Hikkaduwa (2)

So here we are, back in Hikkaduwa after a four year gap. The prettily thonged beach bunnies have been replaced with middle aged Russkies who put their towels on all the sunbeds before breakfast, leave them until after lunch, try them out for 20 minutes, decide it's too hot, and scuttle back to their rooms. What is it about the monkey human race and its territorial need to possess sunbeds? I should really re-title this post "Missing Mirissa" (has a nice ring to it, don't you think?)

A few things have changed in the intervening years. Gone are the Coral Sand's fortress walls so we can all see the beach now. Unfortunately, they've moved all  their sunbeds up to the strip of grass facing the beach so we're all chummily pressed together in a row. There's a nice walk along the beach to the right that leads to a rocky reef at the tide line that's home to hundreds of fish. Knee high in the water and you are surrounded by all colours. Hire a snorkel and you've got a nice little safe area to play with your own private aquarium. Walk the other direction and you can play with some giant turtles that still venture up to the edge of the water.

We went back to Mama's Restaurant a couple of buildings down from the Coral Sands. Gone are sandbags at the waters' edge and the old cobbled-together iron Anchor Beer tables. They've been replaced by wooden decking and proper tables and chairs. They've also built a new decking area the other side that offers live music on Tuesday nights. *Sigh*. We've shifted our sunset drinking allegiance to the Tigri Bar, a charming little restaurant down the road with tables on a balcony overlooking the tiny remaining strip of beach at high tide with the waves and the sea in the background as the sun disappears. Passthegin would also like to make it known that the friendly woman serving the drinks is the only one thus far to serve the gin 'n tonic correctly: separate bowls for ice and lime slices with generous portions of the local gin (Ascot Gin, Ginge -- apparently, you need to know this).

Breakfast at the hotel is a mediocre, buffet affair but the food at the local family restaurants is cheap and delicious. They're not so hot on the meat dishes, by and large, the pork can be chewy and, of course, decent beef is rare. You've got to be a fish or seafood fan to get the best of it here. Linda's devilled calamari at Sea Shells Restaurant last night was spicy hot and tender (I had the more conventional Sri Lankan chicken curry, itself quite rich). Together with a gin 'n tonic and a beer it came to ten quid. Not hard to see why the fish is so plentiful, though. Look out to the horizon after sunset and you'll see what Linda calls "the necklace": scores of fishing boat lights strung out evenly with mathematical precision. We saw the same in Mirissa as the local harbour is just the other side of the headland in the picture. No Common Agriculture Policy quotas here, methinks.

Well, this our last day here. Negombo tomorrow. The rain they forecast never arrived although it's been a little overcast (just as well since we've both burned a bit). Onward!

Hikkaduwa (1)

Good last night in Kama's. Look, they left a little sign for us on our favourite

Hemingway table. Awww. Sweet! There was a small message from the gods later, though; it rained just as we started dinner and we had to move away. In fact, I checked the weather forecasts for Hikkaduwa for the next six days and, although they all vary, they agree some thunder is about to arrive, definitely worse around Sunday and Monday. Ah well, it was getting a bit too good to be true.

Just to annoy them, we went back the next morning for a breakfast beer. Well, we were kicked out of the Adana after 11 and our train wasn't due until 13:40 so it was either sit on a crowded railway station or . . .  "Surprise!", we said. "God, are they ever going to leave?", they thought. The trip to Hikkaduwa was more of the same. I fell through the gap between the carriage and the platform missing a step that was no longer there ("I bloody know! Mind the bloody gap!"). Spent the next hour wringing blood out of my shin. Nearly left Linda on board when I got off with the fighting bags 'cos the isle and doors were so rammed with people and suitcases she couldn't get past them with her backpack against the barbarian hordes pushing to get on. Might rethink my travel plans for the last leg.

In a bad mood I resolutely ignored offers of travel from the station tuk tuk drivers and made Linda walk the kilometer to the hotel in the heat, carrying the bags, because we'd spent two weeks at the Coral Sands four years ago and I knew it wasn't far (!). Nice reception, though, cold towel for washing the grime off and a cold drink. I thought for a minute they were going to usher us in to another, small room and hose is down "for the safety and convenience of our other customers", but happily we were led to a very pretty room with a balcony on the third floor. ("Third floor, again?", my knees mentally told me. "Why do you hate me?"). Anyway, here's a picture of our room for all the romantically inclined amongst you.

Mirissa (3)

We're now on our last day in Mirissa. My, how time flies in the Land of the Lotus Eaters. In the giddy delirium of my old age it has been my habit to install myself in my garden (and occasionally a beer garden), pour myself some mind-expanding chilled amber fluid, and deep-dive into a book saturated with cosmic jelly. Here, I've barely read a chapter. Mostly because the scenery keeps moving in interesting ways; much as it really, really doesn't do in Totton. The sea moves endlessly. The crash zone is a source of endless entertainment, especially when unsupervised babies get carried away. People are constantly wandering to and fro in various stages of undress. Occasionally, young women will gallop by with their Fitbits (my thrice-damned hindbrain tells me there's a pun in there somewhere). Jetskis crash land on the beach, missing disoriented swimmers. Yesterday, some guy ran a drone up and down the beach, herding all the local pub dogs backwards and forwards in a frenzy. See? Great fun!

On the subject of moving scenery, and thinking about the comment Gary made a couple of posts back, I would like to make an old man's observation at this point: howcum young women manage NOT to wear bikini bottoms yet just about remain legal? An example: I was sitting at my spot at Kama's gazing out at the sea, as every student of Hemingway should aspire to, when my eyes drifted back to the bar . . . straight into a shapely pair of just-about naked buttocks, the owner of which bent over the table right in front of me fishing some money out of her purse. (Did I mention Kama's has no dress code whatsoever?) Seriously, c'mon, I have a delicate constitution (!).

Anyway, lest this post degenerates into pervy "Tales From Buttocks Beach", back to Mirissa. I've mentioned little of the food mainly because the heat makes it difficult to handle the big meals we eat at home to ward off the chill of winter. We discovered wraps are the ideal beach food. You can put anything in them (prawn curry, chillied onions, battered spicy musrooms, to name a few we'd tried), and as long as the roti bread holds out at the bottom you can eat large versions cut in half slumped on a chair on the beach without the need for a formal English dining table. A few nights ago we finally got round to ordering a main meal each at Kama's. Linda had the  jumbo prawn and heartily ripped into an armoured beastie served with fluffy rice, salsa and a mild curry sauce. I had a black pork curry, a bowl of tender pork in a dark curry sauce to mix with the rice and some chips. Wasn't cheap by local standards. Together with a large beer, a gin and tonic and a mojhito it came to around £30 but at least, unlike anything you buy from any major hotel in Sri Lanka, it didn't come with a 30% tax hike. We're proudly keeping the local economy alive!

Today, we walked to the end of the bay where the sea comes in with multiple crash zones and surfers have a chance of travelling a few more seconds without exploding into white foam. (Okay, no tales of whale watching or quad bike racing or anaconda wrestling or racing across the desert flats on our Harleys -- what were you expecting? we're bloody old, alright!). Interesting that the first voices we heard were, "Did you bring your wallet, dear?", from a septugenarian who'd just thought of it as her husband had settled into his seat. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry", she said to the waiter as she ordered  a cup of tea, "we must of left our money in the hotel". Looking around we realised this is where the retirees are supposed to reside. The average age was increased by at least 40 years and the buttocks were most definitely not worth reporting. NOOOO! We drank our banana smoothies and got the hell outta Dodge. The sun has passed the mythical yardarm by the time we paddled through the shallows on our way back to civilization so we stopped at what used to be the only Reggae bar on the beach for a recuperative lunchtime beer to discuss the meaning of life. A chalkboard at the front advertised "Crazy Thursday" and a leaflet explained that it was all about a hip-hop, garage, minimalist (?), rap, shouty festival of partypartyparty fun from 9 o'clock onwards. So here we are in limbo, too young to drink tea at lunchtime and too old to party to hip-hop after 9 o'clock.

Surrendering to the familiar, we dropped in at Kama's and asked if they could reserve our favourite Hemingway table at the front for sunset drinkies and supper. Don't fight a lost war, I say. Stick with what works! Tomorrow we leave here, probably for ever. But, next stop Hikkaduwa.

Mirissa (2)

OK, we've found two things we won't try again. The first is: don't pop in the local Roti Shop (shack) for a quick roti at lunch time. There were only half a dozen tourists sitting around but we should have noticed that no-one was eating. For the next hour we noticed they'd get their plates slowly one. at. a. time. What we also failed to notice was the local standing around. He left finally with a bag full of wrapped food, as did the other local guys we spotted. After half an hour we knew we were on a loser but we wanted to see what a "roti" was. Should have just Googled it. Turns out it's a form of local unleavened bread wrap in which you can stuff anything from chocolate to spicy onions (I wouldn't recommend both at the same time but who knows). After an hour the chef drops two small plates of said rotis on our table. Very nice but hardly worth the effort. What we should have done is turn up at the glass cabinet out the front and buy one already made and chomp it on the street.

The second thing to avoid: Happy Hours! Further down the beach is a collection of competing beach hotels with tables stretching out to the high tide mark. They all advertise happy hour drinks from 5 'til 9. The sun sets around 6 so, naturally, that is the time we choose to start the afternoon festivities. Except the staff (at the Barracuda, yes I'm naming and shaming you!) aren't a bit interested. You see, this also the time they change the drinking and snacking tables on the sand to evening restaurant tables and each servitor has the job of placing ONE item on each of the 30-odd tables: one ash tray, one box for the napkins (then the napkins), one table number wooden block (not in any order so god knows how that works in practice), one transparent box for the candle (then the candle), one salt and pepper still (thankfully all at the same time), one . . . well, you get the idea. Takes up a lot of waiters. Everybody busy except obeying the Prime Directive: serving the bloody customer! When the guy dishing out the menus got to us we said urgently, "One beer and one margarita, please!" He tapped the menu and replied with emphasis, "Happy hour!", and walked away never to be seen again. I must tap "happy hour" into Google Translate to see what it really means in this country.

Of course, the other problem is once this ritual has been observed, all the staff are on duty out the front next to the overflowing fresh fish cabinet shouting at the beach bunnies who have to walk by. It's a familiar pattern; sell the perishables as a priority, otherwise get the punters to sit down. After that, ignore them. So far, so Lanzarote or Turkey, or anywhere else in the world really. (Mind you, I can have some sympathy for the staff. I was watching one bikini standing at the fish table pointing and asking questions. When I looked back later she was still pointing at all the fish in turn. A half hour later and the sun having set she was still pointing at the fish. No one else could get a look in. Then she consulted her mobile phone and then pointed a bit more. Her boyfriend turned up and hovered impotently in the background. Another waiter turned up and tried to direct her to an empty table. She was having none of that and started selecting prawns an putting them back. The poor little guy on the receiving end finally got a selection into a basket but the woman followed the basket up the beach, presumably to supervise the chef with the aid of the internet. Finally, they left the bar area but instead of sitting down, they wandered off. We never saw them again. So you gotta have some sympathy for the staff.)

Once we'd got the hang of life on the beach at sunset we set our sights on establishments sans fish cabinets and happy hour billboards. In fact, we found an excellent little place called The Shack on the beach whose waiters ran around like idiots making sure everyone was happy. Not even a service charge on the bill. And for good measure they'd set out speakers that played an eclectic mix of 60's pop, rap, Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd. And it was cheaper than the Barracuda's happy hour. Sunset bar established!

Mirissa (1)

Hard to believe it was only mid afternoon when we arrived. After an urgent shower we ventured forth. The Adana Beach Resort is actually not on the beach but across the main road. Once you leave the courtyard and dodged the scooters, the tuk tuks and the hurtling Colombo-to-Matara bus services you are on the sand . . . and the Kama Beach Bar. Apparently. Needlessly to say, we didn't get very far that first afternoon.

As the days went on I think we struck gold with this bar. It is a raised balcony bar/restaurant that overlooks the whole bay and has become my most favouritist bestest bar in the whole world (except maybe Floaters in Galveston but I'm not sure that it still stands after the hurricane hit Texas last year). A 500ml can of Lion beer costs around £2.50 and the food, which are really glorified bar snacks, are delicious. We came back after an exploratory walk along the beach (bars) for a "nightcap", so that was twice in one afternoon. By the time day three was under way we'd been there half a dozen times and were treated like locals, the service superior to that of a regular in the Salmon Leap after 17-odd years. And if you think I make too much of this I have to say that fast, efficient service is not a strong point in Sri Lanka (with some notable exceptions) since nearly everywhere hides a 10% service charge on the bill so an American tipping culture is discouraged. Last night we arrived, duly watered elsewhere, looking for a snack. The place was heaving but a table was produced with many apologies and we settled down to a supper of a Thai-styled hot red curry wanton soup and a stuffed fish (with curried potatoes!) cooked in banana leaves. Unbelievable! God I love this place. GushGushGush!

Here's a picture of the daytime view. In this direction there are loads of beach bar/restaurants. The unusually placid water you see is actually quite rare: at high tide the water reaches to the tables. And the tidal system is weird, too. A single wave terminates at the beach edge mowing down everyone; a sort of perpetual crash zone. We have spent literally hours at the waters' edge at a rickety table clutching cocktails watching foolish wannabe surfers get wiped out. Apart from the crash zone this place is very reminiscent of Koh Samet, the island in Thailand we spent so much time in after retirement. People of all races and ages drift here, and there are quite a few hostels for groups of the younger set. There is nothing else really on the main road except acccess to the beach and the hotels. All the food and drink is on the beach-side of the hotels. So what is a bored tourist with seven days to kill to do but try them all?

Train!

At 9 o'clock we left City Beds, backpacks on and tatty grip in one hand, and walked to the station dodging tuk tuk drivers that offered to take us anywhere but where we were going.  Ticket office #4 was the place to be, apparently, and for the princely sum of 220 rupees (about two quid) we bought our passage to the south of the country. An hour later a blocky beast of an engine arrived dragging a large number of dirty red coaches. We looked for a big 2 on the doors 'cos we were travelling posh. Linda battled her way aboard and cached two empty seats while I fended off the pushy locals with my trusty grip. A couple of other intrepid whiteys with two hefty hard-shell suitcases who were heading to Hikkaduwa, they told us later, weren't so lucky and had to take turns sitting on their suitcases in the isle. Amateurs.

How to describe it. Air conditioning consisted of three fans wired into the ceiling, two of them broken, the third making sounds as if it soon will be. The other passengers jammed all the windows open and wedged the main train doors open too for good measure. Nobody fell out and no trade union went on strike, ruining everyone's day, for reasons of "passenger safety". Thus cooled below unbearable sweaty temperatures we rattled and clunked and groaned our way down the coast. The trip was punctuated by shouty Sri Lankans who charged up and down the carriage constantly with boxes of apples, oranges, pineapples, cooked prawns, nuts and even water to sell. Very enterprising, these people. However, our decision to eat absolutely nothing 12 hours before embarking proved to be the wise thing. Later in the day, when the train had thinned out a bit, I took a peek in the toilet. "Disgusting" is a good word. 'Nuff said about that aspect.

I'd anticipated a boring three or four hours, reading a book and looking at the scenery. However, I really hadn't given much thought to getting off the damned thing. Linda brought it up when she realised that the stations we passed had very few signs on them. In fact, we only knew where we were after we'd left it. No wi-fi, so no Google Maps. Also, although Mirissa had a local station, it wasn't used on the "express" services and we weren't sure that there would be any transport to the beach. So we decided, after scouring the forums, to get off at Weligama, a stop about 8 klicks away. The train changed to a smaller engine at Galle and then chugged its way eastwards along the coast, stopping at every cow pat and lamp post, as Ginge would say. For the next 20 minutes I hung out of the perpetually open door of the carriage shouting at the locals on the platform:
"Where are we?"
"(Something)gama."
"What?"
"Where do you want to go?"
"Weligama."
"Well, next is (something)gama, then it's (something)gama, then it's Weligama."
"Cheers, mate."
People usually shrugged at this point, probably thinking "stupid tourist".

I repeated this procedure at the next couple of stations just to be sure I got the hang of it until we reached the fabled Weligama. With a sweaty cheer we hobbled of the train, only an hour late. Outside we commandeered a tuk tuk and for the princely sum of another 400 rupees found ourselves hurtling along the last 8 kilometers of coast road to our final destination. Actually, Weligama looked quite fun; bit of a surfers' beach I've been told. Finally, we were met at the doors of our hotel by a cheerful owner and led up three flights of stairs to a cool, cool room. Mission accomplished, with nobody damaged, lost, or ripped off along the way. A small miracle.

Colombo

From the sanctity of business class to the chaos of Colombo airport. Actually, it's not in Colombo but further north just east of Negombo, where we'll end up in a couple of week's time. We arranged our hotel to send a taxi to pick us up but first we had to find the "post office" outside the airport and phone him. The place was bedlam, police blowing whistles, cars honking, taxies shouting, people and trollies everywhere. Still, it worked out OK. For $25 we got taken to City Beds, a cheap Premier Inn-styled boutique hotel in the western, coastal side of the city. By midday we were checked in to a spartan, but clean and comfortable room, wondering if we should try and sleep or stick it out until the evening.

We decided on the latter and went for a walk down by the sea (looking for a bar if the truth be told). After hours of walking down the coast road Colombo gives the appearance of being a giant construction site. Hotel chains are springing up all over this end of the city. We did find a German bar and snagged a cold beer only to be told they were closing at two. We walked back unsuccessfully the other side of the construction area, very hot and sweaty, hassled continuously by tuk tuk drivers who obviously thought that the two old tourist farts shouldn't be out walking in the afternoon heat.

Surviving an encounter with a large march of shouty students (it seems they were objecting to something to do with the change in status to their free education) we made it back and did something we should have done first -- consult TripAdvisor & Google maps. Seems there was a street full of bars just 100 metres away in the other direction. Grr. So, a quick shower an back out again. Sure enough, we stumbled upon a modest collection of expensive bars (they are all run by the aforementioned hotel chains) and indulged in a beer before getting an early night.

Truth is, we only stayed in Colombo for a couple of nights a) to get over the flight, and b) to sort the logistics of getting to Mirissa. The main railway station was only a short walk away, sans baggage, so we checked out the right side to book tickets for the next day. Lunch consisted of a bag of spicy pastries purchased at a street café and eaten on the steps of the World Trade Centre (no, really, twin towers and all). Cost around £1.50, about a quarter of the price of a beer the previous night. The evening saw us back in the converted Dutch Hospital complex at one of the new bars for pitchers of beer and a light supper (don't want too much before travelling on one of these trains for four hours). Just as the bars were setting out sound stages and street cabaret we decided to call it a day. The adventure starts for real tomorrow.

Qatar Airways: the Business Class Experience

Oh my! How the other five percent live! We breezed up to the empty Qatar Business Class check in desk, past the lines of cattle class customers. As a couple presented their thousand dollar suitcases at the desk next to us, I glanced down at our old grip that cost £7 at a market on the Isle Of Wight a couple of decades ago and my equally tatty backpack as the clerk strapped bright yellow "first class" stickers on them with a perfectly straight face. With our all-purpose boarding cards we were ushered into the fast track security. We were still abused but at least we didn't have to wrestle with three million other people to get our stuff back. In fact, we were the only ones there.

Next, we were directed to the Qatar's Lounge, splendidly isolated from the horrors of English airports at airside. Comfy chairs and champagne. In fact, over a bottle's worth, I believe, and a light lunch prior to being notified that it was time to board. Linda was distinctly impressed with the size of the first class toilet and showers rooms. We were teleported to our seats on the airplane where we were greeted with another glass of champagne before take off. On the second leg I found I could scam two if I was quick enough.

Back in the sixties as a child I read a lot of science fiction. The 21st Century was a long way away but reachable with healthy living (*cough*). Travel in the 21st would be achieved quickly and in great comfort. At last! Our seats weren't seats as much as personal podules. Think of Commander Shore's hoverchair in Stingray -- but much roomier, with tables and pockets to store your stuff without scrabbling past the overweight guy in the outside seat to get to the overhead lockers. The seat controls had more buttons than Ginge's new super-duper Land Rover, ranging from inflating the back of the seat, to raising the legs, to partial recline, to full horizontal. (On the second leg, the seats were more conventional than "podule" but there was a button that vibrated your bum cheeks, one after the other, but that was too disturbing.) On the way to Doha I only saw one film. Most of the time I played with my hoverchair, stretching my limbs and annoying my imaginary fellow passengers.

The rest of the flight was spent in a bit of a haze. Attentive hostesses served food and drink when required. Noise-cancelling headphones transmitted the sound of the big TV at the foot of my bed. And at no time did I have to wait in a queue for the toilet, hanging on off the sides of the overhead compartments dodging trollies selling useless duty frees in the gangway.

At Doha we only had an hour or so before boarding so we waved our all-purpose boarding cards and arrogantly stormed past the hoi-polloi queuing for the next flight to Colombo. The second flight was in an older plane, leaving 0200-ish Qatar time arriving 0930-ish Sri Lanka time. The subjective flight time was four and a half hours-ish. We were offered two meals both of which, in the interest of getting our money's worth, we accepted. So, despite the horizontal capabilities our our super-seats, we ended up getting to sleep not at all. By the time we got to our hotel room in Colombo we had been up all night, leaving home at 1000 and arriving 24 hours later, time difference notwithstanding.

Still, this has to be done at least once in a lifetime.

Getting there

As usual, a quick post to see if this blog design works. We're off on the afternoon of Tuesday 16th January, arriving in Colombo, Sri Lanka, around about 10 in the morning on Wednesday 17th. A couple of nights in Colombo to get over the jet lag, then it's a long train ride down the west coast of Sri Lanka to a small hippy beach we quite fancy followed by a three week tour all the way back up the coast: sunsets and seafood all the way.

It has been traditional for me, on this first page, to have a giant, relentless whine about the inhumane evils of English airports and the horrors of cattle class flights. This time, in the spirit of ensuring we have zero money on the x-axis of the graph at the same time we reach zero life on the y-axis, we're travelling . . . wait for it . . . Business Class! Yes, we're blowing our imaginary children's inheritance, not to mention post-death donations to the taxman, on a deluxe first class flight from Heathrow to Colombo with Qatar Airlines. The internet forums and blogs suggest that it is going to be something to write home about. It bloody well should be considering what they charged me, but let's not go there.

Onward!