Lizzie Jones
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