May 2007
“Terrorism, tsunamis, and the Tamil Tigers-- sounds like a real dream vacation,” my friend Dao opined with just a hint of sarcasm. “And you’re paying to take this trip?”
“Not much!” I retorted with unimpeachable logic. “Actually it’s a great time to go. Prices have plummeted to the destruction and recent bombings …” 
Mercifully, Dao’s flight to Thailand was called before she could comment, and she left us sipping our pre-departure drinks in the oh-so-luxurious lounge of Indira Gandhi International.

Flicking a beetle out of his MacDowell’s, my boyfriend asked if it had been absolutely necessary that I pack my full scuba gear, the Unabridged Works of William Dalrymple, and a life-size paper-mache Ganesh head. (Little did he know that I had the Ramayana and our toaster oven in my handbag.)
 “Yes, darling,” I explained patiently, “There’s coral reef near Hikkaduwa and a literary festival in Galle-- and it’s important that the babies at the Pinnawela elephant orphanage relate to us on a psychological level.” 
 He ordered another whisky. 

Five hours later, we landed in Sri Lanka. Apart from a violent thunderstorm en route, and a mustachioed maniac who chugged eleven vodka-tonics before groping the steward and setting off the smoke alarm, it was a pleasant flight.

Emerging from the airport into a balmy evening, we hailed a taxi to the nearby beach town of Negombo. Accustomed to the dog-eat-dog entrepreneurship of Delhi, I was acutely suspicious when our welcoming, mild-mannered driver did not attempt to charge us a special tourist “discount.” When he also refrained from dragging us to his uncle’s/father’s/brother-in-law’s store to “look one minute only” at rugs/scarves/saris/pet monkeys, I had the ultimate proof that the peoples of India and Sri Lanka were not linked by an ancient land bridge - I don’t care what NASA and Valmiki say.

As we cruised past the dozens of modest hotels hugging the coast, I became intrigued by their decidedly unorthodox names and slogans. Those looking for the perfect Easter weekend getaway with their honey-bunny should look no further than the “Karma Suit-ya” guesthouse, where you can even “See the Son-rise from your very own bathtub.” 

Then there was our own beloved accommodation, which went by the warm-and-fuzzy title of “Icebear.” Clearly, the Sri Lankans have a sense of humor - or a very dubious command of the English language. My own Tamil and Sinhla are, of course, impeccable.

The striking receptionist confirmed that tourism had reached a nadir since the December 2004 tsunami, which devastated over two thirds of the 1,340 km of coastline, killing 35,000 and displacing 450,000. With (insufficient) foreign aid, the country is attempting a comeback by staging a menagerie of artistic and athletic events: fashion shows featuring innovative local designers, scenic sailing excursions near Mirissa, kaleidoscopic dance festivals, and much-anticipated international cricket matches. Decreased numbers of visitors mean prices are low and negotiable, even at upscale hotel chains such as Jetwing. 

Arising early (before noon) the next morning, I perused my guide to Sri Lanka with the unbridled anticipation of a kid in a baklava store. The island offers a smorgasbord of options, from puppet shows and “devil-dancing” to snorkeling and safaris… from the turquoise waters of Unawatuna beach to the tea plantations of the panoramic Hill Country… not to mention architectural wonders such as the imposing Galle Fort, an unconventional amalgamate of Dutch, British and Sri Lankan influences (complete with posh hotel inside). 

History and culture fiends salivate over the legendary city of Kandy, last capital of the Sri Lankan kings and site of the illustrious “Temple of the Tooth.” Travelers who are less than ecstatic at the thought of journeying several hours to see Buddha’s left upper canine, however, can opt for a site of alternative anatomical interest - King Kasyapa’s palace in the ancient city of Sigiriya. Built in 500 AD, its walls are adorned with frescoes of nude beauties that represent some of the lascivious king’s reported 500 concubines. After that foray into Hefner-ism, it is probably best to take a purifying hike to the summit of Sri Pada, whose mystic heights continue to draw pilgrims of multiple faiths.

Animal aficionados set their sights on Yala National Park, home to elephants, crocodiles, wild boars, water buffalo, eagles, and painted storks, as well as the world's highest concentration of leopards. Grrrrr.  The resplendent Rawana Falls near Ella make any nature-lover’s “top ten”, as do the Royal Botanical Gardens, 150 luscious acres set in a horseshoe-shaped curve along the longest river in Sri Lanka, the Mahaweli. Among the 4000 plus plant species, cuddling couples and clandestine lovers play a high-stakes game of cat-and-mouse with the formidable “Park PDA Patrol.” Bring your camera…

But who needs big cats or young beaux when there is the option of Bundala National Park, playground of the illustrious giant squirrel? (Not to mention the sloth bear, for whom I feel an inexplicable kinship.) 

Above all, I was enthused about rock jumping, a singular sport that involves plunging from the 45-foot ramparts of Flag Rock into the perilous water below. However, recalling an unfortunate incident involving me, a 6-foot-high diving board, and the local fire department (I wasn’t about to climb backwards down the steps - too scary!), my boyfriend suggested we leave life-threatening leaps to the experts. 

Undaunted, I switched the subject of my reverie to the upcoming elephant polo tournament in Galle, envisioning myself charging down the field astride one of the majestic creatures, racket in hand… or was it a bat? A club? 

In the end, I settled for scuba diving near Hikkaduwa. 

It wasn’t exactly the Great Barrier Reef, so we idled away the remains of the day on the beach, soaking up the sunshine until we took on a sufficiently lobster-esque allure. (It looked like we wouldn’t have to use the toaster oven, after all). Mingling with a mixed bag of world-wanderers, we basked in the unexpected politesse of the locals. Absolutely everyone was welcoming, and compared to the para-militant trinket-salesmen of Rajasthan and Goa, the soft-spoken Sri Lankan vendors were almost tolerable. At the internet café, I ran out of cash and was sent on my merry way with a benevolent wave of the hand. “Pay when you come back to Negombo,” joked the amiable owner. 

As we unwound at a breezy beachside restaurant that evening, gorging ourselves on fresh fish and admiring the magnificent Sri Lankan stars, I was disconsolate to think that tourists are avoiding this teardrop-shaped refuge from India’s glorious chaos. Right up until the Tamil Tigers (allegedly) bombed the bus route that we planned to take from Colombo, killing 15 and injuring 42, it seemed unfathomable that this country of 20 million gentle, companionable Buddhists could also have nurtured one of the most ruthless terrorist groups in the world. 

For once, my embarrassing propensity to oversleep was opportune. As the bus rolled irrevocably southward without us, I was still sweet-dreaming of the island that Marco Polo called the finest of its size - a haven of gracious souls, bent but unbroken coastline, and of course the giant squirrel. 

Reprinted with the kind permission of The Hindustan Times, Bombay

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