Finally the arrival: That deflating and exhilarating feeling
The road to Jaffna and below right, the statue of Mahatma Gandhi at Point Pedro
It is the morning of Day 2 and the family noises become more prominent. The children are taken to school by the gentle-voiced father who reinvents himself as a three wheeler driver with the air of a daily ritual and when he returns he holds my hand in his. ‘’Are you a volunteer?’’ I don’t really understand but want to say yes because it would make sense to him.
“I’m going to Point Pedro,’’ I say. There is no surprise in his voice “What’s your target?’’ “200 kilometres a day’’ I reply.
Petrol Rs. 400 + Rs. 300 — Accommodation: Rs.1,500 - Bed Tea Rs. 50. Water Rs.50.
Wellawaya early morning – I remember that 02984 is on the mileage and scribble it on the side of my map in the blue part on the North East.
Goodbye, heading to? Well the map shows a triangle of equal sides, presenting me with a dilemma. I can go either way but the Badulla road will be high and perhaps rainy so I opt for Monaragala which seems flatter and drier; it’s a gut feeling.
It’s not like the city but the hilly road is busy, traffic speeds along in this unfamiliar clime. I temporarily lose my nerve and feel vulnerable on my little vehicle. There are those crazy overtakers, and buses that push me aside, perilously close to the ditch.
Although these new roads are smooth and comfortable, some cut through farmlands and I cringe at the entry of Monaragala as a massive bulldozer stops and starts on a road bend where ladies covered from head to toe against the heat and dust join in the digging and weeding; nowadays, a typical fixture of road development. Down below in a field stands the first Hindu temple so far with its red and white stripes surrounded by the mud of progress and a priest in a white verti walks slowly hands behind his back, bare chested but for a thread.
The entry to Monaragala though is otherwise green and wooded and has a slightly chilly hill feel. An army camp forces traffic to circumvent until I arrive at a junction, then a turning heads to Bibile, a B road, B57 perhaps, yellow on my map but also carpeted. I am happy with the word Bibile – phonetic, easy to remember with its Latin sound and connotation of books, a place to hang onto, a word to hang onto, my next destination. Geography changes as the road spirals up and down and is virtually deserted, shady evergreens turn it pure black in places.
It’s an eventful road but Bibile doesn’t live up to its name, though I don’t see much of it. Its centre is only a little plateau where there is a petrol station; I fill up for another 400 Rupees and then go into an ATM where I get some money. It feels so safe there inside; no longer exposed to heat and sun, animals, humans, insects, curiosity, dust…the unrelenting road itself, it’s only Day 2 but the sun is merciless. My eyes stay half closed for a while and I stay inside longer than I should, in need of shelter. As I am leaving, a three wheeler driver comes and asks where I’m going in near perfect English. “Jaffna- Point Pedro, I’ve come from Dondra”. He relays the information eagerly to his little group who lounge benignly by the side of the road.
A pale yellow line, another little road on my map is the road to Mahiyangana, also a B road, beautifully smooth that cuts through and eventually leads towards a canal with man-made sloping walls. Still experiencing the shyness of all this exposure I long to stop but as the day, kilometres and the voyage go on, it becomes more difficult. Keep going, keep going, says some inner voice, almost as if there’s no place to stop in the travellers’ world where only moving feels right.
But here finally and with a small crowd at a bus stand looking on, the cool water of the canal attracts me and magnetically pulls me to go and see; a few open front shops are nearby.
My courage comes back and I ask a shop keeper boldly if he can look after my bag. It’s a strange little repair shop with televisions in pieces, wires, boxes and speakers, all broken or redundant. Then I go down hot little steps to dip my feet in the canal and feel startled at how white they look under the water. Further along someone is washing clothes against the stone then a man appears right behind me staring at me unabashed, curious but quite benevolent.
I go into one of the open front shops as I’ve become thirsty with the look and feel of the canal which stretches for miles. A strikingly handsome young man whose name, I find out is Dinesh sits staring at a television that is off. They don’t have ginger beer but there is thambili, better for you anyway, and a woman, the mother proceeds to cut a hole in it.
It must be after one thirty and children are arriving home from school when a little boy of perhaps five, new to school, rushes in and in jubilation impatiently pulls off his uniform. Back on home territory and away from constraints, this little king proceeds to grab the thambili knife and reach a jar of toffees on the table, while elder brother half-heartedly slaps him, secretly thinking he’s funny or clever, he is the youngest of many sons I imagine. Unperturbed he climbs up with all the strength in his little legs to reach the jar, finally succeeding. Absorbed for a moment into this homeliness, I am ensconced into the life of others and glad I had stopped and broke the shell of my surroundings. The mother is thin and seems frail with all those sons and work. I wait quietly and the little boy, in spite of his bravado is quite shy saying goodbye, unfamiliar with handshakes.
The little vignette of life has made me feel refreshed taking the lunch time empty road to Mahiyangana with the whole day ahead, I should get to Polonnaruwa before nightfall.
The vision of the stunning temple, at the end of a path, orders me to stop instantly at the entrance to Mahiyangana to take it in, to stare, at its magic, spellbound. A lone beggar with nowhere to go and as yet no lunch sits outside. Further along into the town a giant statue of the Buddha is surrounded by hoardings and billboards with tattered posters, political, theatrical, publicity. It’s definitely home time as now on the Polonnaruwa road, children are being squeezed into buses like sardines into a can. I follow them, stopping and starting next to groups of white clad boys at bus stops who jeer at me innocently, taking courage from each other. Sometimes I pretend to stop and they scarper.
It’s another long ride; big carpet roads, intermingled with small ones with potholes and broken termite eaten trees that finally culminate onto a restful shady road but my destination on signposts is still far away and when I finally get to the final stage of my journey, the entrance to Polonnaruwa in the late afternoon, the road seems dingy. A graffiti bridge, lorry parks, wasteland, this is how the sun comes down on this perilous road and night falls.So as I arrive disillusioned into the town, I am attracted by polar opposite to a fancy, clean and white hotel with orderly palm trees and even a barrier at the entrance; not for the hoi polloi it seems to say. I cross the busy road to the entrance and a man looks at me with an overly familiar smile. I learn in the pretty reception that rooms are 5000 Rupees.
It’s new and clean but a strange place I soon realise as the few staff seem to be running around aimlessly like actors in the Theatre of the Absurd. This coupled with the lack of clients, makes me wonder if it’s really a hotel. Perhaps it’s just a dream, a tired traveller’s dream but they eventually find me a bed sheet and the food is good. Of course I sleep soundly under the more expensive ceiling fan.
The mileage says 03201 and as in an imperative ritual I duly write it at the top right of my map in the blue that is, I realise, the Indian Ocean. The end of Day 2 and I have travelled 217 kilometres; a good distance.
Day three and I awake in this slightly dubious place. The same staff from Theatre of the Absurd hover around me at the breakfast table. All I want is toast and tea. I realise as I go only a few kilometres down the still quiet morning road that if I had persisted a little the night before I would have found a much better place, near the lake and the archaeological site. Such is the traveller’s lot and luck.
But perhaps this will be my last day of travel. I head past the beautiful lake and giant Buddha and towards Minneriya, where there are little lakes and elephants, grazing, thankfully, in the distance. A little crowd watches near a sign saying ‘don’t feed the wild animals’ and there are friendly students from Beijing, wax white under umbrellas, and travelling in a three wheeler heading back to Polonnaruwa with guides. I lend them my binoculars and we see the elephants close up. Europeans in a car with blond children stay near their open car doors and don’t join in the noisy hellos. There is a lonely motor biker heading north too. We chat and I feel a kind of affinity to this fellow traveller on a similarly long journey. He too seems protective so we discreetly look out for each other as we make our way. The North seems closer and we both stop at the next Hindu temple where he worships and I buy mango slices in chilli. All is gentle, though as I take to the road again, I pierce my eyes for the sight of elephants in the surrounding woods
At Habarana we silently go our separate ways and though I know the place well, I take the wrong road, almost out of habit; the one heading to Trincomalee instead of Anuradhapura, the road looks so wild and inviting and signage is unclear so it is some way along that I realise my mistake and too far to turn back. I figure I can back track onto the Vavuniya road later…..and anyway, that inner voice is urging me, go on, go on while I become one with the confusion that comes with travel, that is a symptom of travel.
The stretch of road is beautiful, deserted of animals and people though there are stacks of firewood for sale here and there and later I meet some thambili sellers on a rock. I finally reach Kanthale, where I go into the first hotel I see, sun beaten and tired and where two southern navy boys from Kurunegala stand giggling, nudging each other until they finally bring a menu. We look out onto the windy lake and see in the distance, what seems like hundreds of birds, perhaps cormorants riding the waves of the royal tank in crowds, bouncing and swaying ingeniously like acrobats. My surroundings are luxurious and on prime land; well off looking people sit at adjoining tables. My mistake means I have to head virtually into Trinco, along the tank road and then pass the big green and white mosque before finding my way to the Vavuniya road.
When I finally get to the junction, a strong wind has whipped up and forces me to slow down to keep my balance. The road is thoroughly uncovered without trees or shade and the bike shakes worryingly. It’s a long and arduous route, one side green, the other scorched brown; as if one side is cultivated, the other not. Unfamiliar towns’ names take on the double k that feels Tamil, Kambakkoda, then we pass Horowupalama. Between each town the deserted road seems interminable and I stop to see what villages we have passed thinking the map’s red line must be wrong and making a blue mark with a pen all the way along the A29 to the A9 to Jaffna, somehow to try and measure the distance. I’m blown about by the wind on this pale green part of the map and don’t reach Vavuniya until late afternoon, my body aching and the day nearly over. I pass the hospital etched with its memories, lives and deaths and a nearby mosque.
It would seem wiser to stop there, but resolve pushing me, I cross the town and the infamous A9 carries me along until we reach the space between Vavuniya and Elephant Pass where for decades there has been a military check point, an obligatory stop. First the scene of terrors, then of queues and baggage inspection, ID cards and anguish. In fact, until recently a tangible symbol of division but there in this early evening sun it is surrounded by big pots of orange and pink flowers, completely deserted and shrouded in a peaceful silence. Taking in the stillness, a momentous moment I move on through Elephant Pass – the road between the lagoon and towards Kilinochchi.
I stop as night descends where there is a little oasis, of bus stands, temples and a hotel which is dirty and overpriced; the owner realizes my neediness. Anyway though night is falling, the road now calls me more fiercely. In the night, crowded buses and trucks thunder ahead, unconscious of everything, desperate to get their goods and people somewhere. I soon realise that there are hardly any sleeping places on this road and as insects start to bash into my bare face and eyes, a moustached policeman, one of two by the road, kindly smiling, stops me.
“Kilinochchi, that’s a long way, at least two hours on this bike,” he teases.
Mahiyangana: The vision of the stunning temple
I head on but it is becoming intolerable, so when I finally see a dark shadow of a guest house with its little flags I stop and shout through the gate. “Tambi, hey Tambi..hello” when suddenly bright as happiness, lights come on and someone opens the big gates as a motor biker also arrives, adding to the commotion.
But the noise has woken up a dog who barks viciously and the night suddenly becomes aggressive as someone, perhaps the guest house owner holds tightly onto the writhing creature. Satisfied I am no threat perhaps, he gives me a room. A young man stands near the door smelling of alcohol and vaguely wanting to talk then leaves unsteadily and amid what should be danger I sleep peacefully, uninterrupted; acknowledging deep down that no-one will harm me.
Three whole days and I still haven’t arrived. The mileage is at 03488, but I see it only the next morning. Could I have travelled 287 kilometres, that third day, that lost windy day?
There is a palpable dichotomy between night and day and just as the night felt full of danger, the day is utterly inoffensive. Everything is forgotten now and as the dog from last night wanders around wagging its tail, someone brings me a cup of tea. I pay my bill of Rs 1,000 and leave along the road still empty where little groups of early morning children in white, the same north and south, wave at bus stops. After the big symbols of war and peace in Kilinochchi, the remnants of war and the elements of war tourism, flora changes to a backdrop of stubbly Palmyra trees, some with their leaves cut down waiting to become fences and dryness pervades the landscape.
The new railway line runs parallel to the road creating little groups of life where stations pop up and as we arrive in Jaffna corrugated iron becomes widespread. The green sign saying Jaffna appears unexpectedly on a bend in the road next to a house in ruins, splattered with the marks of bullets. Warnings of the past dominate. Still on the A9 I go past the big destroyed church with a sign which says, ‘’Never Again’’…then past the YMCA with good cheap lodgings and the sign ‘’Peace with Dignity’’. Then down Kachcheri Nallur Road, until I finally get to the gold statue of warrior King Sankilian sitting on a horse. There are still 31 kilometres to Point Pedro but the rest of the trip is full of the excitement of pending arrival, near lagoons, low bushes and along the flat salty smelling road to the coast, to the very end of this island where land almost disappears off the map.
It is lunch time on Day Four when I see the sign Point Pedro, though it seems to appear well before the town and in an unlikely and undignified place next to a petrol shed on a little hill of gravel.
It’s deflating and exhilarating at the same time but now finally I know I can stop, perhaps rest, though this doesn’t seem appropriate. This is it! Where are the cameras, where is the crowd? A few people think I’m waiting for petrol and try to shoo me in towards the pumps. I want to yell and tell them, tell them everything I’ve seen but I don’t have the language. Someone takes a photo for me and I text my friends but it still doesn’t seem authentically like Point Pedro; the trip can’t end like this. So, looking for some closure, an ending, I head for the beach, past the market and the gold coloured statue of Gandhi, towards the very tip of the coastline where fishing boats are huddled together.
Two young men in a little eating place are reluctant to take a photograph and then well, then I sit, alone satisfied, left in peace, a bottle of ginger beer finished. I play with the straw and scan the sea out into the Palk Straits.