..and welcome to your day from hell. Well, not hell, I guess. A sink estate on the outskirts of Loughborough perhaps.
Had a lazy morning hanging around Delft Village, chatting to other guests, fondling the cat, reading books, then headed off for the ferry. We’d already decided on a venue for our farewell lunch: a juice bar we’d passed several times on the main drag. We both really fancied a nice fresh juice, and they sold basic munchies too.
Didn’t look terribly inspiring when we arrived. There was nobody to sell us anything. Three or four minutes later a listless youth showed up and struggled with the cabinets before giving up and taking out his mobile, then gestured someone was coming, presumably someone who spoke English. A surly looking chap duly turned up, gave us a rather dirty look, then managed to get the cabinet open and extract the only two egg samosas in the place. There was also a bun – one – with shreds of something in it. Apart from a few bread rolls, that was it. But we were really here for the juice. We asked about the juice. He said he’d go and check. Unh? He disappeared. A couple of minutes later he returned to report: no juice. Not no orange juice, no pineapple juice, or no mango juice: no juice. We despatched our mediocre egg samosas, then left The Juice Bar With No Juice and a two star review on Google.
Dockside, things were a bit less manic than on the way out. Only the one ferry, for one thing. Again the two queue deal: all the locals filed on, then ours started to move. We had three of The Fat Russians in front of us. They were directed to lower hellhole, got to the doorway, and stopped. V said ‘No seats?’ They confirmed. ‘We’ll have to stand,’ she said. ‘Nowhere to stand,’ said Fat Russian #1. We stood around uncertainly, wondering if we’d be thrown off the boat, then one of the crew directed us to upper hellhole. The u-turn made me first in line, and I scanned the dungeon for vacant seats as I descended. Looked slightly hopeful, but no: a couple of The Fat Russians had got there first, and had used baggage to reserve the last few seats for their fat friends. So we stood.
Back in the Black Hole of Delft Ferry, 10 minutes tied up by the dock, and though there were fans over our heads, they remained motionless, while V (like many others) stood with sweat pouring down her face. You do wonder, I wondered. It’s always going to be grim, but why in God’s name make it worse. Are they sadists, or just morons? The service is run by the Sri Lankan Navy, so you’d think there might be at least one functioning brain among the crew. I guess Delft ferry is not exactly a plum posting. Maybe they’re all seething with resentment; gotta take that shit out on someone. This first impression turned out to be mistaken. Of the seven fans in The Black Hole, only one actually worked. You’d think they might fix them, but no. Peasants and foreigners, fuck ’em.
Ten minutes in, a couple of Sri Lankans headed up the steps. We made to follow, gagging for fresh air. But were stopped. V said she thought they’d been ok’d because the boy was sick. Ok. Then a Sri Lankan mother and daughter (I’m guessing) also climbed the stairs, though neither seemed at all out of sorts. Crew made it clear no-on was to follow. I proposed to V that we grab their seats; we could always relinquish them if they reappeared. But they never did, so we did at least have seats for the remainder of the crossing, which definitely counts as a highlight of the day.
Arrived at the quayside, where buses were waiting to take everyone back to Jaffna. A nice man – and no spring cockerel at that – insisted Virle take his seat. We both thanked him profusely. Not too long after, someone got off, and he tried to make me take the seat. I refused, insisting he sit down. Which he did. Ten minutes later, he insisted we swap, which I was loath to do, since he looked if anything quite a lot less fit and healthy than me. But I didn’t want to appear churlishly ungrateful, so I accepted with profuse thanks. Two minutes later, a boy on the other side of the aisle threw up down his leg.
Finally arrived in Jaffna, and set off for our hotel, which proved to be a rather longer slog than we’d been anticipating, but we got there in the end. To find….no-one. After four or five minutes, someone turned up and said so sorry but our room wasn’t ready. Not impressed. Virle had told them earlier in the day when we’d arrive, and we were acually an hour or so later. As well as dirty, exhausted, and gagging for a shower and a cup of tea. They had responded to her message, confirming that would be fine, but so sorry, we would have to wait in reception for half an hour. And with that, Mr So Sorry disappeared. No-one thought to even bring us an apologetic glass of water, much less a cup of tea. Or a juice.
After half an hour we were ushered to a room with a soaking wet floor and noisy renovation going on in the adjoining room.
We’ve since discovered the shower has no hot water. I managed to find someone to show us how it works. He came and flipped a switch on the wall. ‘Is that for the shower?’ I asked. He said yes. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell us?’ He said sorry. Then went and fiddled with the shower again. No hot water. He said to wait ten minutes and we’d get hot water. Ten minutes later, I tried again. Nothing had changed. Kell friggin’ surpreez innit. I went back and managed to find someone else, who said he was the night manager. While I was explaining the situation, the other bloke turned up and said we’d be moved to another room – ‘Best room in the hotel’ – in half an hour. We’ve now moved, and it is a nicer room, to be fair, and it does have hot water (woop woop), though it also has one of those double showers – the big top one barely dribbles, and the lower one can’t be raised higher than about five foot three, but hey ho. I’m clean now, and up for action. Or at least a half-decent nosh, it being eight o’ clock, and having had one egg samosa since breakfast.
Oooom…Oooom…Oooom
PS Forgot to mention the odd looking thing-that-was-once-on-railway-tracks in the pic. Turns out it’s the diesel generator that supplies all electricity on Delft Island.
PPS After lunching at The Juice Bar With No Juice, we followed up by both noticing, not far short of our hotel, a modest looking restaurant which sounded just the job for dinner. Having celebrated Valentine’s Day by going for a biryani at one of Jaffna’s top restaurants, Salem RR Biryani, only to find they’d run out of biryani (a disappointment much mitigated by the sensational tastiness of what we ended up having), we hauled our tired and hungry asses to Royal Biryani Restaurant. Biryani was off.