Baghdad-on-Sea

22 September 2013  

Filled with dreams of the beach and sun, we set off toward the bus—the mode of transport I'd been dreading most.  

The tuk-tuk driver who took us to the junction offered us a really good price to take us the 3 hours, which was made all the more tempting by the gargling in my belly. Last night's curry was cooked (or warmed) by torchlight because of a power cut, and it had taken its toll on my innards. But partly for financial reasons and partly because we wanted to experience the bus, we politely refused.  

We waited for what seemed like hours by the road in the heat of the morning. Lots of cars and minibuses came, and eventually, the words "Trincomalee" appeared at speed on the top of a white dual-entrance bus.  

Trincomalee is described in the Lonely Planet guide we were given at our first guesthouse as "Baghdad-on-Sea." It was a key stronghold for the LTTE and where the government—so we've read—established "no fire zones" for refugees, where accusations of war crimes and atrocities are claimed to have taken place against the Tamil community just four years ago.  

With the elections taking place across the country, we weren't sure what the atmosphere would be like or if tensions were going to be running high, but we hadn't heard anything to make us think that was the case.  

Against all good advice, we threw our bags in the boot of the bus as it was too busy to carry them on. It was hot and crowded, and we had nowhere to sit. As the bus smashed on recklessly (blind-corner overtaking other buses at 80mph into oncoming traffic), I tried to make myself as comfortable as possible and settle in for the next 180 minutes.  

Ten minutes down the road, we stopped at what is the Sri Lankan equivalent of a service station. We had our bottle of water (and I'd also snuck some Pringles in my bag) and were keen to press on.  

Some locals were very interested in us, asking where we came from, which is usually the cue for the selling to begin or the offer of a "very good price" for a tuk-tuk. So we returned to the bus prematurely, and with our standing spot close to the door (a good spot in terms of a breeze), we were shoved, pushed, and bustled out of the way—very nicely, of course. Sri Lankans, on the whole, when they are not trying to sell you something, are genuinely lovely people and keen to flash us a smile when they can—for the next ten minutes until the bus pressed on.  

The next stop was a big town. Approximately 50 more people got on the bus. Sardines would have felt claustrophobic.  

We were pushed right to the back of the bus. I was almost sitting on someone's lap, holding my day pack in my right hand, and holding on for dear life with my left as we sped around corners and over bumps, my feet at right angles to the waist-high barrier I was squashed behind.  

In blind hope, I asked the guy behind how long we had left (I tapped my invisible watch and pointed forward). His response was "two and a half hours."  

Half an hour later, we sped past a police check. The police shouted, and the bus screeched to a halt. They got the boys, who were travelling on the outside of the bus—feet on the stairs, hanging on to the rails—off, as well as the conductor.  

I spoke to my friend again in mime, and he said, "fine... for both." I can only assume he meant they had to pay a "fine," both the conductor and the boys holding on, as they all got back on and went on our way.  

Eventually, after an hour and a half, enough room was made for us to sit down, and the journey was all the more enjoyable. I got my first genuine head wobble when I offered out Pringles.  

With the breeze lapping at the door, and the journey (which is halfway across Sri Lanka) only costing 60p each, the horrendous introduction to the public bus service was forgotten, and we eased into the ride.  

When we entered the first few streets of Trinco, it was easy to see why it is known as "Baghdad-on-Sea." The run-down shacks looked war-torn.  

Trinco was also devastated by the tsunami in 2004, so much of it is either temporary shelters or, as more money is spent on infrastructure and development and less on war, being built up.  

We arrived into a busy, hot, and dusty bus station and grabbed the first person who said the words "tuk-tuk."  

We had been trying to research a good, cheap place to stay in Trinco on the internet, but with intermittent power cuts and bad wifi connection, it had come to nothing. However, our guesthouse owner had given us a card for a place called "French Gardens."  

We showed the card to our greasy, mullet-haired driver, and off we went.  

We arrived down a dirt road, and it opened up to what I can only describe in genuine terms as paradise. Beautiful palm trees line the bay, which stretches for about half a mile in either direction.  

Soft golden sands blazed under the midday heat, which by that time was 37 degrees, and water lapped at the shore. I've truly never been somewhere so beautiful.  

I asked the guesthouse owner to show me the room while Suze waited with the bags. I asked, knowing it would be out of our price range, how much the room was a night.  

"2000 rupees"—about £10.  

Slightly in shock, I asked again, and he confirmed.  

I looked at the room. It was very small, quite grubby, and with an open-plan shower/toilet/bedroom. It was locked by a small padlock when we were out and a tiny bolt when we were in. It had no air conditioning, but it was three paces from the bed to the beach, and the view was incredible.  

Unbelievable—the sort of view people dream all their lives about but never see. And I could have it for £10. I was sold instantly.  

We grabbed a beer from the bar, a reward for our travels, and took a look around.  

There are a couple of beachside restaurants and a bar or two. It's peak season, but there are only a few tourists and travellers, mostly made up of fishermen, who either fish in the shallows with a single net while their family waits on the shore for their supper, or drag huge nets from the sea onto the beach while street dogs and birds try to sneak some.  

By the way, Tom, I'm so sorry for taking the piss out of you with the "dogs attacking you story." We were nearly attacked by some dogs (luckily, they were fighting amongst themselves) on the beach, and it's proper scary. This is my apology.  

We ended the long day with freshly caught tuna steaks for dinner, by candlelight on the beach. It was magic.  

I know there's been a gap in blog posts. Basically, it's because we've had some power cuts and some shortage of wifi here. So we'll put them up as and when we can.

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