69 - Naked Negombo (Western Province, Sri Lanka)
“A cartoon Buddha with a cartoon lion mouth for an entrance is worthy of my time. I say “lion” but it’s described as a dragon mouth. (Um, ‘kay, if you say so.) The guidebook had nothing and none of the pilgrims milling about spoke a lick of English. So, I could only ogle in ignorance. It struck me as, dare I blaspheme, ridiculous. LSD plus Buddhism equals…”
SRI LANKA ON A WHIM. I KNEW LITTLE, WANTED TO KNOW MORE. Opened a map and thought, Hmmmmmmm, what’s that like? An upcoming rendezvous in the ‘Nam imposed scheduling constraints. The visa-on-arrival granted at the airport was valid for one month. This left a cushion and fit my timeline. Synchronicity: Catch the fever.
The first two acclimatization days were a mixed bag. My initial excitement ignited on day one was curtailed by the events of day two. I was still “getting my sea legs” and did my level best to avoid drastic conclusions. Jet lag played a part. Take a pill (figuratively). Have a chill. And see what the days bring, ya big ball of doof… or so I told myself.
A single month wasn’t ideal. I had to economize my time, make shit count. Best way to do so? Get your own goddamn wheels. Worked wonders in Indonesia. Worked wonders in Sri Lanka. I’d already made inquires via the interweb regarding motorbike rentals and found a shop ready and willing to fulfill my mobility desires. It all looked kosher on the agency’s webpage, but you just never know. I was cautiously optimistic.
Optimism? Justified. Suranga of Sha Lanka Negambo kindly offered to arrange an airport transfer to his shop. Upon arrival, I was united with my new travel companion—a Honda XR 250 Baja. Two hundred fifty cubic centimeters of pure adrenaline… or not. The 250cc’s was more than adequate for my purposes. They had 400cc and 650cc engines available, but I didn’t see the need for more firepower. The considerably higher rental fee combined with fuel efficiency thrust me into the arms of Madame Baja. Back then, a gallon of gas (petrol) ran around four bucks. So, I went with the petite model in the interest of economic expediency. Also, I’m a pussy.
My first day went swimmingly. Got a bike, a SIM card for my phone, a decent room, and a partridge in a pear tree. I dug Suranga’s enthusiastic vibe. He was a friendly fella and appeared willing to assist every step of my journey, his counsel a mere phone call away. This was paramount and severely curtailed my unavoidable “strange asshole in a strange land” anxieties. He assured me of timely support in the face of breakdown or other unforeseen obstacles. This allowed me to concentrate on Dilemma #1: North or south?
Day two was a “Tale of Two Negombos.” Negombo straddles the international airport and lies thirty-eight kilometers north of the capital Colombo. There’s not much to see, but it is an easy introduction to Sri Lanka. I was happy to leave the Columbo chaos for after I was better acquainted with the terrain.
Rather than giddy-up and hit the road Jack, I stuck around for an extra day. The bike ran well but it certainly wasn’t new. I needed to be sure before blasting off. Getting use to my gallant steed wasn’t such a bad idea either. So, after breakfast on my first morning in the Sri, I went for a spin about town for shits and giggles. There was a dearth of giggles.
What I saw by the water where the fisherman kept their boats and peddled their catch was uberfuck depressing. That brand of abject poverty really knees you in the beanbag (or hairpie as it were). Dejected faces, garbage strewn beaches, piles of fish skeletons, ramshackle houses, filthy sea water, and the foul stench of rotting sea life were just a few of the lowlights. Hard to digest. It’s no secret Sri Lanka is poor in spots, but foreknowledge was insufficient preparation. If a sight like that doesn’t affect you on some basic emotional level, then perhaps it’s time to examine the depth of your humanity.
Of course I’d seen such destitution before, but something about “Negombo by the Sea” struck a chord. Helpless and hopeless. That’s what I felt. I considered taking photos. Couldn’t bring myself to do it. Felt too much like exploitation. I surmised not many tourists ventured to hell beach, and I certainly didn’t blend. Might as well have been naked and painted green. I can only imagine what they thought watching me tool around on a motorcycle worth more than their house wearing a rain jacket that could probably feed their family for a week. What does one do with that? Sell everything you own? Donate to charity? Leave the first world behind and dedicate your life to helping people in dire circumstances while embracing those dire circumstances yourself?
And what to do with the realization you’re just not strong enough to commit? How many lives could I have saved if I’d emptied my bank account and gave it all to a trustworthy organization that could make efficient use of the funds? Is it our duty to bring ourselves down to the same level of those we wish to aid? How much personal responsibility do individuals have? And how much of the onus of care should we place upon governments like that of Sri Lanka? I do not know. Not then. Not now.
My recurring rationalization over the course of my travels went something like this: Sure, you’re not Mother Teresa… buttnut. Still, tourism ain’t nothing. Spending money finds its way to business owners which trickles to employees which trickles on to others… so on and so forth. Tourism is a huge part of the economy, so being there is better than not being there, right? And doesn’t exchanging cash for services feel more honest, more dignified than doling out cash to the needy? Shameless self-justification? Maybe, but there’s merit to the argument, however thin.
The cost of living is expensive by developing world standards. Everything is taxed heavily—vehicles, food, petrol, household goods, etc. An SUV went for around $125,000 US. Not many Sri Lankans are going to splurge for a Land Rover, but you can apply this import tax hike across the board. And where doth the money flow?
Sucked into the bloated the bureaucracy of a socialist democracy? If I was a bettin’ man… Fighting a civil war for twenty-six years can tax the resources. I spent a fair amount of time speaking with Suranga; he shed light on many facets of everyday life including the high price of civil unrest in blood, treasure, and the collective psyche. Years of war placed a terrible burden on all. Though he was only one man of privileged status, much of what he told me held up to my experiences and what I read along the way. Still, as I came to learn, the reality of life in Sri Lanka was more accurately portrayed from afar beyond the reach of government press interference.
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by Miguel Candela & Zigor Aldama - 6 JUN 2016
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It was presented as the beginning of a new era of peace, national reconciliation and development…READ MORE
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This brings me to the next reason day two was less than agreeable. On the previous day, Suranga’s driver not only picked me up at the airport, he also recommended a shop to buy the SIM card. Very accommodating, eh? Nay. He graciously brought me across the street and then graciously screwed me royally. A SIM should’ve cost around five dollars. I paid fifteen. He split the ten-dollar commission with the clerk.
It did seem steep but I thought, He works for the dude renting me a bike for an entire month. That’d be bad business, buster. He wouldn’t screw me, would he? Um, would. Frog and the scorpion, anyone? Just his nature, I guess. Later, I double-checked with Suranga. When I learned the truth, I marched across and gave the attendant a polite “What the fuckage?” It was then I learned of the commission and my receipt of the “tourist” price. Back to Suranga. He said he was unaware I’d been bamboozled but admitted this behavior wasn’t out of character for his driver. He phoned him right there, and I listened as the driver came clean. He was pissed off at SIM card guy’s veracity. So much for an apology. That was screw job one. On to screw job two and three.
The motorcycle had a single key. Given my penchant for absent-mindedness, I saw the wisdom of having a spare or two. So, I drove around searching for a key cutter (local term). Did I ask about price beforehand like a smart person? No, no I did not. The punishment for such oversight? Triple the price. And to punctuate my idiocy, I also got hosed on a t-shirt. Did I want a t-shirt? No, no I did not. T-shirt guy pointed me towards key cutter guy, so I made a purchase out of gratitude. The shirt set me back about ten dollars, not an obscene amount but still about double the norm. The funny part? I told him I’d check around and if he gave me a fair price, I’d return for two more. Hope he’s not holding his breath.
Do I deserve sympathy? Not one iota. I knew better and the fault was mine… but still, ya know? I don’t mind paying more than a local, but triple? C’mon, gov’nah! I returned to the keymaster and let him know I knew that he knew he screwed me knowingly. That’ll teach ‘em, right? Bet he learned his lesson. Toolbox I am. I established a new policy from thenceforth to return to the sight of the screwing (when possible) and force the assailant to look me in the eye. As smaltzy as it may sound, I was actually trying to help in the least “white man’s burden” sort of way by explaining tourists don’t enjoy getting butt-plugged. In the long run, they’re better off not going for the max every time. I had a nice long discussion with Suranga on the topic. I pointed out when one of his employees does this it reflects badly on him. He agreed but explained there was little he could do as drivers were in short supply. (Not that I wanted the guy to lose his job.)
So, therein lies the conflict. The people are poor. They live off commissions. They’re just trying to survive, to better themselves. The rupees meant a hell of a lot more to them than it did to me. Maybe I should just stick it in my pipe and smoke it. But here’s the thing: It wasn’t the money; it was the deception and the consequences of constantly having to watch your ass, to haggle, to argue, to struggle, and all that happy horse shit. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth and makes you not want to trust anyone. I hate feeling that way and didn’t want it to color my opinion of the Lanka. Unfortunately, I’m human and found it difficult to avoid letting it bother me. And it bothered me that it bothered me. Perhaps, some cheese to go with that wine, garçon?
I should’ve spent more time in Negombo, but I was itching to explore. With a month-long visa, I had to make hay with the sunshine. In my short, feckless perambulations around town, I stopped outside the unique Angurukaramulla Temple. I can’t remember if I went there intentionally, or if I was compelled by curiosity. Dunno. What do I know? A cartoon Buddha with a cartoon lion mouth for an entrance is worthy of my time. I say “lion” but it’s described as a dragon mouth. (Um, ‘kay, if you say so.) The guidebook had nothing and none of the pilgrims milling about spoke a lick of English. So, I could only ogle in ignorance. It struck me as, dare I blaspheme, ridiculous. LSD plus Buddhism equals…
From what I’ve read online, the temple is replete with spectacular murals, paintings and sculptures showcasing the Buddha’s path to enlightenment along with some Sri Lankan history. Seeing as I didn’t go inside, I’ll have to take the internet’s word for it. Why did I refrain? I probably assumed it wasn’t open to tourists or some shit. Also, I did see congregants entering and likely felt out of placed dressed as a mutant hobo. I was new to the culture and fearful of faux pas. So, I abstained. Stupid. Also? Dumb.
I spent mucho tiempo haunting Internet cafés during my travels, but there was something special about my first visit to one in Negombo. The café was busy, so an employee was forced to relinquish his computer. I sat down and immediately noticed two minimized windows with the site names “pregnantwishes.net” and “bravoteens.com”. I thought, Nooo, can’t be what I think they are. Yep, they were exactly what I thought they were. Browser history betrayed more salaciousness. After typing “P” for “Puttalam” into the address box, I noticed “pleasebangmywife.com” and “petsex.com” were among past visits. Being the inquiring mind I am, I delved further and noticed “barbarianmovies.com” and “tamilsex.com.” Nice. All this in a crowded web café. Very romantic. Wanna know what culturally reinforced sexual repression does to a society? Makes unfortunate blokes scroll the pages of “petsex.com” for one. Good god, man! Hard to focus on e-mail when you can’t take your mind off all the trace DNA sprinkled about. Yes.
Go north, young man. That was my decision. Better to save Colombo (i.e. the unmitigated traffic frenzy) for the end, after I had a few miles under my belt and felt comfortable on the Baja. So, onward and northward. I had my sights on Wilpattu National Park (one of the country’s oldest) allegedly containing a shitload of leopards and a series of nearly sixty lakes. But, its status was questionable. As a battle ground in the recently ended hostilities, the government was skittish about allowing visitors. Exploding land mines led to exploding tourists and a negative self-image. And yet, a denizen told me it was, indeed, open for tourism. So, on to Puttalam, a small city twenty-six kilometers south of the park.
Early on, I’d hope to survey Sri Lanka’s northern regions (Jaffna in particular), but had no clue if I’d be allowed through the numerous military checkpoints. I’d read if you took public transport (i.e. a bus) you’d be given passage, but anyone in a private vehicle needed special permission which, of course, I didn’t have. The north and parts of the east were heavily contested throughout the conflict. In fact, most of the north was under the total control of the LTTE (otherwise known as the Tamil Tigers). From what I had gleaned, the city of Kilinochchi (the capital of the Tamil’s de facto state) had been reduced to rubble. And fingers were crossed…
I couldn’t resist capturing the impromptu Trojan commerical. Trojan. Pleasure you want. Protection you trust.