BootsnAll Travel Network



Freaking on the road

I was woken by a commotion outside. The road through Ulla is never completely quiet. Irrespective of how few vehicles there are in the area, the odd tuk-tuk, bike and even bus might roar up or down at any hour of the day or night. Where a bus would want to go on a road leading to nowhere but a dirt track through the Yala National Park at three in the morning, I don’t know, but they occasionally rattle past regardless. So hearing a vehicle outside the guesthouse at about half past midnight was not in itself unusual. It was, however, unusual that it was a private hire car full of travellers looking for accommodation.

Arugam Bay is not so far from civilisation that it should be impossible to get here at a reasonable hour or stop over elsewhere on the way. Whatever the reason for their late arrival, you would imagine the prospective guests to be quiet, even apologetic. The people running the place, like guest house staff everywhere, were up by the crack of dawn on most days, so it should be reasonable to assume they might have wanted to close for the night. Or that the other guests might want to get some sleep. Not a bit of it. The travellers shouted until they were quite sure that all the staff and fellow guests were awake and when somebody had come out to meet them they continued their negotiations at full volume:

“WHERE IS THE BEEECH?”

Europeans, I assumed. God forbid, they may even have been Germans. I did not understand the softly spoken reply but I doubt they waited for it to finish before resuming.

“WHERE IS THE BEEECH?”

And again. And again, until I was screaming inside: “Shut up you idiots! If you’d listen for 5 seconds you could hear the sea roaring onto the shore – JUST OUTSIDE!!”

If I had been in a remotely sane and normal state, I would have gone to shout at these bastards, but all I could do was lie back and wait until they had been dealt with. I think I counted them repeating their question at least half a dozen times, until I finally located my earplugs. What a day the guys running this place were having. First me and now them!

Of course, that was the end of sleep for the night. I was too highly strung to even attempt to relax again. The long hours until dawn crept by. I finally started to doze off a little just as the first glimmer of daylight washed away the darkness. At around seven, groggy and jetlagged, I reluctantly opened the door, peered outside and lit a cigarette. This was not going to be a good day.

My host appeared not much later, as I knew he would. I wished my smile could have been a little more cheerful, but I was quick to accept the lime juice he offered. I had better be. He seemed pleased.
“After this, go for a long walk on the beach and you’ll be fine, madam!”
If only it would be that easy. I felt vulnerable and scared and I was afraid to leave the room. My agoraphobia was back. It took me a good half hour to pick up the nerve to return my empty glass to the restaurant. Luckily, there was nobody there.

I did not want to venture out, but I knew I was under discreet observation, so I made a point to go out for food. Walking along the road felt like walking on the surface of an alien planet. People appeared to wave at me from behind a video screen. I grinned inanely back at them, moving on autopilot.

I phoned John and told him that I would return to Kandy tomorrow, picked up some food and carried it back to the room. There I tried to escape into my book, but frequent power cuts made reading impossible. For a long time, I lay on the bed and stared up at the silent ceiling fan. The shadows were closing in. My host had put ideas into my head.

I carried a lot of malaria pills. We had stuffed malaria pills into every conceivable bag and pocket so that we would never forget to take them along, but I had so many that I wondered whether I had inadvertendly packed John’s supply as well. There were enough pills to go into the bush and end it.

I was hormonal and slightly depressed, nothing more. Nothing serious. Yet, it was a nasty, familiar feeling. Once you have been on the verge of suicide it is impossible to fully embrace life again. I don�t know whether you can return to ‘normal’ from there. A barrier has been breached. People who have attempted suicide are subsequently more likely to die from it than any other cause. Statistically, I have a 1 in 10 probability of eventually killing myself. Even if I could get life insurance, I guess there is little point in taking it up. My way of dealing with life after the breakdown is through instant gratification. I live in small chunks, rarely thinking further than a day ahead, escaping reality whenever possible, usually by reading during the day and drinking in the evening. To an extend, travel had broken this pattern and had jerked me out of my apathy, at least until now. Now, I should not be alone. I should be with somebody who could talk me out of my current state. I should be able to do something to distract me from it, but there was nothing I could do. I had to snap out of it. Urgently.

I had half a bottle of arrack in my backpack, so I poured a measure. Naturally, at this very moment, my host decided to check up on me. I quickly stuffed the bottle under a pile of T-shirts but there was no point. I still held the glass in my hand. I blushed and owned up as he raised his eyebrows at me.
“Just a little bit!” I exclaimed: “I need to calm down!”
He smiled. “Don’t worry!” he said: “You drink – you’re on holiday!” I have no idea what he really thought. Running a backpacker hostel in a surfer’s resort probably wasn’t the dream job he had imagined it to be. But tonight, mercifully the arrack merely helped me sleep. This was good because I needed an early start.

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