Sri Lanka | Unawatuna
Colombo lacked the secret charm that was promised in the holiday brochures. It's Sri Lanka's only international airport, and so the whole ordeal felt like an arranged marriage - I could certainly think of nice things to say about it but they would be more pleasantry than sincere. Our next destination was Unawatuna, and we would be travelling by train (2 hours, £0.80 - second class). Colombo's train station was easy to navigate, and purchasing tickets was pain-free. An hour early, as always, we sat and waited patiently with the warm comfort of knowing there was no chance of being late.
A few of the locals would stare, mainly out of curiosity, but would always avert their gaze before it trespassed in the domain of the pervert. I barely minded if someone looked at me with perverted thoughts, I would be flattered in fact. Why would I take offence to this? It seems that the fine membrane between curiosity and perversity is permeable. For example, I sometimes stare at dogs, and sometimes attempt to determine which sex they are, sometimes they proceed to sniff each other's arses - at this stage I am still looking. Am I a pervert?
Anyway, a few of the locals would eventually try and start a conversation with us, always neighbourly to begin with. The usual 'where are you from', 'where are you going'. This is fine and I am happy to participate, but as an experienced tourist (writing 2 weeks ahead of time) I have learnt that anyone who starts a conversation with you is ultimately trying to sell something. Usually something shit, or overpriced. Often both.
The train was 15 minutes late arriving - nobody seemed to care. On the platform, two British men were talking to each other. The words muffled behind the noise of the station, but their gestures suggested that they were old friends. Without realising it seemed that they were drifting closer towards to us. They probably heard us also speaking in English. Throughout my body, and all over my skin, I sensed that the boundaries of my privacy were about to be invaded, except it wasn't an invasion, through accidental gazes and faux smiles I had hit 'send to all' on an invitation to a party that I was hosting, that I really didn't want to attend.
'The same thing happened last year, the train was about 20 minutes late. I was here last December, and it was the same story...' spoke a man, probably in his mid 40s, his lower half dressed in what would appear to be clothes from BHS, but his upper half dressed to emulate a cross between Ace Ventura Pet Detective and an Ibiza veteran. He wore sandals with socks and if I remember correctly had of those festival wrist bands that annoying twats never get rid of. I knew that if I replied to his opener, I would be signing a non-verbal contract to converse for the duration of the journey, under his terms.
I did reply - and I only half regret it. Paul, was actually 60, and was very hungover. His remedy for fighting jet lag was to get drunk. He went clubbing on his own the previous night, and claims to have danced 'Sri Lankan style' whatever that meant, and saw many ladies in their Sri Lankan outfits. He worked as a stationary salesman in Camden. I surprised myself when I heard myself say things like, 'the written word will never be overtaken by technology' - I did not believe this statement but I had to fill the growing silences which were common at the edge of his remarks. He was travelling with 12 friends who he had met throughout his various travels. All 12 were remarkably different, in age, occupation and general stereotype. But what got me was that he was the glue holding this party together.
As much as I wanted my space back, there was something to be admired, and learnt from his peculiar ways. He remembered names and places that I had mentioned, he would respond generously to my short and mundane factettes, and he would ask questions which he somehow knew would be irresistible for me to answer. He spoke at the perfect volume, I didn't once have to lean in, and thank god, because even from friendly fire zone I had established, I was subject to intense spitting on my face. Sometimes he would notice this but never apologised or adjusted his position.
He introduced us to a young female companion of his. She was about 35, worked at the London 02 and importantly, but annoyingly, for Paul, had a boyfriend. He told us that they had travelled to the USA together, and were just friends even though he fancied her very much. He described how they could and had shared a bed in the past without any 'funny business'. I didn't believe this story, a) because I just didn't, and b) I felt he said it loud enough for her to hear. He would flirt with her, and she would flirt back, parts of it were painful to watch, parts endearing. At times they would talk over / through me, and it felt as though I had been upgraded to the 3D viewing of a budget romcom. If you're wondering, people don't change the way they flirt as they grow older. Dents in the voice, uneven tilt of the head, elongated occulations, gentle prodding and teasing.
As we departed, we said our goodbyes and felt a sense of short lived regret, albeit cloaked in relief, that we didn't exchange contact details. If I was a betting man, I would say that that was not our last encounter.