Day 1:
George:
"To exploration, discovery and something else," says Ewan being unintentionally artistic with his words. Glasses clink; burgers eaten; wallets lighter; stomachs full. Terminal 4 of Heathrow feels smaller than you would imagine. No long walks to check in, a two minute walk to the gate. All in all, everything feels rather relaxed. The excitement hasn't kicked in yet, everything feels disapointingly normal. Ewan's taking pictures of evergthing in sight, texting everyone he knows. I'm sitting quietly writing in a notebook. So far the only difference between this and any other holiday is that the side of the plane reads Qatar.
George:
"To exploration, discovery and something else," says Ewan being unintentionally artistic with his words. Glasses clink; burgers eaten; wallets lighter; stomachs full. Terminal 4 of Heathrow feels smaller than you would imagine. No long walks to check in, a two minute walk to the gate. All in all, everything feels rather relaxed. The excitement hasn't kicked in yet, everything feels disapointingly normal. Ewan's taking pictures of evergthing in sight, texting everyone he knows. I'm sitting quietly writing in a notebook. So far the only difference between this and any other holiday is that the side of the plane reads Qatar.
 |
| Our Qatar Airways Boeing 777 |
Ewan's forgotten his hoodie. This is irritating him significantly as he bought it purposefully. So far I haven't forgotten anything, so 1-0 to me. I'm trying to get myself excited but at the moment Sri-Lanka is still to far away, still not real enough, just a collection of jumbled together, photoshoped images off the internet. At the moment the only real thing is the next 13 hours of...well im not sure yet. Probably gripping the armrests and telling myself that turbulence is normal. Ewan informs me thus:
"I had a dream once about a plane crashing. It was spinning toward the ground and I kept shouting 'Don't worry the pilot will pull up!'. Except. Well. Usually you wake up. But I didn't for some reason. It was awful. We hit the ground and that was it. Game over."
---------- ~ ----------
Ewan:
I was delighted to see that 'Super 8' was on the plane movie list. I'd wanted to see it before I left but didn't have the time. Despite this, the first leg of the journey was largely forgettable. No turbulence of any note to speak of, and the food was surprisingly good for an airline meal.
Our Qatar airways flight changed over in Doha, Qatar at midnight local time, where we were met with a suffocating blast of hot air as we departed the plane. Two air-conditioned buses and a quick turnaround at the terminal later, we were off again on our final flight to Sri Lanka.
George and I managed to have a quick doze on the plane and we needed it! We'd been up for hours and we still had a journey in a challenging new country to our home-stay in Mount Lavinia, several miles south of Colombo.
Armed with our heavy packs we set off from the airport and within moments found ourselfs helplessly approached by taxi drivers wanting out trade. After finding an ATM and enquiring about train travel (which was evidently futile), we surrendered to one of the taxi drivers and set off to Colombo's main rail station.
The Colombo Port Station was built in 1858 during British colonial rule and still runs today. After purchasing two 3rd class singles for a mere 15p we settled on platform 5 and waited for our train which we were told was meant to arrive at quarter past the hour. The life in the station was fascinating. We must have been the only pale faces in the whole place so we certainly felt like we stood out. Opposite us in a yard we could see an old steam train. Difficult to say wether it was still in use or just a reminder of days gone by? However, given the smell of old train steam linkering on the breeze I'd suggest the former. I turn up to a tv monitor expecting to see the train times but instead am greeted by live coverage of the Sri Lanka v Australia cricket match. At this moment hundreds of Sri Lankans disembark a train en masse and I'm astounded to see them all walking straight accross the railway lines to the main building, despite there being an overhead walkway.
Health and safety didn't seem to be a prime concern on the train either (which did arrive on time). The carriage was large but filled with people, who leaned out of the open doorways as the train sped past peoples homes. A woman hung out her washing with literally the train line on her doorstep. It was a very refreshing experience, riding in tandem with the coastline and the cool sea breeze providing respite from the humidity.
I was delighted to see that 'Super 8' was on the plane movie list. I'd wanted to see it before I left but didn't have the time. Despite this, the first leg of the journey was largely forgettable. No turbulence of any note to speak of, and the food was surprisingly good for an airline meal.
Our Qatar airways flight changed over in Doha, Qatar at midnight local time, where we were met with a suffocating blast of hot air as we departed the plane. Two air-conditioned buses and a quick turnaround at the terminal later, we were off again on our final flight to Sri Lanka.
George and I managed to have a quick doze on the plane and we needed it! We'd been up for hours and we still had a journey in a challenging new country to our home-stay in Mount Lavinia, several miles south of Colombo.
Armed with our heavy packs we set off from the airport and within moments found ourselfs helplessly approached by taxi drivers wanting out trade. After finding an ATM and enquiring about train travel (which was evidently futile), we surrendered to one of the taxi drivers and set off to Colombo's main rail station.
The Colombo Port Station was built in 1858 during British colonial rule and still runs today. After purchasing two 3rd class singles for a mere 15p we settled on platform 5 and waited for our train which we were told was meant to arrive at quarter past the hour. The life in the station was fascinating. We must have been the only pale faces in the whole place so we certainly felt like we stood out. Opposite us in a yard we could see an old steam train. Difficult to say wether it was still in use or just a reminder of days gone by? However, given the smell of old train steam linkering on the breeze I'd suggest the former. I turn up to a tv monitor expecting to see the train times but instead am greeted by live coverage of the Sri Lanka v Australia cricket match. At this moment hundreds of Sri Lankans disembark a train en masse and I'm astounded to see them all walking straight accross the railway lines to the main building, despite there being an overhead walkway.
Health and safety didn't seem to be a prime concern on the train either (which did arrive on time). The carriage was large but filled with people, who leaned out of the open doorways as the train sped past peoples homes. A woman hung out her washing with literally the train line on her doorstep. It was a very refreshing experience, riding in tandem with the coastline and the cool sea breeze providing respite from the humidity.
 |
| Local Sri Lankans cross the rails |
The journey took longer than expected, yet we shuffled off the train at Mount Lavinia station and watched as the last of the carriages trundled around the bend. Where now!?
---------- ~ ----------
George:
My back creaks and groans under the weight of too much stuff that I didn't forget to bring. My backpack carves into my hips and shoulders. I look at Ewan sweating and think that forgetting the hoodie was the best thing he could have done.
A tuc-tuc driver sees me struggling and waves me over, but I'm starting to get used to the hassle. I don't mind it really, it's not invasive or threatening, everyone is very polite and eager to help. But getting away from it does require you to have a pretty firm dismissive manner. I picked up some experience of turning people away politely while spending a month at the Edinburgh Fringe, but Ewan, unfortunately, appears to have had no such opportunity. I find myself having to drag him away as driver after driver shouts prices at him in desperate attempts to secure a sale.
It seems anyone who isn't a tuc-tuc driver here has a very good friend who is one. Usually their friend is parked just around the next corner. The tuc-tuc driver around the next corner is, universally, a local friend, very cheap, very safe, very reliable, a favourite of locals due to their expertise and, importantly, they personally know the building you are looking for very well indeed, whatever that building may be. Getting decent directions can be near to impossible as anyone you ask will invariably respond, "ah yes, i know this place very well," and then give you very precise directions to just around the next corner.
The ceiling fan chops in noisy circles above my head sending gust after gust of sweatbox air scurrying to the white stone walls. I'm flat on my back, skin sticking to the cotton top sheet, eyes closed, mind aching from what is already too long a day. Ewan is already asleep on the bed next to me, he passed out the moment he laid his head. Lucky for some. I'm finding sleep hard to come by. My body thinks its 4am but my eyelids are backlit by the glare of a midday sun.
We stumbled on our homestay more by luck than jugement in the end. It is almost impossible to find any particular house number in the winding, criss crossing, shanty fenced streets of Mt Lavinia. Numbers seem to jump from 10/3 to 17/7 and back again. On the way here I saw three 14's in a row and all of them had rooms on offer to tourists. Almost every building here offers accomodation it seems. There are more hotels than people.
I shut my eyes tighter and try to listen, focus my mind on an entirely new soundtrack to the world. Inside the room the fan rattles and squeaks, the refrigerator in the corner hums quietly. I stretch out. From outside I can hear the occasional buzz of a tuc-tuc, alien, willowing bird calls that I can't even begin to identify and in the distance the deep breathjing of the sea.
A shallow roll of thunder and the palm fronds snap violently in the rain. I close the door quietly behind me, hear the latch click into place, and stand under the overhanging roof staring out at the street. Water is already streaming out of the drains, turning the road into a tarmac estury. I hold out my hand under the heavy sub-continental raindrops. The rain here is somehow more definate than in the UK, no drizzle here. My brain sifts through idle thoughts but finally settles on the fact that if the latch has clicked into place then the door now wont open without the key that I've left inside. The rain gets heavier. Bother.
The streets do clear under the rain. Tuc-tuc drivers disappear into side streets and sheltered allyways and for the first time since I entered Sri-Lanka I'm walking down a main road without anyone calling after me. Rain here is a westeners paradise, the temperature drops, a breeze picks up and the hassle all but disolves away. For the first time I spot other westeners out in the open as three Germans speed by me on rent-a-bikes, just taking the time to spin round and offer me a heavily accented "Good afternoon," before zipping round a corner and out of sight, leaving nothing but the hiss of tyres through puddles.
I've left all my things in the room with Ewan as guard. Not that it feels like there is any danger here. The owners of the homestay are extremely friendly and the only other guest is a quiet bearded Australian who sits for hours in the foyer engrossed in the cricket on the TV. The match is in Galle, $10 and a 2 hour bus and he could see all the action live.
The wind picks up as I near the coast. I duck through a hotel car park which backs onto the train line, as they all seem to, and, much to the amusement of the car park atendent, jump out of my skin as a cargo train thunders past in front of my nose. Crossing the train tracks here is apparently much like crossing a road in the UK. No rules as such, cross anywhere you like, but do remember to look BOTH ways. Trains don't necessarily stick to a 'drive on the left' policy. My sandles slip slightly on sleepers shiny with rain as I hop across them, but I needent worry. If this line were indeed a road then it would be more of a single track country lane than a bustling dual carrageway.
The beach is a postcard under siege. The wind whips spray off the rolling surf and blasts it inland. Groves of palm trees arc against the sea, trunks bent outwards at improbable angles, and inbetween the trees, set back slightly from the narrow, dipping golden grey beach are tens of hotels, restaurants, bars, wooden shacks and fishing huts all clamering for a place on the shore, deserted and barred against the weather.
I walk along the sand following trails of overlapping pawprints through the wash, eyes burning slightly from the salt. When I look up I can just make out the high rises of Colombo out on a distant peninsula. Tomorrows place to visit I feel. I'm forcibly reminded of all the internet images that I assumed were edited together for tourists when I first started planning this trip. Now, standing here I have one of those images live infront of me, rocking in the force of a storm. It's a little surreal, a lot beautiful, and all I'd hoped for all those hours ago in Heathrow. I don't feel tired any more, but I know I should try and get some sleep. Tomorrow is a brand new day, and for the first time in a while I have no idea what it may bring.
My back creaks and groans under the weight of too much stuff that I didn't forget to bring. My backpack carves into my hips and shoulders. I look at Ewan sweating and think that forgetting the hoodie was the best thing he could have done.
A tuc-tuc driver sees me struggling and waves me over, but I'm starting to get used to the hassle. I don't mind it really, it's not invasive or threatening, everyone is very polite and eager to help. But getting away from it does require you to have a pretty firm dismissive manner. I picked up some experience of turning people away politely while spending a month at the Edinburgh Fringe, but Ewan, unfortunately, appears to have had no such opportunity. I find myself having to drag him away as driver after driver shouts prices at him in desperate attempts to secure a sale.
It seems anyone who isn't a tuc-tuc driver here has a very good friend who is one. Usually their friend is parked just around the next corner. The tuc-tuc driver around the next corner is, universally, a local friend, very cheap, very safe, very reliable, a favourite of locals due to their expertise and, importantly, they personally know the building you are looking for very well indeed, whatever that building may be. Getting decent directions can be near to impossible as anyone you ask will invariably respond, "ah yes, i know this place very well," and then give you very precise directions to just around the next corner.
The ceiling fan chops in noisy circles above my head sending gust after gust of sweatbox air scurrying to the white stone walls. I'm flat on my back, skin sticking to the cotton top sheet, eyes closed, mind aching from what is already too long a day. Ewan is already asleep on the bed next to me, he passed out the moment he laid his head. Lucky for some. I'm finding sleep hard to come by. My body thinks its 4am but my eyelids are backlit by the glare of a midday sun.
We stumbled on our homestay more by luck than jugement in the end. It is almost impossible to find any particular house number in the winding, criss crossing, shanty fenced streets of Mt Lavinia. Numbers seem to jump from 10/3 to 17/7 and back again. On the way here I saw three 14's in a row and all of them had rooms on offer to tourists. Almost every building here offers accomodation it seems. There are more hotels than people.
I shut my eyes tighter and try to listen, focus my mind on an entirely new soundtrack to the world. Inside the room the fan rattles and squeaks, the refrigerator in the corner hums quietly. I stretch out. From outside I can hear the occasional buzz of a tuc-tuc, alien, willowing bird calls that I can't even begin to identify and in the distance the deep breathjing of the sea.
A shallow roll of thunder and the palm fronds snap violently in the rain. I close the door quietly behind me, hear the latch click into place, and stand under the overhanging roof staring out at the street. Water is already streaming out of the drains, turning the road into a tarmac estury. I hold out my hand under the heavy sub-continental raindrops. The rain here is somehow more definate than in the UK, no drizzle here. My brain sifts through idle thoughts but finally settles on the fact that if the latch has clicked into place then the door now wont open without the key that I've left inside. The rain gets heavier. Bother.
The streets do clear under the rain. Tuc-tuc drivers disappear into side streets and sheltered allyways and for the first time since I entered Sri-Lanka I'm walking down a main road without anyone calling after me. Rain here is a westeners paradise, the temperature drops, a breeze picks up and the hassle all but disolves away. For the first time I spot other westeners out in the open as three Germans speed by me on rent-a-bikes, just taking the time to spin round and offer me a heavily accented "Good afternoon," before zipping round a corner and out of sight, leaving nothing but the hiss of tyres through puddles.
I've left all my things in the room with Ewan as guard. Not that it feels like there is any danger here. The owners of the homestay are extremely friendly and the only other guest is a quiet bearded Australian who sits for hours in the foyer engrossed in the cricket on the TV. The match is in Galle, $10 and a 2 hour bus and he could see all the action live.
The wind picks up as I near the coast. I duck through a hotel car park which backs onto the train line, as they all seem to, and, much to the amusement of the car park atendent, jump out of my skin as a cargo train thunders past in front of my nose. Crossing the train tracks here is apparently much like crossing a road in the UK. No rules as such, cross anywhere you like, but do remember to look BOTH ways. Trains don't necessarily stick to a 'drive on the left' policy. My sandles slip slightly on sleepers shiny with rain as I hop across them, but I needent worry. If this line were indeed a road then it would be more of a single track country lane than a bustling dual carrageway.
The beach is a postcard under siege. The wind whips spray off the rolling surf and blasts it inland. Groves of palm trees arc against the sea, trunks bent outwards at improbable angles, and inbetween the trees, set back slightly from the narrow, dipping golden grey beach are tens of hotels, restaurants, bars, wooden shacks and fishing huts all clamering for a place on the shore, deserted and barred against the weather.
I walk along the sand following trails of overlapping pawprints through the wash, eyes burning slightly from the salt. When I look up I can just make out the high rises of Colombo out on a distant peninsula. Tomorrows place to visit I feel. I'm forcibly reminded of all the internet images that I assumed were edited together for tourists when I first started planning this trip. Now, standing here I have one of those images live infront of me, rocking in the force of a storm. It's a little surreal, a lot beautiful, and all I'd hoped for all those hours ago in Heathrow. I don't feel tired any more, but I know I should try and get some sleep. Tomorrow is a brand new day, and for the first time in a while I have no idea what it may bring.
'No idea what tomorrow will bring'. Tomorrow brought gastro enteritis and a drip, that's what it brought. Hope you guys feel better soon and can carry on your adventuring in not too much discomfort! x
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