Raja’s Oasis
Weligama was the opposite of Mirissa. The bay was crowded not with tourists, but with fishermen. There were so many boats that it must have been overfished. The main catch appeared to be tiny sardinellas.
Instead of guesthouses, among the private bungalows lining the beach there were tiny mud huts, temporary accommodation for the fishermen. There did not seem to be any hostels, just a few expensive resort hotels. It struck me that the fishermen could kit out their huts with a few wooden bunks, label the place ‘Eco Lodge’ to account for the lack of facilities and charge travellers 500rs a night. They would probably make in one day what they made in a week pulling tiny fish out of the bay. I would gladly have paid.
I had walked along the beach without consulting my guidebook, assuming I could ask around for a room much like I had done in Mirissa, but this strategy did not work here. After returning to the road, I checked my map and walked for half an hour until I came to a sign pointing to ‘Raja’s Guest House’. I still needed somebody to point out the building, the sign above the entrance was so tiny that it looked like it belonged to a private dwelling. But here, I had stumbled across a little gem. A friendly member of staff showed me a clean and cosy room with its own porch. There were even complimentary mints in a coconut shell on the table. He bade me to sit down and I looked out over the sea while he cleaned inside. He told me that I had been lucky, a couple had just checked out of the room. While I was still waiting on the porch, other dishevelled backpackers started to arrive, asking for accommodation. Just as I had settled in, Raja, the proprietor, came up to welcome me. He was an energetic, darting man with shining eyes and flashing white teeth.
“You are lucky”, Raja said: “From what I hear, everything between Negombo and Kirinda is booked solid! Are you travelling alone?”
I said I was and he immediately knocked 150 rs off my room rate, saying I had been quoted the price for a double. All the rooms were doubles and he would not have had any difficulties letting it out at the price. He winked.
“I like backpackers,” he said.
Rajas tiny guesthouse only had 4 rooms, all clustered around the well-kept garden. In the cool shade of palm trees, among flower beds and lush, green shrubs, there were benches and even a hammock strapped between two palms. An oasis of seclusion facing the beach which at this end seemed deserted.
I finished unpacking with a contented sigh and set off to buy some provisions in town. Just as I had turned into the main road, Raja overtook me in a tuk-tuk and offered me a lift. He was taking the net from my room to town to have it cleaned. I felt like a VIP.
So I finally got to unpack my snorkeling gear. The sea out here was shallow, sandy and featureless, but towards the town there were some rocks and a small private island in water no more than waist deep. There would be some nice snorkelling. However, that section of beach was busy with fishermen. I did not think I would get in the way and I wore sensible shorts and a T-shirt, but I felt exposed nevertheless. My legs were so white that they reflected the sun, advertising my presence from afar. And sure enough, I was approached. The older men just wished me a cheerful “Good Morning” but the younger guys started to follow me. This would not do. I turned back towards the guesthouse and walked to the deserted section of the beach at the other side of the bay.
I sighed with relief when the last of the guys fell behind as I approached Raja’s, who I suspect keeps a discreet eye out to make sure his guests are not molested. Here, I paused for a while and looked out over the bay. At the horizon, an endless procession of ships steamed past on their way to India and across the Bay of Bengal. Envy formed a small bitter knot in the pit of my stomach. I so much wanted to be out there.
I walked on. It appeared that the peace and seclusion on this side of the bay would be temporary. A new luxury hotel was under construction. At the end of the bay, the Polwatta Ganga flowed into the sea, its banks fringed by green jungle. At the river mouth, rocks rose majestically from the vegetation and dropped into the water which took on a green and turquoise hue. It looked like something out of a dream. The snorkelling would be fantastic here. I walked up to the bank and looked out pensively. A man rowing an outrigger boat at the rivermouth whistled and turned the boat towards me. He signalled and I waved him off. But he was persistent. I turned away from the bank, suddenly unsure. It was entirely possible that saltwater crocodiles were lurking on the rocks, partly obscured by the overhanging branches. This looked like prime crocodile habitat. Maybe the guy was warning me. Either way, I had lost my appetite for snorkeling. I headed back to Raja’s and decided to unwind for a change.
The restaurant, ‘Raja’s Kitchen’, was regularly patronised by people staying in the luxury hotels nearby. That night there was a group of Dutch who had come to Raja’s every evening of their stay. My order for dinner had been taken in the afternoon so that the food would be ready by the specified time. It was not cheap, one unsavoury custom Raja had adapted was to charge extra for the rice, but I figured I deserved a treat and the least I could do for my host was to eat in his restaurant. The food was fresh and very good. Alas, they had run out of both soda and ginger beer. I produced the thambili (king coconut) I had bought in town. The obliging waiter cut it for me and presented it with a straw and a smile. I poured in the little bottle of arrack I had also brought along. It was a good mix and became something of an evening ritual for the remainder of the trip.
Later that evening, there was a disturbance.
Raja had joined me for a beer on the porch in front of my room and we talked about the guesthouse. I voiced my surprise that he had provided complementary mints.
“Oh God, don’t eat those!” he cried: “That is camphor against the flies!”
Luckily, I hadn’t been tempted. Ingestion of a few grams of camphor causes convulsions, respiratory failure and death. On this particular evening, I did not feel suicidal.
The flies were a nuissance every time the breeze died down, but that was the only downside to the place, there were not even many mosquitoes.
The disturbance happened when one of the guests, a dishevelled looking, gangly guy, blond and bearded, started arguing with two men at one of the gates. Raja scowled. “He takes drugs”, he said: “and he drinks. All day. I have warned him already. I have told him not to bring in beer from the outside. He won’t listen. And he is staying for a long time.”
I looked at the washed-up surfer-dude.
“He seems to be a problem,” I said: “Why not just throw him out?”
Raja did not reply. He would have no trouble renting out the room, the dude probably only paid the single rate in any case. It just seemed as if the idea had never occured to him, the man was after all a guest. Raja was a truly exceptional host.
I was tempted to stay, but there was much to see and little time. I was confident that I would find accommodation on the way, so far I had always been lucky. So the next day I said my regretful good-byes and headed back to Weligama to catch a bus to Tangalla.
Tags: The Whales of Trincomalee, Tag Index
Denni