A Bowl of Stupid

I know the tone of my blog of late has been less than optimistic, to say the least.

Rather, when I’ve posted at all, those posts have reflected the high anxiety of the world financial markets, the vitriolic advancing of the U.S. Presidential election, and my own general frustration about my continuing inability to find my place in the world.

As my friend here has told me, tho — get the fuck over it. There’s nothing much you can do about those things. But I am living in tropical paradise (of sorts) with immediate access to some of the best surfing in the world. I’ve enough money left to live like like royalty here for the next year, at least — so suck it the fuck up.

There is little reason for my high anxiety right now, expecially considering my current locale and my daily routine of surfing and eating cheap Indonesia food.

Ironically, I feel that much of this is tied to the fact that, for the first time in several years, I have cable television and internet at my home — incuding access to international news networks. I have, until now, been fairly segregated from the nightmares being broadcast 24 hours a day on these chanels.

I can’t help but feel that my immediate access to these outlets hs at least SOMETHING to do with my growing unease and anxiety. I really think I ned to lose the television again, and by implication, admit that my parents were right: “Television rots your mind” — especially during a U.S. Presidential race.

And that doesn’t even include all the political ads we don’t have to put up with here overseas. I can only imagine how miserable the people living back in the States must feel — being constantly innumdated with bad financial news and bitter campaign politics.

Yep, I’ve got it pretty fucking good over here.

Taking a brief moment from responding to the emails I received while I was out “gone surfin” last month, I wanted to address a problem that’s arisen in conjunction with my maintaining this blog — essentially this:

One of the main reasons I continued this blog once I started traveling was to provide some ‘on the ground’ guidance to others who may also be interested in the future in taking the same, or similar, trips as I have. I know I could have benefited from some of the information I’ve posted up on this site, and I wanted to ‘pay it forward’ … such as it is.

Truly, I’ve been able to live out the initial dream I had when I left the States, the dream of surfing waves that look EXACTLY like (or even better) than the break shown in the header of this blog — it is a gift for which I am eternally grateful.

However, I’ve also bitched — also on the blog (and elsewhere) — about the sheer number of ‘surf-tourists’ I’ve had to contend with in previously little known surf spots throughout Southeast Asia. Indeed, as has been pointed out, I myself am one of them — albeit in attendance at such spots for longer periods of time than some others (in all honesty, one of the biggest problems we ‘surf-tourists’ face are uber-rich surfers — mostly from America — who can afford to take 2-3 weeks out and pay thousands and thousands of U.S. dollars to charter boats, or stay in luxiurious resorts, or even buy property to use for 3 weeks a year. All this while we, the reletively ‘under-funded’ stay for months on end in modest surroundings, simply trying to find some good uncrowded surf-breaks.

It’s a bit of a connundrum — how to repay the locals and others who helped me to obtain the gift of riding such great waves, while also not making all these great breaks super-crowded and not being a complete dickhead by ‘hiding’ such breaks for fear they too will be ruined next surf season for the uber-rich (or even the not so uber-rich).

It’s for that reason that I’ve decided to do what I never thought I’d do (and never wanted to do) — I’m going to start censoring the information I write on this blog. Oh, don’t worry, I’ll write privately whatever notes I feel I need to remind myself about various breaks and spots I visit. But I’ll no longer be making them public.

Sorry guys, but I’m done giving out this type of information when all it does is make the breaks more crowded for me (and the small number of other guys who choose to ‘explore’). Yeah, I’ll probably write a bit about the Philippines, since I already wrote about them last year. But once I head out into the Pacific — you’re on you’re own.

I know it sounds like a really dickhead move (and it probably is), but from now on, go find your own break … keep it off my wave.

It’s 4:00 a.m., I’m up all night in another random airport for the second time in 3 days, and I’m jacked up on a whole boatload of Nescafe instant coffee. This is the part of traveling abroad that they never tell you about on National Geographic Explorer.

Welcome to my fucked-up little corner of the world.

I finally made it!! After weeks of abusive viral infections and neo-hippie hombres, I’m finally out of India!

And probably not a moment too soon. I swear, I thought that place was trying to kill me — dengue fever, food poisoning, the constant smoke from all the burning garbage (and people). I really do feel about 1000% better now that I’m back in Sri Lanka.

Not that THAT process itself wasn’t a bit of a ball-buster. First, I had to spend about 4-5 hours on a train from Cochin to Thiruvananthapuram (affectionately called ‘Trivandrum’), seemingly stopping at every backwater hole-in-the-wall en route. I tried to eat and drink as little as possible during that time, which made me kinda weak, too. That may seem a bit much, but my stomach was still ‘bothering me’ [ahem], and if you see the hole in the bottom of the train they euphemistically call a ‘toilet’, you’ll understand my aversion.

I couldn’t sleep in a hotel in town, because thanks to the local Kerala Communist leadership, the next day — the actual day of my flight — the locals were staging a ‘fuel strike’ protesting the fuel cost hike, so no taxis, tuk-tuks, or anything motorized would be able to take me to the airport. When I asked someone about catching a random taxi working outside the strike, I was told I didn’t want to do that just in case it got stopped by an angry mob. Nice.

So instead, I went to the airport the early morning beforehand and I was able to get a nice 1-2 hour nap in the front lobby of the Trivandrum airport. Then, when it was finally time to check it, I had to wait another 8 hours in the airport while my flight was delayed. Shit, at that point, I honestly felt like the country was trying to keep me there – just to finish off the job.

The good news is that we eventually made it onto the 45 minute flight to Colombo, Sri Lanka. The bad news is that we arrived at 1:30 a.m. I somehow finagled my way into getting a free ride from the airport to Colombo (about 1 hour away), at which time I slept on the front steps of the Colombo train station for another couple hours until the station opened at 5:30 a.m.

Yes, I know this is the same train station that was bombed by Tamil Tiger separatists — killing dozens — just weeks ago. Yes, I know it probably wasn’t the smartest of ideas sleeping on the front steps of a public train station in downtown Colombo. But fuck it, I made it out of India alive — at that point, I felt absolutely invincible. Exhausted, but invincible.

I caught the 6:30 a.m. train down to Mirissa, where I am again — at Dinu’s Resort. I’m still a bit too ‘blech’ to eat anything, but it’s nice to be back in a place where the only things actively trying to kill you are the terrorists.

I got a couple surfs in yesterday before crashing for about 13 hours. I hope to have at least one more before I have to begin the 5 hour trek back up to the Colombo/Negombo airport for my 5:00 a.m. flight to Bangkok tomorrow morning.

I’m already really happy to be back in Sri Lanka. But I REALLY can’t wait to get back to Thailand. Sawadee kap, bitches!

Yes, I’m finally in India – what a fascinating country shithole! And what better way to celebrate this auspicious occasion than for me to immediately book a flight to Krabi, Thailand.

Yes, India is just THAT good.

The presence here of what I had feared most — rabid European tourists and ego-driven nuevo-hippies everywhere — has indeed come to pass.

I originally planned on staying in India for 2 full months practicing my yoga and getting some further training should I ever wish to pursue it as a career in the future. However, I’ve since learned that most of the yoga ashrams and schools here — and especially those specializing in Ashtanga Vinyasa Yoga, which is what I practice — are a complete farce.

On the one hand are the loads and loads of ‘yoga centers’ catering to all these Westerners who have been led to believe that the best practitioners MUST be in India since that’s where modern yoga developed. That’s complete bullshit. My brief experience has confirmed what others have told me — you can probably get just as good, if not better, training anywhere else in the world.

Then, on the other hand is the fact that yoga practitioners here, and especially in Mysore, which is known for being ‘ground-zero’ for ashtanga training, in fact produces bigger egos than true ashtaga yogis. Most of the guys here project a real ego-driven sense of “I’m more at peace than you are, and I can prove it!!” Fuck that, if I wanted to sit in a room full of bitches comparing how flexible and happy they are about living with no money, I could have gone to any ONE of the many fabulous nude bars in Miami and had a much (much) better time.

I know, I know … don’t be hatin’ on India. Yeah, I guess you’re right … it’s not ALL that bad.

I mean, the food here is probably some of the best in Asia — I actually enjoy eating vegetarian cuisine when it’s prepared THIS good. Plus, all the wannabe hippies with their long flowing gowns and ponytails DO make for excellent dinner theatre. And as an added bonus, all the garbage burning throughout the day makes for an absolutely beautiful sunset.

Okay, granted, you really shouldn’t go into the ocean unless you want to bring a pet parasite back home with you. But then again, the numerous packs of stray dogs and the occasional elephant you may encounter whilst trying to walk back to your room will more than make up for any ‘wildlife’ you may otherwise be missing underwater.

So, rather than stay here any longer than necessary, I’m going back to Thailand in a couple weeks to meet up with friends from Singapore before they all head back to states for good.

I’ve got a multiple entry 3 month visa, but I’m not really sure for how long — or even if — I’ll head back to India. Moreso, given the continuing escalation of violence in Sri Lanka (one of the same private buses that I took to leave Kandy on 1 February was blown up by Tamil terrorists the VERY next day, killing 18 people and injuring 55), I fear it’s not safe to travel there again until it all resolves itself. Instead, I will go back through and pick up my surfboards on my way to Thailand.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a hater, I’m just drawn that way.

(map of Sri Lanka — for your reference and files)

I’ve thought long and hard about how to begin this particular post, given the fact that my sister may eventually read it, and she in turn will eventually tattle on me to my parents (just like when we were kids … man, some things never change). The easiest way is this:

I will never NEVER hesitate to ask for directions again. EVER!

As mentioned previously, I headed up here to Kandy to get my Indian Visa – boarding a train in Mirissa (Matara) in the far, far south, that I was told (repeat: TOLD) went through Colombo and then straight on to Kandy.

Yeah, not so much.

I probably should have first noticed something was wrong when the train hit a military checkpoint set up by the Sri Lankan Army to the north of the town of Vavuniya, Sri Lanka. It was only then that I learned — through a series of conversations in broken English, Singalese and Tamil — that I was not on the train to Kandy. Rather, I was on the train to Jaffna.

As in Jaffna, Sri Lanka’s northern-most peninsula that is mostly under the control of the Tamil Tigers, the rebel insurgents fighting the Sri Lankan government. As a quick background for anyone not following the latest news on this (i.e., mostly all Americans, myself included until recently), Sri Lanka has been squeezed in the grip of a bloody civil war for the past 20 YEARS — the Sri Lankan Government on one side and the Tigers (‘LTTE’) on the other. There had been a toothless ‘cease-fire agreement’ in place for the past couple of years, but that too was formally dissolved just weeks ago after a string of violent clashes between the government forces and the LTTE.

Now, it appears the country is heading back to war. A civil war. A bloody, nasty, unnecessary, ridiculously over-extended civil war.

Fortunately for the surf-tourists, the violence has, for the most part, not extended into the island’s southwest area — at least the far southwest, where I was surfing. In contrast, from all reports, the northern area is a cauldron of violence not suitable for tourists or locals alike.

So, through my own ignorance and stupidity, where did I wind up taking a train ride to? You got it — the absolute heart of the Tamil rebellion. Man oh man, sometimes I really do live up to the title of this blog.

Don’t get too riled up, sis — I didn’t stay there for long. In fact, my stay in the north can be counted in seconds, not even minutes. Shit, I didn’t even actually make it into Jaffna proper. Instead, the absolute SECOND I realized where I was — when someone who read English pointed it out for me on the map, at which point I promptly flipped out — I literally jumped off at the next stop, ran across another set of tracks, and jumped on the nearest train heading back in the other directions. No, I’m not kidding. In fact, I may have been screaming like a little girl at the time, but I can’t quite remember.

I didn’t ask where that southbound train was heading. Frankly, I didn’t care.

I had seen how some of the other (ever-increasingly Tamil) passengers were looking at me as I was trying to glean our location, and I had visions of the next days headline:

“In other news, an American tourist was taken hostage today in the Jaffna region. Officials are unsure why this tourist was even in that war-ravaged region, despite warnings …”

So yeah, I ran away like the little bitch I am. And yeah, I’m okay with that.

Any of you war correspondents out there who want to size up — okay, you win the big brass balls award. I’ll give you that right now.

No kidding, being in a war zone while you’re actually at war is fucked up enough (although I’ve been prepared to do it). But heading into a war zone just for the hell of it? Man, that’s just nucking futs!

Luckily, the trains here in Sri Lanka run almost 24 hours a day, so I eventually found another train heading over to Kandy from the ridiculously obscure area I eventually found myself back down in the south. But what should have only been a 5-6 hour train ride instead wound up taking me about 12 hours.

I’m now in Kandy, but I have to wait a full week to get my visa due to the national holiday on Tuesday. So I’ve been walking around the lake, up the hills, and around the town. The city is beautiful, despite the massively overt military presence (everyone seems to be carrying an automatic rifle — I’ve an absolutely comical picture of a sign at an ATM stall with a circle and slash through it, prohibiting not cigarettes … but automatic rifles. I shit you not).

And instead of Tigers, Kandy seems to be infested with monkeys and bats (and the occasional elephant). And I got bit by some guys dog (he was kind enough to run inside and show me the vaccination documents, tho). Hey, the dogs, monkeys and the bats ain’t carrying automatic weapons or munitions, so I’m cool with ‘em.

They say that every adventure isn’t an adventure while you’re going through it. Yeah, maybe. But I’m guessing there are easier ways of having an adventure than by inadvertently wandering behind enemy lines.

Jiminy Crickets, can’t we all just get along? I mean, really, I only came here to surf. To hell with this, I’m heading back down south until my visa comes through next week.

I’m off to Kandy, Sri Lanka tommorow to get my tourist visa for India. I should be up in the region for the mandatory 5 days it apparently takes to run the visa. I’ll be heading over to Ella, with random stops in whatever places don’t seem to be on the LTTE’s latest hitlist (I hope).

I’m leaving my boards here at Dinu’s Resort – where I’ve been staying here in Mirissa for the past 2 weeks. I’ll be coming back here for a few days before I leave for India.

As a quick note of blatant advertising — Dinu, his mother, Renu, and his 2 younger brothers, Dennis and Izu, have treated me like family. Also, Renu’s cooking is probably THE best I’ve had here in Sri Lanka (which probably explains the extra 10-50 kilos Dinu’s carrying around).

I therefore would wholeheartedly refer anyone who is even thinking of coming to Sri Lanka – for a surf trip or otherwise – make plans to stay with Dinu. The main break in town is literally right out front of his place, and the kid knows every other surf break in the surrounding 20 kilometers (he’d probably know more if he surfed more and ate less … no offense, Dinu, I’m just sayin’).
Anyway, blatant promotion for Dinu’s right here. Go there, you won’t be disappointed.

Well, THIS definitely isn’t good — for anyone.

Despite the surf being what it is and my need to get an Indian Visa up in Kandy, I’m currently rethinking the plans I have to travel to that precise region next week. I’m okay here down south (for now), and I’ll keep everyone in the loop.

All my best wishes to those hurt and killed in the violence, and to their dear families as well. Namaste.

With the exception of a few well place ‘Frenchies’ here and there, I’ve never been particularly fond of the French to begin with.

Admittedly, I was never one of those rabid folks (i.e., dumbass Americans) who started referring to my french fries as ‘freedom fries’. However, I always found the air of superiority wafted out by the majority of the French — together with a considerable amount of body odor, as well — more than just a bit distasteful.

If it weren’t for their considerable history of promptly surrendering to any (and all) of their neighboring countries on the continent, perhaps that attitute may be justified. As it is, however, I have more respect for the guys working the late shift at the local 7-11. Until I meet a thousand more guys like these two great blokes in the Philippines, my opinion stands. Sorry.

That opinion now seems even more justified after the run in (pun intended) I had yesterday with 3 of the biggest kooks — all French — that I’ve ever met in my life. Three Frenchies were out in the water yesterday hooting and hollaring (perhaps they were trying to surrender to the Sri Lankans), and just getting in everyone’s way.

One of them sat right in front of me while I was up on a really nice wave, looking me in the eyes and doing nothin else to move or otherwise allow me to maintain my position on the wave. I had to ditch.

Another dropped in on me while I was up on waves, not once, not twice, but three times in only a 1 hour session. Fucker.

The third of the group (part ‘trois’ if you’re counting in French, which I doubt, because if you’re French, chances are you’re off looking for someone to surrender to) ran right into me while I was in the whitewater paddling away from him so he could ride his wave in peace. But instead of riding the wave, he turned right towards me before realizing there was something in his way. Upon reaching that conclusion, he ditched his board, kicking it right at my head (perhaps he thought it the best way to surrender). I moved just in time for it to hit me square in my right calf, which is now sporting a huge muscle bruise.

No apologies, no nothing. He just paddled back out. Nice. Three more reasons for me to go out for some ‘freedom fries.’

Post script: My foot is now pretty well healed up, with the exception of the 1 or 2 remaining smaller spikes that are now poppin out randoming like zits on the face of a rabid Hannah Montana fan. Thanks to all for the concern (read: horror).

And in response to Jayne’s crazy question as to what body part I will injure next for my rapt (read: cold and bored) audience, I now have both an answer and a reason why: my right calf, and because some French kook with a surfboard ran into me out in the surf.

Motherfucker.

I had a ‘doctor’ dig out a vast majority of the heel of my right foor, and he STILL didn’t get the last two 2.0-2.5 centimenter long sea urchin spikes residing in my foot for the better part of a week now. It was only after hitting the surf and then treating the wounds with a lime that Paul was able to extract them.

The infection is pretty well gone, as are all the spikes (I think/hope). Thanks for the well wishes, all.

And YES, I was bloody well wearing booties! They mean nothing to sea urchins. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some surfing to do…

Yes, I was stupid enough to step DIRECTLY on a black sea urchin in my rush to get out into the surf break right in front of my new guest house in Marissa, SR. Yes, it fucking hurt.

Given my sister’s fascination with divulging my various minor physical woes with my technologically inept parents (apparently in a unilateral attempt to turn the rest of my mom’s hair grey), I had resolved not to discuss the matter any further.

However, I’ve been asked by several folks for details. So, with a request to my sister NOT to tell my parents about this (at this point, hopefully) trifling issue for now, here are the details.

I stepped on a whole flock of black sea urchins. For those not acquainted, they are a mass of hollow black spikes with tiny spurs on them, apparently present just to add that extra special touch.

If you happen to step on them and remove your foot back without moving side to side, it may be possible to break off the spike while they are still sticking out of your foot by a few centimeters. If you ‘jerk’ back your foot (or feet, in my case) in response to the shock of having razor sharp spikes jammed 1-2 centimeters into the soles of your feet (no, I am NOT kidding), then the spikes will break off just below the surface of the skin.

This makes removal a particularly wonderful experience.

A large majority of the spikes in my left foot fell into the former category, and thus were removed fairly easily (all but a small one, which I’m keeping as a pet). The right foot however was not so fortunate. I had about 20 spikes in all. Most of them were removed using a mixture of native plant seepage, Sri Lankan rum, and a big fat splif.

One particularly vicious spike went thru the outside of my pinky toe in such a way that, rather than trying to pull it out, it was actually easier to cut the skin along the length of it and remove it by opening the skin flap.

There were also several others that were too deep to remove with the instruments at hand (a safety pin, nair clippers, and a pair of tweezers (all of which obviously just cleaned in an alcohol bath, of course). For them, we applied a mix of coconut, sugar, and curry powder and let it sit overnight.

Yes, I let them do that to my foot. I’m a very trusting soul.

Amazingly, the mixture worked (for the most part), as all but two of the bigger spikes were drawn to the skin surface overnite. That’s where the fun starts. Long story short, after letting Dinu (my host) dig around in my foot with a safety pin for the better part of 2 hours, we instead decided to go to the doctor and let him remove the remaining spikes (this turned out to be a VERY good idea, considering the spike we removed from my little toe had gotten poisoned and was swelling from infection).

We did, of course, go to the snake farm first. Dude, if you’ve never seen a brown cobra hissing and rearing at you from only a meter away from you, I HIGHLY recommend it. Okay, maybe not … I hear ya.

The doctor’s ‘office’ was something special, as was also the local anesthetic that must be applied at the site of EACH puncture. After applying the local, the ‘doc’ went to replace the old scalpel head with a fresh (and presumably clean) blade. In doing so, the old blade ‘popped’ off and flew across the room, landing behind some table or another.

Both I and my new Brit friend Paul (who was there to get some drops for his manky ear) starting laughing hysterically at the flying scalpel blade. The doc was not amused, and after setting down some newspapers to mop up the blood, he set to work digging into the sole of my foot with a scalpel.

That was just precious. Absolutely precious.

Those of you who know me personally may know my quirk that I tend to laugh more in direct relation to the amount of pain I’m in. You can ask Paul, in a matters of only seconds I was laughing hysterically in a way I haven’t since watching “Showgirls.” Again, just precious.

So, there you’ve got it. I’m on penicillin to treat the infection/poison for the next few days, and I’m out of the water for at least 1 more day (day 4, in total). All total, the doctor and the drugs cost me about US$5.00. Not bad, all things considered.

Other than that, though, I’m having a blast. No, really! Before this sea urchin bullshit, I was getting some decent surf (not Indo surf, but still …), the food is simply AMAZING, the locals are nice to a fault (almost creepily so), and the other surf-tourists I’ve met to date have been absolutely fantastic.

Hey sis, knock yerself out. But if mom goes all postal over this shit, it’s not my fault.

Mental note: Sea urchins+feet=pain.

That is all.

For the sake of my Kshama (living in the moment), I’ll say it only once before moving on:

I am excited and curious and enjoying being here in Sri Lanka, but I actually wish I was still in the Philippines. Yes D, you heard me right, I miss my friends in the Philippines and I’m already thinking of my triumphant return to the islands.

Well, it IS pouring rain here right now as I type, so it’s almost like I’m still in the Philippines. I guess that’s something, right?

Anyway, moving on to Sri Lanka itself.

I’m currently staying in Ahangama on the southwest coast of the Island, at this great hotel/guesthouse called Villa Gaetano.

However, it’s been very hard for me to leave the comforts of his my luxury hotel room right on the water (running me about US$12/nite). I was planning on moving to the owner’s lower priced place off the beach about 100 meters down the road and about 100 meters off the beach (running US$5/nite, but still infinitely better than just about any hotel I stayed in in Thailand – it’s just not right on the beach, like the Villa), but I can’t seem to get up the energy to move. Plus, the restaurant is here, and I can’t get enough rice/curry and roti prata.

Sri Lanka is located to the south of India in the Indian Ocean and gets the same swells as the Indonesian islands. The south west of the country is the most popular destination for travelling surfers — being cheap, safe and having access to decent waves.

Unlike my other sojerns abroad — i.e., Indo, the Philippines, Thailand, etc. — I made a point to arrange for transport from the only (non-military) airport on the island (which is located in Negambo, about 25 km north of the capital of Colombo).

I did so for several reasons. The first reason is that I’ve heard it’s virtually impossible to get anywhere here without private transport. Second is the fact that the area is not the safest in the world — indeed, Sri Lanka just negated the cease fire agreement with the Tamil rebels after 10-12 people, including civilians (I’m not sure at the time of this writing) were killed by an explosion in Colombo just the day before I arrived here.

After seeing the military presence in Colombo and the airport (which itself was bombed by the rebel group last summer), I’m very glad I pre-arranged the travel — regardless of the cost. I didn’t want to become another statistic, so I thought it prudent to pre-book a ride for the 120-130 km trip southeast down the coast to the relatively safe area of Weligama and Ahangama, where I’m staying now.

I say ‘reletively safe’ because, while there are army roadblocks checking cars in the area, there has been little threat down here by the militant rebel group ‘the Tamil Tigers’ — which has been waging an insurgent war in Sri Lanka for the better part of the last 20 years.

I also use that term because there are still a great number of reminders that this entire area was absolutely DEVESTATED by a Tsunami only 3 years ago. In fact, I inadvertently visited a hotel/guesthouse from where one of the most well published videos of the tidal wide was taken. I walked in and thought ‘this place looks earily familiar’ … then I found out why about 10 minutes later.

This place just got FUCKED. UP.

Truly, it’s probably the fist place I’ve been to where there is palatable prescense of the government military, the UN, and UNICEF — all in the same 20 meter radius.

Having come here simply to surf (more or less), it is just a bit unsettling … but I’m sure I’ll get used to it (unless, as there is now talk might happen, the violence escalates and the entire country falls into chaos).

I spent yesterday getting situated, hitching a ride with a fellow lodger up to the town of Galle to get money and a pair of flip-flops (not a problem, as the Sti Lankans LOVE their sandals).

As for Galle itself, there’s no beach or tourist draws, but much like other areas throughout Southeast Asia there are remnants of Dutch settlement (read: colonization), back when the Dutch were more into conquest than chocolate. The only interesting item is the Old Dutch Fort, which reminded me very much of my trip to Melaka, Malaysia (which was also a Dutch Fort/Port).

At this point, it may be useful if I could throw out, free association, a list of comments describing my experience here so far:

Driving — absolutely INSANITY (and this is really saying something considering that I’ve experienced driving in Indonesia, Manila, Cambodia, and Miami).

Security — as mentioned above, the military is everywhere … all with automatic weapons at the ready.

Tsunami — remnants of the destruction are everywhere, despite the rebuilding and the NGO cars all over the place. It’s somewhat disconcerting and more than just a bit sad, to say the least.

Dogs — yes, there are beaten-up and stray dogs in most third world countries, but I’ve never seen anything like the condition of the strays here. Don’t ask, you don’t want to know. Trust me.

Crowded — coming from Siargao Island, which itself I actually found crowded in comparison to Roti, Indonesia (one of my favorite places in the world), this place is absolute insanity. There are paved roads, buses, trains, tuk-tuks, and all the traffic and people those things infer. Granted, it’s not the mayhem that defines Colombo, but I’m used to staying in villiages/towns where you can almost literally meet everyone there. Here, there are just a bunch of beach towns right after one another. It sorta reminds me of Neew Jersey … only with saner drivers.

Driving — did I mention they’re all fucking crazy drivers here?

Food — thank GOD for some good local cuisine. I love the peeps in the Philippines, but god help me, their food is absolutely awful.

Appearance — okay, here’s showing my vanity and caucation based values, but I was shocked to see the local ideal of beauty, which is extraordinarily ‘different’ from what I’m used to. I was especially shocked considering the Sri Lankans I’ve met before in my life are some very good looking people. But here? Ehh, not so much.

Kindness & Hospitality — coming here straight from the Philippines, I’m having a hard time adjusting to the immediate show of friendliness by most locals towards westerners. Again, it could be an act, but I haven’t felt that just yet. Time will tell.

Poverty — nuff said.

Driving — absolute insanity. I was initially considering hiring/renting out a car for the month. But now? Fuck that, man. I’ll use a tuk-tuk.