Colombo – Not getting arrested
Thursday, April 27th, 2006I arrived in a very warm and tropical Colombo at lunchtime on Monday 24th April, eyes all red and blurry from my emotional farewell to India. I’d managed to meet my friend Dave at the airport (he was out at the same time as me, staying in what must surely be the poshest hotel in the whole world ever. True to form, not only did I go and use the swimming pool, I used his bath, his hairdryer, ate his biscuits and nicked all the freebies I could lay my hands on, including the hotel stationery. Well, you never know!). I handed over to him the last few bits I wanted to send home, including the marvellous portrait drawn by Vipin. If there’s a way to scan it and put it online, I will. When Dave and I met, though, it was like a scene from a communist regime – apparently in India (or Bangalore at least), once you’ve checked in, you can’t leave the airport, and there’s a line past which only passengers with a ticket can go. So Dave couldn’t come in, and I couldn’t go out. We met AT the line, I handed my bag over, started crying, and we hugged across the divide. Imagine an old war film, throw in a Selfridges carrier bag and a dozen curious Indians, and you will have the scene.
Sri Lanka is pretty much India-lite, so I managed to negotiate a decent taxi rate into Colombo town, sniffled my way past the St Jude shops on the road, and headed for a few places before I managed to get a shared room at the YWCA, of all places. It wasn’t ready yet, so I headed out to see a bit of Colombo. It doesn’t really have that many sights, but is ok, as far as capital cities go. I think if you haven’t been to India, it would seem loud, noisy, and polluted, but compared to most places over there, it’s pleasant enough. There are still quite a few signs of the old colonial times, which always give me a slight twinge of guilt for some reason.
Among my many favourite books, there is one called ‘Coming Home’ by Rosamunde Pilcher, which has one section set in Sri Lanka (or Ceylon, as it was then). I was always intrigued by the descriptions of Galle Road, Galle Face Green, and the Galle Face Hotel, so I was pleased in a way that my hostel was just off Galle Road – but also disappointed that it just seems to be a jumble of badly-aging modern buildings. Galle Face Green was lovely though, a big stretch of grass in front of the sea shore, surrounded by old Dutch cannons. I treated myself to a lemonade in the Galle Face Hotel (it’s desperate times when a lemonade counts as a treat, but at 110 rupees a pop – about 60p, nigh on criminal over here, it sure is a treat). This was lovely, but again in a slightly guilt-inducing-colonial way. Looking round, it was quite clear that all the guests were foreign, and the only Sri Lankans there were staff.
I took the opportunity to call the Chinese Embassy in Colombo. China is my next stop, and I have to sort my visa out before I go there. I’d got the number from tourist information, and managed to get through to the right place. I told the guy on the phone my plans, but started to panic slightly when he was talking about a form that I needed to get sent from China. I asked could I download it from the internet? Absolutely not, no, it must be posted from China. But why don’t you have any there at the Embassy? Because it’s a special form, it must be endorsed by your friend in China. “But I don’t have any friends in China”, I whined in a loud voice, marking myself out to the other people in the bar as some kind of Chinese Billy No Mates. “Well, in that case, I don’t think you will be able to go to China on May 7th”.
All my plans started crumbling in my brain, and the only words I could get out were the very eloquent, “but, but, but, WHY?”.
Turns out the guy had assumed (mainly because I hadn’t told him otherwise) that I was Sri Lankan. As soon as he found out I was British, he started gushing, “Oh, but of course you can come. No problem at all. I can rush the application through for you if you want.” It was another display of double standards – no doubt there are political reasons for it, but it still made me cringe a bit. Coming to different parts of the world, you soon realise just how many doors a white face and a British passport can open.
I sauntered back to the hostel, and met my room-mate, a lovely girl from Eastbourne called Tina. She was just over in Sri Lanka a short time, in order to renew her Indian visa. We were both homesick for India, so were good company for each other (but just about awful for anyone else to listen to, I bet!). We got on great, and headed out the next morning for some breakfast.
I had to head to the Chinese Embassy to be fawned over, and then get the train to Kandy, so we said our goodbyes and headed out in different directions. Luckily, the Chinese place in Colombo was much nicer than my last experience, in the Birmingham branch of the Indian consulate, and there were just a couple of people waiting. I filled in my form, attached my photo (a massively old one, taken about 8 years ago – I’m not vain, just thrifty), and waited. About five minutes later, when I was served, the man immediately said to me “You phoned up yesterday”. “Yes”, I replied, slightly startled at his apparently psychic ability. “How did you know that was me?” He just laughed, and nodded at the rest of the people in the waiting room – a lot of brown Sri Lankan faces looked back at me. Maybe not so psychic after all, then.
I need to go back to collect my visa next week, and he kept my passport. I was on the way out, when I remembered I should have a copy, so I doubled back and asked him for one. “Don’t worry”, he replied, “I don’t think you will need it. I don’t think you will be arrested”. Erm, well, I’ll try not to.
Back at the hostel, I collected my rucksack and was just about to head out for the train when one of the staff there accosted me. “Are you leaving now?” “Yes”. “OK, you must wait”. I asked was there a problem – I’d settled my bill that morning.
She told me, with a lovely big Sri Lankan grin on her face, that there had been a bomb, there in Colombo, just a short distance away. Checking with a few other people (not that I didn’t believe her, but sometimes things can get lost in translation), I had the same response, always delivered with a smile. Yes, yes, a bomb. In Colombo. People in hospital, and some are dead.
I went into a strange mix of calm and panic. The first thing I did was call Mum, in case she heard it on the news and knew I was in Colombo, to say I’m fine, have seen nothing of it, and I’m heading out of the city now. I wondered for a few minutes whether to get my train, as sometimes (for example, recently in India), train stations have become targets for terrorists. Logically, though, I knew the rebel factions fighting here were specifically against the government, and have never in the past deliberately targetted tourists. So I headed out, onto the surprisingly normal streets of Colombo, albeit with a lot of army presence (and is it just me, or does everyone automatically feel guilty when you’re passing an army or police officer? Like going through customs, even though I’m about as far removed from a smuggler as you can get), and headed to Colombo Fort Station. I was a bit early, and I can tell you, a heaved a sigh of relief as the train for Kandy pulled in, and left, on time – with me on it.
Suzanne