Wednesday 18 December 2013

Sri Lanka: Good Monning and All for You!

I was back home… it felt like my heart would drop to my toes if I dared move. The sinking feeling had begun at the airport, as we- my friend and I- sat in the lounge area waiting for our flight back to India. We were still in Sri Lanka, but I was already sorely missing the simple, innocent beauty of the country. My mind still lingered on the beaches of Hikkaduwa and the smell of fresh prawn-and-crab curry. And, my heart… it scattered itself in little pieces, across the expanse of the lands we’d traversed. Like pollen grain that surfs the wind and settles in the unlikeliest places.
The past four days had been… well, perfect.
Surprisingly perfect, in fact. It was my first time travelling with this friend. We weren’t even, what one would call, close friends. She is an ex-colleague of mine and we’d spoken several times about doing a trip to Gokarna. That never happened. Somehow, Sri Lanka did.  And, I wondered if we’d get along. They say that you can only really know a person when you travel with them. But, that worked out wonderfully too. Over a shared love for inane humour, minor gossip and character analysis (assassination?), Rickshaw Reddy and Stroviya Reddy (a.k.a us) bonded and explored Sri Lanka in effortless companionship.
When we landed in Colombo, it was 2.40 am. Two girls in an alien land. My guard was up and working overtime- fuelled by a good dose of sleeplessness. So, when a middle aged airport official offered to help us get a cab that would take us to Kandy- our first stop- I was instantly suspicious. I made up aliases for us both and even went so far as to tell him that we had a bunch of friends waiting for us at the destination… just in case. Naturally, when we reached Kandy safe and sound and said our goodbyes to the kind driver, I felt a little guilty. Why was I unable to trust anyone? Had I really lost ALL hope in mankind?
Hanthana Home Stay, perched cosily on a hill, was our first home in Sri Lanka. And, the owners of the place made me realise even more how beautiful the human heart can really get, with their hospitality. The house itself was divine… our room had high ceilings with wooden rafters and the balcony opened out to the great mountains. It was rather grudgingly we left it, after a fiery breakfast of sticky rice cakes and chilli paste, to head to the famed botanical gardens. We paid a bomb to enter because we were ‘foreigners’, but I’d say it was semi-worth it. The greenery was breathtaking. We passed countless young couples lounging about under the thick canopy of trees as we lost and found our way through awe-inducing palm avenues, orchid enclave and grassy knolls. It was special for me, in particular, because I happened to chance upon the tree that pretty much defines my childhood. The tree that I would worship when I’d go to the park in Calcutta every summer, when I was a kid. I found it is called the Cannon Ball Tree. I took a few flowers from the tree to my nose and absently ticked a minor point off my bucket list. Kandy reminded me a little of Kerala and a little of the Bali in my head (I’ve never been). The giant banana trees with their flappy, floppy elephant-ear-like leaves are what define my idea of Bali. And the skirt-sporting people… they could be my neighbours in Kerala, with their unaffected demeanours and perennial umbrella-using.
Next up- the tooth relic Buddha temple. It was magnificent and beautiful and blah, blah, blah. However, the walk around the lake that frames the temple was great. We ate cream buns, took photographs of flowers, interacted with people, explored the town on foot. We finished off with a stout at The Pub, where we traded travel stories with two girls from Denmark. They wanted to know all about India. I warned them against visiting. I also warned them against not visiting.
The train journey to Hikkaduwa was manufactured in a horror story. The trains in Sri Lanka are like feral horses. They buck, they tremble, they jump, they shriek. (All hail the Indian railways.) And, to make matters worse, we sat in third class even though we had first class tickets. We were misled by a kindly Korean lady who didn’t speak English to save her life, let alone Tamil or Sinhalese. I wondered how she managed to get about in the country. Bless her. Also, damn her. Anyway, we got to Hikkaduwa… with the raging appetite of a pack of wolves. Salvation was sweet… and spicy. We sat by the turquoise beaches of the coastal town enjoying the most bliss-inducing meal of buttered prawns, crab curry and rice, and the sight of surfers paddling to catch ‘the wave’. We had decided in advance to ‘chill and go with the flow’ and did this by walking up and down the town just taking in our colourful surroundings. Multi-hued tuk-tuks, beachy apparel stores, green palms, blue sea. Our room in Vibration Hotel was out of a Mediterranean magic book (white textured walls, stone furniture, bathrooms out of the Flinstones) and, in it, we leisurely got ready for the night to follow. There was always going to be a ‘night to follow’. The Tsunami-ravaged gem doubled as a party town, after all, and in the evenings, it turns into a whimsical, lantern-lit stretch of lively shacks serving scrumptious seafood and ambrosia. The clubs take turns in staying open all night to host ‘the party of the day’ (everyone does business that way… can you imagine such an arrangement in India?) and entertain out-of-towners. At Funky de Bar, which was right opposite our digs, we met a nomadic German paper-cutting artist who was sweet, interesting and fresh out of a five-year-long relationship. He tried to flirt with my friend, who was happily uninterested. (Speaking of which- while Kandy was filled with lovely people, Hikkaduwa was all about roadside Romeos inundating us with ‘hey baby/honey’ and ‘hi, wanna danze?’.) On the bright side, the owner of the place- with whom I’d had a discussion on business, journalism and my nose stud- took a fancy to me and therefore took care of our tab. Yayy. We left when the night had just begun. At around 12 am, that is. When I woke up at 6 am to use the restroom, I could still hear the music from the club. How do people do that?!
In the morning, after a hearty English breakfast, starring Mr Bacon, we headed to a turtle farm where I met a 40-year-old guy who wanted a piece of my butt. He was an old, crippled Olive Ridley. And, for some reason, he kept lunging for my derriere. And then, there were those tiny little turtle that so-cutely played dead when I held them (a defense mechanism against prey, I was told). The story of the farm was sad, as many stories in that region tend to be. The place used to be the owner’s house. One day, he’d gone to work. When he’d come back, the house was gone, along with six members of his family. Taken eternal hostage by the Tsunami. With somber thought playing on our minds, we headed to a moonstone mine. It was supremely unimpressive. But, the cinnamon oil pressing process- that we were shown as a side-show- was amazing!
Then, it was time to head to Colombo! Again, we were thrilled with our guest house in the beach suburb- Mount Lavinia and wasted no time in making our way to the beach. Unfortunately, we were accosted by a plentitude of unsavoury elements whose main profession seemed to be The Objectification of Women. Luckily, we stumbled upon a gem of a place called Shore by O, which afforded us a gorgeous view of the sea, classy live music, good people, and a taste of the best Sri Lankan curry we’ve ever tasted. I salivate even now, thinking about that plate from heaven. There, a rich man- who called himself the unofficial Ambassador of Sri Lanka- chatted with us. He told us that if were to come back five years later, there would be flyovers crisscrossing the space right above the ocean. Umm.
The next day, we hit Colombo city with a vengeance. Dutch Hospital, Odel, Cinnamon Grand, food court, beach, walking… dreading the night. We’d have to leave back to India then. So sad. Heart wrenching. I didn’t want to go back home. Not because I hated home. I love home. I love the people- canine and otherwise- in it. But, something about Sri Lanka had me hooked. Or perhaps it was the wanderer in me who finally found how to use her marvellous wings. I was just so happy being on the move. I felt liberated. The feeling of being far away… incomparable.
So, sitting in the airport lounge, between Rickshaw and Stroviya jokes (they never get old), I made up my mind to indulge my wanderlust, come 2014. I want to go where the wind takes me… so long as the wind doesn’t strip me off my job. I will need the money to plan my subsequent travels. The food- yes, I’d like a lot of that, please. I believe that you can taste the essence of a land merely by biting into a chunk of a native dish. I’d like to aimlessly wander about on shiny tar roads, cobbled streets and dusty bylanes, entering charming little bakeries and leaving them with a full tummy. I will use the yellow brick road as my map, and my dreams as a navigation tool.
I want to NOT visit ‘sightseeing’ spots anymore. I might die of boredom if I entered another Buddha temple… it feels like that’s all I’ve been doing since 2009! I am happy enough to JUST BE. Enjoying the unique fragrance in the air of a new place and taking many long walks. I want to travel and meet and interact with different people. I find that it’s like reading a book… only in live video format. I want to get over my innate lack of trust in humanity. I need to travel as much as I can to design for myself a more wholesome, real and healthier view of the world and its so-often-lovely human cogs. I want to leave my fortress of suspicion and distrust. I want to scale the walls of my many fears (except lizards- they can go to hell). I want to not run away from danger… I want to face it. That said; I want to also be sensible. I don’t want to rub the Italian mafia the wrong way or decide to take on a hungry shark all by myself.
But, for most part… I want to get lost. I want to find myself. I want to be free.