Travels on the Edge
As soon as there was sufficient daylight, I packed my stuff, settled the bill (no surcharge for saving lives) and set off towards Kandy. Already in the tuk-tuk to Pottuvil, I knew that things were far from OK. The colours were too bright. I could not look into the distance. I wanted to close my eyes and shut out the world.
I boarded the bus in a trance, going through the motions on automatic pilot. Once seated, I found that I was staring at the bright shirt of a guy sitting two rows in front of me. It seemed to suck me in: my vision narrowed until it was totally filled with it. At the same time, panic rose in my throat. This was not good. A niggling voice told me that I was not ready for this. Not so long ago, just going down the road to the library had been a challenge. Agoraphobia is not a good condition to suffer from in a crowded bus racing across a wide and barren landscape.
I hunched over my bag, clutching the thing like a comfort blanket. I had no alternative, so I took 5mg of Seroxat, doubling my current dose. The stuff is not to be messed with, but it is good at controlling panic. I sincerely hoped it would do the job now.
It was touch-and-go for about 40 minutes which I spent largely with my head held in my hands, glancing at my watch from time to time to maintain focus. Then it felt as if my brain had been smothered with cotton wool; the drug was kicking in. Half an hour later, I was back to normal. A few cops with guns boarding the bus at a roadblock nearly freaked me out again, but they were just up for a ride to their post.
I started to look out of the window and absorb the scenery. I was distracted from this only by the guy sitting next to me who was practising his English by gamely reading from my guidebook, prodding me every now and then to read out words. When he started to painstaikingly pronounce names listed in the acknowledgements, I wrestled the book from him and turned to a page about wildlife. I regretted that as he proceeded to struggle with the latin names of various plants and animals and pointed him to a section about Islam, but only after I had ascertained that he was Muslim. There I was on safer ground. In return, he made sure that I had a smooth change at Komari and that the driver understood where I was going. This payed off because when we passed Karaitivu, further up north, the driver pulled over, beckoned me to get out and pointed at a bus parked by the roadside which was going directly to Kandy. This saved me from having to travel through Batticaloa and shaved a good chunk off the journey.
After I had stored my bags on board, I stood outside the bus for a while, uncertainly smoking a cigarette. I needed to buy some food and water and phone Dr. I as I was plainly not able to make my appointment with her this afternoon. I had tried to call her previously, but she had not been in. At last, I enquired when we were due to depart. The men who were gathered around the bus seemed to understand me perfectly: “One o’ clock!” they shouted. That seemed clear enough, leaving a good 45 minutes for my errands.
I grabbed my wallet and diary and set off across the road to make the call. Dr. I was not in. I then proceeded to ask for water in every single shop that lined the roadside. It took a good ten minutes before I found a place that sold mineral water, not a commodity much in demand in Karaitivu. Just as I turned my attention to food, the guys by the bus started whistling and shouting and waved me back. We were about to leave. Busdrivers everywhere seem to operate in a different time zone to everyone else.
There was a noticable LTTE presence in the area between Komani and Batticaloa. We drove past buildings adorned with the red and gold emblem of a tiger’s head in front of two crossed guns. The barracks in this area were riddled with bullet holes and heavily reinforced with rolls of barbed wire marking out anti-ambush strips. Some shelled ruins were visible from the road. Around Chenkaladi, we passed minefields. It was an uneasy peace, but it was holding. The people appeared relaxed, even at the road barriers.
The area was thinly populated. As my stomach started to grumble, I longed for the usually omnipresent hawkers and wondered if we would ever make it to a rest-stop.
The scenery changed completely when we entered the Sinhalese region around Manampitiya. We were back in the wetzone, crossing a more populated area and the hawkers were back! It was a welcome sight. I managed to buy a cob of corn from a woman who obligingly made her way through the bus. It tasted like the stuff we grow for cattle feed back on the Continent, but it was the most deliciously anticipated meal I had in quite some time. Just after I had finished the thing, we pulled into a rest stop.
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Denni