The train brought me, after some delays, to Ella, a village in the hills. It is a predominantly Buddhist place, and Buddhists don't do Christmas. So the only indication that it's that time of the year again in the sad little tree on the veranda of one of the bigger hotels, and the Christmas cakes sold by the local bakery.
Here, as in most other places I see in Sri Lanka, the tourist industry is well developed, making me feel more like the unmistakable tourist I am. Because I visit mainly small towns, and couch surfing is not popular outside of the capital, I don't meet many locals. It is harder to meet 'normal' people. Almost everywhere I go, I only meet people working in the service industry, and they see you as a source of income, which makes the contact less real. This leaves me feeling like I am walking about in a fascinating historical museum where all the signs and descriptions have been removed. It all looks very nice, but I am missing context and explanation.
But walk a bit outside the main streets and a way from the guesthouses and western eateries, and you will meet the real locals. One of the walks I did went along the railroad's single track through the jungle. The tracks are also used by locals to get to their houses, gardens and schools.Walking here, I met such nice people who just want to have a talk, ask you where you are going and where you are from. They thank you after you make a picture of them and show it to them. Sadly, it is hard to communicate with people. Most people I meet speak a few words of English, but not more than that.
I decide to rent a scooter. I have never driven a motorized two wheeler before, but its easy. Automatic gears, feet firmly in the middle, accelerate with the right, brake with both hands. At the tiny grocery store next door I buy a wine bottle filled with petrol, a piece of newspaper rolled up in stead of a cork. I set off on a small mountain road up into the tea plantations. Almost no traffic and wide open views. After I get the hang of it, I roll up and down the hills, deftly avoiding the numerous potholes and overtaking the occasional bus. This is one of the best things I have don in Sri Lanka! Never going faster than 50 kilometer per hour on the few straight stretches, I nevertheless feel the wind tugging at my shirt, adrenaline rushing through my feigns whenever a car comes towards me around the next bend. On the downward stretches I release the accelerator, and with the engine cutting back to almost zero and gravity my only propulsion, I slowly and quietly roll down the road, taking in the waterfalls and the vistas.
I am stopped twice by policemen at check posts, but both times they only want to know where I am from and where I am going. Never do they want to see my papers, which is good because I only have my Dutch (car) drivers license with me, and the rental guys seemed just a tad too sure that that should be enough, for a foreigner.
Leaving Ella, our rickety full bus drives south, from the mountains to the beaches. I couldn't get a seat, but I managed to secure a bit of space on top of the engine housing, sitting cross legged, right next to the driver. This gives me a panorama view of the surroundings. Once we come down from the hills, the roads are in really good shape. I notice that the bus drivers here are just little less certifiable insane than their Indian counterparts. My driver even keeps distance from other cars when he overtakes them.
We drive through a wetland nature reserve, stopping to let a group of water buffaloes cross the road, followed by a small boy with a stick urging them on. Some of the huge black animals, now wading up to their legs through the water plants on the other side of the road, are gracefully ridden by delicate white birds. They look so otherworldly clean and sparkling white in this muddy terrain, they must go into the dishwasher every night at dusk.
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