The fool’s errant
The T-shirt was worth its weight in gold. It was light and airy and, more importantly, I now looked presentable. So at two, I set off on the freshly oiled bike to seek out the offices of the United Nations Development Agency which I had spotted from the bus from Colombo. There was still time before I was due at the Port Authority and it would be a good opportunity to find out more about the current situation in the area. Also, they might be able to provide a local contact for UNEP which I knew had been involved in the National Marine Mammal Program, NARA had run in the eighties. There had been a representation of NARA in Trincomalee but I expected them to have left the area.
Of course, I got lost. Again. It was so hot that the sweat trickled into my eyes. I could not think straight in this heat. I could not even follow the simple instructions on my map. Trincomalee is built on a small peninsula. Even though most of the roads in the map are not marked (which didn’t matter, not all of them had road signs, either) it should be possible to navigate by the ocean on either side of the peninsula. Yet, it took me half an hour before I was heading in the direction I thought the bus had come from. Just as I turned back on myself once more, to top it all, a bird shat on me — missing my new T-shirt by inches.
I cycled past the inner bay onto the road towards Kandy. In the relentless heat, it felt as if I was running a marathon. My body had switched to hard excercise mode, all the gym sessions I had attended over the years were paying off. The price for this exertion was, I knew, that my face would grow a glowing tomato red. I cycled on and still there was no sign of my destination. I had only glimpsed it briefly from the bus window and as it got to three o’clock, struggling up yet another hill, I realized I must have missed it long ago or taken a wrong turn after all and had better go back. It turned out later that I had circled the place several times without turning into the right road which was off the main street.
I retreated to a cool-spot for a quick respite. Although the harbour master had told me to come by anytime between three and five, I did not linger for long. I cycled back along the inner harbour road, looking out for the Port Authority, but there was no sign of any official buildings connected to shipping activities. The big ships appeared to be docking at jetties somewhere in the middle of the bay. Puzzled, I followed the road around Orr’s Hill, assuming it would lead towards the loading docks which were off my map. A quarter of an hour later, the road ended at a barrier in front of army barracks and I realised I was lost for the third time that day. Resignedly, I pushed the bicycle up a street over the top of the hill to save myself the embarrassment of doubling back and passing the guards at the turn-off to the road for a second time. It was hard work and I was worried about being so late, but I realized that if I continued at this pace, I would eventually collapse. When I tried to shakily re-mount the bike at the top of the hill, I managed to crash it in spectacular slow-motion right in front of a watchtower. The soldiers running to my aid were treated to some very colourful language.
I pushed on with grim determination. The Port Authority buildings for a harbour this size had to be unmistakable and were probably situated near the docks which must be accessable somehow. For the third time that day, I cycled past the inner bay, longingly glancing at a toddy tavern I had passed on as many occassions.
There did not seem to be a street leading to the loading docks. I turned into one of the smaller roads, but it was hopeless, an endless sandy path covered in potholes which rattled my bones when I clattered over them. Clearly, this was not leading anywhere. When I came across a group of men, one of them a tuk-tuk driver, I accosted them. They were helpful enough, but none of them understood what I was talking about when I asked about the harbour master or the Port Authority. Usually, in any small town, when you ask for a high-ranking official or an important government agency, there will be someone who can point the way. Finally, I hauled the bike, oily chain and all, into the tuk-tuk and the driver set off, stopping at three shops and a service station to ask directions and apparently receiving different instructions at each of them. When he turned back on himself yet again, I nearly lost it. We were aiming back towards the inner harbour road.
“Oh no!” I wailed: “No, no, NO! I have just come from here!”
The driver placed a soothing hand on my shoulder, a finger on his lips, pointed straight ahead and nodded reassuringly. I shut up, writhing and biting my lips but resigned to my fate.
We drove all the way down the inner harbour road past where I had turned into it and on, through a forbidding looking barrier. Eventually, we pulled up next to a compound of unassuming, low buildings, not at all like the gleaming multi-storey structures I had seen in other harbours. But it was the Port Authority, alright. I nearly hugged the driver.
He delivered me, red faced, puffed-up, sweaty and covered in oil stains, to a crowd of bemused harbour authority personnel, asked for a mere hundred rupees for what must have been the hardest fare of his life and waved cheerfully as he drove off.
Tags: The Whales of Trincomalee, Tag Index
Denni