Jim and Queenie Sri Lanka visit

Currently in Uruwatuna, just south of Galle – check map. Well actually I am not, been have not been near internet connection, but am now back in Colombo, so the following is till about a week out of date, but am going to update tonight, and will also try and ring Active during Midge and Janina’s show about five your time in Friday 30th!!!

 

 

We headed out of Colombo yesterday(21st), walked to Mt Lavinia railway station and got on the slow train out. Everyone, like all the ‘friendly’ guys on the street wanting you to ride in their three wheeler, are saying “no you must take the bus, train too slow, stop all stations, take forever…” Not much point telling them `We are in no hurry’. We are travellers and the joy is the passage not just the destination.

 

On Tuesday I went into Colombo town to talk to the vice president, “soon to be president” of the Sri Lankan Rugby Union. Rugby is big here. We meet in a flash hotel. On the way we get accosted by a ‘friendly’ man walking through Queen Victoria Park. “I have been the gardener here for 29 years, next year I retire,” he smiles, believingly. He drags us (my brother and I) to an old mangled, beautiful, huge tree. “150 years old, come come, come and look at this other tree.” I can see where this is going. I say I have an appointment and need to go. My brother Roger is a gardener and he is intrigued and stays for the tour while I go and meet my rugby contact. I naturally enough walk the long way round to where I am going; it is always the long way when you have never been before. Hot, but bearable. It a busy South Asian city, with soldiers lurking here and there.

 

My rugby contact is late, but polite. We are ushered to an air conditioned room and eventually have a chinwag about how popular rugger is in Lanka. Another guy turns up, he is the head of the union in western province, then more men drift into the room. All of the union heads are here. It turns out they are having their AGM, a meeting anyway. I take a photo of them all by the pool and scarper out of there.

Like all things in Sri Lanka, there are politics involved here –  in the next morning’s paper the main story on the sports page is on the tangled politics of the Sri Lankan Rugby Union, but for the moment I will ignore it.

 

Am running late to meet up with my brother so grab a three wheeler, even though it is probably only a five minute walk to the museum. We bargain the price and don’t really come up with one. The driver comes up with the first of a million `No problem” answers to a question that was never there.

Roger had a great time with the gardener, he had hard seeds and soft flowers and many stories, but the museum was disappointing he said. We decided to ride on with the three wheeler driver, “To the Fort,” I demanded.

The Fort is a part of Colombo that also includes the inner city army base so is, um, in parts heavily fortified. In earlier times it was sanctioned to Sri Lankans by foreigners, such as the Dutch and English as it is now sanctioned to most, for um, political reasons. We venture on to check out the presidents palace, formerly the Queen’s residence, We make it through the road block despite the three wheeler driver having  to get out and have what seems like a convoluted conversation with the young army officers at the check-point.

Sightseeing is such a chore, I am almost glad they are making it hard. I start taking pics of the palace, an officer ambles over, and we are told pictures are not allowed. I know why, security, but it seems a bit absurd. 

It reminds me of a recent incident in Wellington, my son Max was taking some pictures of a shop windows, he was taking a picture outside a chemist, the owner rushed out… “what are you doing, how dare you take pictures of my shop window, all the p dealers in the world will get those and break into my shop, I am going to call the police right now.”

The three wheeler driver needed some petrol so we stopped and got some, I bought him  a drink, it was soda, he did not like soda so I went and swapped it for a coke, it cost twice as much.

Still can’t get to grips with whether I am in the past present or future. The semi rundown grandeur of the city does not help much. But like Diana Ross says, “If there is cure for this, I don’t want it.”

My brother Roger comments that maybe he gave the gardener too much money. He gave him 1000 rupee. Everyone is so concerned about what the value of their money is, I think, and Roger knows, 1000 rupee, $15 was an ample but warranted tip to a charlatan but charming gardener.

Back to Mt Lavinia. It is my mum’s birthday, we eat in a restaurant on the beach near her hotel. Fairly uneventful evening, Queenie falls asleep before dinner is served. She leaves some money, about 30 rupee(40cents), there – the next day my brother David returns and they have kept it “for the little girl who fell asleep.”

Mt Lavinia beach is a suburb south of Colombo. It runs along a main road, Galle, running from Colombo central, the beach has a bit of rubbish on it, but is good for swimming. There are cabanas all along it up for a kilometre or so, in the weekend the beach pumps, football, cricket on the beach, lovers under parasols. We are getting up early, and the 7am swim in the warm Indian Ocean is now a ritual On weekday mornings people, layers and the like I assume, are power walking along the beach – arms rising high into the air, a sense of purpose blazened across there faces, walk pants and tucked in shirts – it looks s silly here as it does any where else I the world.

The train from Mt Lavinia down to Galle shuttled out of the brown station close to midday.  People shifted over in their seat to make room for Queenie and I. The train has big wide open doors which never close, people are hopping on and off, with the train stopping every five or ten minutes. People smile politely at us, we smile politely back.  A little boy offers Queenie some gum, she offers him some back. The communication line is a stilted affable process of give and take and smiles.

Much of the train ride for the 100 of kilometers follows the sea. Coconut palms, fishing boats flowing into small but busy towns. A group of giggling teenage girls in their starched white tunics and pigtails hop into our compartment. On the platform three boys are standing glancing secretly- overtly towards the girls. One boy, handsome, playful, Queenie thinks he looks a bit ‘girly’, has flickering contact with one girl in particular. As the train pulls out of Indawa station, the boys wait until the last possible moment and daredevilishly jump on. Handsome boy leans out on from the side of the train as far as he can; quickly jutting his head in when the train gets too close to any poles or signs. He flashes assured looks at his girlfriend, she giggles. It is a high speed mating dance.

We had originally planned to head to the former hippy hangout Headway. Hikaduwa is about thirty ks north of Galle, it where the coal reef begins and there is a good surf break. We hop of the train on to the tracks and walk over the rampart to the station. Some Europeans are sitting waiting for the train north, they are going up to the turtle sanctuary a few stops up at Indurawa, where the school kids had got on. A quick conversation ensues, we work at that Unawatara is very chilled, great place. Queenie makes the call, we decide to ride on to Galle. The train is still sitting there on the other side of the tracks, we go to walk over the tracks but another train is coming from the south, we quickly rush back over the rampart to get back on the train. It is a rush, we of course are no in rush, but in these split seconds here is a need to get back on the train. Of course we clamber back on, sweating, and it sits for another minute

A school teacher strikes up a stilted conversation. Like all conversations it closes with an exchange of addresses. I am writing in my notebook, his number, knowing that we will never be in contact. It is all part of the ritual.

We pull into Galle in the middle of the afternoon and head straight to Unawatara, I keep saying I am going to get a bus, but we end up getting a three wheeler. It is about twenty minutes to Unawatara.

One of the English tourists’ at Hikaduwa station gave us a card for a guest house, we find it and we (I) decide to have a bit of a look at some other places. I think I am heading towards the beach but immediately start walking in the wrong direction. This of course is serendipity. There are some water buffalo lulling around under some palms near us.

We bump into a stoned Australian and ask which way to the beach, he leads us and points us in the right direction. As we are walking he stops and wanders off the track to the side of the small stream us a walking beside. We keep walking but he beckons us back, he has spotted a minotaur(sp), it looks like a small crocodile anyway. We stand transfixed and watch it slink through the water. “Just saw a couple of monkeys fighting before I met you,” he slowly says, his eyes glazed and comfortably looking into a far way place.

We reach the beach walk along, asking at a few places about there rooms. It is the buyers market here, tourism is down. The economic downturn and the war is double whammy for tourism everywhere in Sri Lanka, this in turn comes only five or so years after the Tsunami which destroyed at least 90 per cent of this particular village.

The place we find is on the beach and is 1500 rupees (NZ$20) for the two of us, including breakfast.

There is hardly anyone here, perfect. This is the place that looks like idyllic coral beaches, palms, white sand lulling sea.

The next morning I am lying on a chair, Queenie is in the water. I pull out my Ipod and plug it in. Music has never sounded better, it is like a drug. Toots and the Maytalls version of Time Tough with  Ryan Adams segues strangely but perfectly into the Walkmen’s ‘The Rat’, into Air’s ‘Surfing on a Rocket’. This beach is living up to its name Unawatara -‘place that fell from thre sky’.

Queenie shouts out ecstatic in the blue warm water, “Pa, Pa, I saw a fish”. I feel like crying, I think of Wai and do.

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