The Toddy Tavern
There was one thing left to do.
I had only come across a single toddy tavern anywhere near where I was staying and that had been in Trincomalee. Even there it had been quite a way out of town. I had not wanted to walk out there in the heat of the day and certainly not after dark (there are drawbacks to being a single female traveller). I had however seen several toddy signs from the bus to Colombo. It was hot and it would be a bother, but I felt that a visit to a toddy tavern was a must. John chickened out.
“Oh come on,” I pleaded: “It will be fun. According to the guidebook, the tavern in Trincomalee is full of one-eyed fishermen. You’ll meet some real characters in those joints!”
“That is precisely why I don’t want to come”, he sniffed. He gave in when I insisted to go on my own (did he have a choice?) but implored me to be careful and made me promise to be back in two hours.
I hailed a bus and paid the fare to Ja-Ela, a town which sounded like it should be on the planet Krypton, about half-way to Colombo. By a stroke of luck there were only twelve passengers on this bus, so I settled in a window seat and kept my eyes peeled. The first toddy tavern we thundered past was closed. By the time we had zoomed through the coconut plantations around the airport, I wondered whether I had been mistaken. Then I saw a tiny shed with a red-and-white striped roof and the unmistakable sign. It was open! Here in Dandugama I finally got lucky.
The shed was a ramshackle affair with two rocky tables, a few benches, a makeshift bar and two wall decorations: a tavern license and a poster of a young boy peeking up a woman’s skirt with the caption ‘You’ll never know what you’ll discover!’ The proprietor and a young man were sitting at one of the tables directly underneath the poster. They gave me a surprised look as I entered the tavern.
“Toddy?” I asked, uncertain whether I had inadvertendly walked into a private residence. The proprietor, an old man with gaping teeth, nodded and went behind the bar. He poured a glass of cloudy white liquid from a jug floating in a big bowl and grinned as he handed it over. The young man, almost a boy, signalled so I sat down at the table and lifted my glass by way of greeting.
The toddy was sweet and fresh, with a slight fizz and none of the acidity I have tasted in African palm wine. The taste was clean so I did not worry about the state of my head in the morning, but it packed a punch which was astonishing in a brew which had only been fermenting for few hours. I discovered the reason why toddy taverns are licensed: the stuff is about as strong as scrumpy.
I tried to explain about cider to the boy at the table, but his English did not stretch that far. I showed him my trusty postcards of Scotland and we made small talk over a shared plate of dried fish.
“Do women come here to drink?” I asked.
“Never!” he exclaimed. That would explain the look I had been greeted with.
It was not long before I became aware that the young fellow’s feet were edging closer to mine beneath the table. Then he grew bolder, smiled toothily and pointed at the poster on the wall behind him.
“Yeah, cute.” I said.
He placed a hand on my breasts. This was not so cute. I edged my chair out of his reach, sat back and placed my right fist in the palm of my left hand. “Karate” I said, keeping eye-contact with him. He backed off at once. No further advances were made. We continued to talk amicably.
My new friend’s name was Manju. He was a bus driver but we could not tell much more about each other because of the language barrier. Our talk mainly consisted of him asking, at intervals, “Good?”
“Good!” I nodded, and we would grin stupidly at each other.
Just as I began to wonder whether I was the only guest (the youngster had refused my offer of a drink) a tuk-tuk pulled up and the driver walked up to the bar where he downed a pint of toddy in 30 seconds flat. He ordered a second pint, lingered over it for a minute, then bought a single cigarette and drove off. I feared for the passengers he would pick up.
Shortly after, a smartly dressed young man came in. He gestured to both the barkeeper and my new friend. I surmised that he could not speak. The two of them were communicating by writing, so I took out a piece of paper and a pen. The smart man’s English was impeccable. He had been a medical student at Perideniya campus when he had suffered a stroke, robbing him of his speech. It was no wonder that he looked depressed. I expressed my admiration that he was a doctor. He smiled and wrote ‘I like your life!’— by that I assumed he referred to travelling. When he got ready to leave, he wrote ‘Good-bye my sister’. ‘Good-bye my brother’, I wrote back.
By now a few more guys had come in. I was on my second toddy and was contemplating switching to a pint glass. It was tempting. Then again, I was a woman on my own and had my reputation to consider. I slowed down a little.
Presently, one of the blokes at the second table pushed a photo in my direction. He was standing next to an elephant on which some tourists were riding. It turned out that he was a mahout.
“Very impressive!” I said.
He began to talk about a nearby elephant park where he worked. He was hustling me to come and visit. Manju signalled me and shook his finger. Universal sign-language: Don’t talk to him. He is a dodgy fellow. I nodded. It seems nowhere is safe from touts. “I’m sorry but I am flying home tomorrow.” I said.
I was reluctant to leave the tavern, but I had better, the mahout and his mates were getting boisterous. I reflected on the crowd I had encountered and wondered what these guys would make of my regular pub in Stirling. I suspect they and a couple of drunken Scots would get along famously.
Tags: The Whales of Trincomalee, Tag Index
Denni