The hills are alive with the smell of Ceylon!

A fortnight in Sri Lanka

Sunrise, Tangalle

For as long as I can remember I have wanted to visit Sri Lanka, I have no idea why, just one of those gut feelings.  It was even one of my choices when applying for teaching work in Asia, however Thailand won out and I enjoyed eighteen months of thrilling adventure and hilarious confusion while Sri Lanka simmered away on the back burner.  My intuition and I have become friends over the years and I have begun to trust her no questions asked, so I listened to her plea and booked a flight to Colombo for my final Asian adventure before returning home to Ireland.  I had a mission to complete, to get a tan.  I was currently ‘Orchid Cream’ according to the Dulux colour palette.

I approached a taxi company at the airport, clutching my Agoda booking for a homestay close by.  The two ladies looked puzzled as they studied their maps but couldn’t figure out where I was bound for.  Another taxi tout, who had been practically doing back flips to get my attention in an attempt to steal my business from the ladies, seemed to know which direction to send me so I jumped into his car and off I went in the direction of Colombo, as was stated on my confirmation from Agoda.  The home stay was almost 40km in the opposite direction in Negombo, so my taxi fare cost almost five times my room rate for the evening by the time I arrived.  I should have asked to sleep in the taxi at that price.  So, began my fortnight in Sri Lanka, and the feeling of hemorrhaging money which stayed with me throughout.

View over Kandy

I shook off the initial kerfuffle, and packed a beach bag for some serious relaxation.  I caught a tuk tuk down to the beach, still unclear as to the correct address of the homestay I had booked.  When I asked the tuk tuk driver what street I was on he told me to call him to get back, rather than answer the question I asked.  Business savvy – yes, frustrating - very.  Anyway, too tired to argue, I took his number and ventured towards the beach.  I met with a conversational man who asked me where I was from.  Still unaware of the tout technique I, not wanting to be impolite, answered while walking but he approached and told me he was a teacher, showed me a crudely photocopied brochure from a school which I could barely decipher, and told me his students love to hear about foreigners and asked if I would write my name and where I was from on a piece of paper.  As naive as I am, I am not a total idiot so I questioned him as he showed me this piece of paper.  It had people’s names and countries alongside figures, which I queried.  The so called teacher told me people write their names and countries down, then as he rubbed his thumb and fingers together in a ‘money’ gesture he suggested I "help the children".  This was not my first encounter with a chancer, but I still find myself flustered by trickery like this.  It wasn’t to be the last time I was approached for money, but for the meantime I found a lonely spot where I could sit and read in peace.

I enjoyed a couple of hours of reading and sunbathing before I got thirsty so I popped into a beach side café for some iced tea and caught sight of a mirror.  Eeek, lobster face!  Despite the cool breeze, the Sri Lankan sun is a force to be reckoned with.  I took my scarlet body back to my room for some after sun, not before getting lost.  I was unable to get my phone to work in order to ring Mr Business Acumen with his tuk tuk, so I had to ask another driver if he knew of the homestay and if he would rely on my terrible memory in getting me back.  A wild goose chase ensued and I arrived hot and flustered.  I have heard of people going away to lose themselves, but this is ridiculous.  Writing off my first day, I made a pot of coffee and settled in for the evening, plotting my route for the coming fortnight.  I was now ‘Volcanic Splash 3’.  

Applying wax during batik making

The next morning I headed to Kandy and had my first experience of Sri Lankan buses.  I was nervous of the long journey without air conditioning (first world problems, eh?)  Although I was relieved that, with the windows open to allow in the cool Sri Lankan breeze, I enjoyed a scenic and comfortable journey upland.  I found a great hostel with a rooftop view of the city, good coffee, and some chilled out friendly people.  I like meeting people and having a chat but at times I grow tired of the pretentious backpacker, you know the type - matted hair, excessive talk of ‘doing’ Asia, and deep convos about changing the world one hand built school at a time.  After some tea on the roof with the other guests, I had an early night and planned a full day of exploring.  After breakfast I called the tuk tuk dude who dropped me off at the hostel, as he gave me a decent price on a trip around the city and beyond.  I ticked off a few sights, but was mostly interested in the Botanical Gardens, the tea factory where the smell of ceylon sweeps it's fragrant hand across your nostrils, the batik workshops, and the spice garden where some old traditions are kept alive.  At the spice garden I met an Ayurvedic doctor who makes tonics and lotions for all sorts of ailments from the natural ingredients that grow in the garden.  It was an interesting visit, until I was handed a sheet of paper and a pencil and was told to mark off the products I liked best so we could discuss what I would buy.  Awkward.  I had no intention of buying.  I was led out of the garden with a sullenness you wouldn’t get from a teenager with a hangover.  Why didn’t he just charge me at the door for the visit?  I’d have paid for that, it was an interesting place.  By the end of the day I was weary of people constantly expecting me to fork out cash, as if it were burning a hole in my pocket.  One staff member at the Botanical Gardens held out his hand for a tip just for pointing out a chameleon in a plant.  It was exhausting, but it wasn’t until I returned home to Ireland that I began to think about the tourist industry in SL, and how people make their money.  It didn’t make sense to me at the time, and I still think an admission charge would be better at places like the tea factory, batik workshops and spice garden but in hindsight, and with some perspective, I guess it comes down to the difference in our cultures and how that affects our priorities what we expect from others.

That evening I relaxed with dinner at a rooftop restaurant, and enjoyed a 2 for 1 cocktail offer, which turned out to be a 3 for 2…oops, should have listened more carefully.  I watched, with blurred vision, as the sun set over the city of Kandy.   

The following day was one I had been looking forward to for some time; I was to catch the train from Kandy to Ella.  I had read about this train journey online and was very excited to be finally doing it.  I arrived well in time to bag a seat, but only realised on board that it started its journey in Colombo, so I was left standing.  I resembled a giraffe in a box, straining my neck just to see out of the window.  I politely asked the man sitting alongside me if he could give me a heads up when he’s alighting.  A couple of hours later he gave me his seat insisting he was getting off any minute.  His wife and I started chatting, and about five stops later she suggested we swap seats so I could sit by the window.  Then about three stops later they wished me a good trip and alighted.  I was so grateful for their kindness and astuteness, as other tourists watched seats like hawks and swooped in like vultures, regardless of who was standing the longest.  The journey was as incredible as I had read; the train snaked its way uphill through the tea plantations, opening up vistas of the landscape.  At each stop sellers with baskets of drinks and snacks weaved their way through the crowd and up along the tracks. 

Seven hours after departing from Kandy I arrived in the beautiful mountainous town of Ella and treated myself to rice and curries, which comprised of ten little bowls of curries, rice and poppadoms.  At some stage on this trip, my bottomless stomach was bound to reach its peak.  Ella held a good vibe and some of the most stunning scenery I have ever seen, had I trained and become fit for the trip I’d have considered a trek.  It’s been since added to my bucket list.  After a comfy sleep in a big double bed on a quiet street, I woke to a breakfast of more rice and curries, with a beautiful view from outside my room.  This set me up for my journey to Tangalle, I was bound for the beach.  My skin had settled back down to a shade of ‘Bongo Jazz 2’, so I had some topping up to do.

At the bus stop at the side of the dusty road, I met with a man who gave me info on when my bus was due, and a nudge when it came trundling down the road.  I think he worked for the bus company although there was no way of knowing it, maybe he was just a helpful man hanging out at his favourite spot.  I couldn’t help but feel that I was about to be asked for money for his offering of help and info, but no request came.  What a shame that actual kindness gets confused with business tactics, but unfortunately that was the way on my journey so far.  In fact, Ella was the only place I had not encountered any wily ploys to relieve me of a few hundred rupees.  I boarded the bus and bagged a seat at the front, under a TV screen showing Jurassic Park.  As the bus pelted towards the mountain edge I began to think that this may be the end.  I always said if I died young it would give me comfort to know it came with a decent story -

“What happened to poor ‘oul Sinead?” 

“Oh, she flew off the side of a mountain in a Sri Lankan bus/got mangled in a trishaw on a crossroads in Mandalay/fell off a Pagoda in Bagan..”

“Cool.”

I turned my gaze towards the TV and concentrated on the fictional scary man-eating dinosaurs instead of the very possibly real scary plunge towards death outside.  Although petrifying, the view was one of the most majestic of my journey, with the grand and characterful mountains standing like proud grandparents overlooking their legacy.  On flat ground below I felt grateful at arriving unscathed and watched out of the window at the glorious world and a cow eating a poster directly off a wall. 

At Tangalle I sought out a guesthouse, called Siesta, which I found in the travel section of the Guardian website.  Noted as the friendliest place in Tangalle, it seemed like the place I needed to rest my rucksack for a few days.  I showered off the bus journey and set off for the beach, only a few metres down the quiet little road.  I ordered a fresh coconut and watched as the barman scaled the tree to fetch it.  He came over to join me, and sat with me as I read my book.  I debated which would be the most appropriate treatment of the situation here.  I wanted to sit alone and read my book, but did not want to appear rude.  So I smiled and returned to the book and hoped he would, without feeling awkward, accept my hint and leave me be.  This wasn’t the first time a bored barman would seek me out and volunteer his company.  I began to wonder if they pitied me for being alone.  I pitied them for considering being single a stigma.  I always rejected the advice to wear a ring on my ring finger whilst travelling solo, but after a fortnight in Sri Lanka I was beginning to see the advantage of just playing along with social convention.  I would even carry around a photo album of my fake wedding if I thought it would give me peace and quiet with my book.

When I returned to my room I noticed my phone had a few missed calls from a Sri Lankan number, which was strange as I had no contacts here.  However I remembered the tuk tuk driver from Kandy who I had called for all my travel in the city.  He did mention that he would call because he liked to talk.  I pretended not to hear and admired the view of the mountains, and hoped he was not serious.  It seems he was, and he was to call several times during my stay in Tangalle.  What does he want?  An awkward conversation over a bad phone line in broken English?  Anyway, I ignored the calls and hoped he’d get bored…or hook another female tourist.

The following day I hired a bicycle and headed west to find some beaches where I could have a bob about in the water.  The waves on my side were pretty rough, great for surfers, but shite for scaredy cats who can barely swim.  I stopped at a beach side bar and was greeted by a waiter who conveniently had a recommendation for another bar further down the road and, what a coincidence, also had a tuk tuk in which I could get there. Wow, my lucky day!  I politely declined, ordered a coconut, and got on with some sunbathing.  In the afternoon, I pedalled further down the hill, blocking out the realisation that I would have to pedal back up again, and found another great little beach bar that served ginger beer.  I slurped away happily and topped up on my tan.  I was, at this stage, approaching ‘Mexican Mosaic 6’.  After dinner of fresh grilled tuna on the beach I finished my book and headed back to my room before dark.  My mission for the evening was to hunt down an Ayurvedic massage, and in doing so I also happened upon some cute candle lit bars along the beach.  My masseuse, Mali, was a sweet lady who told me she was pleased to have a female customer as she often gets approached by men who are looking for a service far beyond massage…gross.  I threw my sandy bikini top in the corner and fell into a snory snooze as Mali massaged me into an almost deep sleep.  On my way out Mali paid me some lovely compliments on my “beautiful eyes” and told me I was “a young girl”…[very nice to hear.  Oh wait, there’s more to the sentence]… “but a little bit fat”.  A come on!  I have to admit, you’ve got to love the Asian honesty.  Here, ‘fat’ is a descriptive word, just like ‘tall’, it’s not meant as an insult.  I had been experiencing it in Thailand for eighteen months.  One day a man who was pumping up my bicycle tyres told me that they were flat because I was big.  The next morning, back at the guesthouse, I was debating whether to hire a bicycle or a moped and my guesthouse host Tharu, having been told of the previous night’s faux pas, teasingly suggested, “Get a bike, you are fat”.  So I settled on a bike and cycled my little fat ass to Unakaruwa beach, as recommended by Tharu, where the wind and waves were a little gentler.  I set my sarong down and opened up my next book on a quiet hot spot of the beach, and within a paragraph I was approached by two surfers who came to chat and intermittently pop into conversation that they knew of other spots further down the beach.  What is it with these guys, why is everyone so eager to move me down the beach?!  I detected that they probably also had access to a tuk tuk.  Not today boys, I’ve heard it all before.  I politely asserted myself and continued with my day, I was beginning to get the hang of this.

I decided to head back to the other side of the beach and found some lovely places, laid out with deckchairs and candle lit tables where local fishermen set up little eateries that served up their catch of the day.  I chatted with a deliciously attractive man who has recently opened up a tiny restaurant in a wooden hut, where he sells his father’s catch of seafood with cocktails and a chilled out vibe.  I don’t even know if this place has a name, it was a tiny restaurant by night and a locked up wooden hut by day.  I was talked into trying a Sri Lankan spirit called Arrack, made from coconut.  It was served with soda and lime and converted me to a new favourite tipple.  I headed on down to another candle lit restaurant on a little restaurant crawl, and ordered fish roti, not really knowing what fish roti was.  When dry flatbreads made with fish came to my table I made sure to have plenty of Lion beer to wash them down.  

The next day I became a bona fide tourist and booked a tuk tuk trip to some nearby sights, including a blowhole, Weligama stick fishermen and the Rock Temple.  The blowhole was, well, a blowhole, so that was that.  The stick fishermen were not actually fishing but were set up along the coastline ready to pose for photos at a price.  With the introduction of boats and nets the tradition of the stick fishermen has dwindled so the practice has now become a photo opportunity for tourists rather than a technique for fishing.  My tuk tuk driver translated as I negotiated a price to take pictures.  I asked some questions while I snapped and the fishermen beckoned me towards the water, inviting me to scale the apparatus they perch on.  I declined at first but after several persuasions I gave it a go.  I climbed with very little grace onto the pole, which was made of sticks bound together with rope, and sat on top for a quick photo before climbing back down with my big arse in the fisherman’s hands.  I did warn him I was not light.  I thanked the man, who was shorter and smaller than me, how he lifted me I’ll never know.  I opened my purse to pay him and he, via my driver, reminded me of the price which had jumped since our previous chat.  It seems the lift up the pole was extra.  I politely advised him that in future he should negotiate this in advance, and that today he was getting the first figure agreed on.  I handed over my money and smiled, and he accepted, although I suspect he’s still employing the same sales tactic.  I imagine quite a lot of tourists pay out of embarrassment.  I’m afraid I had not squirrelled away enough holiday money to save face.

Next and last stop was to the Rock Temple, which contrary to belief is not Axl’s Buddhist hangout, but a temple built on a large rock which juts out over a beautiful, peaceful view.  After watching the sun set from the gigantic boulder I made my way back down to the tuk tuk, and back to my guesthouse for dinner and sleep, despite an invite to the pub from the driver, I’ll call him ‘R’, who turned out to be great company on my day trip.  I was too sleepy for beer and conversation so I took a rain check until the following evening.

After a day of sunbathing, reading, and slurping smoothies on the beach I got ready for my date with R.  We met for beers and chatted for a bit before heading along the beach to have a drink at the cute little shack restaurant I had found a few nights before.  Along the way R mapped out my life for me, how considerate.  Apparently I was to stay in touch on Skype and then return to Sri Lanka to live with him because he loved me.  But the story does not have a fairytale ending as I, being of sound mind, declined and ran back to my room (alone).  The following day was spent sunbathing and ignoring calls from my future husband.  I went to bed super early as I had another day of being a tourist ahead of me, and I was tired of all this silliness. 

I woke 4am for a pick up to take me to Udawalawe National Park, where I watched families of elephants, herds of buffalo, and crocodiles all sharing the lake to bathe peacefully.  Despite paying the largest admission fee so far on this trip, I was encouraged by my guide to tip him and the jeep driver, because he claimed that they were volunteers who lived on tips.  Bizarre, but hey, I had been up since before the crack of dawn and was too tired to take on the uncomfortable exchange that would follow had I challenged this strange story.  I arrived back at my guesthouse and fought the urge to sleep with the help of a massive pot of coffee and rented a bike for a trip to the beach.  I needed some new scenery so I took off way down the sandy path, past the lagoon, and found a cute little beach restaurant with hammocks on the sand and a nice cheap menu.  But what was even more luxurious about this place was that there were no chatty surfers, there were no tuk tuk drivers, there were no staff members holding their hands out, and there were no lotharios claiming to be in love with me.  I got to relax and read!  Over rice and curries I completed another book.  Vacations give my appetite for reading some sustenance.  During my two weeks in Sri Lanka, I had gorged on five books.  I know the die hard readers amongst you would be appalled at what I’m about to say but they were all books that had been adapted to screen, and I had already watched most of the movies.  I am only a part time reader and movies provide me with my literary fodder.  I can judge a good restaurant by it’s lighting, and a good film by its poster, but choosing the right book is a mystery to me.  If it hasn’t been recommended by a friend or presented to me in movie form I will most likely ignore it.  Anyway, as I was saying, I read a lot on vacation.  I owe my lack of loneliness to the many characters who accompany me on my travels, and I can’t wait to get back to them and hear how they’re getting on.  From Pi Patel mastering a Bengal tiger on a lifeboat to Benny Hogan and her heartaches down in Knockglen.  Cheryl Strayed was a terrific travel buddy as she told me her tale of hiking the PCT in the USA while I was bootling around Myanmar on an e-bike and Elizabeth Gilbert reminded me of the magic of Bali as I lazed dreamily in a hammock on the southern coast of Sri Lanka. 

Returning to Siesta is like coming home to my safe haven, where I am sheltered from people who want, and general questions about my personal life, e.g., “Why are you not married?  Are you travelling alone?  Are you not scared?  Where is your boyfriend?”  It really is the “friendliest place in Tangalle”, as the Guardian puts it.  On my final day I had a cookery class with Harshani, Tharu’s wife.  We hand-ground coconut and made handmade coconut milk that would go into making dishes such as dhal, chicken curry, and coconut sambol.  All this was to be accompanied by poppadoms, rice, and bean curry, and this entire feast was for little old me.  In true Sri Lankan style I slept soundly after my lunch and lazily mosied to the beach for one more evening with the sunset.  I found a place called the Panorama Rock Café, which had a nice view of the rocky, breezy coastline below.  I ordered a beer from the creepy barman who decided I wanted his company.  While he sat fiddling with his crotch and making very boring small talk, I tried to ignore him and continue with my fictional friends in my book. 

My Sri Lankan adventure came to a close with an epic journey which had me hopping between four buses.  Five hours later I arrived tired and scraggly at my hotel which I had booked due to it’s proximity to the airport, and this time I made sure it was fail safe, I was minutes from the plane station so I could sleep easy and have a stress free transfer.  Or so I'd hoped.  I met a very helpful hotel concierge who told me I was the only guest for the evening so the restaurant was closed, but he would take me to town to get some takeaway food.  He was helpful, albeit slightly overbearing, and almost ended up choosing my dinner for me.  I took it as kindness at the time but didn’t hang around too long to be talked at, the subject once again drifted towards my single status, and what a coincidence it was that he was also single.  Abort mission, get out of there, go, go!  I made my excuses and headed off to my room for some peace and quiet.  I noticed the bathroom window was slightly open and in a room with no mosquito net I decided this was not a great idea.  I put the loo seat down and mounted, with only a second before the entire seat split into four pieces and my foot plunging down into the bowl.  Right into the U bend.  Fuuuuck.  I was too tired to deal with yer man, so I slept on it, not before googling the price of toilet seats. 

Harshani hand grinds fresh coconut every day!

In the morning I had calculated a fair compensation for my destruction and a tip for the concierge.  I opted for honesty and displayed the damage.  The response was an expected frown, shake of the head, hand to the chin in deep thought, and the suggestion of a cost five times the figure I was about to offer.  A very frustrating negotiation took place at 4am, where we ended up on double my suggestion, and his tip evaporated.  Downstairs, as we waited for my tuk tuk, he talked at me about how little he earns and how he gets tips from tourists, and reminded me of how nice he was to me.  I was getting more and more irritated, but wore no expression.  My tuk tuk arrived and I loaded it up and went on my way with simple thanks, and left Mr Nice open mouthed.  Of course the tuk tuk he booked on my behalf charged me double the going rate.  I guess it’s not a proper business exchange without some extortion thrown in.  I limped off on what I presumed was a broken toe, and headed straight for departures, tired and grumpy.  

My trip to Sri Lanka was a long awaited one, but I left with a feeling of exhaustion and frustration, which really tainted my experience there.  It took me a while to work out my thoughts on these experiences and I struggled a lot when I thought about how negative I felt.  I am aware of the poverty in Asia, and I am aware that I am considered richer than some of the people I have encountered because, relatively, I am.  However, and my opinion comes from my experience from my little space on the planet, that doesn’t give a person the right to assume I have more money than I know what to do with, or assume that I am lonely and desperate now I am a thirty something singleton.  My frustration comes from the frequency at which this happened.  I spent my time in Sri Lanka, and in some other parts of Asia, feeling like a walking ATM ready to serve those I encountered.  The assumptions and expectations placed on me were exhausting.  As I said, that’s only my own opinion and I’m as entitled to that as anyone who may criticise it is to theirs.  All in all, I am very happy I took the opportunity to visit Sri Lanka.  At their very core, the people I got to know were wonderful, and the countryside boasts the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever seen.  Pity it comes at a price, and I’m not talking about the money…

Images: Sinéad Millea.