His Highness Sheikh Mohamed bin Zayed Al Nahyan, President of the United Arab Emirates, owes me three cans of Monster Ultra. After going through security at Warsaw Airport, I bought three cans, imagining that Monster could be difficult to buy outside of Europe, and under the delusion that I wasn’t going to go through security again. At Sharjah Airport, though, we had to go through security again, and my Monsters were confiscated.
The staff were just doing their jobs. I could have predicted that I would have problems. But some things are sacred. Some things should not be meddled with. I needed that Monster and I’m not going to let it go. Your Highness, I want my Monster Energy back.
As you might have guessed from the above fit of pique, I’m not a natural traveller. If I could move some friends and family to Upper Silesia, I would be quite content to never leave the place. But my wife feels differently, and didn’t think that we would have the most fulfilling honeymoon in the Silesian Uplands. I saw her point. So, we set off to Sri Lanka instead.
Sri Lanka is a land of contrasts …
Only kidding. I don’t want to bore you with A Comprehensive Theory of a Country I’ve Just Visited. Besides, I was on a tourist visa that specifically precluded journalism. Readers interested in a substantive account of Sri Lankan history and society could turn to John Gimlette’s fascinating, powerfully written — if, I think, at times a bit excessively cynical — Elephant Complex (thanks to Ed West for the recommendation). But I thought some informal observations on this beautiful country might be interesting.
Travelling through Sri Lanka, there was a vague sense of chaos. Cars, buses, motorbikes and tuk-tuks veered around each other, beeping prolifically. Buildings were often half-finished or half-collapsed. Gangs of monkeys wriggled Great Escape-style across wiring. I’m sure it can be chaotic. The first thing we heard in the country was that our guide had been delayed by a road accident. But there seemed to be more order than I had discerned. Drivers seemed bizarrely relaxed and pleasantly cooperative. Monkeys — unlike their anarchic cousins in Longleat — seemed to have developed a sense of how to cause just enough chaos without being A Problem.
The streets could be a bit of an aesthetic headache. Some of the buses looked more suited for a redneck carnival. There were adverts — at least half of which appeared to be for Pepsi or Coca Cola — wherever I looked. That said, the adverts could convey a certain civilisational seriousness. There were loads of adverts for private tutors, for example. Adverts for educational institutions were big on words like “ambition” and “aspiration”.
Sri Lankans are not lacking in the entrepreneurial spirit. We saw endless restaurants and shops, often with eccentric anglicised names (“Mr X” was a common brand name, such as with a men’s fashion shop called “Mr Guys”). A strain of Anglophilia was also evident in the number of products advertised as being “Britain’s Number One” (I recall a make of car batteries being one of them). Sadly, it seemed like demand often could not keep up with supply. A lot of people seemed to be hanging around without a lot to do. “My first customer of the day,” one lady smiled, with mixed emotions, as we bought an ornament.
Our guide was a Sri Lankan man who spoke excellent Polish. (Indeed, his Polish made me feel rather embarrassed.) He was warm, knowledgeable and funny — a natural raconteur, and a credit to his profession and his people. He described himself as being one of only two Sri Lankan people who spoke Polish, which, if true, is an excellent means of cornering a market — and could make for some intense competition.
First, we drove to the hotel and it was time for a beer.
Yes, that’s right. It’s commercial lager corner. If you know me, you know I’m a tremendous fan of the mass-market Polish lager Tyskie. Well, I’m a big fan of mass-market lager in general. (Arguably, the differences between mass market lagers are rarely more than subtle.) And Sri Lanka is served well by Lion. Sri Lankans don’t seem to be major drinkers, but Lion — served ice cold — is a very solid lager.
The hotel was lovely. The staff were very sweet — almost poignantly sweet inasmuch as they were giving people an experience most of them will not be able to afford for themselves. Still, their sweetness was appreciated — and some of them had character. A cheerful lifeguard turned out to be a sports fan, so I mentioned growing up watching Jayasuriya and Muralitharan. “What a team!” He said. But I should probably have known that England had just beaten Sri Lanka. “Buttler, very good. Brook, very good,” the man ruefully smiled.
The food — the daal, the okra, the brinjal et cetera — was excellent. My wife was annoyed that I was avoiding food that had not been baptised in hot water or oil but what can I say? I’m sure it was paranoid to spurn pre-cut pineapple but I hadn’t flown across the world to tour a bathroom.
We loved the animals: the gentle giants plodding up the side of the road — their trunks swaying as they walked — the anxious and resourceful monkeys, and the swooping birds. The stray dogs could be distressing: thin, tired, and weak. I can’t judge people who struggle to support themselves for not supporting stray dogs. But it was still sad to see. They looked at people with the mingled hope and consternation of animals who know that humans can be their greatest friend or their biggest enemy.
On our first day we climbed Sigiriya Rock — a 200m tall slab of granite in the middle of an ancient fortress. Man has carved his own meaning into the rock, such as the giant paws that guard the beginning of your ascent. Narrow metal steps tremble mischievously above the chasm that yawns beneath you. I can’t imagine how people ever installed them.
Up we walked, from wheezing Poles in knock-off army fatigues, to elegant Chinese ladies clutching the arms of their tour guides, to Sri Lankan schoolkids who chirped “HI!” at anybody who looked Western.
The view from the top is exceptional — a massive sweep of lush trees, carrying the eye slowly away towards the mountains in the distance. What is, I’m sure, a pretty impressive statue of the Buddha looked like nothing more than a figurine.
Then, at the peak, we found two stray dogs — thin, weak, and yet on the top of the world. They must have trotted all the way up the steps, in search of food or water, or perhaps just to see where they would go.
It seemed rather sad that these poor pups probably had no idea of the scale and majesty of the view before them. Then again, as I headed down the steps, with the view receding from my memory, and already thinking about an ice-cold energy drink, I’m not sure that I did.
The second installment will be available for paid subscribers tomorrow.