BootsnAll Travel Network



Paths

So far, I had gotten by with a mixture of English and sign language, but back at the bus station, I was out of luck. A group of young men tried their best to help me out, but they did not even understand my pronounciation of “Upuveli”. Eventually, they indicated a clapped-out old van and I climbed in. Then there was a discussion with one of the drivers and they waved me back out again. A few more yelled exchanges and they told me “No bus.”

“What? No bus? To Upuveli?” I couldn’t believe it, the village was just down the road. “What about Nilaveli? Nilaveli is OK! Upuveli, Nilaveli are both good.”

This seemed to work, maybe they just needed me to repeat the name of my destination so it was clear that I was talking about a village rather than just gibberish. The guys asked around with renewed vigour and after a while indicated another ancient bus. I climbed in repeatedly asking “Upuveli? Nilaveli?”. This time, I received encouraging nods. By now I was half-way certain that they would drive the thing to Upuveli, Nilaveli whatever, just to get rid of me, but reassuringly, the bus began to fill up with people. Soon, I was wedged tightly into a little corner of the back seat against the window and people started piling into the aisle. A regular procession of vendors and beggars added to the overall chaos, waterbottles were passed through the windows and then we were all set to go.

Except nothing happened.

Over time, the tropical sun arched across the sky until it shone fully through the window on my side. The metal frame was so hot, it felt cold to the touch. I was stewing in my own sweat. The woman next to me, who spoke a little English, asked whether it was cooler where I came from.
“Very much so!” I said heartfelt.

After nearly an hour, just when I had started to contemplate getting off the bus to escape heat exhaustion, the engine rattled into life. As we crossed the station court, a slight breeze gave instant relief. We trundeled slowly across the roundabout, me waving merrily at the guards at Trinco Rest who could not quite believe their eyes. Just across the road, at the petrol station, we came to a standstill. I continued patiently to stew in my sweat. At long last, the engine started up again and the journey resumed. When we eventually reached Upuvelli, while I extracted my bag from the throng and tried (unsuccessfully) not to step on anybody’s toes, I seriously wondered why I had not taken a threewheeler for the 4km ride.

But after a short walk, there it was. Upuveli beach. Miles upon miles af golden sand, practically deserted. It was a fair walk before I came across the first Westerners. I nearly shouted out to them and just caught myself, they took no notice of me. At long last, I made my way to the beach entrance of Club Oceanic, a sort of Gleneagles-by-the-sea. Really pale people were sipping drinks under the whirling ceiling fans of the ‘Buccaneer Bar’ or frolicking in the pool.

At the reception it took a while to make myself understood even though I had brought along newspaper print-outs about whale watching in Trincomalee. The name of the General Manager was highlighted in one of them where he stated that he intended to make Club Oceanic a centre for this activity. Eventually, I was offered a seat and a man was dispatched to talk to Paths. He returned with the news that his boss wasn’t well but would speak to me in the morning. While I was sipping a complementary glass of iced orange squash he explained that the whales were in a restricted area and arrangements would have to be made with the Navy. This was getting complicated. I had assumed the hotel would be able to arrange a boat, I would round up a bunch of backpackers from the surrounding hostels to split the fee and we would head out. Suddenly deeply worried what all this was going to cost, I hastily intercepted: “No, please, do not make any arrangements yet, I may not be able to afford this!”

“You don’t understand”, the guy said:”There won’t be any charges. Private vessels are not permitted in the area at all. You would have to go out on a Navy ship.”

As far as adventure travel goes, things just kept on getting better. I made an appointment to meet Paths in person at 10:30 the following morning. This time I vowed to take a tuk-tuk.

I do not know what had possessed me to drink coke that evening as I am extremely sensitive to caffeine. I had a hard time getting to sleep. On top of it all, the Tamils in the next room were having an all-night party. The noise woke me up at three am. The lights shone over the partition and through the broken window frame, illuminating my room. I did not manage to get properly back to sleep until seven. By then it was time to get up to avoid the worst of the heat.

I had arranged to hire a bicycle for the day. That took care of my transport problems. The old shark who owned the hostel (the nice guy at reception was his son) at first demanded 200 rs but I knew what other places charged and haggled him down to half that.

Almost whistling, I set off towards Upuveli to get some breakfast at a beachfront bar. I promptly got lost. After cycling fruitlessly up and down the road for a while, I hauled the rusty old bike onto the beach and proceeded to drag it through the sand until, sweat prickling in my eyes, I spotted the bar. I must have zoomed right past a large sign that pointed the way down a sandy path. Why was everything I did so difficult? Why did I want to sit down and weep with exhaustion practically as soon as I got up? Maybe I should take a room here on the beach and not move again for the next three days, except to phone A. When her contacts came through, I could probably stay in a comfortable house and have people who speak the local language make all the arrangements on my behalf. If her contacts came through. I knew myself well enough by now. In a few days it would be Christmas, then I could rest, but in the meantime the whales were still out there and I needed to find out as much about them as I could, as soon as possible.

I had breakfast at the bar which was attached to a backpacker hostel called the ‘French Garden’. Thus rested, I changed into the clean dress I had brought with me and went for my meeting with Paths.

Paths is a formidable man in his fifties who has been in the hospitality business for over 30 years. He presides over the Club Oceanic with iron efficiency and a firm determination to not only restore it to its former glory but turn it into the leading international resort hotel in the area. After ten years of strife, his efforts are about to be rewarded. I had found out about all this in the on-line edition of The Sunday Island, print-outs of which I had presented at reception. Now I feared I may have embarassed the man into going out of his way as he sent his assistants rushing off in all directions.

Finally, one of them returned with the number of the harbour master, to whom he was even now on the phone, voice croaking as a result of a bad chest infection

The harbour master agreed to meet me later that afternoon and show me around. It would be the first step to arranging a trip on a Navy ship.

I arrived back in Trinco covered in dust, chain creaking, in the mid-day sun, but I was happy. To celebrate, I blew 450 rs on a brand-new T-shirt and took a shower with all my clothes on, soaping them off as I went along. Then I did what I should have done every day and had a siesta.

Before setting out again, I called A. “Ask the harbour master what his wife is called!” she said. There were rumours that an old schoolfriend of hers had married the harbour master of Trincomalee. She told me her name and said her friend would take care of me.

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