Sri Lankan Journal #4

Mirissa Beach

A driver booked by Intrepid Travel met Jennell and me at Bandaranaike International Airport, just north of Colombo, when we arrived in Sri Lanka just about eleven in the morning on Sunday, December 21. To drive us the 150 km to Mirissa, a village located on a beautiful curve of beach on Sri Lanka’s southern coast, took the driver almost five hours; infrastructure in Sri Lanka definitely ranks as third world! Still, it was a fascinating drive and often very beautiful. We spent the next four days based in a cute but rather empty hotel, the Palace Mirissa, situated on top of a headland at the western end of Mirissa Beach. Whether because of booking confusion or the lack of any crowd during this “high season” (and the Sri Lankans bemoaned the dearth of tourists throughout our trip) or some combination of both, Jennell and I each had our own cabanas but right next door to each other.

We are greeted in the arrivals hall.

This is the interior of my cabana at the Palace Mirissa.

This is a view from outside the dining area of the Palace Mirissa.




In the mornings I would head to the beach just after sunrise—interpretation: after 6:30 but before 7:00—to run/walk and watch the way a new day opened before meeting Jennell for breakfast at 8:00 in the dining area overlooking the cliff edge and the sea. While I gorged on fresh tropical fruit—with an emphasis on MANGOS—and a “Sri Lankan” omelet (by day four I had finally convinced the cook that I really could handle some of those chilis that officially belong in the omelet), Jennell ate eggs over easy and sausages between multiple cups of tea. Then we would unfold the design for the rest of a day by a beach piece by piece and always with robust injections of improvisation.

Monday, our first full day there, we hired a taxi and driver and headed to Galle, an adventure that will require a separate post. Tuesday, with a little help from the hotel manager, Jennell discovered Eddy, a German expat with a full repertoire of enterprises to entice the tourist, to include diving. While Jennell went diving with Eddy, I photographed boats in Weligama, a fishing village just west of Mirissa, in between chats with locals, all anxious to engage me and my tourist dollar in a variety of activities ranging from massage to fishing, from saris to snorkeling. Then I returned to Mirissa for an afternoon at the beach, an occasion commencing with selecting which of four freshly-caught fish I would like grilled for my lunch. You see, lounge chair and umbrella options at Mirissa Beach all had direct connections to beach hut eating and drinking establishments; I chose my lunch, so to speak, when I chose my chair and shade! Although I had never heard of any of the fish names given to any of the four different fish displayed in all their glassy-eyed glory on the plastic green tray the guy held in front of me, I chose the smallest of the four because I hoped I could eat more of its entire size and not have to leave behind as large a remnant. The chosen fish returned to my presence, grilled in its entirety, eyes dull and dark. French fries and salad shared the plate. The flesh of the fish startled me with its dark color, but the flavor was mild and pleasant. I devoured a goodly portion of it along with the French fries, which were awesome. I am not one who ever even craves French fries; I can eat three or four and be done. In Sri Lanka, however, the fries were always amazingly good—salty, flavorful, and perfectly textured. I probably ate more French fries while in Sri Lanka than I have eaten all together in the past two years. The salad offered was good, too, but I couldn’t decide if it was “safe,” so I only dabbled with it. I grew ever more courageous with food, though, as our trip progressed, to the point of regularly purchasing sliced mangos from street vendors even though I had no idea where the knife that did the peeling and cutting of “my mangos” had been before! I never got sick while in Sri Lanka, by the way.

Wednesday after breakfast, I returned to Mirissa Beach proper accompanied Jennell. Mirissa Beach can generate quite a powerful surf at certain times in the day—probably tide-related. In fact, surfers hang out at the western end of the beach below the jutting headland. Jennell, a true Florida girl at heart and in skills, decided it was time for me to learn to body surf. She explained, modeled, and coached. I watched and attempted to mimic her as she called out which wave to float over, which wave to duck under, and which wave to take. Now, you need to also understand that Jennell is just under six feet tall and she is a strong, experienced swimmer; I am five feet three and I know how to swim. One time I really caught a wave at the perfect moment and it was magical. One time I really caught a wave at an inopportune moment and had my body pummeled by the surf so vigorously as to move the two pieces of my tankini away from the body parts they were designed to cover. I had some serious readjustments to make once I rediscovered my bearings and the atmosphere! All the other wave moments of the body surfing experience were just plain ol’ fun.

Maybe ten minutes into our body surfing fun, five boys, ranging in age from perhaps nine to thirteen, joined our realm in the waves. Three were local boys with one boogey board to share among them; two were Germans with a boogey board each. (I had heard their father speaking to them earlier while renting the boards from a beach hut.) One of the local boys made us all friends within minutes despite limited English. He flashed these beautiful white teeth whenever he grinned, a grin so wide, so contagious, you couldn’t help but smile back.

“What your name?’ he asked first Jennell and then redirected the question to me. After we responded in turn, he asked, “What your country?” Once again we answered. Then he nodded at the German boys, “He your baby?” Even after Jennell replied in the negative, followed by me, he remained nonplussed. He simply turned to the German boys and asked their names. From then on it was just the waves and us!

Thursday, Christmas Day, we breakfasted at our established hour, said our good-byes to now familiar hotel staff and the British family of three—currently living in Dubai—with whom we had shared numerous conversations over breakfasts and dinners, and climbed into the van we had hired along with a driver (thanks to Eddy and one of his other enterprises) to head east along the coast to Yala.






Here is where the surfers hung out at Mirissa Beach. The stilt belongs to a fisherman whom we never saw!

Sri Lankan Journal #3

Malaria . . . Prevention, I Hope

Today marks the last day I plan to swallow a turquoise capsule of doxycyline, my prescribed medication to increase the odds that no mosquito unfolding its life cycle in Sri Lanka—especially one having sustained this life cycle by imbibing at least one bloody cocktail swimming with malaria parasites before guzzling my own blood in the ongoing pursuit of sustenance—will infect me with malaria. (PLAN A: This antibiotic annihilates any malaria parasites that happen to invade my body before malaria—the disease—evolves. PLAN B: Seek medical treatment immediately should any malarial symptoms appear within a month of returning home!)

Two to three days before one enters the established malarial zone, one commences ingesting one capsule of doxycyline per day and continues for four weeks after departing said zone. It’s those 28 days of pill-popping after one’s return that become a real labor, especially when one’s stomach has launched a rebellion against the pill itself. Now, to be fair to my stomach, it has endured three sessions of doxycyline infused malaria prevention within the last year: India (Christmas Break, 2007), Indonesia (June, 2008), and Sri Lanka (Christmas Break, 2008). Gulping pills first thing in the morning or last thing at night works better with my memory for keeping the event regular, but no amount of water alone—even up to 16 ounces—inhaled with the capsule could preclude a stomach ache this time around. I immediately switched to sucking it down with meals only to discover that I had to monitor what else I ingested with it: Dairy products NOT good at all; grain products alone not sufficient to forestall stomach distress either. Fat grams in the mix, especially meaty ones, work best!

When I returned from Indonesia last summer, I cheated on the 28-day continuance of the ritual and cut off by about day 23; I had two or three bites—my friend Mishel seemed to be the mosquitoes’ morsel of preference—and Bali, the last part of the trip, wasn’t part of the malarial zone anyway. This time, though, I couldn’t cheat . . . not after Yala!

Our first night in Yala the mosquitoes ate me up! We discovered the next day an open window in our cabin. Apparently the cleaning people hadn’t closed it, and we had never opened the curtain covering that window to realize that it was even open. Meanwhile, though, I battled through a night of buzzing and biting. My bed was situated closest to the window, and these mosquitoes definitely seemed to prefer me over Jennell! The next day I had a collection of TWELVE bites on my face alone! My arms, legs, and especially prime areas of my hands—like knuckles that poked out of the sheet with which I had desperately tried create a barrier of protection for myself—sported numerous bites as well.

We left Yala December 26 and headed into the highlands. Neither of us suffered any more from flying pests . . . although I will confess that I wore some mosquito bites on my skin even until I returned to Japan, to include several on my face! Today, January 26, I’m calling it quits on the pills.

Here is Jennell on the porch of our cabin in Yala.


This is a panorama from the viewing tower located on top of hotel reception and the second-floor dining area. The hotel pool is right below, the ocean is to the left, and Yala National Park begins just across the lake.

The entrance to Yala National Park, Elephant Rock, Jennell and I spot our first leopard in the wild, that first leopard, and one of the elephants we saw in the park.

Sri Lankan Journal #2

Things Not Finished

In my life there are some things not finished. Other people, looking in on my life, might not realize these certain things are not yet finished, but inside me I can feel the blank space on the canvas, sense the unfilled record of the experience. For the past four years, Sri Lanka has been one of these things.

The December, 2004, tsunami not only truncated an anticipated tourist journey, it linked me to a time, place, and people with an intimacy I did not fully conceive until after I had returned to a life quite removed from it all. Yet, I have always known I would need to go back to Sri Lanka. Ever since moving to Japan in August, 2005, I have played the airfare to Sri Lanka game on a variety of travel search engines, but never has a trip there been financially feasible again until a small window of time this past autumn.

On my first trip to Sri Lanka, a wood carving of a stilt fisherman caught my eye in a wood carving shop our tour group visited. We had not seen any stilt fisherman; indeed, at that point, we had only explored the interior regions of Sri Lanka. Nishantha, our tourguide, promised me, however, that we would see stilt fisherman when we traveled the south coast at the end of the tour. I bought the stilt fisherman a couple of days before we arrived at Yala, an animal reserve situated on Sri Lanka’s southeast coast, and the next morning the tsunami struck. We were evacuated inland first and then over to a hotel in Negombo, near the international airport on the west coast. I never saw a stilt fisherman.

This December’s trip, Jennell and I commenced with five beach days on the south coast of Sri Lanka. I saw stilt fishermen.

Christmas Day Jennell and I arrived at Yala Village, exactly four years from the Christmas Day I had arrived there before. We booked an afternoon safari into Yala National Park, where we did find that elusive leopard—two of them, in fact. The next morning, the anniversary of the tsunami, our driver drove Jennell into a nearby town in pursuit of a possible diving trip. I wandered over to the beach, the beach where I probably would have gone the morning the tsunami swept in if I had not decided to return with a few friends to Yala National Park to look for a leopard.

Alone on the beach, except for two fishermen watching me (or maybe just the sea) from their shacks, I removed my flip-flops and walked—a journey along a sandy stretch of coastline, but also a journey through memory and thought and emotion. In the end . . . a tsunami redemption?


Although I would certainly travel to Sri Lanka again should the opportunity come my way, I have designed the canvas and completed the record. Sri Lanka can be finished.

Sri Lankan Journal #1

(In honor of inauguration day . . .)

While in Sri Lanka’s central highlands—think towering summits overlooking terraced tea plantations and verdant valleys—Jennell and I spent two nights in Nuara Eliya at the Grand Hotel, a still classy establishment despite an aura of fading colonial elegance. Now, never in Sri Lanka did Jennell or I ever maneuver or carry our own luggage at any time; someone always emerged at any instant to take on that task if we showed any inclination to move any piece of baggage.

The morning of our departure from Nuara Eliya, we checked out and then waited in the sunshine beside the stately drive and entrance of the hotel for the arrival of our driver and, at this point in the trip, collection of multiple bags. Jennell remembered something she wanted from the hotel and had disappeared inside again by the time two porters produced our rather embarrassing assortment of bags and suitcases—certainly in the range of six or seven. I tipped them generously (although it probably did not amount to more than $2), and the tall one, who had this beautifully deep and dignified voice, says “Madame, where you from?” [Jennell loved all the “madams” bestowed on us during our days in this country!]

“USA,” I replied.

Very seriously, he stated, “USA good place.” I smiled. Then he flashed me a huge grin in return and added, “Barack Obama.”

Sri Lankan Journal #1

(In honor of inauguration day . . .)

While in Sri Lanka’s central highlands—think towering summits overlooking terraced tea plantations and verdant valleys—Jennell and I spent two nights in Nuara Eliya at the Grand Hotel, a still classy establishment despite an aura of fading colonial elegance. Now, never in Sri Lanka did Jennell or I ever maneuver or carry our own luggage at any time; someone always emerged at any instant to take on that task if we showed any inclination to move any piece of baggage.

The morning of our departure from Nuara Eliya, we checked out and then waited in the sunshine beside the stately drive and entrance of the hotel for the arrival of our driver and, at this point in the trip, collection of multiple bags. Jennell remembered something she wanted from the hotel and had disappeared inside again by the time two porters produced our rather embarrassing assortment of bags and suitcases—certainly in the range of six or seven. I tipped them generously (although it probably did not amount to more than $2), and the tall one, who had this beautifully deep and dignified voice, said “Madame, where you from?” [Jennell loved all the “madams” bestowed on us during our days in this country!]

“USA,” I replied.

Very seriously, he stated, “USA good place.” I smiled. Then he flashed me a huge grin in return and said, “Barack Obama.”