Running away
S and A were due to fly home in two days’ time, so Rob had invited John and me to spend our last ten days at his place. He was keen to pick John’s brains about the mathematical modeling required to analyse waste degradation in his various projects. So keen that he was driving to Negombo especially to pick us up, despite my protests that we could just as easily have taken the bus. At least those two would be busy. In return, I hoped that Rob could somehow hook me up with Dr. J
Seeing that we would leave tomorrow, it would be ideal if I could arrange a meeting with Dr. I today. It was very short notice, but after having let me down yesterday I hoped she might be accommodating. However, she was busy. She suggested we meet on the following Thursday. So it looked like I would spend our last week commuting between Kandy and Colombo to attend various meetings. There did not seem to be much point to it, seeing that our time in Sri Lanka was coming to an end
Attending the talk at the SAAS had triggered painful memories. I had been granted a brief glimpse of the world which I had inhabited as a student, full of dreams and ambitions. That was before I had ended up in the laboratory, moving from one short-term contract to another, my dreams crumbling away. For a brief moment, I dreamt about returning to work in the field. But I had no observations, no data. I had no reputation in marine mammal research. I was no longer affiliated to a university. I was just a tourist who had nothing in common with those researchers.
I grew increasingly morose.
Depression was looming just beneath the seething anger that had started to consume me. I was still a long way from mentally balanced and, to round it all off, my hormones were in turmoil.
In the end, my moodswings became unbearable for everybody. After a particularly violent outburst, A quite rightly exploded. It was just before we were due to leave for Kandy. I ranted and raved and cried all the way, hormonal, bitter, seriously unhinged. Without access to tranquilisers, there was nothing anybody could do. There was only one thing for it. As soon as we pulled into the department carpark, I jumped out, shouldered my rucksack and left.
On the bus to Kandy town, I did not look at the lake or the stupahs and cloud-shrouded hills, focussing only the hawkers, shabby huts and mangy dogs in the foreground. I hurried across the bus station without taking any notice of anything or anybody.
I hit the road full on. The bus sped along, music blared at full volume, the glittering decorations on the windscreen fluttered in the breeze and the lights on the display above the driver’s seat flashed in colourful patterns whenever he indicated or braked. I drowned my senses in the speed and the lights and the noise. Gradually, I calmed down.
We raced on, towards Dambulla. I dithered briefly about which direction to take from there (map). The bus was destined for Vavuniya, at the border of the Wanni, an LTTE controlled area in the north which separates the Jaffna peninsula from the rest of Sri Lanka. The Wanni functions as a separate state, ‘Tamil Eelam’, complete with border controls monitored by international observers. And I had thought that border crossings would be one thing lacking in my travels on this island, so reminiscent of a miniature Africa!
I could stay on the bus, spend the night in Vavunyia and on the next day cross the Wanni and the famous Elephant Pass towards Jaffna. That region has seen the fiercest fighting during the war. The Sinhalese army took Jaffna in a massive offensive in 1995 and tried repeatedly to maintain control over this vital route to the peninsula, but in April 2000, the LTTE surrounded a large garrison, cut off all supply routes, and forced the surrender of over 15 000 troops. During their retreat towards Jaffna, the troops were ambushed by LTTE cadres, thousands were killed on both sides and hundreds of soldiers died from dehydration. Since then, the Sinhalese have not tried to regain control over the Wanni.
Now, it was possible to travel overland to Jaffna once more, even if it meant running the gauntlet of numerous LTTE check-points. This would be a very different part of Sri Lanka, as would the peninsula itself. The war and subsequent isolation has left its unique mark on Jaffna. Historical buildings are in ruins. People are re-claiming houses scarred by bullet holes and mortar fire. Very few cars have been brought into the peninsula since the conflict started so the streets are full of 70s and early 80s vintage cars, modified to run on kerosene because fuel is strictly rationed. The people of Jaffna have a reputation of being the friendliest on the island, despite all the hardships they have suffered. I was very tempted to explore the region.
In the end I decided to go to Batticaloa, a pleasant town on the east coast which had also been cut off by fighting until recently. Now, it is accessible once again, a gateway to the former beach resorts of Kalkudah and Passekudah as well as the surfer’s resort at Arugam Bay. Further south, past the small town of Panama, is the northern border of Yala national park. This area is still relatively inaccessible to tourism and would offer a perfect opportunity to see some undisturbed wildlife. Furthermore, it was just north of the Great Basses and Little Basses reefs where the continental shelf came once more close to shore providing promising spots for terrestrial whale watching. I had read several accounts of sightings from beaches ‘around Yala national park’ but no further details. Judging from the position of the reefs and shallows, these sightings were most likely to have occured at the northern end of the park. In short, whatever I decided to do, the area around Batticaloa sounded promising. What was more, the on-line edition of ‘Lonely Planet’ still warned about travelling to the area, so there would not be many spotty gap-year kids around. It was perfect.
Finding the right bus from Dambulla proved to be tricky. Dambulla is an archaeological hotspot and a World Heritage Site. It forms part of Sri Lanka’s ‘cultural triangle’, the centre of the country’s ancient heritage. The rocky outcrop close to the town houses a large network of caves which served as a refuge to King Valagambahu during his exile in the first century BC. Once back on the throne, the King built a magnificient rock temple in gratitude for his escape. The site has gained in religious significance over the millennia and is now home to a series of magnificent Buddha statues and cave temples.
In places like these, Sri Lanka turns into a giant theme park. I detest travelling in such areas; it reminds me of living in Oxford. Not my cup of tea. Touts descended on me, trying to persuade me to stay the night by any means possible from pleading to blatant lying (“No bus until tomorrow, madam!”). They kept getting in the way as I tried in vain to decipher the destinations on the buses leaving from Colombo Junction in the town centre. Eventually, I shouldered my backpack and took a tuk-tuk out to Mirisgoni junction on the A6 east. After waiting on the corner for a while, not sure where the bus was meant to stop, I spotted a man with a duffel bag further up the road and went to join him.
About five minutes later, a bus pulled over where I had been waiting originally. Cursing, I picked up my bag once again and turned to walk back down the road, when several armed police boarded the bus. Shortly after, all the passengers disembarked and made their way to where we stood while their bus was subjected to a thorough search. Now there were at least 100 people waiting to go in our direction. Most of the passengers were staring fixedly at the empty bus, I surmised they had already paid for their tickets. That was our luck, because soon another bus pulled up and their hesitation gave the two of us just enough of a headstart to run over and scamper on board before the mob cut their losses and turned to join us. Soon, they were rammed in so tight that hardly any breathing-space remained. I settled into my window seat and, to my delight, found that our current transport was destined directly for Batticaloa.
The journey continued through a wide, marshy landscape dotted with painted storks, egrets and black-headed ibises. Peacocks perched on trees in the dusk, silhouetted against the evening sky, their long graceful tails trailing behind. Once, we passed a herd of elephants which alarmingly foraged on a rubbish dump among polythene bags and battered oildrums. When the sun set, the bus became an island of light, rattling through the darkness towards Batticaloa.
About an hour away from our destination, I was shaken out of my reverie by the conductor. “Passekudah?” he asked. It appeared we had arrived in Valaichchenai where the road turns off towards Batticaloa. Passekudah and Kalkudah lay at the tip of a peninsula to the east of this town. On my map, no roads were indicated, although they must exist as the guidebook mentioned buses going there, at least during the day. I looked out of the window. It was pitch black. There were hardly any vehicles on the road, although a trusty tuk-tuk was waiting at the corner. For all I knew it would take me down a dirt track running through the darkness to an unknown beach. Trusting myself to some tuk-tuk driver in the dark of the night with no idea about my destination other that I might be lucky to find a guesthouse among the shelled ruins of the former resorts was against my better instincts. I might have had a look in the light of day, but not tonight. I shook my head.
“Batticaloa!” I said firmly.
Denni