An afternoon stroll
I had arranged a tuk-tuk for 11 o’clock. The commander, who had borrowed my book on whales, had hinted that he might drop by at Trinco Rest when he finished work at 11:30. It turned out that a family of Germans had to meet somebody in Trinco as well and they were running late. It would not have the end of the world to wait for the tuk-tuk to return, although I was reluctant. They wouldn’t even hear of it: “Sure we all fit in — no problem!”
So we were off, each with a child on their lap and with the rucksack wedged behind the seat. The tuk-tuk swayed and wobbled dangerously over the potholes, but the driver wasn’t alarmed. Later in Pottuvil, I would witness families of 8 squeeze into a single tuk-tuk: grandparents, babies and all.
The ride was pleasant and for the first time in months I spoke German again. We discussed everything from marine conservation to oil prospecting off the Jaffna peninsula, the American involvement and the renewed threat of war and terrorism all this would entail. I was also curious to find out what travelling with children was like.
The proud parents grinned: “The kids are spoilt rotten by the locals!”
That was putting it mildly. The adults were treating them like royalty and they had made loads of friends among the children. They were having the time of their lives and the experience would probably stay with them forever. Travel in childhood should be mandatory.
“Any health problems?”
“Not much. We are careful. We had the runs, but the kids are in glowing health, except for the toddler. He has prickly heat and we don’t know what to do. We have tried creams and oil — nothing helps.”
I was not surprised that they did not know better. The guidebooks list a colourful catalogue of tropical diseases but they, and the doctors, largely ignore the little things that can make all the difference to travelling in health and comfort. Such as betadine cream for cuts and grazes — or calamite powder. I handed them a tub which I had bought over the counter in Negombo. They refused to let me pay for my share of the lift.
Since Trinco Rest was now my official base, I had left a postcard of Scotland at the reception with my name and title on it. It is amazing what a difference a title can make when travelling. The guy at reception, Wimalasiri, pointed at it with a questioning look and I nodded and smiled. Within minutes, the room had been swept clean and the sheets had been changed. Wimalasiri even showed me a superior room upstairs, complete with net and ocean view but I declined. The room was close to the kitchen and I had visions of cockroaches crawling all over me. I cursed the fact that I was so scared of the things that I would rather stay in a stuffy room downstairs instead of the fresh breeze up here. All this also meant that, although it had probably been the case all along, my belongings were now absolutely safe. Relieved, I took off my sweat-soaked moneybelt and stuffed it into the rucksack.
It turned out that the harbour master had phoned twice, even though he knew that I was staying in the French Garden. I had planned to call him anyway, but try as I might, I could not get through. Eventually, I realized that the number quoted on his card was still the old one. All the numbers in Sri Lanka were changing to incoorporate 10 digits in total and the necessary amount of 2s had to be appended to make up the shortfall. I tried again. The navy base was constantly occupied. I indicated the mobile number to Wimalasiri and he didn’t have a problem with me calling it, in fact he dialled the code himself. But the harbour master did not answer. There had been no word of the commander, either.
I settled in the knowledge that I had done all I could for now. A strong breeze was sweeping from the ocean, offering relief from the heat of the past few days so I decided to go and explore a bit more.
In all my time in Trincomalee, I had only come across newspapers in Tamil and the odd one in Sinhala, except when buying snacks which were invariably wrapped in cuttings of English language papers. It was one of the great mysteries of travel. I can understand an abundance of English papers in Colombo, but here in Trinco? Do the shop owners specially import newspaper clippings for packaging their wares? And if so, what is the significance of the English language? Be that as it may, those clippings had been my only source of news until this morning, and they were always out-of-date. Now that I had a closer look around town, I found that English language papers were on sale after all. I bought the Sunday Island from a shop by the bus station which had always been there. I also bought a stamp for one of my Scottish postcards which I sent to the harbour master. Now I wouldn’t have to stress myself out trying to get through to him by phone.
With the option to relax, I found that I had to be on guard once again. Damn travel with anxiety disorder! A stroll to the temple after lunch and a spot of whale watching from the rocks should help settle my mood. I should also take a picture of the spotted deer before leaving.
It was a nice idea, but it had been too much. As I sat in the room, writing my notes, I felt panic rise whenever I paused. My hands started to shake. I really wanted to lie down, but this is the worst thing to do. I had learned about this when I suffered my first panic attack in Gran Canaria, on a Sunday, on my own, the day before I had to fly home. Having to source valium in those conditions taught me, quite by accident, that activity is the best way to deal with such a situation. Nevertheless, I wondered how literally insane travelling with a mental affliction would turn out to be. I forced myself to eat something, grabbed the camera and binoculars and set off for the temple.
The largest number of deer was found in the shady vegetation around the barracks, on the way to the Buddhist temple, but I did not want to walk past the Commander’s house in case he thought I was imposing.
At the gates of the 2nd Gunjara Battalion, two deer were grazing in front of the slogan emblazoned on the glaring white wall:
“WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, THE TOUGH GET GOING!”
I found that rather sweet and nearly took a picture, but thought better of it. This was an army base, after all.
I got my chance on the way back. An impressive stag was browsing in front of the fishing boats by the cool-spot on the beach. Just as I lifted the camera to my eyes, it walked away, so the picture is buggered:
I was never much of a photographer anyway and usually leave the camera at home as I find the lens gets in the way of the experience. On this trip, I only carried one because I wanted to photograph the whales in the crystal clear waters. Most of the time I forgot about it, but now that I had taken it along specially, I had turned into just another holiday snapper. I had taken the picture over the head of a man sitting at one of the tables, vaguely indicating that I was pointing the thing at the deer and not at him, but I could tell that he was irritated. He did not say a word when, parched, I sat down with a cold ginger beer.
We sat in silence for a while. He ignored me while I grinned weakly from time to time and tried to finish my drink quickly which wasn’t easy as it was fiendishly cold. After a few minutes had passed, a minivan with darkened windows pulled up next to the cool-spot and a woman climbed out. She wore shorts, sunglasses, a camera round her neck and a grim expression. Her gaze fixed firmly on the beach, she walked past us without acknowledgement, stepped out onto the sand between the boats, took a photo and then turned and climbed back into the van which drove off. I squirmed. Seeing my reaction, the man thawed a little. I showed him my postcards which proved to be a terrific icebreaker.
All in all, it had been a pleasant afternoon. Of course, I had seen nothing during my whale watching session at the temple. It had been more quiet than usual. As I was leaning in the shade of a rocky crevice, binoculars pointed seawards, only one of the pilgrims approached me and asked a single question, which was oddly:
“What is your hobby?”
“Whale watching”, I replied.
Denni