Something Happened
I Met Some Girls Whom Bad Things Had Happened To
Colombo, Sri Lanka
After touching down, my friend and I searched for the 24-hour convenience store. We needed to leave the arrival terminal and enter the departure terminal. As I spoke to this security guard, his eyes twinkled and he looked me up and down. I thought it was a one-off, but he asked where I was from, what I was doing in Sri Lanka. After being oogled, he told my friend and me that we wouldn’t have to pay the USD $3 to enter, that they would excuse us. My first gift in this third-world country.
As we went through security, this guard also looked me up and down, looked at me with the twinkle in his eyes. My friend, Evan, whistled as we walked past, thrilled to save the three bucks.
If that’s not some white girl privilege, I don’t know what is.
I burned a bit with shame. That’s when I knew that I didn’t really know what I had gotten myself into.
After a long night sleeping in the hot airport, I hopped on a shuttle as the sun rose. I ignored the men calling for my attention for taxi rides — by making kissing noises, as if I want to kiss the driver — and found a kind British couple. We passed the slums that thrive between Negombo and Colombo and I felt a bit sad. A bit scared. I dropped my bag at the hotel and visited one of the only things open at 7am: Gangaramaya, a Buddhist temple in District Two. Because I had nowhere to be, I walked around and looked at every statute, and there were thousands. Devotees meditated and walked around the Bodhi tree and aside from the growing number of mosquito bites, it was moments of pure peace.
That first night in Colombo, I wore a black dress and as the sun set, I left my hostel in the Dutch Fort to find the bus station. I had planned to take public transport as much as possible. A man approached and introduced himself as Christopher Paul and told me that he could help me. He explained he’d been to Florida and as a Christian, he believed in helping visitors because an American had helped him. I let him lead me through the crowded streets where he got other people to stop walking so I could pass.
I let him lead me through the maze of bus queues where there didn’t seem to be any organization. I looked at the people waiting for the buses — mostly men — whose glances lingered over my bare legs, and decided this wasn’t for me. I tried to pull my dress down, wished it could graze the floor. By this time, the sun set and as the sky got inkier, my skin crawled a bit more and a bit more. Christopher Paul insisted on walking me back — the Christian thing to do — then we ran into his friend who had a tuk tuk. I realized I was going to get fleeced but almost didn’t care. I was desperate to get back to the safety and solace of my room.
Always the gentleman, Christopher Paul let me enter the tuk tuk first and then he sat next to me. We got back to the uneven bricks of Hospital Street close to where I was staying. I asked them to drop me off at a restaurant so they didn’t know my hotel. Before I could leave the tuk tuk, I paid the driver. Then Christopher Paul’s hand was upturned as he expected to be paid too. He grinned at me as if he had just done me the world’s largest favor — and maybe he had — and I walked quickly to my hotel. For the remainder of my trip, I wore the baggiest pants and even if I was incredibly lost, I still looked like I knew where I was going. That’s rule #1.
I organized a taxi through my hotel in Colombo. He was waiting in the Sinhalese version of Smartcar with no shocks and I sat for hours with a bar lodged in my back. After four hours, we made it to Sgiriyia, a UNESCO site and rock formation with what felt like millions of stairs. I lugged my bags up the stairs and the driver seemed worried I would leave him. Then there were the monkeys. I climbed the slick marble stairs, and as I got three quarters of the way up, I badly wanted to quit. I was tired, sweaty, and frustrated. I was sick of this country, sick of being on my own, and sick of carrying my baggage.
Kandy
But before that, I met Nemal, Laura and Toby, Izaru, and the many Sinhalese men who I can mold together — men who all looked for something out of me/from me. If I could only describe the men with one word, it would be takers — with their lingering gazes or palms held face up for money — they expected things from me. They looked and spoke to me in ways that I hadn’t yet experienced — them from a seat of power, and me, always feeling like I was wedged under their thumb. The cat-and-mouse game, old as Adam and Eve, but where I didn’t realize I had been moused until after.
Let me start with Nemal. On my second day, I arrived in Kandy, a mountain town in central Sri Lanka, dirty and tired — after 10 hours in a dinky taxi which lacked shocks — and in desperate need of mosquito repellant. He walked up to me as I searched for a pharmacy — and I immediately just saw another Sinhalese looking for something from me. I should’ve known he was off when he handed me journal after journal from the glove compartment of his Tuk Tuk. In those journals, people — particularly female travelers — touted his praises and said what a kind man he was. He wanted to prove his trustworthiness, and when in life, do we trust someone who is hell bent on making us see a character trait?
He also had an ace bandage wrapped around his left wrist and explained that a traveler who he played tour guide with had shut his hand in the van. He didn’t have the metal closures we would normally use so he wrapped and rewrapped his hand.
Regardless, I figured he was harmless and let him drive me to my guesthouse. He told me stories of how he always ended his tours with home-visits where his mom cooked traditional vegetarian dishes of dhal and vegetable curries and his sister, Sarah, let the girl-travelers try on her saris. He also showed me a black-and-white photo of his deceased son. In the photo, Nemal is clutching the toy coffin; the child lays in the dark cloth and Nemal’s gaze is fixed on the camera lens. No smile. It is macabre and I am instantly uncomfortable — what am I meant to feel: pity? Trust? Sorrow?
He tells me that the following day, he is giving a tour to a German couple. I agree to let him pick me up after them.
Kandy, continued
Laura and Toby turn out to be god-sent. They’re a Bavarian couple and still in university. We’re on the same team. And so when Nemal makes an off comment, overly self-deprecating or alternatively, passive aggressive, I catch Laura’s eye in the rear view mirror of his van. He fleeces us- takes us to his friend’s spice garden, to a pricey gem shop, to the botanic gardens. He acts as if he’s giving us the inside scoop and cutting is a deal at the same time.
He retells the story of his injured hand. He buys us fruit — soursop, watermelon, mango, coconut — from a roadside stall, and insists on paying. The soursop is a bit gross: it’s sour with a custardy texture, and curdles in my stomach.
At the end of the day, he hands me the blank amount (~ 25 USD) from the tips he got. I’m not trying to take advantage of you guys. I’m trying to show you I’m a good man. What good man explains that he’s good? Regardless, I hold the money until it’s time to be dropped off and then hand it back. Now that we are alone, he doesn’t refuse. Rather, he slips the crumbled bills into his shirt pocket.
Nemal
He cornered me into letting him take me to the train station the morning I was supposed to leave Kandy. If he was a different man, and I a different girl, it could’ve been romantic. But he was creepy with deep-set eyes. Even the owner of the guesthouse, Mr. Pauly, asked, “Why don’t you just take the bus?” He shook his head and knew I was being taken for a ride. He suggested a nearby cafe for breakfast, which was the halfway walk to train station. I knew my way. At the empty cafe, I sat for a breakfast of bread and too-sweet coffee and watched a cricket match.
Anoush, a sweet four-year-old boy, points to a chair at the table where I am sitting. The cafe is empty. His mother looks at me to see if it’s okay and I invite her to sit too. He eats a chicken drumstick with ketchup– so American– and I ask him questions. He looks at me with coffee brown eyes the size of saucers and smiles with one front tooth. I am enamored. I want to take a picture of him to remember this moment, but I don’t want his mother to think I am exploiting her or her son. So I don’t.
His curiosity and forthright answers remind me of innocence.
Nemal beeped and I said goodbye to Mr. Pauly. Thanked him for opening his home, his safe keeping, and for the advice. He was one of those men you could just tell was kind, an uncle in a country of people trying to take advantage. I hopped into his tuk tuk and caught his eye in the rearview mirror and sensed something was off. I kept the small talk to a minimum, tired of having to perform for someone else’s benefit. That’s how I felt the entire trip — tired. Nemal explained that he had arranged for my room in Ella. “Was I sure I would show?” When did I suddenly become someone not to trust? For my entire life, I’ve been responsible and have followed through, yet this stranger saw something shifty in me.
I must’ve not made eye contact because suddenly, I wasn’t going to show. He said, “I knew there was something in you I couldn’t trust.” This, from a man with a fake lame hand and who two days ago, was telling me he knew he could trust me from my eyes. That I had kind eyes. I paid him double for the tuk tuk ride and tried to explain that I had planned to show at the guesthouse but to no avail. His voice got louder and louder repeating I knew I wouldn’t share and how dare I try to ruin his reputation! and suddenly, I walked without looking back, grateful to be away from him. Grateful to be free. I lined up for a train ticket that would take me eight hours from this beautiful mountain town with this man I had never asked for. He walked up to me. I hopped out of the back of the tuk tuk, spine exposed.
You’re a bad woman. Me, who has grown up surrounded by good men, cushioned in life. Even my father left so early in my life that his evilness couldn’t affect me. Something switched. I seethed — how dare this stranger try to manipulate me? Especially when I had tried to be kind and patient.
He asked for his ugly bracelet back — a bulky and black-beaded thing, an albatross on my wrist — that he gifted to the three of us: Toby, Laura and me. For friendship. I wore it to the train station because I knew he would ask where it was if I didn’t have it on, but planned to chuck it after I entered the station. Instead, I got to chuck it at him.
“Leave me the fuck alone”, I threatened.
I bought my ticket and in the background, the train master could hear a Sri Lankan berating a foreigner, trying to ruin her reputation as if he held the power. I walked through the guard rails and never looked back.
I ran into my Bavarian friends. They decided last minute to leave Kandy the same day and we ended up on the same train. I told them what happened, laughed and shrugged it off, though my hands shook a bit. They didn’t act surprised. We rode together for four hours and they hopped off. They were my saviors, my protectors, and I was their English-speaking companion.
Ella to Yala
The entire trip I had to trust men with shifty looks and lingering eyes, I did my best to look pissed off the entire trip. Uninterested and untouchable. I hopped in the back of a tuk tuk on my way to the southern part of Sri Lanka, towards the desert and a safari. My driver was kind enough, offered to show me the best views on the way down, and didn’t ask me to talk too much.
As most of traveling is, I had a vague idea of where I was supposed to meet someone. After two hours, the tuk tuk pulled off the highway, onto a dirt road, and towards two pick ups. I shook hands with Izaru, the owner of the safari. With his dark shaggy hair, he looked a bit like a surfer. I trusted him immediately.
We off-roaded for awhile and ended up in a glamp (glamorous camping) that Izaru and his team set up. There were fresh cool towels and I met my fellow safari-goers, an American couple and a European couple. We were cocooned in Yala, by Izaru and his team. After being served traditional Sinhalese food of curry, lentil dhal, red rice, coconut sambal (my favorite), and papadom for lunch, we headed out for our first ride. It was so, so hot. I was lucky enough to be with two other couples and we all became fast friends. That afternoon, we saw 17 (!!) majestic elephants. They are careful creatures and I was absolutely in awe. As numerous Land Rovers and diesel trucks pumped away, these animals captivated everyone and the only noises were the engines turning over. We also saw a sleeping leopard hanging out in a tree (again, just its backside), peacocks, water buffaloes, lots of cows, mongooses (which can kill snakes!), and many colorful birds. It was the fastest three and a half hours of my life.
We arrived back at camp with red dust sticking to our skin and knotty hair. But we were all grinning. After dinner, we sat around drinking Lion lagers and talking. Izaru, a Yala native and the manager/owner of the safari, told us his story. As a boy, he learned English by playing cricket and from the newspaper. Each day before school, he would circle ten hard words and look up the definitions. He said after six months, there were no hard words. Izaru became a successful banker, but he said he realized it wasn’t enough. I was meant to live outside. So much of traveling is swapping stories, listening, and understanding how much is left to see.
In my life, I’ve always categorized men as positive or negative, energy suck or provider, good or bad. He was one of the good ones and I could’ve listened to his stories forever.
The best part of the safari was not being in control.
So much of my life is based around instant gratification and consuming,
but this was different. There were no guarantees and I enjoyed the break from routine.
The second ride was different. We woke before dawn, caught the sunrise from inside the park, and drove around for awhile. I loved that all of the drivers knew each other. They were smiley and we stopped to chat & swap information with each truck that we passed.
Male elephants are called tuskers. One of the girls on our safari, Lauren, had told us all a story about a clever elephant that hid behind bushes and raided the trucks for snacks & water. That morning, we watched him almost tip a huge Jeep by sticking his head and tusks into the exposed part of the car so that he could pull out any food. It was terrifying. And a good lesson that while elephants are peaceful and revered, they are still animals, still capable of brutality.
While in Sri Lanka, I read Michael Ondaatje’s memoir, Running in the Family. Two quotes have stuck with me:
I was running to Asia and everything would change.
After all, Taormina, Ceylon, Africa, America — as far as we go, they are only the negation of what we ourselves stand for and are: and we’re rather like Jonahs running away from the place we belong.
… Ceylon is an experience — but heavens, not a permanence. (D.H. Lawrence, qtd. by Michael Ondaatje)
Back to Colombo
All I wanted was to be alone that first night in Colombo. I paid extra so that I would have a single bed in a 4-bed hostel. By my last night, I was desperate to feel safe, to be around others like me. I ended up in the same room I rented that first night, and one by one, three other girls humped in. First was the French-speaking Belgian, quiet and reserved. Then came a Dutchie, Anne. Lastly came another American, Christina. We all looked tired and harrowed, like we had seen more than we signed up for.
After a very oily massage, my hair still slicked post-shower, Anne and I grabbed dinner in the Dutch fort. Over a beer, we both felt tired and that we were crazy to come here alone. If only we had googled traveling solo in Sri Lanka before we flew here.
The next morning, Christina and I left the security of the Dutch Fort and walked along the water. Shoulders hunched to shield ourselves from the stares, we talked about the Maldives — its apparent beauty, but also the sinister side of a third-world country — and how we couldn’t wait to get out of Colombo. We both felt that when we really looked at Sri Lanka, it overwhelmed us. Its sites, its people, the beauty beneath the dirt. Christina had moved her flight up to today and she was escaping to Thailand, to the smiley Thais and safety.
Post-logue
During this trip, I was in just enough danger to achieve what I set out to do traveling solo. I learned that I could be on my own, find my own way.
On my Emirates fligth back to Singapore, I got tipsy, felt the relief in my bones. When I landed in Singapore, I grinned. I had made it.
Something bad had almost happened.
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