Fires of Sri Lanca

1979

The Fires of Sri Lanca

1979

The stifling Bangkok morning air had already turned my last clean white shirt to a dirty grey. Scorching sun beat relentlessly down my neck, mixed sweat and exhaust fumes and rolled down the valleys of my backbone. The tuk- tuk bounced and shook and offered barely a hot breeze for relief as we careened down potholed streets at maniac speed. It was already past 10:00 on a July morning and it looked like we were going to get to the airport late.

I ‘d been waiting in Bangkok for Fran to finish up her contract teaching at the British Consulate in Tokyo and join me for a few months’ vacation before we returned to work and our apartment there. When I left her a few weeks before we were still undecided about where we were going. I figured we would end up Bali again. We were set on a simple shack on the beach where we would not be crowded with tourists, and hopefully have access to some herb and some good food.

When I stepped into the arrivals wing, she had already cleared customs and was waiting for me in front of two trollies loaded with a mountain of luggage.

“What’s all this?” I asked watching them load the bags into the tuk tuk for the ride back to our hotel in Banglampoo. We got back to the room and I surveyed the pile of baggage suspiciously, and asked again, “What’s all this?”

“Look”, she said, “I’ve had it with Tokyo. I can’t stand being stared at everywhere I go, I’ve had enough, I handed in my resignation and am going back to London. Please, come to London with me.”

The bags contained the entire contents of our apartment, now useless winter clothes, photos, books, her portable typewriter, and memorabilia collected from our travels and living the last 3 years in Japan.

She taught English at the British Consulate, I studied, and got by doing freelance design jobs. I still had another few months to go before getting my black belt, and my painting and language classes were starting to show progress. I had no reason or desire to live in London. There would be nothing I could do for a living in London, and knew I’d never be able to stay in dreary England for more than a few weeks.

Rather than look at the reality of splitting up, we put our efforts into finding where to spend the next few months and deal with that issue later. She had already purchased a ticket that went to London from Tokyo via Bangkok and Colombo. Neither of us had ever been to Sri Lanca, which for us was reason enough for a trip there. Immigration required a ticket out in order to get a visa, so I bought one that would go from Bangkok, to Colombo, Kathmandu, and back to Bangkok.

When we arrived in Colombo the first priority was to get rid of all the luggage so we could travel lightly and find a remote beach to kick back on. Then we could figure out our next move. At the Colombo airport I found a tourist guide written by the Sri Lancan Tourist Bureau that directed us to the nearest guesthouse. It was a dilapidated four floor building with bars on the windows and slow turning ceiling fans in every room.

The owner, a corpulent Sri Lankan Woman saw that our passports were from different countries, and that we weren’t married. She gave us a smug “Humph” of disapproval as she looked the documents over. She let us know that she was a Christian, and reluctant to allow us to stay there in one room since we obviously weren’t married. I think it was a ploy to get us to take two rooms. At any rate we weren’t having it. Her sanctimonious disapproval dropped at the thought of losing a booking, so she must have compensated by giving us the worst room in the hotel which was on the top floor of a fourth floor walkup. The two room boys had to make 3 trips each getting all of the bags up there.

We stayed a few nights, explored Colombo, planned our journey and locked the bags in their left luggage room. My visa was for only 60 days, so we promised to be back before then.

We looked at the map and saw a remote looking beach, Arugan Bay that looked perfect. It’s located on the East coast, bordered inland by a national park and game reserve. The nearest train station was at the town of Pottsville, a few kilometres down the coast and we would have to make our way from there. We hadn’t been able to find anything written about it nor had we met any travellers who had been there. But it looked good on the map and that was enough for us.

Now down to a few sarongs and the barest necessities we boarded an old wooden train that left behind schedule. We revelled in the sense of freedom that traveling light will always give you.

We had pretty good seats in a near empty carriage, It was an old wooden train with a cola burning steam locomotive. We managed to get comfortable on the wooden seats for the supposed 6-hour trip. It seemed like we must have gotten on the local train, it stopped at every cow town and village along the way and hardly ever moved at much more than a snail’s pace. After 6 hours we weren’t even halfway there.

At one point mid-way across Lahugala National Park we came to a halt in the middle of the jungle. The scene was like something out of a Walt Disney cartoon; at first we were struck by the shrieks that echoed through the jungle surrounding us. Hundreds of birds of all sizes and species flew out of the jungle in great clouds, blackening the afternoon sky with their flapping wings and panic-stricken cries. They were followed by gangs of shrieking monkeys and larger grunting apes, followed by running buffalos, deer, and a few galloping elephants.

The unmistakable smell of burning wood and thick white clouds of smoke told us our train was stuck in the jungle in the middle of a raging fire. I opened the carriage door and looked down the tracks, the cars ahead of us were engulfed in smoke and flames lapped the side of the wooden carriage as crowds of passengers rushed thru the cars towards the rear of the train.

I jumped off the train and ran up to the front and saw thru the smoke two railroad men walking ahead of the ancient locomotive. They had long sticks and were clearing the track so the train could chug through. The pistons hissed out clouds of steam, and the smoke was blinding, they had rags wrapped around their faces to deal with the heat and smoke from the fire around them. A brave little kid followed them with a brush and a bucket of water, splashing them down to keep them cool, and killing the embers that flew around them. I tried to lend a hand, It took six of us to move a dead water buffalo and then again some fallen trees,

Suddenly the engine lurched and the train gained a little speed; I jumped back on. Now we were heading further into the blinding smoke and flames. We moved up to a trot and gained more speed, and then rushed through the smoke and the fire finally to emerge through the other side among blackened and burnt trees and smouldering clearings devoid of animal life. We could hear the shouts of the passengers, and the screams of the confused jungle animals as they panicked in the flames not knowing which way to turn. We coughed from the smoke and tears rolled down our cheeks.

We slowed down and once again barely moved along at a crawl. I made my way to the back of the train relieved that we were making it through. A few passengers that had panicked and jumped off the train were now running behind it trying to get back on again.

When we finally arrived in Pottsville we walked up to get a better look at the forward cars and surveyed the scorched wooden carriages. Miraculously no one was hurt. We were lucky to make it through the flames.

Fran commented, “Trial by fire. That was almost the end of this trip.” We wouldn’t allow it to be, and so silently carried onward!

Once we arrived on the beach at Arugun Bay we saw the place had already been discovered as a surf spot and there were a few surfers camped out in huts on the beach. There was one shared well and no electricity. The other travellers were very friendly and everyone shared whatever they had, We lived on Chickens and eggs, coconuts fruit and fish, it was great. There were no houses or permanent structures and we lived in makeshift shacks in the sand. The gang of surfers became our friends, helped us settle in to a small grass hut with sand on the floor and a double sized cot. I bought a board from an Australian who was going back and didn’t want to carry it. So I went out a few times a day and got cut up on the reef but got into the legendary point break there.

The days slipped by and we still managed to avoid the issue looming in the background; the proverbial elephant in the room nobody wants to mention; the issue of our splitting up was always out there somewhere. Was it my imagination or were we being extra nice and considerate of each other during those weeks?

I was determined to make my way back to Tokyo, and she, ever the hard headed English rose. Once her mind was made up wouldn’t budge on the issue.

The days flew by…

We got back to Colombo and booked our flights; my flight to Nepal for the coming Sunday, the last day my visa was valid. Her flight to England wouldn’t leave until Thursday. This meant I would have to extend my visa and change my reservation should I wait for her flight with her. It would require more photos, fees and fingerprints, a tedious day battling the impossible bureaucrats in the visa office and then trying to rebook my flight, which was a budget flight that technically couldn’t be changed, and anyway, I simply refused to do it.

When Sunday morning came around we were still separating our belongings and arguing about the situation. “Surely you can extend your visa and wait with me until Thursday!” she pleaded. “Surely you can come to Nepal,” I countered, “Ill even pay your ticket.” “Don’t try and bribe me!” she snapped back. We sat in that little room back to back on different sides of the bed with our suitcases and packs strewn all around taking whatever little floor space there was. Above the torn mattress the ceiling fan buzzed ,and its old propeller turned with a squeak.

While we were packing we were also smoking a spliff passing it back to back without having to completely turn around to face each other. This repacking and considering every little object, was a sad review of the past few years we had lived and travelled together. “These are your socks”. She said tossing a pair of socks to my side of the room. “You can have these photos,” I said stacking them on her side of the bed. “That’s my Bowie cassette, you can keep Dire Straits,” she said with a trembling voice. I tossed over a small statue we bought in Bombay, she, a carving from Bali. This wasn’t easy.

Back to back like this she handed me the joint. I guess she didn’t want me to see her tears. “That’s your jacket.” she said, “You can keep this kimono” I said solemnly, still passing the joint. Suddenly the smell of something burning and a black smoke clouded the room, “Holy Shit”! I shouted, “FIRE!“ The ash must have fallen off the j into the torn mattress and the ceiling fan over the bed was fanning it.

She ran to the toilet and came back with a small bowl of water, spilling half of it on the floor; it was a feeble attempt to douse the fire that laughed back at us with a weak hiss, to no effect. The flames were still getting higher! I jumped up to turn off the fan, stepped in the spilt water, touched the switch and was jolted with an electric shock that sent me flying across the room with a scream. I got up, unbolted the door, dragged the burning mattress out into the hallway, and flipped it over in an attempt to smother the flames. Fran came back from the washroom down the hall with a larger washtub of water and drowned the mattress in a hissing smouldering cloud of black soot. The whole hallway stank and was clouded in smoke and the floor soaked in a puddle of black water and ashes.

A guest on our floor opened the door. “Fire! Fire!“ he shouted, the other guests took up the cry, went wild grabbing children, and whatever belongings they could carry as they charged down the stairs shouting to all the other tenants to run for their lives.

We looked at each other, ran back into the room, bolted the door and began packing everything into the bags any which way. The pounding on the door got louder. The hotel owner, the fat Sri Lankan woman, was leading a crowd of irate guests and they were ready to break our door down. “Open up! I know what you are smoking in there and I’m calling the police!” She shouted above the crowd.

The bags finally packed I unbolted the door, the crowd came bursting in to the tiny room, outside the doorway an angry swarm gathered as more and more people managed to squeeze comically into our little room.

The hotel owner pushed her way to the front flanked by the two servant boys who we had befriended during our stay. Pointing to the bags I shouted to the room boys, “Get those bags downstairs and get us a taxi. NOW!” stuffing 20 rupees into a small hand. They looked at each other shrugged and started moving the bags through the crowd.

Fran started to cry, first a few whimpers and then a full on flood of tears, I could see that it was more than just the immediate situation , it was the cumulation of the whole trip. I looked at her and calmly said, “It’ll be alright, go downstairs and get the bags into the taxi,” all the while thinking, “ I have to get to the airport!”She must have been relieved to get away from the angry mob, and took my advice.

The crowd squeezed in closer and the hotel owner shouted loudly for them to shut up. In a quiet and measured voice she said she wanted $1,000 dollars for damages or else she would have us arrested. This was nothing less than extortion. I had no idea how I was going to get out of this one. On the floor among the rubble, was the tourist guide that I had originally found the hotel in. I picked up the book, hoping I could turn things around and stated calmly, “This Book!”… they quieted “This book,” I repeated bluffing, wondering what to say next. My eyes fell on the official stamp of the Sri Lankan Tourist Ministry. “I’m going to call the Sri Lankan Tourist Ministry and have your name stricken from this book!” I said slightly raising my voice theatrically. The crowd quieted, I went on, inspired, and looked around. “This place is a fire trap! Bars on the windows! Torn mattresses! Electric cables hanging out of the wall!” I gestured to the switch for the fan, “I was almost electrocuted!” I added, stoned, and now blown up with false indignation.

The crowd quieted, “You wouldn’t do that would you?” she asked timidly. I saw my chance and pointed to the other guests; some with children in their arms, many of whom seemed to live there. “For myself, I don’t need to report this, I’m leaving today, but for the other guests who have to stay here, for their safety I will see that a report is filed.” I shouted threateningly trying to win over the crowd. Then one guest chimed in, “Yes, in our room there is no water” another, “I have reported to the front desk many times that my mattress is torn and the stuffing is coming out of it,” and the others all started in with their complaints about the wretched condition of the place.

She flashed a worried look; she could see that I somehow managed to sway the crowd that minutes ago wanted blood, now they had completely come over to my side.

“Ok,” she said with quiet resignation, “If you and your “wife” just get out of here now, I will even forget about the bill you ran up the last few days.” Upset by the way she sarcastically accented the word “wife” I answered loudly, pushing the envelope a little further, ”OK, but before I go, I want your promise that something will be done about these unsafe conditions for the sake of the guests remaining here!”

“Ok. I promise. “ She replied reluctantly. With that I left her standing there fending off the stream of complaints from the other excited guests. I ran down the stairs and jumped in the waiting taxi. A few guests had followed me to the awaiting taxi, thanking me over and over.

What did you do? Fran asked, “No time, long story, I gotta get to the fukn airport,” was all I could say, out of breath and still a little shocked in stoned disbelief. As we pulled away we caught site of the two servant boys waving goodbye to us with huge smiles on their faces.

Fran had arranged to move to a hotel in Hikkadua, where we had some friends staying for a few days. The taxi stopped in the sweltering morning sunlight of the town’s central square. While we unloaded her half of the bags onto the sidewalk it occurred to me that at this point we weren’t even sure whether or not I had her bags or mine. But it didn’t matter; neither of us could believe this was actually happening. She was immediately surrounded by the usual crowd of beggars hustlers and touts offering everything from a rickshaw, cheap rooms, a tour, and a taxi, changing money, to precious rubies and cut rate sapphires.

The vision of a tall blonde Englishwoman being abandoned in the square must have looked like a free meal as these vultures descended. I sat in the back of the taxi, checked my watch, there was less than 15 minutes to get to the airport! “Please,” she shouted one last time, “please just wait with me until Thursday.” “Come to Kathmandu!” I countered. With that she slammed the taxi door and shouted loudly, “Fuck You!”

The taxi slowly wound its way thru the rickshaws and the crowd I looked back to see her one last time. She had already returned to playing the role of the British memsahib, commanding a few coolies to load her luggage onto a waiting buggy. Was this to be my last sight of her? Engulfed in a sea of turbans, Tamils and tragedy, she seemed to be calmly giving orders with a stiff upper lip and projecting a strong sense of dignity. She could do that; I knew she would be all right.

No time to lose, I finally arrived late to the airport and was glad to see that the Royal Air Nepal flight to Kathmandu was delayed and I’d have to wait another 30 minutes. I had a coffee, and settled down staring at a book but unable to read a single word. I breathed a colossal sigh of relief and chuckled out loud thinking of that mad scene back at the hotel. I didn’t want to think about Fran and these thoughts were the camouflage I needed.

I arrived in Kathmandu that night, it was foggy and cold. I felt like shit. I lay in the hotel bed unable to sleep overcome with feelings of guilt. It was my first night sleeping alone in a couple of months and I really felt like shit. How could I be so selfish? Was this the end of a great 4-year relationship? Did I say I felt like shit? More than that, I felt like a shit, I was a big piece of shit!

The next morning I walked through the marketplace and sought distraction in the usual madness, it didn’t cheer me up. The sky was grey. I drank another chai and I thought Ide try calling her. After sitting in the cold damp telephone office for over 2 hours I was summoned into a smelly little airless glass booth with smudged windows, the phone rang and a scratchy man’s voice shouted “‘ello!? ‘ello!?” I shouted her name to the desk clerk in Hikkadua, who said, “Yes sir, Ill see if she is in.” I waited another 15 minutes to hear, “No sir, sorry sir, she was not in her room, she has gone out.”

The words echoed across the static and thousand miles of rotting telephone cables. I saw in my mind’s eye the frayed and sparking telephone lines stretching from the sad Himalayan telephone office, a lone telephone pole supporting a lone cable, over snowy mountain passes with no roads, across and under rivers with buffalo wading through the mud, and upon the submerged telephone line, over parched deserts, where vultures perched on it waiting for a movement signalling life on the smoothly blown sandy turf below, getting lost in a mad spaghetti tangle of other frayed and tangled sagging telephone line and stretching somehow through sweltering Tamil Nadu , submerged under the Palk Straight coming up over ground again under the sunny skies off an island thousands of miles away. The distance suddenly seemed vast and the likelihood of connecting very remote .

I should have waited with her and parted on a better note.

He asked if I wanted to leave a message but I didn’t know what to say. That having taken most of the afternoon and costing a wopping 25 dollars, left me feeling even worse.

I drifted towards Freak Street, the drizzle had turned to a cold rain, It soaked my hair and trickleddown my face, it must have been mixed with a few tears.. I just let it. I stepped into a doorway to get out of the rain and roll up another J.

While standing there watching the street I started thinking about my Karma. and how I could have done one selfless act and left everything on a good note, instead of turning things into a hard headed battle of ego. I felt like shit, walking bad Karma.

A little snot nosed beggar kid stepped out of the fog into the hallway and stood blocking my exit with an outstretched grimy hand. Rather than shoo him away as I normally would have, I reached into my pocket and handed him the first note I grabbed, it was 1000 rupees! He snatched it wordlessly turned and ran as fast as he could. I laughed; the voice in my head asked if maybe I was trying to buy some good Karma? Well that didn’t work.

There behind me in the doorway was a travel poster displaying a picture of Big Ben, it shouted to me three words; in bold capital letters: London London London. “Mmm…. Yeah,” I thought, the temple balls were kicking in… “That’s it, … London!”

I made up my mind on the spot, I’d catch the next flight to London and be there when she got off the plane from Sri Lanca.

I managed to check out of my room and be in the air the next morning. (Stopover in Dacca, flying Bangladesh air) and took a room at a small B & B near Gatwick Airport, and bought a bouquet of flowers.

The look on her face was one of startle, confusion, and joy, preceded by a flood of yet more tears. (I must tell the reader here that during the 4 years we had been together and the many crazy situations we had been in, never before until the last few days had I ever once seen her cry.)

These were the tears to quench the fires of Sri Lanca. In the back of the old Checker cab, we started to laugh and hug wildly.

Smiling she repeated those words she had spoken at the train station that day in Pottsville, “Trial by fire. That was almost the end of this trip.”