At the moment I am sitting outside in the indescribable humidity; each key that I hit is covered in a thin film of condensation, as is my computer screen. Birds screech from trees in waves of unusual calls completely foreign to me, and dogs bark in a cacophony that has become indicative of Sri Lanka. Everything is damp from the torrential downpours over the past couple of days, which even the locals claim is uncharacteristic for this time of year.
On my birthday we went inside the walls of the “fort” in Galle to do some shopping. It is an old fort used by the British while this was a British colony. There are large warehouses, now converted into stores and commerce spots, where hundreds of years ago the spices and coffee and materials awaited transport to the gentry of Europe. We were not out long before monsoon-style rains forced us to duck into shops and loiter among their exotic clothes and jewelry. We had made the mistake of going out without an umbrella.
That day we also walked to the nearby beach, wandering the dirt and gravel road which is currently being worked on by adding more dirt to the potholes and rolling over it, past the public school (kids here are on summer holidays), across the busy street where people drive on the side they are meant to only part of the time—you can have three cars coming at you from the same direction on the two-lane road, a wall of cars with even a little motorbike tucked in at their side. No sidewalks.
The beach is nice, although there is a lot of garbage strewn about, and I can’t understand why there is so much broken pottery everywhere. Like other areas of SE Asia where I have been it seems that the concept of central garbage collection areas is unheard of. There is no government-run refuse pickup, so people burn it or throw it away from their homes somewhere, and not many locals actually live right on the ocean. The erosion, constant waves and salted humidity would do a lot of damage to the infrastructure of one’s house in a short time. No one lives there, so this is where the garbage ends up, although I am absolutely positive the per capita production of garbage here pails in comparison with that in other parts of the world. We see it here because it is not hidden from view like the garbage that disappears from the edge of our driveway each week. Out of sight, out of mind.
Today is December 23, early in the morning before my parents, sister and I leave on an overnight trip to Yalla National Park where we are going to go on a safari to see some of the wildlife native to Sri Lanka. Yesterday I got my first taste of surfing here. It is a little particular, because there are reefs close to shore and a funnel of sandbars that can create aggressive rip tides that pull people out to sea; you never see anyone actually swimming in the ocean, except where there is a protected area that makes a calm inner sanctuary protected from the whirling sea.
A local took me out, Kasun (pronounced Ka-soon). Harry, a young Brit who spent four years of his life riding his motorbike through India and other parts of the world before ending up in Sri Lanka seven months ago, is good friends with Kasun and organized for him to take me out. Kasun and his family grew up beside the sea, living right in front of the sliver where it is safe to surf and the waves are good. They run a little restaurant and bar there as well, and were wonderfully friendly and helpful. I told Kasun that I had surfed before so he lent me a board, took me out on a little session before it got dark and gave me some pointers. “You need a lesson,” he said, smiling. “I will give you one tomorrow.”
Unfortunately we changed our plans and are heading into the wilderness for the night, so hopefully I can take a lesson from this local pro when I get back. I hope the surf doesn’t get too much bigger. Two-meter swells are perfect for me!
Steph and I also went on a long beach walk yesterday morning. It was just wonderful being by the ocean, and we met an interesting local guy who wanted to practice his English. His T-shirt said "I hate Mondays" (it was a Thursday) which I found quite funny.
Now I hear a bread truck rolling past the walls of the hotel. They play a high-pitched, chipmunk-style version of “Aura Lee” or “It’s a Small World” on repeat as their owner pedals his bike (I have only ever seen them driven by men) fitted with a glass display case on the back layered with fresh bread loaves. It’s 7 am here, and the bustling activity of the day has begun. It gets dark at around 6 pm, so I think the locals go to bed early and get up early to use as much of the daylight hours as possible.
Well, we’re off to see the leopards and elephants and monkeys… oh my! Not much time to post photos at the moment, but I will embellish this post with some visuals as soon as I get the chance.
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