From Tangalle to Volonne

March 2, 2012 - April 14, 2012

Based on our last posts, people are telling us that we need to take a break. We couldn't agree more. Our exit from Sri Lanka is planned and ready to execute: we are heading back. First to France for the summer and then to Montreal where we will go back to work and think about what we have done, what we have learned and what we want to do next.

Michèle comments: In the last post, I wrote about Benoît's gaunt face and weight loss, but didn't provide the followup. We found good food in Arugambay! (Like the jumbo prawns that David is savouring below.) Sometimes it was more than we would have liked to pay, but hey, you can't have it all. The hollows in Benoît's cheeks filled in and all was well again.



My cold has passed and all our internet business has been dealt with. So, it's time to leave Arugambay. Today we did something that we haven't done in a long time; start riding early. With our panniers packed and clipped to our bikes, we start the ride by going through a nature reserve. Being Friday and a muslim area, most people are off feeling the privileges of prayer. For us, it's a few hours of peace and quiet. We take the time to stop and listen to the sounds of undisturbed jungle and to get a glimpse some of the wildlife: peacocks, eagles and for the grand finale, a wild elephant in the middle of a giant marsh filled with lotus flowers.



Shortly after, it's back to the usual sound track; blaring horns and all the cliché comments from the locals. The traffic grew and grew till we got to our destination: Tissamaharama; the launching pad for jeep safaries into Yala national park. This is where packaged tourists pay ridiculous amounts of money to sit in a fish tank attached to the back of a pickup truck. Once comfortably seated, you are driven into the glorified zoo of Yala national park. Your "guide" will attract wild elephants with bits of food so that you can have your priceless Master Card moment. Don't even dream about finding a proper guide competent enough to take you on a three-day trek into the park. In Sri Lanka, it's whore tourism: in and out and collect the money. However, it doesn't stop the more daring from going into the park for a night of wild camping. More on that later.

Before we get to Tissamaharama we get a jeepless taste of Yala by taking a road that goes through the nature reserve. This is where we witness that feeding wild animals is indeed a problem. At some point, in the middle of the road, is a massive wild elephant. Apparently, this elephant is there all day every day blocking traffic to get food.



If you don't throw him something, it will be very difficult to get by. For a long while we stand way back and wait for the elephant to head back into the forest. However, it's not on his agenda. So, we inch ourselves closer; taking shelter behind vehicles. At one point, a bus pulls up so we try to use it to pass by the elephant, but a guy inside the bus throws a bushel of bananas right in front of me. The elephant turns around and I end up face to face with him; I could have reached out and touched him. With flashbacks from the close call two weeks ago, we turn our bikes around to go on the other side of the bus. Once there we follow the bus past the elephant and avoid getting trampled.



The next day we head toward Tangalle where we will rest up for a few days. We leave early to take another detour past a small nature reserve. At first, it was nothing but the same old continuous village and most of our time was spent throwing rocks at packs of dogs; they tend to gang up and give chase. It's yet another annoyance. Frustrated, I hurl a big rock at one of the dogs. Being a lousy shot, I end up hitting a window which, luckily, didn't break. Finally, we get to the nature reserve which is actually a bird sanctuary. The highlight was seing a fully fanned peacock trying to impress some females. If you squint, you might be able to see it off in the distance.



Michèle comments: I'm a lousy shot too, so when I aim to throw a rock at a dog, I know that it will miss. Even a fake-out throw will scare away the snarly pack dogs. A few hours later, I was pedalling along the main road, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I felt a sharp sting on my leg. I looked down to see the rock that hit me and over to the side of the road to see the kid that had thrown it. Benoît was too far ahead to hear me yell that I was stopping. The kid ran between two houses with me in hot pursuit. I was enraged. A little old lady was in one of the houses; a family in the other. No-one had seen my assailant. I stomped and cursed when I realized that the kid had escaped me. Maybe it was a good thing he had, for I don't know what I would have done to him. The father of the family tried to calm my anger.
- Do you want a treat?
- No, I yelled back. I want to find that kid and tell him that it is NOT acceptable to throw rocks at people.
There was a long awkward silence. The father spoke again, slowly, as if he was choosing his words carefully.
- All the citizens of Sri Lanka, we say we are sorry.

Once in Tangalle we meet Joe: an American expat living in Japan for the last 20 years. Since we are interested in cycling around Hokkaido, we ask Joe about Japan. Being a cyclist himself, he gives lots of information about Japanese roads but he tells us of all sorts of strange happenings. Like how the police recently busted a fetish club where the prize sexual act was to eat the feces of the head mistress. If fecalphilia is not for you, there is a bar where you can pay an exorbitant amount of money to put your head on the lap of a young woman and have her clean your ears; I'm guessing all this is for men only. However, don't even think about getting Japanese citizenship. It is virtually impossible for an expat to get it unless you are famous or have lots of money.

A short while later, we bump into another cyclist. Adrian is from Australia and he is just starting his two year tour. We share some travel stories including his adventure into Yala national park. He tells us that he went in there for a few nights of wild camping despite the price, rules and regulations. He is more brave than we are: planting his tent where he could be visited by wild elephants.



We all decide to cycle together for a few days. As we leave Tangalle, I am struck with a disgusting sight: a monitor lizard eating a dead dog. A least one animal in this country is getting a good meal.



One of the days we all end up on a beach for beginner surfers. I've been wanting to go surfing for a long time. Adrian has been surfing all his life and he gives me a few pointers. Then, I plunge into the water to fight the shitty beach break all the way out. I end up having one good ride; following the break of the wave for a few seconds. After two hours, I'm left with chafed nipples, waxy chest hair and sore muscles. But the one good ride was all worth it.



Michèle comments: One piece of advice to combat against touring fatigue (see Eric and Amaya’s 3 cures) is to get off your bikes and try something new. For Benoît, it was surfing. For me, it was a cooking class. We found a guesthouse that offered "Mama's Cooking Class" for 500 rupees, and 300 rupees more if you wanted to eat what you prepared. Alex and Sibylle, from Germany, were also going to take the class.
- Do we go to the market? asked Sibylle.
- I have vegetables, said Mama. You no go. White people price too much.
The classroom was Mama's crammed little kitchen. She had prepped everything; we three, as students, mainly watched the assembly of ingredients. Class participation was in the form of stirring and sampling. I loved it. We made five dishes: four curries (dal, banana, pineapple and dambula) and a gotukula salad. My favourite was the pineapple curry. Once I get back on the rice-and-curry horse, I will make that curry again.





Another way to amuse myself was in looking for the charming misspellings in English, usually in menus. The ones I love the best are misspellings that form real words; that is, they are only misspelled in that context. Thanks for your corporation. Fright rice. Chop sue. Banana pencake. Ginger bear. Courselow salad. Card & honey. ("Curd" is a yogurt made from buffalo milk.) And on a child's T-shirt: Sweat friend.

We say goodbye to Adrian and meet back up with David in a town called Mirissa: a picturesque white sand beach next to a beautiful highway bloated with traffic. The beach looks very jet-set with the sand as white as the people on it. We join the fun and have a relaxing time basking in the sun. There are hidden dangers however. The waves on this beach can be massive. By looking at people swimming, I'm estimating some of the waves at 2 metres high. I decide to go into the water for a little fun in the waves. I duck into the water to go under one of the large waves but don't push hard enough to get under it before it breaks. The wave crashes on my back. All 2 metres of it. Not sure about the physics at work but my back ends up being arched way past the comfortable level. To the point where I was getting visions of a wheelchair. I managed to get myself out of the water and back on the beach. I sit down not knowing the extent of the injury. Later on, we find out that the previous day, someone broke their leg whilst playing in these waves and even later still, we find out that someone died. Our hearts go out to the familly. As for me, in addition to being physically and psychologically tired, I am now injured. Going home now seems like the best decision ever made.

With the idea that the cycling is over, we decide to part with David who only has a few days left before he goes back to Canada. It was fun trying to keep up with him but the truth is ... we're knackered!

We spend the next three weeks back in Tangalle at a beach-front guesthouse; things could be worse.



Michèle comments: We wiled away the time at the seaside. Sometimes it felt like a paradise; sometimes a prison. The days very slowly clicked by. Our waiter at breakfast one morning in Tangalle:
- You have been here for three months, no?
- No, but it sure feels like it.
Often there wasn't much going on, other than listening to the beach dog group howl in accompaniment to the tinny "It's a small world" or "Für Elise" of the musical tuk tuks selling ice cream and rottis. The waves at the main beach in Tangalle were treacherous. Big dumpy waves that could easily catch you off guard. I went in once, was immediately washing-machined, and scurried back to the safety of the shore as quickly as I could. For Benoît, swimming was out because of his injury. For me, swimming was out because I wanted a beach where you didn't feel on the edge of death.



So, we read a lot, and did some writing. The one-year anniversary of my mom's death was during that time. To honour her memory, I wanted to meet some people whom I could treat to food and drinks. Things that would meet with her approval: being social and picking up the tab. Serendipity placed in our path Tiina and Miko, from Finland, and with them we shared some kotthu and later some Lion lagers. Mom's treat.



A couple of weeks later and it was Benoît's birthday. Cheers to him!



We try to do our best to find good food. Sri Lankan food is actually really good when prepared properly. The problem is to find a good restaurant. We do luck out. Every lunch is spent at the Samagi restaurant where the owner prepares us something different every day.



Other than that it's all pretty boring. We spend our days hanging out with some of our new friends.









The big day has finally come: once again, it's time to head back to first world comfort; a journey that will take 48 hours. The ride starts with an expensive taxi to the Colombo airport. This is where I realize that riding in a car is not much safer than riding on a bike. Our driver is weaving through traffic and passing on blind corners whilst leaning on the horn: I guessing that avoids head-on collisions. The road is busy till we get to the brand new highway linking Galle and Colombo. Because it costs money there is virtually no traffic. It's smooth sailing for about an hour and a half. It could have been shorter but the driver kept driving way under the speed limit. After witnessing his psychotic driving I sit there puzzled.
- The speed limit is 100 km/h I tell him.
The driver replies by telling me that he is too scared to go 100 km/h.



Fast forward to Paris. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. With our luggage picked up, it's onto the TGV where we figure we are home free. As I lean back into my seat, I tell myself that I can finally relax. The problem is that we forgot the icing on our travel cake. As the ticket controller makes his rounds, he stumbles onto our bikes. Scornful and unhappy he calls us over. Apparently, bikes are not allowed on the TGV and it's a 160 euro fine for each. He also tells us that we will have to get off at the next station. France has always been drowning in its rules and regulations. You will never find anyone that can tell you exactly what's going on. They will always tell you the facts as if they’re carved in stone but it boils down to the personality of the person in charge: just like in the third world! The only difference is that things look a little bit cleaner around here: but for some reason, the stench remains. Luckily, another controller comes by who is a little "nicer". He tells us that if we pay the fine for one bike, he will make sure we get to Aix-en-Provence. Wanting to avoid the nightmare of being dropped off in the middle of nowhere I hand him the money. Now comes the chocolate sprinkles: the train is unable to stop at Aix because someone collapsed and died on the platform. Yet another tragedy that makes us sad for the family. For us, on to the next station we go to catch another train back to our destination. Once there, my parents' friends pick us up just has our rope reaches its end. Merci, Cathy et Jean-Jo, pour votre hospitalité!

The next day, it's a short car ride to Volonne, our final destination in France, where we will spend the next three months.



So, did India break us? No, but I think Sri Lanka did. On the positive side, I am proud of what we have accomplished with the documentation of this trip. Also, we have learned what type of cyclists we are. After travelling in this crowded part of the world, we have come to realize that we prefer the true lonely planet: wilderness, open spaces and wild camping.



Michèle comments: Naw, we know that you care... and we thank you for following us in our travels. Your comments on our blog posts, your emails, and just knowing that you were out there somewhere reading our blog helped us so much to keep going.

All of our Sri Lanka photos are here.

Pockets of paradise

February 18, 2012 - March 1, 2012

After the fiasco in Kantale we head towards a town called Nilaveli where there's supposed to be a nice beach. On the way we see another wild elephant but this time there is an electric fence between us and the nature reserve. Many of these nature reserves have electric fences to prevent elephants from roaming. Not sure why, it would be a great way to reduce the number of tuk tuks in this country. Anyway, the fences looks like an electric fence for cattle, except bigger and with a much higher voltage.

When finally in Nilaveli, we check into a proper guesthouse. The manager is an honest man who serves us delicious food by the handful for a good price. That night, we stuff ourselves to make up for our horrible experience in Kantale.

Michèle comments: The manager at the absurd guesthouse in Kantale had told us that 1000 rupees is the price for one person's meal. At Nilaveli, we were fed more than we could possibly eat of chicken or fish curry, rice, salad and at least three vegetable curries, all for 350 roupees per person. And fresh fruit for dessert. We felt redeemed. Even the palm squirrels were well sated in Nilaveli.



With a comfortable room, a bar and good food, we decide to stay a few days. The guesthouse is next to a beach that Trashy Planet calls "... a beach you can only dream of". Well, your dreams will come true if you're wishing for a swim. Aside from that, the beach leaves you hanging. It has more dead sea life than road kill on the highway, and most other guesthouses look like gorilla army compounds; fully equipped with security guards and barbed wire. Despite the warm water, David is a bit disappointed: he has been hauling his snorkelling equipment, including a four-pound weight belt, since India; the snorkelling remains few and far between.

David and I head to the main town, Trincomalee. This town is unique as you can see herds of wild deer roaming the city. They are very tame and you can almost walk up and pet them.



After too many pictures of the deers, we cycle up a hill to a view point. At the top is another temple. I know that I said I was not going to visit anymore temples but we are more interested in the view. At the entrance, a security guard tells us that we must take our shoes off and leave them behind. So, we put our shoes beside our bikes. After we make our rounds and take a few cliché pictures we find ourselves back at the bikes. There's only one problem; no shoes! We ask the security guard where our shoes are and he points to the funniest scam yet. Someone has grabbed our shoes and put them with the "Shoe Watching Service". This is where you leave your shoes to have some jackass watch over them while you go to the temple; a service we did not ask for. A little pissed off, we grab our shoes and head back to our bikes. Then, one of the guys comes up to us and, you guessed it, asks for money.
- 20 rupees, 20 rupees he says!
Flabbergasted and awestruck, David and I call upon the gods of assholiness to have a good laugh at the guy's request. Then, we unlock our bikes and ride off while all the other scammers at the "Shoe Watching Service" are yelling:
- Money, money, money!
Fools, don't they know that god will reimburse them! Or, they could just ask Mr Mahinda for a small percentage of the fees that tourists have to pay to get into nature reserves and historical sites. I'm sure there is 20 rupees on that pile of cash. As for us, we roll away thinking that two can play at the scam game.



Back at the guesthouse it's time to get the bill. The cook, a young pretty woman, adds it all up for us and of course it doesn't add up. So, we ask to speak to the manager who is an old man with many missing teeth. As we wait for him to show up, David asks the young woman if the manager is her father.
- No she says.
Then, David asks if he is her husband. If her skin wasn't so dark her face would have turned beet red as she runs off into the kitchen with every staff member laughing hysterically. When the manager shows up we remind him of the prices he quoted us and he ajusts the bill.

Once everything is straightened out, we leave the luxury of the guesthouse to get back to cycling and all its discomforts. For me it's a perpetual sore ass and a pinched shoulder. The ride is mostly flat and uninteresting as we cycle south down the east coast. Aside from counting kilometres I entertain myself by counting the number of times I see an advertisement for Hutch, Dialog or airtel; some of Sri lankan cell phone networks. Michèle is bored too and for the first time during this trip she puts on her ipod to kill the time and drown out stupid comments from the locals. However, we do get a few nice view points and a hint of something that we have been curious about: the 2004 tsunami. More on that later.





At sun down it's once again time to find a place for the night. The only guesthouse in the area was destroyed by the tsunami. So, our only option is to camp. We try our luck at a Hindu temple. The guru looking guys give us the ok, but the only problem is that there is some sort of celebration. That means very loud music over treble-y speakers for god knows how long. We keep cycling and we find ourselves at a hospital where the grass is flat and freshly cut. David goes and asks the head doctor for permission and ends up taking a good 20 minutes. Turns out that the head doctor is a hot, young Sri Lankan woman who studied medicine in Australia. She gives us permission and once the tent is up, I head straight for bed feeling yet another cold coming on. Off in the distance we can still hear the Hindu temple blaring out gibberish and tabla.



Next morning it's back on our bikes. Now bored of counting billboards I play a little game called Symmetrical Greeting. This involves greeting someone in the same manner as received. Usually, it involves yelling back something incomprehensible, saying hello in a mocking manner or just saying hello. I also try to have a little fun with one south Asia's annoying habits; standing there and staring. When we stop for a rest and a crowd gathers, I will go up to Michèle or David and stand there with an exaggerated vacant look on my face, following their every move. With Michèle laughing hysterically the crowd probably thinks we are crazy (or just assholes) and usually disperses. Yes, I am slowly losing my sanity. Michèle is much stronger and still hangs on to hers.

Michèle comments: As we were packing up camp at the hospital the next morning, a garbage fire near the front entrance was billowing its smoke into the main building.
- For the asthma patients, David said.
Nevertheless, we were grateful for a place to stay the night and thankful that we weren't at the hospital as patients. We stopped by to thank the doctor again and went back onto the boring east coast road. I had been eagerly awaiting to cycle that road, having heard that it was newly paved after the tsunami and the war, and that it was relatively free of traffic. Newly paved it was, and with new bridges as recent as last October. But there was just as much dangerous traffic as always, and not much lovely countryside scenery to make it worthwhile. I later heard a more accurate description of that road as "one continuous village." It was a struggle to stay smiling in the face of boredom and disappointment. But I was determined to smile and wave in return for any greeting that appeared genuinely friendly. Those usually came from really young children; so adorable with their big grins and enthusiastic waves that made their whole bodies shake. How long, I wonder, before someone teaches them to fleece the foreigner.

We veer off from riding the east coast to go inland to a town called Ampara. The only thing there is a pagoda that has an elephant crossing. According to Trashy Planet, wild elephants go there every night. So, we head there and wait for a few hours but the only animals we end up seeing are a cat and dogs. Cute as the were, we leave disappointed. As we pass by a house a man says to us:
- Be careful of wild elephants!



The next day we get to Arugambay and hook up with a cheap room. My newly found cold is in full swing and our travel fatigue is getting heavier. I peel myself out of bed to get some lunch. As we walk down the main strip, there is a minivan filled with young men who are aiming a camera at us. Michèle crosses the road and sure enough the camera follows her. It's another pathetic display of south Asia's obsession with white women. Tired and frustrated to have our pictures taken without permission for the last six months, Michèle gives the finger. To them, it's all a fucking big joke. We're just tourists and there won't be repercussions; not today. The straw breaks my back again and I slap the camera out of the guy's hand. The rest is boiled madness. The whole thing comes to an end with the voice of reason telling me that I will not be able to leave this country if I kill someone. As we walk away, four police officers are having a good old knee-slapping laugh at the situation.

Later on, a local sympathises with me and explains that he is married to a foreign woman and that this sort of thing happens to them all the time.
- Do not worry about these men. They are stupid he tells me.
It gives me a boost in morale to have someone on my side. I thank the man and explain to him that we have been travelling for a long time and that the culture shock is getting to us.

Michèle comments: Each day our nerves frayed a bit more. The pocket of paradise that we had found with the food in Nilaveli seemed like a distant memory. Little annoyances loomed like overwhelming traumas: like, in one guesthouse toilet, getting soaked by the fire-hose gush of water when the toilet spray nozzle broke off; and having a huge airborne cockroach in our room that was ridiculously hard to catch even though it was so slow in flight. The difference in travelling styles between us and David was becoming more pronounced. We already knew that he had way more energy than the two of us combined. We were already used to him racing ahead of us, then waiting for us at a roadside shop that sold chilled coke. Then, maybe my paranoia setting in, but it seemed on a couple of occasions that he was trying to ditch us: racing way farther ahead and then stopping in a less than obvious spot, his bicycle hidden from view. Are these symptoms of travel fatigue? I want to reread those books about long-term cycling tours that I had read before this trip. I don't remember the authors writing about falling apart mentally. It could have been in there, only that I didn't want to notice it at the time. We would eventually find David at his new favourite place to stop: at a Food City, a local grocery store chain that had extreme air-conditioning and freezers full of ice cream.

Benoit's hacking cough lingered on. Plus he was dropping too much weight. More than just the normal skinnifying effect of cycling. His face was scarily gaunt; his cheeks hollowed in. The same thing happened to him in Indonesia, he admitted, when he got sick of the food and stopped eating. The intense heat was getting to us too. It's hard to keep your cool when you're in a full sweat and you haven't even had your breakfast. I especially am not built for this climate. My legs get a nasty prickly heat rash when I ride in these sweltering temperatures. I ran out of sunscreen (because I have to reapply it like a million times a day) and bought a new one that was supposed to be SPF 60. It was more like SPF Zero and left me with a painful blistering burn. That tube of sunscreen went in the garbage. To be burned later, I guess.

After incident with the minivan, we head to a guesthouse restaurant. At one of the tables is a British man whose sister is the owner of the guesthouse. The man is portly, chain smokes and seems to drink beer by the gallon. He also talks like a geek with a spitting lisp who has taken too much speed. On his laptop are all sorts of British comedy clips that we have forgotten about. This give us another boost in morale as we watch Eddie Izzard, The Two Ronnies and some others whose names we can't remember. He fills us in on all sorts of Sri Lankan gossip; like how corrupt the government is and how Sri Lanka is trying to become a luxurious tourist destination like the Maldives ... good luck.

On a more serious note, he tells us about the tsunami and how his sister and her husband were in it. At Arugambay, there was seven waves in total; the biggest one measuring fifteen feet. At the time, a marine biologist was staying at the guest house. Feeling that something was not right the marine biologist says:
- I think we should get the fuck out of here.
They all barely get to the front gate when the first wave hits them. All of them were taken more than a kilometre inland and survived with some major wounds from the debris. Another guy later tells us that he lost 25 members of his family.

After a few days in Arugambay it's time to leave again but not for us. I have a bad cold, so Michèle and I decide to stay for a week. David will go ahead and meet back up with us in 10 days. As for us, we move to a nicer guest house where there is Wi-fi. Our days are spent catching up on internet and planning our exit of Sri Lanka.

Sri Lanka's animals

February 8, 2012 - February 17, 2012

Glad to leave Mudhahl's place, we hit the road to find that it's super busy. The worst are the buses that go as fast as they can to get a few extra customers. They constantly overtake and head straight for you without slowing down. For us, it's more close calls to add to the pile. When cycling gets this dangerous you question why you are doing it. Fortunately, the GPS takes us onto a quiet road. It's not too interesting but at least it has no traffic. We can now relax and enjoy the tropical farm land and wave to the confused locals.

Michèle has another cold. She would have liked another rest day but couldn't take another day at Mudhahl's place. To add insult to discomfort the skies darken and monsoon rain starts to come down.



We stop at the first guesthouse we find. The room is damp and smells mouldy but at least we are out of the rain. The manager seems nice enough. Later that night, he drives us to a restaurant so that we can get dinner. The next day, Michèle is still sick and needs another day's rest. So, David and I go to tell the manager that we will stay one more night. This is where we get another session of scamology. The guy tells us that the price he quoted for the room was the night price. Now, we must pay the day price. Trying not to laugh in his face we explain to him that it's not going to happen. After a short argument, he backs off. Sri Lanka is a country where you have to be on your toes. The bill is always more than the sum of its parts: it seems that more often than not, people will try to scam you despite the big smiles and the hellos.

Once Michèle is feeling better, we leave our mouldy guesthouse to cycle to the Ritigali nature reserve. We were hoping to see wild elephants but we just end up seeing dung.



Maybe that's a good thing because wild elephants are very dangerous; charging you when you get too close: more on that later. At the entrance of the nature reserve is an ancient stone path built by Buddhist monks some 2000 years ago. They were probably looking for a little peace and quiet on their journey to Nirvana. A silence long gone: making way for the blaring horns from anything motorized.



The path eventually stops and turns into a regular hiking trail. At the start of the trail is a sign saying that Ritigali is a strict nature reserve and a permission is needed to proceed further. It was tempting to keep going, knowing full well that permission just means giving someone money. However, we agree with the concept of a strict nature reserve so we end up turning back.

Back at the entrance of the nature reserve is an old man that drops his current affairs to waddle towards us.
- Money, money, money he says.
The old man has about four teeth left. All of them rotten to the core. Being a dentist, this is the first thing that David notices.
- Hi, I'm a dentist and I really want to pull those out for you David says. If I had my forceps, I would do it for free.

Back on our bikes and back to the busy road. I spend most of my time either counting kilometres or looking in my rear view mirror. We do get a treat however: a set of tamed elephants out for a bath in a river.



We stop to take a few pictures and much to my surprise, no-one is asking us for money which would have given me great pleasure to refuse to pay. We do get an offer of riding the elephant for $20 for half an hour. We declined the offer.

At the next guesthouse, our host is a nice middle aged woman who seems very honest. She does, however, say the odd thing.
- Couples here no problem. I rent room few hours. I have permit!
We give her a chance and try her food which ends up being way too salty. So, the next day, David and I head to town to look at our food options. At one restaurant, a slime bucket tout comes up to us offering all sorts of services like massages and elephant rides. I ignore him but David, with his inquisitive nature, listens to what the tout has to say.
- How much for the massage, David asks.
- 2000 rupees for regular ... 2500 with happy ending.
Feeling like a slime bucket myself, I ask him if I can get the happy ending on the elephant ride. He gives me a confused look and tells me that it's not possible. Apparently, he's never heard of sarcasm.

Michèle comments: With the monsoon rain, lots of water. With the water, lots of mosquitos. The guesthouse where we stayed in Habarana had an astounding number of the biting beasts. A gecko hanging out in our room had a big pink belly full with all the skitter goodness. Our room for three had two "double beds" that might be considered to be that size if you were a hobbit. But Benoît and I thought, why not, it'll be cozy. We draped the mosquito net over the bed (almost all the guesthouses in Sri Lanka have mosquito nets) and tucked into sleep. There wasn't quite enough room for the two of us on that bed. I awoke the next morning with what looked like a bad case of knee acne. My knees must have been pressed up against the mosquito net as I slept. Hundreds of bites! We pushed the bed up against the wall to make room to set up our tent. The sweet woman running the guesthouse noticed my knees. Soon she found me some ayurvedic balm to put on the bites. And she brought us tray after tray of Ceylon tea with a nice ginger zing.



I was still feeling like crap with my cold. Benoît had come down with a cold too. David rode to town one night to fetch us a meal of short eats and came back in a bad mood. His torch was missing. The first time in all his travels that he has lost anything. He suspected that someone stole it while he was buying dinner. That thought changed him. Instead of the perpetually happy David that we are used to, it has become No More Mister Nice Guy. He yelled at a restaurant owner for trying to charge inflated prices for a lukewarm rice and curry. He even refused a Sri Lankan man requesting a photo. So unlike David. I was beginning to worry about him. At least he was still engaging the locals in conversation, as in the time a tuk tuk pulled up beside us:
- Where are you going? asked the driver.
- Fifty metres from here, replied David.
- Tuk tuk?
- How much for 50 metres?
- 200 rupees, said the driver. (We think this should be the price for 100 times that distance.)
- How about free? How about some Sri Lankan hospitality? asked David with a big smile.
- Bye, was the answer and the guy drove off.

We jump on our bikes to head towards Polonnaruwa. We take the highway, which has a nice shoulder: allowing us to be more relaxed and enjoy the scenery. The road goes through a nature reserve and as I come around a bend, I come face to face with a wild elephant. Just like a moose in Newfoundland, the elephant runs into the forest as soon as he sees me. I stop and turn around to see if I can get another glimpse. By this point Michèle is with me and we both look into the jungle. Sure enough, the elephant is about 30 metres in. Then, he turns around quickly to face us. He moves slightly forward and all of a sudden, he makes a grunting sound and charges us with the cliché trumpet sound we know so well from nature shows.
- Let's get the fuck out of here I yell to Michèle in a panic.
Michèle turns her bike around and almost gets hit by an on coming car. We get on our bikes and pedal as hard as we can. Luckily, the elephant was only giving us a warning but for the next hour, we were both checking over our shoulders every two minutes.

Michèle comments: I was worried about being pancaked by the wild elephant and then in my rush to flee I was almost pancaked by a van. Thank goodness the van driver was quick on the brake. I must have twisted a muscle in my back when I hauled the 40 or so kilos of my bike in that sharp about-face. By that evening in Polonnaruwa I could barely move from the spasms of pain. The shooting pains disappeared the next day, only to be replaced by a stiffness that lasted for a week. Despite my injury I felt that we were lucky to have had that encounter with a wild elephant. It certainly taught us respect! Keep your distance and give them their space.



In Polonnaruwa the weather turn to shit. That doesn't stop David from going sight-seeing at yet more Buddhist ruins. As for me and Michèle, we end up doing nothing because we are tired of churches, mosques, temples, dagobas and any other religious shrine that may exist. We much prefer encounters with nature, like almost getting trampled by a wild elephant.



We leave Polonnaruwa without seeing anything but we don't really care. Back on the bikes it's towards Trincomalee that we ride. The map shows a secondary road that goes through a nature reserve. On the way is another ancient Buddhist temple ... OK, one more temple and that's it. On our way in, compassion becomes a mere buzz word as a young dog lies by the side of the path leading to the temple. His rear legs seem to be paralyzed and the only thing he can do is inch himself forward with his front paws. He does however manage to wag his tail slightly as we stop to look at him. We give the dog some comforting words ... not knowing what else we can do.

At the temple, a tout is totally confused to see us arriving on bikes. He asks us where our tour bus is, if we want a guide and if we have our tickets. We all ignore him and David and I head in to have a look at the temple. Michèle stays behind. The sight of the paralyzed dog and the constant scamming is not sparking any interest in religion at this point. Off in the distance, the Buddha has nothing to say. Why would he, he is just a chiseled piece of rock.



We hang out for half an hour, taking pictures. At one point, the tout freaks out and runs towards me because I forget to take off my shoes to entering the temple. When it's time to leave we see that the paralyzed dog has managed to move himself in the shade: a comfortable place to wait for reincarnation.

As for us, we pedal towards the jungle in the hope to find the secondary road towards Kantale. The road gets muddier and muddier to the point where there is so much mud in our mud guards that our wheels are completely blocked.



We turn around to head back the way we came. All the locals that tried to tell us not to go are laughing as we ride by. I am starting to get sick of being a subject of entertainment. In most of the countries we’ve been to, you are considered to be a clown for travelling on a bike. The poor man does not miss the opportunity to break the monotony of his daily life by displaying all sorts of annoying behaviours. The worst are kids who can go as far as throwing rocks or, like for David, getting his rear reflector smashed by a cricket bat. At the beginning you laugh it off. But it slowly eats away at you and after two years you are ready to get into a fist fight over some of these unwittingly disrespectful acts.

That said, Michèle’s day is not getting any better. It’s funny, it’s always the smallest thing that makes you lose it. After the scams, the dog and the mud, Michèle rides through a puddle. The result is more mud in her mud guards. She throws down her bike down and walks off for a twenty minute walk-about. David and I patiently wait. I am glad that I’m not the only one that can blow a spaz.

Michèle comments: I was all gung ho for the ride on the jungle road. Even with a fluttery-heart fear of encountering another wild elephant. By the time we realized that the mud was becoming more like quicksand, my bicycle wheels were fused to immobility and I had to drag it to get the damn thing to move. That probably helped to prolong whatever injury I had done to my back. With a stick and the last remnants of motivation I had in me, I degunked the mud from my tires so that my bike would roll. When I saw a puddle coming up, I thought that by riding through it, I could clear out even more of the mud. I rolled into it... and got stuck. Then something in me snapped. I was hopping mad, literally!

We end up staying in another guesthouse whose beds were too small and the next day, we ride through more forests to get back to the main road. This time we didn't get stuck in the mud.



We don't get to Kantale till the evening where our guesthouse has, what I like to call, 5 star envy. The price of the room is what it should be but we make the mistake of ordering dinner. With no menu we order an assortment of dishes and we tell the guy that a meal for three people should not cost more the 1000 rupees: a sum that could feed six or seven people at a road side restaurant. It takes them hours to prepare the food and when it finally comes there is barely enough for one person. We ask the guy when the rest is coming and he tells us that this is the amount you get for 1000 rupees. So, another argument breaks out. Starving from the day's ride I tell the guy that Sri Lanka is not part of Europe and that they cannot justify these kinds of prices. The guy stands there defiant and tells me that Europeans stay at the guesthouse all the time and that everyone pays 1000 rupees per person. By this point, everything in the village is closed and we go to bed hungry.

Michèle comments: This guesthouse experience was bordering on the absurd. That afternoon, our host asked if we would like coffee or tea. It sounded like it was complimentary. Not so: it ended up on the bill. Little did we know when we said yes to coffee for the next morning that we would be woken out of a deep sleep for this delightful service. Knock knock knock we heard. It couldn't be for us. The knocks got louder and more insistent.
- Who is it? I asked, finally awake and pissed off about it.
- (Knock knock again.)
- WHAT?!? I yelled this time.
- Black coffee, came the answer at the door.
- What time is it? I asked, incredulous.
- 7 o'clock.
?!?! We ignored him and finally he went away and we went back to catching a few more zeds.

In the morning we get the bill. The guy told us the previous day that there would be a service charge on the food. However, the bill shows a service charge on the room which I promptly tell him we are not paying. He starts to look worried. Not wanting to deal with it, I tell him to see David about the money. This is the time of the morning where David flosses his teeth and meticulously packs his things: a process that takes a long time. The guy paces back and forth, following David's every move; waiting for payment. At least we get entertained watching this guy wait for David. Then, finally David says:
- Hey, I should pay that bill!
David is much nicer than I am and ends up paying most of the unwarranted service charge: the bullshitting manager claiming the rest has to come out of his own pocket. Maybe he can compare notes on lamentations with Mudhahl.