical items; one store sold only plastic hangars, as did the one next door, and the one next door to that . . .

He led us to the Jami-al-Afar mosque, aka the Red mosque or the Candy Cane mosque festooned with red and white brickwork and looking like it was simply plunked into the middle of the block and then surrounded with regular 6-story buildings so that it pokes out at intervals in between the buildings.

We saw myriad shopping streets as we made our way to what out guide said was a great reclining Buddha. When he called in the tuktuks, that's when we all threw up our hands and told him to forget it, we were heading back to the hotel. "Too far," he said, "You need a tuktuk." Nope. We were already walking, as I knew full well that we had travelled in a great circle and were very close to our starting point.

He tagged along to the hotel and rode the elevator with us to escort us to the Harbour View bar, as if we couldn't find it ourselves. We gave him the brushoff and I gave him $10US. He took it without comment and looked atound expectantly at everyone else. "Nope," I said, "That's thanks for your time, from all of us. You said you weren't after money, but there, you have some anyway." He badgered Rick and Marianne for a bit and Marianne gave him a few rupees, which he regarded as if she had handed him a squashed bug.

We ignored him studiously, knowing he wouldn't make a fuss for fear he'd be ejected from the hotel. He eventually wandered off, and I cautioned everyone to be alert when leaving the hotel, as he may set some even more unsavoury people on our trail.

I should have heeded my own advice. Rick,Joy and Marianne headed back to the ship, and Jane and I decided to wander down some of the more upscale streets in search of decent art.

We did indeed find a store with some items that weren't awful, but were overpriced and poorly made. Jane liked some painted fabrics with interesting designs, but again, poor quality for their asking price.

We walked past the Kahn clock tower, the centerpiece of the government area, and a large naval installation bordered with heavy security. There were monuments and memorials to the victims of bombings during the civil war, not that many years ago. Modern towers built by banks and insurance companies rise nearby.

We found and walked along the Galle Face Green, a long boardwalk along the otherwise undeveloped waterfront on one side and the financial/business district n the other. There we met another charming rogue.

It all started so innocently, he walked by as we were taking a picture. "From the ship, are you? I work at the port."

Unlike our buddy from the the morning walk, he was clean and well-dressed and acted like someone with a job. He smoothly gave fuzzy answers to our questions as to how he was out in the afternoon instead of at work (shift work at the port - a job in logistics in container shipping).

He said his name was Rashan Perera, (we will call him Buddy) and he dug in his pocket and produced a card that could have been a port ID, but it was in Sanskrit. Not being on guard at that point, I thought nothing of it and missed the first warning sign.

He told us he was a Buddhist on his way to the Gangarama Buddhist Temple, which at 2:15 today was opening its doors and displaying its many treasures on a special day of celebration, one where they would exhibit the normally locked away Hair of the Buddha. Another one. Again, this illustrated why almost all statues of a Buddha are bald.

We told him to go on ahead, as we were just meandering and taking pictures. "Oh, you really shouldn't miss it, and you might not find it on your own. Come, come," he cajoled.

He stayed with us, pointing out places of interest, and I thus missed the second warning sign.

We continued down the seaside boulevard and he began glancing at his watch more and more often. Finally he said, "Come, come, we're going to be late," and hailed a tuktuk. I missed the most obvious warning sign and sealed our fate, as, in a trusting mood, we slid into the vehicle. As we moved off, I asked, alarmed too late, "What will this cost?" He waved off my concerns, "It's not far." He spoke rapidly to the driver, who responded with a grin that should have been yet another warning sign.

Concerns evaporated at the temple. He beckoned us in, "Come, come!" An amazing place where the grandeur of the statues, the lushness of the gardens and the beauty of the buildings chased away my worries and I thought, "Aw, how bad can it be? I'll get burned for a few bucks, but this is really very cool."

This sprawling urban temple mixes Sri Lankan, Thai, Indian and Chinese architecture along with 'antiques' collected by the abbott. Our new friend showed us the aging abbott giving audiences in the courtyard, where the faithful brought a combination of offerings to the temple, and items for sale.

The abbott, it seems, is an eccentric collector of antiques, and has amassed a treasure trove of everything from a solid gold buddha barely visible to the naked eye, to others carved from large precious and semiprecious stones, 24 and 18-K figurines of all shapes and sizes, several vintage cars including a model T Ford and a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost that looks like it hasn't run since the 1940s, and an amazing assortment of junk and valuables, jewels and archaeological items, ornate carvings, hideous paintings, and a million and two knickknacks.

The final warning sign was the tuktuk still waiting for us outside. "Come, come!" My attempts to head off on our own were overpowered by his reasonable offer to take us back to our starting point, as his apartment was near there and he needed to get some sleep before his next shift. But he had time to show us some sights along the way.

So off we went, my anxiety at potential cost lost in the fascination at what we were seeng and the fact that Buddy was indeed knowledgable and interesting as we passed such tourist staples as the Columbo Fort (come, come), the Old Dutch Hospital Complex (now a shopping and food court complex) (come, come), the old parliament building, looking very White House-ish (come, come), Independence Square (come, come), the Cinnamon Gardens (come, come), the National Museum (come, come), the elephant sculpture (come, come), and Viharamahadevi park.

He spoke of the political history of the country, which did not stabilise until 2009, while glossing over the viciousness of the civil war, the public bombings, the countryside atrocities.

All in all, it was an enlightening couple of hours, and we saw many things which we would not have found on our own. Had they played it straight, I would have happily paid them each a fair price for their time. But no, we pulled over, and the driver demanded 12,500 rupees, about $110CAD. I choked, telling them both that they were out of their idiot minds, that that amounted to $85US. No, no, 1.6 dollars to 100 rupees. Liar, it's 1.4 to the hundred. He dropped it down to 10,000. I dug 5,000 out of my backpack, about $34US, telling them that was all I had, and all they were getting. No problem, we'll take you to an ATM. Go ahead, said I, I have no bank card. There were two of them, both larger than I, and the tone had changed. I dug out an American 20, tossed it at the driver, and we pushed past Buddy onto the sidewalk. Not enough, said the driver. Call a cop, said I. The driver drove off, sullen, but no doubt inwardly elated at his windfall. Buddy had the gall to look at us and plead, "Nothing for me?" "Your friend has your cut," I growled and we walked off briskly.

It was only a kilometer back to the port gates but we were harassed by tuktuks the whole way, warning us that the ship was still a long way off. As we approached the gate, which was not visible from where we were, another man on the sidewalk stopped. "If you're going back to the ship, that gate's locked. You'll have to go around the other way," he said, and pointed back the way we had come.

"No, it's not," I said, "It's not even 3:30."

"Yes, they closed at three," he insisted. "Come, come", he said, "It's a long way and I have a tuktuk just over. . . " I cursed him out, turned the corner and we entered the open gate.

Leslie, a world traveller for decades, carefully negotiated a price of ten dollars and said there would likely be a tip at the end. When the trip ended and she handed over $11US, the driver protested, "What's this? I said Euros!" And argument was about to erupt but Leslie said, "You'll get what we agreed on," and, exiting the tuktuk she promptly tripped over a curb, hitting the cobbles and drawing blood. The driver continued to insist on additional payment, but evaporated as police materialised.

I told our story at the poker table and Texas Jim, a man of wisdom and a cautious traveller, told me of how he and his wife were approached by a charming dude claiming to be from the ship.

"He talked a real good game and had me convinced he was part of the ship's Excursions group, and after lots of friendly conversation, he tried to get us into a tuktuk, naming the the sights we had missed on the ship's tour the day before."

That was Jim's clue. "Aha," said he, "You have named two venues which were indeed on yesterday's tour. If you were from the ship you would have known that." They thus escaped narrowly. Others were less lucky, and were hit up for costs over double the original agreement, which in many cases was extortionately high in the first place.

They told me and told me and told me, tuktuks are not recommended. Don't get in without a written contract, these snakes wrap around your ankles and don't let go until they manage to extort something extra.

Spoiled my whole mood.

So the first was a parasite, the second a slick deceiver, the third an outright thief, and the fourth a bald-faced liar. What am I to make of Columbo? It may be that their only recently abated state of violence and unrest has left them feeling unbalanced and vindictive. It is notable that they are biting the hand that feeds them, but these reactions are not uncommon after a traumatic experience; kinda like Angry Cousin Marvin, who was never the same again after falling out of that tree.

---

Photos

Colombo
Bananas!

Colombo
The market.

Colombo
More market...waaay at the back...

Colombo
Jami-al-Afar mosque or the candy cane mosque.

Colombo
Gangarama Bhuddist temple.

Colombo
Gangarama temple

Colombo
Gangarama temple

Colombo
Gangarama temple. Bhudda collection. Gold and precious stones.

Colombo
Gangarama temple. In amongst the abbot's collection.

Colombo
Gangarama temple. Bhudda's hair!! See that little black thingy?

Colmbo
The White House-ish building. Old parliament building.

Colombo
Another temple.

Colombo
Park.

Colombo
After ditching Buddy and his friend. At port entrance.