Batticaloa to Arugam Bay
Batticaloa is a laid-back town on Sri Lanka’s largest lagoon, made famous by its ‘singing fish’: in the time around the full moon between April and October, the water in the lagoon reverebates with a sound which one traveler described as a ‘continuously maintained single-note guitar-riff’. Nobody knows what causes this sound. The fact that it happens around the full moon during a certain time of year supports the theory that it is linked to the breeding habits of some animal in the lagoon. As it was, I had missed the season of the ‘singing fish’ anyway.
The bus dropped me off somewhere by the roadside and in the dark I could not make out any landmarks. I asked a couple of guys for the direction to the town centre and they pointed straight ahead. Before long I found myself by the clocktower in front of a bridge across the lagoon. Three of the cheapest guesthouses were just across that bridge. The first of these, the Lake View Inn, was reputed to have a manager with more than a passing resemblance to Basil Falwty. True to form, before I could ask the price for a room, he took me under his arm and marched me across a courtyard and up some stairs. He showed me what was not so much a room as a miniature dormitory with 3 beds lined up side-by side. “750 rupees” he said, his voice echoing from the high ceiling. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could draw a breath, he shouted “Wait!” and quickly disappeared around the corner and down another flight of stairs. I waited about 5 minutes, fidgeting. I did not feel happy in this big empty room. Eventually, I grabbed my bags and tentatively felt my way back. It took several attempts before I found the right staircase. Relieved, I quickly sneaked past the reception (which was deserted) and into the next guesthouse.
The Subaraj Inn was modelled on the Rest Houses of the old school. A cosy double room with bath was 650 rs which was agreeable considering my options at this late hour. My order for dinner was taken as I checked in so it would be ready by the time I had refreshed myself. When I asked a ginger beer, it was brought to my room. The waiters wore a uniform which was disconcertingly similar to that worn by the male nurses in the psychiatric ward I briefly stayed in. Under the circumstances, I thought that rather fitting.
As soon as I had finished showering, there was a knock on the door. Dinner was ready. I took my seat at the carefully laid table apprehensively — I do not like to dine formally on my own. Luckily, I could overhear a group of English guests gossiping at the next table. Of all the things they could talk about, they were bitching about some mutual acquaintances back at work. This is one of the reasons why I don’t like travelling with a bunch of mates for more than a few days — you can’t get away from things at home. If it wasn’t for the array of Sri Lankan curries in front of me, I could have been back in London. But I was grateful for the distraction their talk offered. Unbeknown to them, my remote companions made me feel more relaxed.
The following morning, I sat at the bus station, sipping a cold soda and looking out over the lagoon, undecided about my next destination. After a moment’s hesitation, I decided to give Passekudah a miss and head straight to Arrugam Bay.
On the way south, we passed numerous aid agencies. I was surprised by how much aid the region required; I had no idea about the extent of the war and the price it had exuded. In its wake came new problems. Evangelist Christian organisations such as ‘World Vision’ bring forced conversions to previously Hindu, Muslim or (in the south) Buddhist communities. The Sri Lankan government wants to out-law unethical conversions but are wary of the cost this represents to people dependent on the charities. This is another sorry consequence of the war. Without it, there would be no need for foreign missionairies.
The trip involved a change at Kalmunai where there was a bus station but no bus to Pottuvil. A group of men eventually gestured for me to take the cabin seat in a van, passing my rucksack across from the back which soon filled up, leaving no breathing space, let alone luggage room. An old man with a toothy grin climbed into the driver’s seat, the men explained my destination to him and we were off again — at least as far as Akkairaipattu about 10 miles down the road, where I traded my cabin seat in the van with a place on a bus driven by a homicidal maniac.
We drove roughshot over potholes cratering the narrow road across the marshes while he floored the accelerator and blared the horn. Here, the usual game of chicken was not played with oncoming vehicles (of which there were few) but with cyclists who were weaving down the road, precariously balancing heaps of firewood or sacks of rice on their scrawny bikes. The bet was on whether they could safely made it to the verge before we thundered past. Somehow, this made it all the more frightening.
Just past Akkairaipattu, the road crossing the lagoon was flooded and I thought the journey had come to an early end. The waters streamed from the lagoon into an angry boiling ocean reminiscent of the famous Corryvreckan whirlpool in Scotland, the third largest in the world. I watched in fascination as the driver pressed on undeterred. We made it across without being swept into the maelstrom and immediately picked up speed again.
Before long we ended up trailing behind one of the ancient, battered and slow local buses servicing this region. As usual, it was packed with people hanging out of the doors and windows. Our driver pulled up close behind and impatiently bleeped his horn, edging the swaying yellow bus on to ever greater speed. On the narrow and uneven road it started to lean precariously into the bends. I expected it to topple over at any moment. I was greatly relieved when it finally pulled over at a sandy lay-by to let us pass.
We flattened a baby terrapin which was gamely struggling across the road, but a mongoose shooting across a little further along narrowly made it. Even the cows in the shrubland knew to get out of the way, as did a solitary elephant we surprised around a bend. Just. The animal suddenly appeared before us like a solid, grey rock. The driver jumped on the break and the elephant, spooked, shook his head, flapped his ears and turned away towards the bush. The driver clutched his chest and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He slowed down a little, at least for a while.
In the end we all made it — apart from the baby terrapin.
Tags: The Whales of Trincomalee, Tag Index
Denni