Colombo, Kandy, Galle

7/8/1978 The Indian exit at Ramesvaram to catch the ferry to Sri Lanka must rank as one of the lowest limit of human degradation by officialdom and needless red tape. People are really treated as animals with endless Indian type queues (based on caste), bribery and extortion, incredible form filling in and the ubiquitous Regulations. It takes four hours to board, three hours to cross, and four hours to get off again. We found ourselves squashed behind a rope net, unable to move for 1-1/2 hours, before the Sri Lankan health officials eventually decided to come aboard and process the hoards. And we were privileged - travelling 1st class upper deck!

That night some of us collapsed at Mara, just into Sri Lanka, at a weird hotel right out of a Western/Mexican film set. Unceasing tropical sea winds across the desert countryside, with sparrows nesting in your bedroom, and jackasses braying like rusty pumps at 3am. The next morning the driver of the rickety suspensionless bus, the only one for the day, realised after much mime acting that we wanted to make the train connection to Colombo, and drove the 10 miles of pot-holed road flat out (25 mph) stopping for no other passengers, to arrive at the station with not a minute to spare (despite a delay on the way as two wagons were loading with cow dung and blocking the road). The train was impossibly crowded with six seatless hours made worse by the even-worse-than-Indian vendors, forcing their way through the patient commuters. Sitting in an open doorway is a prized position - forget trying to get a seat!

Colombo - people seem to smile despite their poverty - this day it was impossible to find a cheap hotel room. So feeling flash, I opted to eat at the once so opulent Hotel Taprobane, overlooking the harbour with the light of the ships from all over the world. creaking elevator with teak panelling and old mirrors, tattered white hotel uniforms, monogrammed cutlery and crockery (somewhat chipped); and a delicious STEAK (impossible to get in SE Asia and India) with no less than four waiters hovering; a 5 piece band strikes up old quicksteps and foxtrots (like "Georgia") for the seven fortunate diners. (The dining room could seat about 200). Where was I? For a fleeting second I could imagine being Somerset Maugham reflecting on his next novel. The bill came to $1-50. On the way home several of the obviously bored, scarlet coated, palace guards grin and whisper a seductive "Hello" as I stroll past their posts.

Found a place with delicious pastries and bacon and egg pie like me mum used to make. I was beginning to like Sri Lanka! International phone calls are the cheapest in the world, despite some frustrating red tape and long waits. I made several, to let people know that I was still alive and well. When backpacking, occasional contact with home becomes very important.

A crowded bus to Kandy in the cooler hills with a break (at a "Motor Bus Halting Place") for refreshing coconut juice, and fresh home smoked cashew nuts - just 9 cents. I stayed with some Christian Tamils who normally board the neighbouring Trinity College boys. They tell of the horrors of the race riots against their home only 12 months ago and the boarded-in windows bear mute testimony. The happy young boarders going off home for their holidays. It was hard to adjust to certain "civilised" sounds like a chiming clock and the fading radio reception of "The Teddy Bears' Picnic". It is rewarding to live with the locals, one learns so much that the tourist would never do. The hostess gave me a parting gift of a bronze elephant embossed matchbox holder, which touched me deeply. I shall return one day, I vowed.
The main purpose of going to Kandy was the famed Kandy Perahara Festival, which lasts 10 glittering nights. The temple Dalada Maligawa houses a tooth, reputed to be Buddha’s, and its replica is carried in procession around the various streets of Kandy. Flaring lamps scattering copra embers, whip crackers, fire jugglers, but most incredible: a succession of imposing elephants, some walking three abreast, enveloped in jewel encrusted cloth, some with fairy lights!, trunks in their obedient mouths; Kandyan drummers, black, sweaty and bare chested with bright colourful sarongs and head scarfs, looking for all the world like the stars from a Ceylonese Tea advertisement, stepping and whirling to the intoxicating drumming sounds, while deftly avoiding the steaming elephant manure. The crowds swelled each night - so five nights was enough - 'twas impossible to move.

The beautiful tropical Botanical Gardens near Kandy with avenues of soaring palms and stunning orchid collections. Situated next to the delightful campus of the Kandy University with its very English cricket ground nestling into the green valley, a mosque half hidden in the jungle halfway up the background mountain, and buildings of traditional Ceylonese architecture, painted pink. The President recently announced that if the students didn't want to work they were to get out - a university is no place for "political groups". A cultural show of song, dance and drama presented by various high schools on an open air stage (no other tourists!) gave me a fascinating glimpse of the rich cultural heritage of this remarkable country, and being perpetuated by its youth. Walking home in the tropical dark with fireflies to guide me.

The next day I visited a friend's family home - an old summer palace splendidly set into the jungle; walking along a winding path through the paddies and sugar plantations to a mysterious cave temple where there was an old monk and ancient paintings on the ceilings and walls. Then a delightful walk back home through a nearby wildlife sanctuary with jungle larger than life - monkeys crashing unseen through the trees - only to meet a working elephant along the way: he gave me a cautious snotty sniff and lumbered on unperturbed. I grinned. Then started to breathe again.

Thrilled to watch for 30 cents an English movie "The Triple Echo" with Glenda Jackson and scenes of green English countryside. I found it really important to touch base with my own "roots" every now and then - even though I had never got to England yet!

Countless people streaming home through the mountain streets, dodging out of the way of the happy elephants - yes, happy -with bronze bells clanging, going home too, now out of costume. I saw one elephant being "parked" in front of a shop, as his mahout popped in for some cigarettes. On one walk we discovered a dozen or so bathing in the river (this time in a remote spot away from the foolishness of the tourists) - they lie on their sides in the shallows, seemingly exhausted from the ceremonies, while their mahout scrubs. What a life!

19/8/1978 A touch of rare homesickness at Ambalangoda on the SW coast, a glorious beach with rocks and surf and golden sand. Curious kids kept pestering my privacy (have you ever squatted on an Eastern door-less toilet with six kids watching wide eyed? Blast! No toilet paper once again!) A "sea bath" in the gathering rains of a SW tropical monsoon - the kids shout and cheer as they watch me body surf. Afternoon tea with a toothless, black wrinkled skin 80 year old great grandmother and her splendid garden, with its scrupulously swept grey sand beneath the cinnamon trees.


Further south to Galle with its fascinating 17th century fort with old Dutch, Portuguese & British buildings, curiously laid out with tiny narrow streets, enclosed by bastions, ramparts, outposts and massive gates under dramatic coats of arms carved into the stone for posterity. I try to decipher the Latin inscriptions. Goats and cows wander, keeping the grassy verges trim, and the sea air comes whistling through the narrow cobbled lanes. [Galle and the whole SE coast suffered terribly in the tsunami of Dec 26, 2004].The predominantly Muslim community are having their fast this month, only eating after 6.30pm, and so the kids are alive at night (it’s easier if you sleep through the day, you see). The "new" part of the town is sordid with grotty eating houses and suspicious locals, but then I came upon a vast Buddhist rally in a park – such an oasis - where the amplified prayers and Buddha’s teachings and the vibes of the worshippers singing, gave a curious sense of worthwhile peace.


Matara to Tangalla, where I stayed with a 60 year old, loving, retired magician, who offered his hospitality and delicious curd and treacle in terra cotta pots (stores under the eaves of his thatched roof), overlooking a beautiful rocky bay, pounded by spectacular storm surf. Here was a place to relax a while - I taught him a new brand of magic, where all of the tricks deliberately went wrong. But here I later learned of the new regulations concerning visas - seems as though I had only three weeks left instead of the 3 months I had planned - so I headed back to Colombo to specifically find out.

Signs on various menus: Spuch Cakes. Try to Viset to Again Us. Soda Water - Cool or Plain (ie warm or hot). Soda water is the only safe drink that is not sickly sweet. Ceylon tea is, as you would expect, excellent, but they will put sugar in it. Tea in India is generally hideous - a murky condensed milky sweet mess. Drinking safe water is critical if you want to avoid gastric problems or the dreaded hep. By safe, you've actually got to see it boiling for 5 minutes and preferably filtered.

So now we are at Ratnapura, the famous township all the gems are sold - I soon realise how little I know about lapidary. Gem dealers with eye glasses are everywhere as customers buy and sell. Six umbrella repairers sitting in a row, every now and then casting a hopeful glance at the sky - their own umbrellas are patched beyond usefulness. A shop where disposable cigarette lighters can be refilled (nothing is beyond repair in Asia). A Sinhalese funeral procession: huge photo of the deceased, massive coffin, drummers, cymbal clashers, horn player, teary relatives, about 100 people, then followed by a very enterprising young man selling ice creams. Well, he might call them ice creams!

On losing a piece of amalgam filling from my tooth at a restaurant while biting into a samosa, I presented it to a passing waiter, looking for some sympathy. He examined it professionally for several minutes with a quizzical expression, before I had to tell him it actually wasn't a gem for sale. He quickly handed it back to me. A boy in the street, strategically placed on the pavement so that people have to at least see him as they avoid him, selling second hand rubber thong ("flip flop") tops. A little further on, another was selling second hand rubber thong bottoms. I hope they will work something out, one day.

Sinhalese breakfast: fish and vegetable curries (hot! hot!), sambol (shredded coconut/ onion/ chillies - the little green ones are hotter than the red ones), a couple of bananas to cool things down a bit, with half a loaf of starchy white bread, all eaten with the fingers of course. But disgusting hygiene - there is a belief that warm water sterilises your plate, so you get very wet plates placed in front of you by waiters with filthy fingernails. A huge tumbler of water to drink, as well as to wash your fingers before and after, when you pour it into your now empty plate. A hand-towel consists of a small piece of newspaper which, if it happens to be in English, is usually good reading. And a cup of tea to counteract the curry. Actually, sugar is good when the curry is impossibly hot. I always get the hiccups when I pass my threshold of chilli endurance.

I succumbed and bought from a shady moustached gem dealer, $50 worth of blue moonstones (semi-precious) for a later, hopefully profitable, sale in the West. If I've made a mistake, I'll keep them anyway, because I like 'em. [Footnote: these gems mysteriously disappeared from my pack not many weeks later.]

After an horrendous day of dirty toilets, price swindlers, overcrowded buses like you'd never believe, rudeness and sweaty heat, I get back to Colombo to find four very welcomed letters, and news of my younger sister Margaret’s first child - John. I sat on the sea wharf in the shade of a coconut palm, savouring every word, and realised how far away from my family I was. Then I was very lucky in securing a 3 month extension of my visa (because of my short hair cut, safari suit and my sycophantic pleading) - life was suddenly great ! There were many letters to write from my comfortable YMCA room, which overlooks a courtyard next to a chapel with an out of tune piano and robust male voices positively murdering the Wesleyan hymns early in the morning, denying me any chance of sleeping in.