And just like that, over 3 months had passed before he turned his attention back on me. You suck, Urbn Gipsy!

If my blog could type, I assume she would write something like the above paragraph. I sure am glad though, that those words aren’t coming out of a girlfriend’s mouth.

About a month ago, I was lying in bed – depressed – in the hours when most people start their work days in Nairobi when I had a brainwave: “I should move to Mumbai where I have some really good friends.” Yes, on some level I wasn’t happy about living here. I felt lonely (I still do at times) and without close friends I could relate to, not to mention being a member of a shallow and rather backward community (at least by my standards).

My imagination had me looking into the future where I was a resident of Mumbai and a travel writer who took off on a new adventure whenever the urge presented itself. I shared a decent 2 bedroom apartment in Navi Mumbai and was never short of friends to call upon for the many activities that one can indulge in in that great city of dreams.

With this rosy picture in my head, I started informing everyone around me of my decision to leave Nairobi for a switch in career and a more exciting life. I was so convinced that I even began agonising over what I would do with my beloved collection of books and furniture. Should I give them to my folks even though they wouldn’t find half of the titles interesting or should I donate them to my local library?

Alas, it was not meant to be as simple as it looked. The more I talked to people about my decision to move, the more I realised that maybe it wasn’t the best thing to uproot myself once more for a new, though familiar, destination. I started feeling more connected to some of these people, while new friendships blossomed out of the blue. As I kept discussing my reasons for moving, it dawned on me that I might have more reasons for staying.

Some of these include, being around to:

1. Ensure that the chess club I founded – Westlands Chess Club (WeCC) – achieves at least some of the objectives I had envisioned for it and to see members playing for the club in their WeCC t-shirts in local and international tournaments. In spite of my efforts to put together a team to lead and manage the club, deep down inside I know that things won’t be the same without me at the helm.
2. Continue running and improving Chess Events EAC, a website I started, till it becomes a household name in East African chess circles and a major provider of information in the international arena.
3. Execute some ideas I have for a chess store that will become the single largest supplier of chess equipment to players and organisations in East and Central Africa.
4. Start and establish a chess school from which future chess champions of Kenya will emerge to bring the country’s international rankings out of the garbage heap that is the 130s and 140s (we are currently the second weakest team in Africa and the tenth weakest in the world).
5. Work on more creatively satisfying design projects such as the redesign of mzoori.com‘s UI/UX (to be unveiled in early 2012).
6. Explore friendships with some amazing people I have met off-line and on-line in the past month and hope for a really close friend to emerge from them.
7. Tour this beautiful country that is Kenya and its surroundings on motorbike for an East African version of ‘The Motorcycle Diaries‘ (after I buy one).
8. Fall in love with a tall, sexy woman of mixed parentage who speaks fluent French/Spanish/Arabic, rides a motorcycle and isn’t afraid of taking risks. *deep sigh*

I gave myself time till 31st December 2011, to decide if I still wanted to move to India and start life afresh or if I’d rather stick around and see my Kenyan ambitions through in spite of the frustrations that come with living in Nairobi (erratic power supplies, washed out roads every time it rains heavily, a hellish drive to just about anywhere, bad customer service from large companies that should know better, strange people with no clue of social etiquette/politeness, etc.).

Well, I didn’t need to wait till the end of this year to announce my decision. I have known it for a while now but I wanted to be sure this time.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, I have decided to — *drumroll* … wait for it … wait for it … and voila — STAY IN NAIROBI! Guess I’ll be seeing you around after all. {;)

I sit here staring at you, 3 hours past midday. No distraction can move me, I am oblivious to the splashes of water. The kids make enthusiastic sounds, the waiters criss-cross tables with their desire to please, yet I am unmoved. I continue to look at you, transfixed.

It is now 4 hours past midday. The heat cannot force tiny beads of sweat out of their pores. The breeze cannot cool the passion that is now aflame in my heart. I have not fluttered an eyelash. I have not batted an eyelid. Not even the most persistent fly can weaken my resolve.

What is this that is happening to me? Am I turning into stone that does not move? Or am I losing all feeling save that which resides in my heart for you? No, it isn’t either.

I know what it is.

I am paralysed by your beauty.

While relaxing by the harbour at Tamarind Restaurant, Mombasa, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, my black Pelikan pen met recycled paper and the above piece came to life. Can you tell what the subject of my poetic prose is?

Missed part six? Read it here before continuing to read further.

Colombo
Even before I could board my minibus from Kandy to Colombo, I had a taste of what the security arrangements there would be like. My backpack was thoroughly searched by two gun-toting army men and I had to flash my passport for the first time after going through immigration at the airport.

The bus ride was rather uneventful till we reached the outskirts of the city where the bus was stopped and all passengers asked to get down by the police. Since the instructions had been given in Singhalese, I sat dumbstruck in my seat looking quizzically at everyone offloading themselves. Finally, I asked a lady seated in the front row about what has happening and she gently encouraged me to get off the bus too. Though I got off with my luggage, this time they were only checking for identities and I was pleased to show-off my Kenyan citizenry.

The city of Colombo is no different from your average Indian city, while passing through. It’s just as ugly, dirty and crowded with its fair share of gems waiting to be discovered. The last stop for my minibus was at the Pettah bus stand from where I caught a local bus to the Fort area. Luckily for me, it dropped me right at the entrance to the lane where YMCA was located. My Lonely Planet guide told me that cheap accommodation was available there. So, I got myself a very basic room that had a creaky double bed, a squeaky ceiling fan and a nondescript washbasin close to an excuse of a balcony with an ugly urban view. For someone who once harboured ambitions of joining the army, a decrepit room wasn’t even the beginning of a challenge to get through.

Having completed the formalities associated with getting myself a room at the YMCA, I headed out in search for some lunch. Before long it became Mission: Lunch. At every street corner stood army men with guns and barricades and expressions that said, “Access denied”. There weren’t many restaurants to choose from either. Eventually, after about an hour or more of searching, I settled for a KFC within Cargills, Sri Lanka’s most visible chain of supermarkets.

After munching through my burger, I set off to explore the Fort area. The heavy security wasn’t going to deter me. I went through the metal detector booth at the World Trade Centre and onwards, on my most memorable and visually gratifying walk in Sri Lanka. Most of Colombo’s finest hotels are situated in the vicinity of the World Trade Centre and Galle Face Green. Then, there’s the promenade itself with its breathtaking view of the ocean and benches at regular intervals to rest your weary bottom on. It’s a pity I didn’t take my camera with me or I would have been able to share the scenic vista with you. Half-way down the promenade, I came across a wooden jetty that seemed to have been constructed to offer a better view of the ocean though it wasn’t any different from what you could see from the promenade. If you ever find yourself with a date and nowhere to go to in Colombo, this is the place to bring her. Watching the sunset from this jetty makes it even more magical for the woman and very likely to score you brownie points.

By the time the sun vanished from the horizon and darkness started setting in; I had reached the southernmost end of the promenade where many food and drink stalls lined the road going inland into the city. I stopped for some coconut water and while sipping on it kept wondering why the coconuts in Sri Lanka were reddish brown instead of green. The coconut vendor didn’t speak English or Hindi and I didn’t speak any Singhalese or Tamil, so I continued ruminating after paying him his money and walked towards the Taj Samudra.

On the long walk back to the YMCA, I was ordered off the sidewalk by an army man and into the compound of a lavish hotel. Army men with communication devices that crackled had cleared the roads of all vehicular and pedestrian traffic. Within minutes, a motorcade passed by, with sirens blaring and at lighting fast speed. The sight of this VVIP being escorted was so impressive that I decided to obtain such a powerful status for myself too in the future.

It was around 7.30 p.m. when I reached the YMCA building and to my surprise, the canteen there was already closed. I tried searching for a decent restaurant nearby but it was in vain. Even the internet cafes were closed and so I couldn’t catch up with the Gmail and Facebook worlds either. Irritated with such unreasonable closing hours of Colombo’s establishments I went up to my room and tried to get some sleep instead.

Day Four
My final day in Sri Lanka began with a south Indian breakfast washed down by the most horrible tea I have ever had south of the Vindhyas. Though I had plans to visit a few interesting places in Cinnamon Gardens after checking out, the tight security and humid heat finally got the better of my nerves and I decided to return to Negombo instead. There, I would relax by the beach till evening and then find a taxi to take me to the airport.

Around lunchtime, I checked into Ice Bear Guesthouse, paid through the nose for a small room and had a most-deserving shower. I was tempted to take a nap, but these were my last few hours in the country and I wasn’t going to let them go to waste. The menu at the Ice Bear restaurant wasn’t tempting enough, so I started walking towards what I thought was the interesting street where I had seen many restaurants earlier. I ended up in the town of Negombo instead, thanks to my superior sense of direction, and I still didn’t find a restaurant with an appetising vegetarian menu. Therefore I made do with samosas and falooda at a bakery instead.

Back at the guesthouse, I relaxed in a hammock and watched geese chase each other whilst looking back at my impossibly short holiday in Sri Lanka. It had been an interesting journey from the first time I thought about visiting the country, to actually finding myself at Bandaranaike International Airport and then familiarising myself with the country’s geography and transport systems.

When the sun dipped lower in the sky, I ventured out to the beach and found a boat to perch on, notebook and pen in hand, recording my thoughts and observations. Though short, it had been a good trip.

Pizza
I concluded my trip with a visit to an artist’s gallery, followed by a brief stopover at Ammehula where I could only manage to drink Fanta because of too many seafood options. The artist had some interesting work that featured nude women but nothing spectacular enough that was worth investing in. It was still early to be heading directly to the airport, so I found myself a taxi driver who agreed to have dinner with me at the Pizza Hut en-route.

He told me how badly the tourism industry was doing that season and I wished him luck. We discussed many subjects and I realised from my conversation with him that Indians are a very respected nationality in Sri Lanka. They even have Singhalese singers who don’t understand a word of Hindi but have happily come out with music albums containing cover versions of Hindi and even Punjabi songs! The taxi driver was glad to play one such album on his auto rickshaw stereo for me and to say that I was intrigued would be an understatement. While the jolly Sri Lankan sang in Hindi and Punjabi, I sighed to myself, “India, sweet India.” It was time to go back home.

That, my dear friends, brings us to the end of this series from my travels in Sri Lanka. Hope you enjoyed reading it and learnt a little about Sri Lanka in the process.

Bon voyage!

The series: Part One > Part Two > Part Three > Part Four > Part Five > Part Six > Part Seven [Final]

Missed part five? Read it here before continuing to read further.

On returning from the elephant orphanage that evening, I was too tired to venture out for dinner, so I decided to remain in my room at the guest house, consume the remaining potato crisps in the Pringles canister and reflect on my experiences so far.

I was glad to have made it to Sri Lanka, as impulsive as my decision had been. On the other hand, I was also frustrated at not having someone to share my adventure with. My friends in India aren’t the kinds who’ll say yes to even half of the impromptu travel/activity plans I come up with. I’m too unconventional for them. It’s a pity, really. For a while in the beginning, I didn’t like engaging in these unconventional activities without company till I realised I should be enjoying my time on earth irrespective of others’ participation. So then I started doing all kinds of things by myself, to the point where I now found myself enjoying my own company much more than others’. It has lead to many moments of loneliness and despair, where I have wished to be with at least one other person who could laugh and get silly with me.

It’s funny how I’ve made friends with the sea, my camera and even stray dogs, but when it comes to humans, there’s always the lingering thought of whether I’m being taken for a ride, again. On the up side of this lack of strong social ties with other people, I find it hard to get bored when on my own.

My train of thought hadn’t travelled a long distance when the warm orange glow of the table lamp beside me caught my fancy and out came the digital SLR from its black bag. There’s something about warm lighting that’s irresistible to my photographer’s mind. I managed to get a few shots that would have made great photo album covers for this trip. It’s another thing that I wouldn’t use them on any cover because of my obsession with chronology, hierarchy and an honest portrayal of events. Even if irrelevant and irrational, I’d have to use the first photograph I took after landing in Sri Lanka for the cover of any photo album.

I must have daydreamed a bit after taking photos and before falling into a slumber, as I can only remember being woken up by the helper’s knock on the wooden door and a cheerful, “Good morning!” the next day. I really like it when people greet me in such a manner. As on the day before, I quickly showered, got dressed and went downstairs to have breakfast and chat with Mrs. Dunuwile. More than the actual conversation with her though, I was looking forward to seeing the kids and their pretty teachers doing what they did best. The view from her garden was most satisfying!

I had decided to go to Colombo after so much debating with myself that it drove me insane with indecision. Yes, we Librans aren’t known to be the least frustrating decision-makers especially when doing it for ourselves. I discussed my forward travel plans with Mrs. Dunuwile and asked her for the bill for my stay. She made sure I signed the guest book even before I went back upstairs to pack my bags.

It was while leaving my room with my bags after packing them up, that I had one of my most cherished moments of the entire trip. She was standing in the kitchen stirring a cup of tea. I was standing in the passage outside my room door, having just locked the door with the key. A cursory glance to my left brought her eyes close to mine. She smiled. I smiled. My heart skipped a beat, as I had one of the rare “…and their eyes met” moments in my life. I had never known such bliss to exist without the exchange of even a sigh. “I am definitely coming back to Kandy,” I smiled to myself. “Maybe I can teach at the school.”

I bid a final adieu to Mrs. Dunuwile and thanked her for the packet of Sri Lankan tea she pressed into my hands and walked downhill towards the lake to make my way to the bus stand and to Colombo.

The series: Part One > Part Two > Part Three > Part Four > Part Five > Part Six > Part Seven [Final]

Missed part four? Read it here before continuing to read further.

Pinnewala
The green bus that I took from Kegalle, creaked and jolted its way through some Sri Lankan greenery for about 20 minutes before depositing me opposite the gates of the elephant orphanage at Pinnewala. I wanted to satisfy the rumbling in my stomach before subjecting it to the turmoil that can only be felt in the presence of sixty elephants standing a stampede-length from you. I looked around and spotted a restaurant nearby. “Maybe I’ll get a sandwich here,” I said to myself. Alas, the restaurant only served curry and rice and for a reason unknown to me, I wasn’t very keen on trying Sri Lankan cuisine. The stomach would have to survive the wait.

At the ticket counter I was pleasantly surprised at not having to pay the SLR 1000 that the white tourists before me had to. I, my curious friends, had to pay the SAARC rate which was only SLR 250. I could foresee myself digging into a royal feast later that afternoon. Once inside the main compound of the orphanage, things got a bit disappointing.

For starters, there were no signs to point me in the right direction. I managed to figure out where to go based on the movement of other human beings and walked towards the bottle-feeding stall. Pay SLR 250 to hold and stick a 750 ml bottle of milk into the mouth of a hungry elephant calf while your better half (if you don’t travel alone like I do) captures it on camera and it might just score you some karma points. “Hmm…where’s the rifle-shooting booth,” I muttered to myself, “maybe I could win a fur elephant at this fair of an orphanage”. Even for prodding the elephants into desirable camera-friendly poses with their pointed hook sticks, the handlers (I don’t like the word mahout, so I’ll call them that) demanded Sri Lankan Rupees in multiples of hundreds. Going to a circus would have been more economically viable and entertaining! To say that I was not pleased with this commercialisation of humble daily activities would be an understatement.

I wasn’t bristling with indignation for too long though. Not with the kind of photo-ops these gentle beasts presented, even if in captivity. I would really have enjoyed spending a few weeks observing and interacting with these animals at close range. Maybe I’d even have made friends with a few. After watching an American woman (she sounded American, though I can never tell the difference between a Canadian accent and an American one) feed a calf while her male counterpart photographed all involved – calf, calf handler and the woman – I followed a British posse to a large open space where the remaining elephants hung out. It was a beautiful location with idyllic hills providing the perfect backdrop for a Bollywood dance sequence. Who knows, elephants might make better backup dancers than humans do!

Feeding an elephant calf with a milk bottle, Pinnewala

The atmosphere was a festive one, with the smaller and (presumably) younger elephants gorging on a buffet of tree branch fibre and fallen green leaves while the bigger ones stood around in groups probably discussing the lack of juicy sugarcane that their more well off cousins in India enjoyed.

Elephant buffet, Pinnewala

Almost isolated at one side of this barbeque-like gathering, was the jumbo – the player of the pack – showing off some deft moves with his trunk, with a little help from his handler of course. I swear I could have heard elephantine giggles coming from amongst the hungry lot.

Player elephant, Pinnewala

Within a few minutes of witnessing these 60-odd elephants together in one place at the same time, it was time to get them ready for their second of two daily treks to the river nearby. We were politely asked to get the hell out of the way and wait on the other side of the motorway outside the main gates. Traffic was stopped in both directions, creating a safe passageway for the elephants to pass through, though I doubt if the cars would have been able to cause any damage to them in the first place.

Elephants going to the river, Pinnewala

Watching these majestic animals trundle down to the river was like watching school kids being made to walk in line to the sports field. They were evidently looking forward to the experience, so coaxing became unnecessary. They would have very happily walked over a human or two if they had to, blissfully unaware of the concept of hospital bills and boring ceilings.

Elephants at the river, Pinnewala

At the river, the elephants that really liked water lay on the riverbed sideways and made themselves very comfortable. They didn’t need a “DO NOT DISTURB” sign hanging around their necks to let you know that nothing was going to come between them and their ‘spa time’. I watched them from a distance wondering if I would ever find a hideout where I could forget everything else and just savour the moment. The presence of even one human being as far as the eye could see would spoil it for me. I’ll have to start saving up for my own private island then, I guess.

It took a sudden storm and a heavy downpour to bring the elephants’ ‘spa time’ to an unscheduled close – about an hour before it was due. In the 10 years that I have been living in India, I have never seen the kind of thunder and lightning accompanied rain that I witnessed that afternoon at Pinnewala, by the river. It was a crazy, mad, angry storm and it took away the joy I had of saving money on the entrance fee to the orphanage. By the time the rains descended from their heavenly abode, I was sitting on the rocky riverbank, beside the restaurant of a nice hotel.

Nice hotels make a killing in such situations when hungry amateur writer-photographers have nowhere else to go while waiting for storms to cease. So I ordered my royal feast there that consisted of one cheese and tomato sandwich, a tube of Pringles potato crisps (I’m more British than American and we don’t call them chips), a can of stale orange juice and a bottle of ‘mineral’ water. Potato crisps tend to taste so much better in rainy weather. Have you noticed that?

I didn’t have to wait long after finishing my princely meal to get back on the road, as the rain had stopped just as suddenly as it had started. While waiting for the bus, an irritating taxi driver tried persuading me to take the train from Rambukkana to Kandy instead. In spite of making it clear that I’d rather take a bus, he kept pestering me and furnishing unsolicited information about train timetables and conveniences. He couldn’t be getting a commission at the train station, could he?

Fortunately for me, the bus I was waiting for, arrived before there was any bloodshed. I noticed a white couple boarding the bus too and made a mental note of keeping track of where they would get off, so I could follow them. At the junction, the three of us got off and since they seemed to be looking for the same bus stop as I was, I asked them if they were headed towards Kandy too. They were and so we became a team and in the slight drizzle that followed, we managed to find ourselves onboard one of the air-conditioned minibuses I mentioned about earlier in the text. When you’ve just been drenched, even if ever so slightly, an air-conditioned environment is not a good one to find yourself in. It literally puts you in a “shiver me timbers” state, as Popeye would have articulated.

Nevertheless, we made ourselves comfortable and occupied foldable seats that kept the aisle space from being wasted. In the conversation that ensued, I learnt that these people were from Ireland and would be spending a few weeks travelling in Sri Lanka. The woman actually asked me if I was from Kandy and I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. So, I remained neutral.

I love the reaction I usually get from people when I tell them that I’m from Kenya though currently living in India. Especially white people because they seem more interested in hearing about Africa and knowing about the Indian connection to it. I had a very interesting conversation with the couple, all the way to Lake Bungalow where I was staying, before parting ways. I don’t remember the gentleman’s name now, but he didn’t even let me pay for the taxi that we shared after already having paid my bus fare to Kandy (the conductor thought we were together and charged him for 3 seats instead of 2, which I realised only later when the conductor didn’t ask me for my fare).

The series: Part One > Part Two > Part Three > Part Four > Part Five > Part Six > Part Seven [Final]

Missed part three? Read it here before continuing to read further.

Day Two
Have you ever woken up to the muffled sound of tiny tots making the kind of sounds only they can? I did and I found it very pleasantly nostalgic. There’s something about the innocence of small children that is very heart-warming to witness, even if from a distance.

It was as early as 7.15 a.m., when the domestic helper knocked on my door to inform me of breakfast being ready. The Montessori school on the ground floor of the guesthouse was abuzz with activity. I showered and got dressed and finally made it to the breakfast table at 8. Mrs. Dunuwile was waiting for me with her characteristic smile and warmth. Over a bowl of fruit, pieces of toast and some tea, we talked about a variety of subjects from the civil war in Sri Lanka to the ineffectiveness of the Indian government in dealing with the frequent terrorist attacks happening all over the country. I like conversing with people older than me. They tend to have the kind of stories I like listening to.

She was pleased enough with my company to let me go through the guest book – a privilege that she doesn’t extend to just about anyone. I felt flattered for sure!

I decided to explore a bit of Kandy on foot, before heading to the elephant orphanage at Pinnewala. I didn’t want to reach there before feeding time at 1.15 p.m. anyway. After crossing the road, I decided to walk rightwards around the lake this time. I had my camera with me and was hoping to take some interesting photos of the lake and the sights around it. I didn’t have to wait too long for that. On a branch of tree that extended towards the centre of the lake, from the edge, I spotted a few turtles sun-bathing without sun block! On another branch next to it, were a few birds. The first time I saw the turtles, I wasn’t sure if they were real or gimmicky sculpture pieces meant to confuse tourists like me. On careful observation though, movement on their part confirmed that they were indeed very real.

Turtles sun bathing in Kandy lake

After walking for a bit, looking at the different buildings around the lake, with fascination plastered on my face as is so characteristic of me, I considered making human contact. I asked a couple seated on a stone bench nearby, how to get to the bus stand and whether I could do it by walking in the anti-clockwise direction around the lake that I had already begun doing. The man and woman conferred for a few minutes before turning to me to spring the bad news. No, I couldn’t get to the bus stand in the direction I was headed. I hated having to backtrack and turn the other way, but I did it any way.

I ambled onto one of the main thoroughfares in the town centre, and suddenly Kandy didn’t seem like a quaint, sleepy town anymore. I had passed a mini-market that could easily have been Delhi’s ‘Palika Bazaar’ or Mumbai’s ‘Fashion Street’ though not as fashionable, to get there and now standing on this street, the jostling and general bustle reminded me of Bangalore’s ‘Brigade Road’. They even had a KFC! Was this what Russell Peters meant when he joked about Sri Lankans being the forgotten Indians? I could just as well have been walking in a South Indian city speaking broken Kannada in response to Singhalese that could just as well have been Malayalam.

White-Haired Gentleman
An expensive IDD (our ISD is their International Direct Dialling) call to my brother later, I found myself at the non-private bus stand. I guess the buses (minibuses rather) I had taken till then were private ones. I couldn’t tell, and frankly I couldn’t have cared less. A white-haired gentleman on a red bus was helpful enough to confirm that the bus was indeed going towards Pinnewala. He was so helpful, he told me exactly where to get down to catch another bus that would take me to the elephant orphanage. “Hmm…” I thought to myself, “This guy seems friendly and interesting. I should sit down next to him before anyone else does.” So I sat down next to him and he kept feeding me with interesting conversation at regular intervals throughout my journey in that bus.

During the episode where I witnessed my first ever live sighting of a person having an epileptic fit an aisle away, the white-haired gentleman was even so kind as to mention to me that such people who know that they are prone to such epileptic episodes shouldn’t be travelling by themselves. That piece of advice to no one in particular really helped the poor man frothing from the mouth and twitching himself into a frenzy, didn’t it?

The series: Part One > Part Two > Part Three > Part Four > Part Five > Part Six > Part Seven [Final]

Missed part two? Read it here before continuing to read further.

Kurunegala
As soon as I got off the bus from Giriulla at Kurunegala, I knew I wanted a tea break, which is quite rare for me as I can survive without food or water for long periods when necessary. Changing buses frequently was starting to get to me. Looking around outside the bus terminus, where we were dropped, I couldn’t tell where I’d get a cup of tea and some biscuits to go with it. So, I decided to go for a short walk on the busiest road I could lay my eyes on, nearby. Amongst the varied assortment of stores that lined this street, were a few bakeries that also served as eateries offering light snacks and beverages. I stopped at the one that looked most appealing, and seeing some empty tables inside, ventured forth to get myself some refreshments.

I first asked the waiter who approached me, whether they had milkshakes. He didn’t understand a word of my English. “No problem,” I said to myself, “I’ll just show him what I mean.” So I pointed at the fridge, which had frosted glasses of what looked like a milk-based semi-liquid concoction. He responded, by saying something that sounded like “fruit salad”. After the wrong bus incident, I couldn’t trust non-English-speaking Sri Lankans with what sounded like English, so I shook my head and wondered if I should ask for something else that he might understand. Meanwhile, the waiter had gotten hold of someone who spoke a little English and brought him to my table so that I may be able to give him a better chance to serve me. This man didn’t understand milkshake either. Eventually, I managed to get a cup of tea, which I gulped down with a lot of gratitude and after making sure I had paid my dues, quickly gathered my belongings and walked back to the bus stand.

The Bus Stand
The bus stand at Kurunegala is like a mini-stadium. The inner perimeter of the circular structure is where the mini-buses park themselves below destination boards, with the conductors almost rapping away their respective bus routes. Eminem would find a lot of inspiration in Sri Lanka, what with the speed at which both Singhalese and Tamil are spoken!

After a short enquiry at what looked like an information booth, I quietly made my way to where I would find my bus. The first bus I found going to Kandy charged SLR (Sri Lankan Rupees) 100. Though not a princely amount when converted to Indian Rupees, I was sure that they were overcharging me on account of my very obvious ‘tourist’ status. Only after I had gotten on another bus that charged less, did I realise that the previous one was air-conditioned. I had jumped to an immature conclusion once again.

Kandy
It took a little over an hour to get to Kandy and I was thoroughly entertained by Singhalese radio with a smattering of English thrown in for good measure. The hill country as the Sri Lankan highlands are known, is a charming blend of modern concrete ugliness and lush green environs. After sundown though, both get quite eerie as most human activity outside the humans’ homes ceases. In that regard, Sri Lanka is nothing like India where human activity seems to be bursting and overflowing from their homes, businesses and whatnot till late into the night.

The first thing I did after arriving at Goods Shed bus stand in Kandy, was to call up Lake Bungalow, one of the guest houses recommended by Lonely Planet, and find out if they had rooms available and how much they would cost. I hadn’t bumped into too many tourists yet, so I wasn’t surprised when the lady at Lake Bungalow answered in the affirmative to the former and SLR 880 to the latter. I now had to find an auto rickshaw (tuk-tuk or taxi in Sri Lankan parlance) to take me there.

I did find one and he took me for a ride. First, by pretending to not know where Lake Bungalow was and then when we did ‘find’ it, by charging me SLR 250 instead of the usual 150. I felt like I had the word ‘SUCKER’ stamped on my forehead. Maybe it was glow-in-the-dark, or visible only under ultraviolet light.

Lake Bungalow
The duper was soon forgotten though, when I was shown my room on the first floor of their cosy guest-house. It was just the kind I’d love to come to after a day of extreme excursions. It had soft yellow lighting and wooden flooring with three decent beds in a space much larger than I needed.

I washed up and put on a t-shirt over my shirt to compensate for the slight nip in the air outside and went downstairs to go Kandy-exploring. There I bumped into Mrs. Damayanthi Dunuwile, who owned and ran the guest-house. After a brief but pleasant chat with her, I sauntered off into the darkness in search of a decent restaurant for a decent meal to bid adieu to a decent birthday.

Since the guest-house wasn’t far from the lake, a short walk downhill and crossing the road brought me to the edge of this beautifully large water-body around which Kandy town arose. I started walking leftwards around the lake, trying to remember where a restaurant called Devon had been on the map in my trusted Lonely Planet guide. I didn’t have to make the effort as I had taken the book with me, but I needed something to keep my mind busy. You know, “an idle mind is the devil’s workshop”. That should be updated to “a non-multitasking mind is the devil’s workshop”. As I tried to figure out how to get to the restaurant without walking too much, I also observed quite a few hotels on that road and very few walkers/joggers around at that time. It was barely even 8.30 p.m.

Devon Rest.
I must have walked for 10 minutes, when I came across a lodge-like building with a tacky sign outside that read ‘Devon Rest.’. “Could this be the restaurant mentioned in the guide?” I asked myself. I opened the book and flipped to the page with the map on it and with the help of a street light, spent a few minutes musing over whether this could be it. On the map though, there was nothing that corresponded with where I was standing then. “Ah, fuck it!” I thought. My tummy wasn’t in the mood to explore further and waste time. I was going to risk eating at the tacky-signed restaurant.

Walking up to the restaurant on the first floor, I didn’t see a single soul around. Boy, it was beginning to get spooky! Didn’t Kandians have a life after sunset? I waited for a bit before the waiter showed up with a menu that had very little choice for a very vegetarian me. After much thought and discussion, I settled for soup, followed by a serving of chips (the British word for French fries) and fruit salad with ice cream for dessert. All of it washed down by a glass of lime juice. I had found my decent restaurant and eaten my decent meal and it was now time to bid adieu to my decent birthday.

I walked back to the guest-house at a brisk pace, looking forward to the cosy room I had been enamoured by earlier, and lots of well-deserved rest. It hadn’t been even 24 hours since I had arrived in Sri Lanka and I had had enough action to last me a week!

The series: Part One > Part Two > Part Three > Part Four > Part Five > Part Six > Part Seven [Final]

Missed part one? Read it here before continuing to read further.

Day One
At 9.15 a.m. a few hard knocks on the door woke me up from my not-so-deep slumber. It was a girl, who worked at the hotel, checking in on me. In all the excitement of having finally been given a room earlier, I had left the room key hanging in the keyhole on the wrong side of the door while I slept blissfully unaware. Sometimes, that worries people.

I was thankful to her, though, for waking me up. If there’s one thing I’ve struggled with for a better part of my life, than it’s the art of waking up when I’m supposed to. I wasn’t going to waste time sleeping when I had only four days to explore Sri Lanka!

I was in my beach clothes in a jiffy, and ready to attack whatever food was available for breakfast at the hotel restaurant. The great thing about travelling during low season is the reduced waiting period everywhere. It wasn’t long before my simple meal of bread toast and tea appeared. I even had the pleasure of watching a cat play hide and seek while I waited.
With the few slices of bread devoured and a satiated tummy, it was time to take my better half for a stroll on the Negombo coastline. I didn’t have to walk a lot to get there, as Hotel Silver Sands is right on the beach (its architectural equivalent of a bum, that is).

There’s something very delightful about taking in that first sighting of where the shoreline, water and sky meet along with the heady aroma of a sea breeze mixed with that coastal calmness that even hills don’t stand a chance against. While letting my five senses experience this luxury, I usually like to just stand still for a few minutes, before getting on with my customary walk.

My Better Half
My better half was overjoyed at this opportunity to exercise her under-utilised muscles and I was glad to facilitate it. So, within seconds of having started my walk on the so-not-silver sands of Negombo beach, out she came from her stuffy black enclosure and into my secure hands. Click, click, click, we went and captured many a catamarans without even batting an eyelid. So that’s what it must feel like to be a pirate! After tiring ourselves with the hundreds of boats out at sea, we decided to chase some seagulls and try and freeze them in mid-flight on my better half’s image-sensor. Easier said than done. One needs a lot of patience when photographing birds, especially ones like seagulls that swoop when least expected. I managed a few decent shots nevertheless, like this one.

Seagull flying over the sea, Negombo

After about an hour and a half of walking, photographing and being amazed and uplifted by the natural surroundings, it was time to head back to the hotel and ready my bags for checkout. A cold shower later and with my pocket lighter by Sri Lankan Rupees 220, I stepped onto the pavement and headed north in search of adventure. I didn’t have to go too far, as I spotted a communication bureau from where I could call my brother and inform him of my whereabouts. It also had computers with Internet access and I sure as hell wanted to know how much I was being remembered on Facebook on my birthday!

The real adventure began after lunch. I got on to a local bus that would take me to Negombo town, at a distance of about 2 kilometres from Lewis Place, where most of the hotels/guest-houses/etc. are located. From there, I would find another bus to take me towards Kegalle on my way to Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage. En-route to the bus stand at Negombo town, we came across many girls in white pinafores making their way home from school. The roadsides were lined with Japanese vans like the one driven by not-so-blessed someone, presumably waiting to take the girls home. I shuddered at the thought of having to walk on that road at that time surrounded by hundreds of giggling girls and their SPF 45 umbrellas. Thank God for the bus I was in.

At Negombo town’s bus stand, I started asking every conductor in every mini-bus that passed by, if it went to Pinnewala. After about five of them went by, I found a conductor who nodded vigorously. I asked him again while clambering onto the vehicle, “Does this bus go to Pinnewala?” “Yes, yes,” he half-mumbled, half-gestured. “Great,” I thought to myself. “That wasn’t so difficult.” I found out some time later, that I had spoken/thought too soon.

Wrong Bus
I realised that I could be on the wrong bus when after we had passed a town called Pannala, the conductor tapped me on my shoulder and asked me where I wanted to go. I repeated, “Pinnewala!” He didn’t respond to that, though his face told me everything I needed to know. Instead, he turned to the person seated behind me and had a very animated discussion with him about what could only have been my amusing predicament to them. Shortly, we reached a place called Giriulla, which also happened to be the final destination of that mini-bus. The bus was half-empty when Smug Conductor decided to point me in the direction of another bus going to Kurunegala. I would have to find the right bus from there.

There was no way I would make it to Pinnewala on time now! The orphanage there closes at 5.30 p.m. and it was already 4 p.m. The elephants would also be making their way back to the orphanage after their allotted two afternoon hours at the river, which I’d already missed. It was a bit frustrating to have things not go according to plan, but a good traveller can’t afford to be upset about such minor delays. A slight change of plan would be required.

By then I had memorised where the major towns and cities appeared on the map of Sri Lanka and could estimate the time it would take me to get to point B from point A. Thinking quickly on my feet (literally), I decided I’d just go to Kandy instead of trying to find Pinnewala, and boarded a bus to Kurunegala. The journey to Kurunegala was rather uneventful and finding myself on the third crowded bus of the day, with one more to go before I arrived in Kandy had robbed me of my enthusiasm. One incident, though, had a lasting impact on me for the rest of my stay in Sri Lanka.

The Monk
At one place where the bus stopped, a young Buddhist monk draped in orange robes got on. Immediately, all eyes fell on me. I couldn’t understand what was happening. I was in the seat directly behind the bus driver, with an old, haggard man beside me, next to the window. All the people standing near the front entrance of the bus looked at me expectantly, and it was making me very nervous every second they continued to look. Finally, the wizened old man next to me got up and offered his seat to the monk. That’s when it hit me and I felt awful about it. I had failed to realise that this being a predominantly Buddhist country, the people would do whatever they could to show their respect for a Buddhist monk, like offering him one’s seat. That was a major social faux pas on my part and one that I am not going to forget easily. At least, I’ll know what to do the next time something like that happens.

The series: Part One > Part Two > Part Three > Part Four > Part Five > Part Six > Part Seven [Final]

I had an idea last night while getting into my car after about 30 minutes of brisk walking at night. I’ve been wanting to do a calendar featuring my own work (photography, mainly) since 2005 but for some reason or the other, it just hasn’t materialised. Maybe trying to come up with artwork for 12 different pages based on a common theme is too much work for my already overtaxed brain. Maybe I just haven’t been committed enough. Whatever it is, it led me to thinking:

“What if I did a collaborative calendar project involving Kenyan graphic designers/artists/photographers instead? We could print a few, call them limited edition and donate part of the proceeds to charity. That way, the ‘creatives’ get an opportunity to express themselves without the usual constraints of a client brief and there’s less guilt on the buyers’ part when they purchase the calendar.”

The idea is simple. Take a 12-page A2 sized wall calendar (13, with the cover). Give 12 graphic designers/artists/photographers a page each to create. Come up with a theme. Set them free. Get them together in November 2011 to select the final pieces going on each page, choose a charity to support, print the calendar, pay the printers, sell. Count the profits, give a percentage of them to said charity, divide the remaining money by 12 and if it’s a substantial amount, rejoice. If it isn’t, think of it as time spent on a good social cause.

So, who’s in? Interested ‘creatives’ so far are:

1. Myself (Paras Gudka) – graphic designer/photographer/leader of this project
2. Alefya – graphic designer/closet photographer
3. Asif Khan – photographer/closet graphic designer
4. Giggling Bob – artist
5. Robert Ao – photographer
6. Titus Nderitu – graphic designer
7. Mutua Matheka – graphic designer/photographer/artist
8. Hiuhu Murimi – graphic designer/photographer
9. Emma Nzioka – multimedia artist/aspiring photographer/secret agent
10. Terri – (don’t know yet)
11. Njeri – multimedia designer
12. Eugene W. – graphic designer/experimental photographer
13. Hadasa Jane – graphic designer
14. Nancy Mogire – graphic designer

There are only two more spots left, so if you are interested please hurry and express your desire to join this one-of-a-kind collaboration between creative thinkers. (Note: Only humans will be allowed to join this creative partnership. Sorry, Mort!)

After confirmation of participating ‘creatives’ we’ll have a discussion on what the theme could be and other issues via this Facebook group created specifically for Project 2012.

Well, put on your creative hats and start thinking of possible themes to explore for ‘Kenya in 2012′.

Go Kenyan ‘creatives’!

If you’re expecting this to be a tale of many cities and adventures that will leave you on the edge of your seat, read on.

Background
In 2007, I decided to add some spice to life by travelling to a new destination on my birthday every year. In keeping with that decision, I chose Sri Lanka for my 25th. Apart from being close to southern India, the culture is similar too and therefore less likely to spring unpleasant surprises.

Arrival
So, I found myself at Bandaranaike International Airport at 1 a.m. on October 6, 2008, wondering what in the world I had gotten myself into. “Not to worry,” I thought to my very Indian-ised mind, “Lonely Planet to the rescue.” By that time, I had managed to figure out a Sri Lankan bank ATM, gotten small change for the large denomination currency notes and learnt that the post office counter had phones I could use to make local calls. So I flipped through my ‘trusty’ Lonely Planet Sri Lanka guide to find Mr. Srilal Fernando’s number in hope that he would be able to pick me up instead of me having to take a taxi to his guesthouse in Negombo. Alas, the phone rang and rang and rang some more, but to no avail. He must have gone to sleep, tired of waiting for my phone call that was due an hour earlier. I couldn’t help it if my flight was delayed!

Anyway, I wasn’t going to waste my time trying to reach him, especially when I needed to find a bed to sleep on, pronto! So, back to flipping pages, I went. I called up Hotel Silver Sands next, and as luck would have it, the phone was answered and a room was available! Ka-ching! What made this success sweeter was the fact that there was already someone on his way to the airport to pick up other guests – three Dutch girls – who would be staying at the same hotel that night. It didn’t take this blessed someone long to find me at the post office counter and point out the three Dutch girls I was to join on my ride to the hotel in Negombo. So I tottered off with my collection of luggage to wait with The Three Dutch Girls, while the blessed someone went to retrieve his Japanese van from its parking space.

The Three Dutch Girls
In the small talk that ensued, it was established that The Three Dutch Girls were travelling for four weeks in Sri Lanka and they were doing it to celebrate their friendship – a friendship between ten girls (the others were slated to join them later). When one of them stated that I was brave to be travelling alone, I sought to inform them that I was used to not having much company while travelling and that I was travelling to Sri Lanka to celebrate my birthday. No sooner had the word “birthday” escaped my mouth than The Three Dutch Girls erupted, gesticulating wildly, unable to contain their amazement. It turned out that I shared my birth date with one of them. I turned 25 that day. She turned 25 that day. Sri Lanka was the place to be for people turning 25 that day. Could I have had a more interesting welcome to the erstwhile Serendib? I think not!

The Blessed Someone
Soon we were in the slightly drunken blessed someone’s Japanese van, with him trying his best to impress The Three Dutch Girls in Sinhalese-like German and I, taking in the delightful new surroundings. What is it about men from the Indian subcontinent and their compulsive need to impress women from the white lands? I have yet to come across a brown man who doesn’t try to be someone else in the company of white women. I would have found this sort of social interaction amusing were it not for the fact that I seemed invisible to the now not-so-blessed someone. Oh well, as long as I wasn’t the one at the receiving end of Sinhalese-like German. Besides, I was having a pleasant time observing how well-maintained the roads were.

It was 2 a.m. before I finally had a hotel room to myself but strangely enough I wasn’t tired by then. Maybe it was the feeling of wondering whether I had actually made the journey from Chennai to Katunayake to Negombo or whether it was just a dream that I would wake up from soon. I took a hot shower to make sure it wasn’t a dream and finally settled into my mosquito net covered bed for my first snooze slightly southeast of India.

The series: Part One > Part Two > Part Three > Part Four > Part Five > Part Six > Part Seven [Final]