…on the Mannar express. Doesn’t really scan, but you can’t have everything. Not much of an express either, though that’s what it calls itself. True, it’s pedal to the metal on the long straight bits, and we fly through the trees at what must be a good 60mph. But in and around the inumerable towns it seems to stop every few hundred metres to pick someone up or drop someone off – and that’s when you’re not stopping behind a broken bus in the middle of the road to allow the entire contents of that crowded bus to climb onto your crowded bus. Or scratching your head after a 15 minute rest stop when the bus goes 30 yards then stops to let a dozen people get on. Why in God’s name couldn’t they get on while it was stopped for 15 minutes, not 30 seconds walk away? How long, oh Lord, how long?
Well, quite a long long, as it turned out – knocking on three hours, as against the two and change advertised. But there’s plenty to look at, and plenty time for pondering.
Cows on the road, for one thing. Floods of ’em. Which you kind of expect. What I hadn’t seen coming was, out in the middle of nowhere, the bus suddenly started moving out to t’other side of the road for no obvious reason, then moving back. Looking out, I found that people were spreading out their grain crops to dry, as we’ve seen many times before by the side of the road; but in this case they were drying them on the road: the entire surface covered from the left edge to the white line in the middle, for stretches of 100 metres or more, with traffic simply steering round it.
Another thing you can’t help but ponder, especially on a long journey, is the incompatibility of the western ear and Sri Lankan music. Otherwise, the public buses here are quite comfortable, despite limited legroom, and crowding that can leave you with someone’s arse pressing into your shoulder for mile after mile. But such discomforts pale in comparison with the ear-splitting cacophony that goes on from start to finish of your journey. I take neither pleasure nor pride in it, but I have to say I can find nothing remotely musical in Sri Lankan music. Incessant warbling and wailing, often lugubrious, mostly female, with backing consisting largely of drums and some kind of warbling reed instrument with all the mellifluous charm of bagpipes. God help us: still an hour and more to Mannar. Aye-yi-yi-eeee.
Another gloomy staple is the ubiquity of rubbish. If music is the curse of the Sri Lankan bus, plastic litter is the curse of the Third World. Everywhere you go the roadsides are littered with brightly coloured non-biodegradable rubbish: bags, wrappers and bottles. It’s awful, and inescapable. Thankfully, rivers here seem relatively free of it, certainly compared to the garbage nightmare of the Mekong Delta and other waterways in Vietnam. But the roadsides are just horrible, wherever you go.
A conversation we had with a German woman back in Delft also came to mind. She said that after years recommending no more than a drink or two a day, the government has now officially declared drinking alcohol bad. ‘And beer is very big in Germany!’ But, no ifs, no buts, no in moderation. It’s official: alcohol is bad for your health, period. I said no British government would ever adopt such a position, regardless of scientific evidence or manifest public health benefits, for fear of the lobbies. We agreed this was bad, whatever the merits of beer.
And so much for all that. We’ve arrived now, at our new hotel, which has turned out to be every bit as good as the last one was crap. We’ve had a bit of a struggle to find a scooter for tomorrow, but with the help of our lovely host Yvonne, we’re now set for our 8 o’ clock ride to the bird sanctuary, and our afternoon trip to the beach. With not a bus in sight – yippee!
Went for a stroll, in search of dinner. Absolutely nothing close to the hotel, so we headed for the main drag that leads into town, where google maps suggested signs of life. Found ourselves passing sparse scraps of civilisation – a clothes shop, a motor parts shop, a hardware store, a tiny supermarket…the random retail detritus that washes up on the outskirts of every little town, all brightly lit and full of life.
Onward, toward Mannar centre, maybe three or four k’s away, we soon encountered ‘the donkeys’. Virle had read about them: leftovers after the war, legacy of some deal struck with the local people whereby these now redundant beasts of onetime burden were to remain unmolested in return for some concessions from the authorities. And here they remain: hundreds of them, standing around idly in little groups, all along the road. Here, and only here. Decidedly weird. Then it got weirder still, as we came across a shrine with surely the campest Saviour in Christendom.
Shortly after that we took time out at a roadside restaurant, where I had a Chicken dolphin. Yup, you read right. The name apparently coming from some supposed resemblance to a dolphin leaping out of the water. Takes quite a stretch, let me tell you. Mine looked like a small mound of sludge, which was exactly what it was. Very tasty but.
On into town, where we got some cash and a mango, and set off in search of the town’s only wine store (alcohol sales being permitted but tightly regulated, and me wanting some beer), which meant following google through a succession of dark backstreets, each sleezier-looking than the last. I said to V, I would not have continued into a place looking like that in almost any other country in the world. I certainly wouldn’t do it in Luton. She agreed, saying it felt like going to a drug dealers or some such den of iniquity; it definitely had that vibe about it. We got some odd looks – I doubt they see many touristst here ever, let alone after dark – though more smiles than scowls, and didn’t actually feel actively threatened. But I’d be lying if I denied a certain sense of relief when we found our way back to streets with lights in them.
Then back to the bus station and a tuk tuk back to base, ready for our adventure tomorrow. With beers. Cheers!