78 - Check This (Galle, Sri Lanka)
The walls’ nooks and crannies are a popular place for young Sri Lankan couples to play smoochie grab ass. Find a nook, bring an umbrella for cover, and let the carnival begin. Who am I to judge?It brought me back to…
by The Nostomaniac
I DID IT. I LEFT MARAKOLLIYA BEACH (MB). I loved riding the motorcycle. I did. But it’s amazing what a few days off the horse can do to your confidence. I felt a little like, Mommy, don’t make me go out there! But I did. I did go out there. I got back on that goddamn horse and ventured east along Sri Lanka’s southern coast, stopping in Unawatuna, another beachy-beach resort area. Let’s just say I was unimpressed. The potential was there, but it fell flat. Like MB, the 2004 Tsunami decimated the region. Reconstruction proceeded without thought or deliberation. Hotels were rebuilt on the beach (literally), huddled together at the high tide watermark for maximum space efficiency. ’Tis a shame for one could see the pearl in the oyster, you just couldn’t grab it.
I spent one night in Unawatuna but ignored the sand, choosing instead to focus my precious last days in Galle’s colonial old town, a UNESCO World Heritage Site nestled on the tip of a peninsula. At MB, I’d experienced a pathological loss of ambition from which I’d failed to recover. I swapped wandering the beach for wandering the streets and battlements of the city’s Dutch fort erected in 1663. (“Fort” and “old town” are synonymous as Galle’s nucleus lies within the walls.) No agenda. No goals. Old Town is filled with dilapidated colonial architecture, shops, boutiques, cafés, hotels, mosques, mansions, and museums. Laid back. Quiet. Subdued. Endearing. A great place to shed initiative, but not an ideal spot to start your Sri Lankan sojourn. However, it does make for a wonderful epilogue. Had I gone south instead of north upon landing, I might never have escaped.
On the way to the fort, I passed a pile of large stingrays for sale. Naturally, I was intrigued, so I stopped to have a peep. For 4000 rupees ($40 US), I could’ve treated myself to a stingray banquet. I was tempted to bungee one to the motorcycle just to see folks’ reactions. Not sure about the shelf life of a stingray roasting on the pavement under a tropical sun… I’m sure it’s fine.
The equatorial breeze and Dutch colonial flavor forced me to remind myself I was still in Sri Lanka. Long ago, Galle’s fortress held back invaders, now it serves to attenuate the creep of modern development. The walls encompass the peninsula’s bulk, so patrolling the ramparts means tracing the coastline. When I wasn’t monitoring the ocean horizon, I was inspecting the lighthouse from a rooftop café or rambling the streets for postcard-esque photo opportunities. I’ll admit it, Galle charmed my pants off (figuratively). Why, exactly? I posit three essential elements: Set and setting (i.e. colonial backdrop), a dearth of tourists, and Ramadan.
I credit low per capita tourist density to the recently concluded hostilities (i.e. the civil war hangover effect). Johnny tourist types weren’t quite ready to reengage en masse. Ramadan explained the nighttime senescence, Muslims were busy breaking the day’s fast. Strolling through Old Town after dark felt like an Anne Rice novel incarnate. Was I foreigner on my evening constitutional or a thirsty vampire on a supper run? This ambiance suited my mood—a gift, one which filled me with gratitude. This called for an alcoholic nightcap, but, alas, alcohol was hard to come by after ten, so I was forced to make do with cool ocean breezes and a haunting call to prayer. Oh, the injustice.
I interrupted my feckless perambulations long enough to pop inside the Dutch Reformed Church. Old, weathered, and full of character, the current structure was completed in 1755 and restored in 2004. The floor, for reasons I couldn’t and still can’t ascertain, is partially constructed of large, authentic tombstones with the corresponding remains resting quietly in the basement. The caretaker took a stab at explaining, but his accent prevented my enlightenment. If I was a bettin’ man, I say space and material shortages account for the design.
Cows are dumb. It’s true. Outside the church, I ogled a mother and calf hell-bent on getting smashed by traffic. I watched in awe for a few moments before realizing the mother had just given birth. (She had the dangling afterbirth to prove it.) I was willing to cut her some slack but there were tense moments as cars trolled past. Ostensibly, I maintained my composure. On the inside? I screamed, Get your goddamn kid outta the street for Christ’s sake!
The walls’ nooks and crannies are a popular place for young Sri Lankan couples to play smoochie grab ass. Find a nook, bring an umbrella for cover, and let the carnival begin. Who am I to judge? It brought me back to my semester abroad in Sevilla, Spain. Dour economic conditions forced children to live with parents well into their twenties. This meant naughty time at home was out of the question in that predominantly Catholic country. Parks and promenades were ideal settings for soft-core porn scenarios. Benches were prime real estate. Do what you must. Mother nature will not be denied.
Combine unmarried taboos with widespread sexual repression and you have a perfect storm for surreptitious rendezvous. I found the umbrella-camouflaged lovebirds somewhat adorable, determined not to stare. Others didn’t share my discretion. While standing on a corner of the fort wall, I noticed a solo gentleman lingering, looking down the edge. As I followed his line of sight, I solved the mystery. He was ogling an aforementioned smoochie grab ass duo. My presence phased him not. He continued to leer, and, not so adorably, grabbing his junk with lecherous determination. My judgmental mien had no impact, so I added a buoyant “Seriously?” to clarify my position. Undeterred. All I could do was snap a photo to capture the salaciousness.
And then… I was gone. From Galle to Negombo on to Vietnam via Kuala Lumpur (KL). I had zero desire to leave the Sri. I investigated extending my visa but balked at the bureaucratic nightmare I had to surmount. Also, I had my own romantic rendezvous ahead. This was regrettable, for if I’d had more time, I’d have driven back to Anuradhapura for a reunion with Chari and Chandana. It was not to be… and the universe punished me.
You may recall my first days in Negombo were emotionally demanding, leaving me to wonder if I’d made the right choice in Sri Lanka. As it turned out, the Lanka was a highlight of my two-and-a-half year fandango. Departure mirrored my arrival—I had to “fight” my way out. The last day began well. My airport ride was a tuk tuk with an impressive sound system, one likely constituting a third of the vehicle’s value. The driver kept it “for shisel my nisel” with a rap ditty straight from the hood, yo. We vibrated toward the airport à la a collaborative effort between Akon and Obie Trice. Don’t know about you my nigga, but the streets been good to meeee… Don’t know about you my nigga, but the streets been good to meeee. Infectious, no? Brought back memories of my troubled youth on the gritty streets of upstate New York, otherwise known as Caucasialand.
This was one of those unexpected mood boosters that flavored my adventures and made it all worthwhile. And I could sing along without being a racist. Dope. The soldiers manning a checkpoint also appreciated the vibe. We bounced and thumped in unison as he checked the driver’s ID. Don’t know about you my nigga, but the streets been good to meeee.
At check-in, my day went to hell in a handbasket. Until this point, I’d been getting by, one might say miraculously, without having to check my backpack. This included the first leg of my Air Asia flight from KL to Colombo. Not even a second glance. And with my superior reorganization skills, I had no problem getting it in the overhead compartment. Don’t know about you my nigga, but the streets been good to meee. Well, honeymoon over, bitch.
For the first time since leaving the motherland, someone weighed my bag (20 kg). The carry-on limit was 7 kg, so I was given the “tough titty said the kitty to the big brown cow” directive. I hemmed, I hawed, I played the drama queen. My airtight defense? I’d flown Air Asia five times in the previous three months (actually two, but who’s counting) without incident. They let me on the plane in KL, right? Mr. Air Asia Guy came close to calling me a liar, yielding only when invited to verify my dubious claim in the official record. (I should’ve been a lawyer). I tried to emphasize the “up shit creek scenario” I’d face if shit were lost. We laughed, we cried, emotions ran high. Don’t know about you my nigga, but the streets been good to meeee.
The flight wasn’t full, it was “fairly full.” Fairly full? WTF? He was playing hardball, so I continued my entreaties, begging for a charitable dispensation. I assuaged his concerns by assuring him I could fit my junk in the overhead bin. I’d done it once, and if need be, could remove a few items. No dice. Per regulations, that would be two carry-ons. Who knows what chaos might ensue? A rupture in the space-time continuum? Surely. I almost had him but, in the end, he refused to relent. I underscored the patently unfair nature of this outcome. How could he be so cruel as to force such hasty reorganization on an unsuspecting wayfarer? He agreed it was unfortunate, but repeated the “tough titty” party line, refusing to surrender. Don’t know about you my nigga, but the streets been good to meeee
So, I separated critical items and placed them in my smaller day pack right before receiving the cherry on my shit sundae—a checked baggage fee. Super. I wasn’t thrilled but could take the hit. Problem was, no more rupees. We accept credit cards, kind sir. Awesome. Problem was, their swipee-swiper device wouldn’t recognize my card. Super awesome. If time had permitted, I would’ve retreated a moment to finish kicking my own ass. Instead, Plan C. I was impelled to hand over a precious ten dollar bill and photograph my pack as a precautionary measure. I bid both a fond farewell before moving on. Don’t know about you my nigga, but the streets been good to meeee.
Zero sympathy. That’s what I deserved. I read the rules posted online and portrayed the ignorant fool knowing full well I was destined for defeat on this front somewhere along the path. I let the past color my judgement (i.e. Air Asia’s prior leniency). I did get some redemption. When filling out the disembarkation card for immigration, I used red ink even though it explicitly stated blue or black ink. Who’s your daddy? Sometimes it feels so good to be so naughty. Fuck you, universe. Don’t know about you my nigga, but the streets been good to meeee.
*Drone footage courtesy of Aerial Lanka.