Our last supper
This completes the Sri Lanka travelogue— just in time for my Portugal trip 🙂 It’s only a little holiday, but I hope that a few quirky things will happen to give me new story leads, so watch this space.
Time for our last supper. We took the bikes and cycled past the bus station back to the bridge over the lagoon. Just past the bridge was the ‘New Rest House’ where we had spent some pleasant evenings with S and A. We felt we needed some old-fashioned hospitality to console us on our last evening.
The network of Rest Houses in Sri Lanka is a remnant from British times and they retain their quaint colonial charm, carefully preserved by the government who now maintains them. There were no tourists staying here but the New Rest House was popular with busines travellers and the restaurant is favoured by local families for a night out. When we first had dinner here, one of the waiters remembered A from when she had come as a little girl, about 30 years earlier. Wherever we took a seat for our pre-dinner drinks, a fresh table would always be laid for the meal and when it was time to eat, the waiter would carry our drinks ahead of us: a five-star service! Tonight, we decided to sit on the verandah overlooking the lagoon. The waiter immediately followed us with an ashtray and switched on the ceiling fan. Melancholically, we looked out over palm trees, fruit stalls and fishing boats silhouetted against a pastel-blue and pink sky, the shadows growing longer in the soft light. Slowly, the bright colours of the day were fading away.
John ordered a beer, I asked for arrack and ginger beer.
The waiter raised his eyebrows: “Arrack comes in a 100 ml measure, madam!”
“Good. This is my kind of place.”
The wait was not long. Just as the last daylight faded away, we were called to dinner. I loved the crisp, starchy tablecloth and immaculately laid covers. The curries were fresh and delicious. I had seer-fish for the last time. A large pelagic fish and a speciality of Negombo, its flesh is white and firm and it is a good example of the old cliché ‘tastes just like chicken’, because it does. With our respective meats, rice and paripoo came a parade of side-dishes: okra, beans, tomato and potatoes, sambol, poppadoms and a dish of tiny and very salty dried fish. The waiter kept re-filling John’s dish of pork leaving me too embarassed to ask for leftovers for Gizmo. I would buy him a snack by the bus station on the way home.
The night was dark, it was almost a new moon. We mounted our bicycles a little unsteadily. John had ordered more beer to wash down his curry.
“We won’t see our way,” I said hesitantly: “And worse, we won’t be seen!”
“Fear not!” he replied and with a flourish produced a head lamp which my sister had given us one Christmas. As Christmas presents go, it was decidedly eccentric, but it had turned out to be worth its weight in gold for awkward repair jobs such as adjusting the boiler pressure from a valve behind a dark kitchen cupboard. Tonight, it would light our way. John strapped the thing on (the headband even had a rear-reflector) and took the lead. The first cyclist we passed nearly fell off his bike, a group of pedestrians bent over laughing, grabbing each other for support, several people just gaped open-mouthed at the sight. At the crossing by the bus station, two tuk-tuks nearly collided, both drivers staring mesmerized at John who rode on undeterred, wooly legs protruding from his shorts, feet in socks and sandals and wild hair gathered around his head by the light strapped to his skull—with the beam flashing everywhere he looked, startling the passers-by. It is a miracle we did not cause an accident.
Rob and Maria were busy and had been unable to offer us a lift to the airport, the neighbours were away and there was no facility to phone a taxi outside of the main hotels or restaurants in Negombo. We decided simply not to worry about it. So, early in the morning, I stood outside the gate and guarded the luggage which John carried outside: three holdalls, two labtops, the backpack and, ominously, S’s cello. Before we had even locked the gate, a tuk-tuk drew up as expected. Twenty minutes later, we spilled out at the airport, bags, cello and all, a little out of place among the taxis, expensive cars and air-conditioned hotel buses. We were almost home.
The airport, like airports anywhere, was not really a part of the country it was in. We huddled sadly in the departure lounge. I contemplated our bag of duty-free. ‘Sri Lanka’, the slogan proclaimed: ‘A country like no other.’
Quite. I have travelled in many countries, but none has affected me like this. Sri Lanka hit below the belt. Maybe it is because it promised the fulfillment of a childhood dream. I do not normally travel with expectations, it is always a mistake, but I could not help to be drawn by this promise. Maybe it is because I travelled during a period of change in my life. I had gone from being an agoraphobic recluse to being an independent traveller again, give or take the odd setback. It had left me with a new energy, a fresh focus. And I had started to write again.
Now I sit in my study back in Scotland and glance out of the window. Today, the gloom has lifted and the sky is pale blue marbled with gray clouds. The sunlight is soft, almost apologetic, as it caresses the hills dappled in cloud shadows. The tentative rays gently draw the chill from the ground and tease the birds to start chirping among the first tiny buds on the trees. Spring is on its way.
All is not lost. Rob and John have made progress with their mathematical modelling and Rob wants John to come back. He has submitted a proposal to the British Council and in turn I am nagging John to apply for a travel grant from the Royal Society. This trip could therefore be regarded as a ‘reccie’, a preparation for another visit. It is not unusual for a reccie to take six weeks, although in Venezuela the paperwork had taken us half the time. What niggles is that some tourists just come along and take photographs. Back in 2002, a report in The Island stated that ‘an English Gentleman went with his wife and took pictures’, a sign that the whales were still in the Trincomalee area. I suppose these guys had a lot of money but this does not explain why daytrippers are allowed access to a supposedly restricted area. OK, so I am bitter that I have not managed to get out there. As I say, all is not lost. But if we return, it will not be without challenges. A rebel group has broken away from the LTTE in the east and there is a renewed threat of war. Muslim unrest is increasing. There is a possibility of rioting in the south and west. Before it has a chance to get off the ground, the planned new marine mammal program may well end up in tatters once again. Maybe this is why the government agencies are so reluctant to seek international funding. Yet—I am optimistic that one day I will find the whales of Trincomalee.
Tags: The Whales of Trincomalee, Tag Index
Denni