The difference between a school and a shoal

24 September 2013  

A day exploring Trincomalee was on the agenda, so we started off with a visit to our new favourite breakfast place (thanks, Mike and Diana, for the tip-off).  

From the outside, this mighty fine establishment looks like just another shack selling water and the odd banana. From the inside, it doesn’t look like much either...  

His kitchen is a metal sheet heated by gas, there’s a chopping board and a sink, but that’s about it. Even the ingredients aren’t stocked and have to be picked up from a neighbouring seller. He also had two crudely hand-painted (what I think might have been) Mickey Mouse pictures on the wall, which looked more sadistic than inviting, but he was friendly and, maybe more importantly, cheap.  

The guy who runs the place was the stockiest Sri Lankan I’d met and also held claim to the most enthusiastic and overused head wobble I’ve seen so far. Always bare-chested and wearing a full-length skirt (you’ll have to forgive my ignorance), you’ll mostly find him sitting outside. The answer to every question is the head wobble, whether the answer is yes, no, or maybe.  

We’ve been told that during the war, he fled. His village and family all got together to buy him a trip out on a boat to Australia so he could send money back. Unfortunately, the boat was lost at sea for three months. They ran out of food and water, and I’m sure that lots of them died. They eventually found themselves back where they started, with thousands of pounds worth of debt.  

There are hundreds of those stories in Sri Lanka, especially in the north, but you wouldn’t know it from their bright eyes and sly laughs.  

We asked for omelette and rotti (doughy pancake thingys). The omelette comes filled with green chillies and sweet onion, and the rotti is *HOT* to the touch, so you have to patiently wait a good few minutes before devouring!  

This feast, which keeps you full till dinner, costs a bank-breaking 60p per person.  

We demolished one each and were set for the day.  

Trinco was too far to walk, so we grabbed the obligatory three-wheeler into town to see the famous fish market. A lazy start meant that there wasn’t much to see... there was, however, still plenty to smell!!  

We were pointed in the direction of the beach and walked down a long, black, shimmering road. A small slum occupied the whole of the left-hand side, complete with corrugated roofs, hand-wired electronics, and shops selling various wares, including ice creams. The right-hand side was home to fish drying on rags in the sun.  

The smell, although wholly unpleasant, was strangely satisfying.  

We walked the long road, which looked thick and black like tar in the sun, and arrived at the surprisingly beautiful *Dutch Bay*.  

Like many times on our trip, we were the only white faces. There were trainee lifeguards—or “beach police”—swimming up and down in a cordoned-off area. We can only guess that they were training or maybe even in the last stages of a selection process. But apart from them and the fishing boats up the other end in the distance, it was deserted.  

We decided to take a stroll up to what we thought was a secluded cove past the far corner and saw a fisherman running towards us, waving his arms around and shouting in Tamil.  

We instantly thought we must have wandered somewhere we shouldn’t and stopped still, but then the fisherman ran straight past us into the shallows and threw his net onto this big dark shadowed area about 10 meters from the shoreline.  

Within seconds, all of these little silver fish were trapped under his net, splashing frantically at the surface.  

He’d spotted a school of what looked like whitebait or sardines. (The main difference, by the way, between a school and a shoal is the way they move—a shoal of fish moves somewhat independently, although they stay together as a social group, whereas a school all moves together as a collective.)  

I suppose these fish were a school until the net-driven panic sent their directions more independent, jumping out of the water in all directions.  

The fisherman stood there looking very bemused. (From all of our other observations, a big catch seems to be rare/non-existent, with huge nets usually only bringing in a few baskets of tuna and seer. We watched a fisherman with his family using the same circular net catch one small fish after an hour.)  

He beckoned over fellow fishermen in boats, who were equally baffled and tried to work out the best way to get it onto a boat. The catch was so big, lifting it out of the water would have ripped the net—if they could have lifted it.  

By this time, the lifeguards, both in curiosity and (I’m sure) in hunger from their swim, ran over to see the commotion. Some on the shore threw plastic bags at their colleagues in the water in the hope of scoring a free lunch.  

After the addition of a second boat and two more fishermen proved fruitless, they decided to start scooping the fish out of the net with a big tub until it was light enough to pick up.  

They left the boats and dragged the net to the beach, where they sold their catch instantly—100 rupees a bag.  

They also jokingly asked for 100 rupees for Jamie to take photos but were more than happy having their photos taken. More than one shouted in broken but still impressive English, “Look, look, take picture,” and would have held poses longer if it wasn’t for the instinct to buy as much for as little as they could.  

Once all the drama subsided, we continued our walk up the cove.  

About two-thirds of the way there, a boy (about 12), who was leaning on a boat, said hi and seemed really happy—either because he came into contact with a foreigner or because it was a chance to practice his English. Either way, he looked genuinely pleased.  

We walked past dilapidated buildings on the beachfront, missing one or more of their four walls, either from the effects of war or tsunami. Some men in Muslim dress, who looked ragged and wretched by the sea, were standing, sitting, and waiting, looking out to sea.  

On the third of four floors of one building (the face of the building completely gone), the same scene repeated a few meters on—but with police, eyes fixed on us.  

By the time we walked back, the boy was there with his mate, and they ran over shouting, asking very politely to have photos taken with them.  

We concluded that they must have mistaken us for Posh and Becks—an easy mistake to make—and we were more than happy to oblige, with Jamie pulling his very best catalogue model pose.  

We wandered back into the bustling town and got lost in the backstreets of the old quarter, with its beautiful colonial buildings.  

We did some essential shopping (flip-flops, mosquito repellant, sun cream... oh, and rum) and headed back to our little room at Uppuveli.  

We cracked open the rum and watched the beautiful sunset from the roof of our hotel.  

The hotel is half-finished, with big steel rods sticking out of the roof—it appears as if they still have to build another floor. (A scene we’ve seen repeated all over Sri Lanka. We’re told this is a tax scam, as a building that is not finished doesn’t have to pay as much tax, even if the business is open.)  

Mike and Diana joined us, and the evening was lovely (although a little hazy for the keener rum drinkers).  

Sadly, dinner was not. Although we saw our tuna pulled from the sea that day, it was cooked terribly and peppered with bones.  

So far, food in Sri Lanka has been really poor (except breakfast rotti). Mostly, the choice is limited, it’s overcooked, or it’s cold.  

India, we have high hopes you’ll awaken our palates!

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