It may still seem a little while off, but old age and bitter experience has taught me that those seemingly-long six months will disappear in a flash. In previous years I would leave booking flights perilously late (especially foolish if there are four flights to buy) and would annually regret it.
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Not knowing quite what to expect, I had thought we could freely travel around the country on our own -on slow, black, chuffing colonial trains to Kandy, excited ritualised bartering in markets, lengthy afternoon sojourns at tea plantations, etc. Upon our 1 a.m. arrival at Colombo airport, however, we were instantly hailed by a succession of well-seasoned touts. My cunning traveller's resolve instantly evaporated and one of them secured a meeting later that day in which I was to agree to a minibus/hotel touring itinerary. It seemed like a good deal, it was safe and, apart from the chance of meeting a rampaging elephant let loose (which happened in Kandy), we would see all the great sights. What could possibly go wrong?
Let me say that Sri Lanka is breathtakingly beautiful. The people were wonderful, the hotels we used first class, the tourist sights truly memorable and the food nothing but superb. But Brenda and I were at once aware that although Sri Lankans may plainly adore children, they are a little fixated by blonde female ones. Thus we formed, perhaps unnecessarily, a constant and worrysome watch over our 10- and 11-year old progenies as affectionate hands patted shoulders and played with curly fair hair. At each stop postcard sellers and hyperactive children clamoured for our attention and money, but would then be silently beguiled by the light skin and hair of Rachel and Alys-Jane.
We encountered military roadblocks everywhere on our holiday and, as good currency-exchange fodder, routinely waived through, sometimes with a smile. But approaching the north the soldiers at each checkpoint grew noticeably more tense, the local populace seemed noticeably thinner and the countryside much less managed. At some even our good-natured driver was asked to step out of the minibus and be searched. The going became slow.
Trincomalee was a shock: nearly every house was severely damaged and there were many without roofs. Everyone walked, bicycles being the mode of transport for those with jobs and the few motor bikes we saw had multiple passengers. One flew past us, the riders openly carrying rifles: My God! I'd taken our children to a war zone!
At an intersection a bike pulled alongside the van and the riders gestured. Our driver wound down the window and exchanged some pleasantries, but it didn't sound like the relaxed Sinhalese he had spoken everywhere else. We had truly left the (albeit-overwhelming) security of the south.
Nilaveli beach lived up to it's description; tall sturdy shady palms, a pristine azure sea lapping at pure silken sands, the mysterious off-shore Pigeon Islands, troops of cheeky grey 'hanuman' monkeys and a happy herd of cows which merrily munched up and down the beachfront. The beautiful, large hotel was near-empty and we found ourselves desperately welcomed as financial saviours. In Trincomalee the government kept hotels open to give the impression of 'business as usual'. The next morning at breakfast a low distant 'bwooom' confirmed in me just which one of the local businesses that was -the next hotel had been bombed and four people killed.
But,we reasoned, we're British! Didn't we go through the blitz and all that..? So we stayed another night! We sat on the beach in a war zone. We swam in the sea in a war zone. We drank the local coconut tipple 'arrack' in the evening in the empty bar in a war zone. We even arranged to go to the Pigeon Islands and snorkel on the truly unspoilt reef. A local man took us out. Laying his thick-set dhoti-wrapped body in the spartan shade on the blisteringly hot beach, he suspiciously glowered at us from cold, distant wall-eyes. I feared kidnap. As we splashed around black-tipped sharks swam in the near-distance of the pure clear waters. At that moment I tightly held the hands of our two innocent daughters afloat in the pristine sea and thought, "We're swimming with sharks, accompanied by a really dodgy character in a bombed-out war zone. What have I done?"
Back on the hotel beach shell seller after shell seller approached us, strings of precious-looking conches. Each time we refused, being very good environmentally-aware tourists. Their faces dropped and they walked off to... we didn't care. We felt virtuous saving the seas and all that. Seeing that our children were writing diaries and sketching, one asked if we had any spare pens or pencils. It was only then we realised the truth: No-one came here whilst the war continued to rage and the few that did brought with them the only means to a meagre income some of these people could possibly hope for. We could leave -they could not. Luxuries, like stationary for their children, were rarities if not absent altogether. Unlike their dumb parents, the girls instantly understood and silently zipped up and handed over their pencil cases. The shell seller's face lit up, as if given one of heaven's prized boons. I glanced at Brenda. We felt stupid and ashamed, but our children's actions aroused in us much pride in them.
The closer we came back to Colombo the more our driver relaxed and eventually confided. The guys that spoke to him at the intersection in Trincomalee were Tamil Tigers. Because he had grown up and been to school with Tamils, he could freely converse, using swear words and the correct invectives. They assumed he was one of them and waved him on. If he had spoken a word of Sinhalese they would have shot him.
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Last night Brenda and I ate at AJ's, the relatively new Sri Lankan restaurant in Sai Kung. Great food and good ambience -we will go back soon. Beautiful Sri Lankan scenes played on the flat screen TV at the back of the restaurant. It brought it all back.
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