Coconuts, Chaos & the Kindness of Strangers: A Cyclist’s Sri Lankan Misadventure
68 SRI LANKA
1045 Km – 22 Days
22 February – 16 March
2015
MAP
Photos
Prelude
Sri
Lanka arrived in my life the way a sudden monsoon does: warm, chaotic, and
impossible to ignore. I landed with a bicycle, half a plan, and the naïve
belief that luggage always follows its owner. What I found instead was an
island humming with colour and kindness, where tuk‑tuks behaved like
caffeinated insects, monks drifted past in saffron robes, and every road
promised either enlightenment or mild terror. I didn’t know it yet, but this
small teardrop of land would become one of those rare places that feels
instantly familiar, even as it surprises you at every turn.
Arrival in Sri Lanka - Missing Luggage & Snake Charmers
The
flight from Muscat to Colombo touched down in the bleary, pre‑coffee hours of
22 February, a time of day when no one should be expected to make life
decisions, let alone locate luggage. SriLankan Airlines, clearly agreeing with
this philosophy, had misplaced my bag entirely. The bike, however,
arrived—because of course the one object shaped like a small industrial machine
makes it through, while the bag containing my worldly possessions vanishes into
the ether.
After
drawing a few rupees and acquiring a SIM card from a man who looked genuinely
surprised anyone would want one at that hour.
Still,
I left the airport—minus luggage—and hailed a taxi into Colombo.
Sri Lanka was love at first sight. As the taxi rattled toward town, I realised I had entered the land of tuk‑tuks, paan, Buddhas, monks, and traffic that behaved like a large, excitable family reunion. Everything was green and humid and slightly chaotic, and I felt instantly at home.
The
next morning, the airline phoned to say they had located my bag, presumably in
the same place it had been all along. It was delivered to the Clock Inn hostel,
my temporary Colombo residence. The bag had been opened, but only my Swiss Army
knife was missing, which suggested someone had rummaged through my belongings,
discovered nothing but tattered cycling gear, and thought, “Well, at least I
can take the knife.” I imagined them sighing in disappointment. I reassembled
the bike and set off to explore the historic part of town.
The
old market was impossible to cycle through. It was the kind of place where even
pedestrians walked single‑file. I pushed the bike along narrow lanes while
vendors shouted, chickens objected loudly to their existence, and the smell of
spices drifted through the air like a warm invitation.
Later
I ambled to the beachfront, where the sunset itself was unremarkable—more of a
polite dimming of the sky—but a snake charmer appeared, apparently hypnotising
a snake with a pungi. I didn’t know snake charmers still existed outside of
cartoons. The snake looked unimpressed, but the charmer was having a wonderful
time.
Traffic, Temples & Tropical Rain (80
km)
Sri
Lanka is small enough that one needn’t race around it like a contestant on a
reality show. After breakfast, I loaded the bike and headed south toward Galle.
Cycling
in Sri Lanka is an adrenaline sport. My hands were permanently on the brakes,
and my eyes were glued to the road. I wove through tuk‑tuks, buses, trucks, ox
carts, and the occasional holy cow who clearly believed traffic laws did not
apply to her. The coastal route passed temples and fruit juice stands, and I
felt as though I never truly left Colombo—the traffic simply continued, like a
long, unbroken conversation.
I
reached Bentota shortly after midday. The village offered everything a weary
cyclist could want: accommodation, food vendors, a river, a beach stretching
for miles, and the Galapata Vihara Temple with its underground tunnels that
looked suspiciously like they were designed for people much smaller than me.
Then
the rain arrived—tropical, theatrical, unapologetic. I put my feet up, opened a
beer, and watched it pour down in biblical quantities. It was perfect.
Temples & Tourist Pricing in
Galle(70 km)
Sri
Lanka is a country of many religions, all of which seem to coexist with
admirable patience. Every village had a church, a Buddhist stupa, a mosque, and
a Hindu temple, as though the town planners had simply decided to include one
of everything.
The
Hindu temples were my favourite—immensely ornate, colourful, and impossible to
pass without taking a photo. Buddhist monks drifted past in saffron robes,
looking serene while I looked sweaty and dishevelled.
Galle,
famous for its Old Dutch fort, was more of a citadel than a fort. Today it’s a
bustling town within ancient walls. Accommodation inside the fort was pricey,
but I found a room for 2000 rupees. Food was equally expensive, so I wandered
to the main gate where traders sold snacks for 10 rupees apiece. I ate several,
partly because they were delicious and partly because I felt triumphant at
having outsmarted tourist pricing.
Unawatuna Coconuts & Hippies (7
km)
Stacks
of yellow coconuts lined the roadside, ready to be machete‑opened by vendors
who wielded their blades with alarming enthusiasm. I usually stopped for one.
After drinking the coconut water, the vendor would crack it open and fashion a
spoon from the shell so I could scrape out the meat. It was a small act of
craftsmanship that made me absurdly happy.
A
sign pointed toward Unawatuna, the old hippie town, so I veered off and found a
lively tourist village full of clothes, jewellery, and slightly overpriced
everything. I located a room and set off exploring. It was pleasant, colourful,
and unapologetically touristy.
Stilt
Fishermen & Paradise Bays (80 km)
The
going was slow because Sri Lanka kept throwing interesting things at me: Buddha
statues, old forts, temples, and the famous stilt fishermen perched on poles
like philosophical seabirds. I believe these spots remain in families for
generations, which must make for interesting inheritance conversations.
Tangalle
appeared like a postcard—paradise‑like bay, cheap beach accommodation, and a
general air of “Why don’t you stay forever?” The New Beach House was not new,
but at $10 a night, it was perfect. I parked myself down, beer in hand, and
congratulated myself on excellent life choices.
The Safari That Wasn’t (100
km)
Bundala
National Park looked promising, and the Lagoon Inn, set in a lush garden,
seemed ideal. Unfortunately, one couldn’t cycle into the park. A mandatory jeep
was required, and hiring one for a single person was priced as though I were
renting the entire vehicle for a safari expedition of 40. I settled for cycling
the short entrance road, which was scenic but not exactly the wildlife
adventure I’d imagined.
Coconuts,
Elephants & Frangipani Air (40 km)
The
short ride to Kataragama, the holiest town in Sri Lanka, made for an early
arrival. The town was sacred to Buddhists, Muslims, and Hindus alike. A massive
park stretched along the Menik Ganga river, where people bathed, washed
laundry, and occasionally scrubbed an elephant, which is not something one sees
every day.
The
Maha Devale shrine featured two enormous boulders where pilgrims smashed
coconuts while muttering prayers. I found the whole ritual strangely
mesmerising—half spiritual, half enthusiastic coconut destruction.
Theravada
Buddhism is the religion of roughly 70% of Sri Lankans. At the temples, the
scent of frangipani and incense hung thick in the air. Families brought
offerings of flowers and fruit to their preferred deities. It was colourful,
intriguing, and utterly captivating.
The
Jungle Road & Imaginary Elephants (65km)
The
road from Kataragama to Monaragala was known locally as “the jungle road,”
which sounded thrilling until villagers began asking whether I wasn’t scared.
They didn’t specify of what, which left me wondering whether I should fear the
people, the animals, or perhaps some mysterious third category of danger unique
to Sri Lanka.
In
the end, the ride was uneventful. I kept an eye out for elephants—dangerous
ones, preferably, so I’d have a story—but saw none. Not even a mildly irritated
one.
The
weather was boiling, the kind of heat that makes you question your life choices,
but thankfully the road was dotted with small shops selling water. When I
finally spotted a cheap‑looking guesthouse, I staggered inside and enjoyed the
relative coolness of a room that was only slightly cooler than the outdoors.
Heartburn
& Ancient Ruins (80km)
Breakfast
consisted of leftover spicy fried rice, which promptly declared war on my
oesophagus. I never learn.
Shortly
before Arugam Bay, I veered off to the Magul Maha Vihara Ruins—a 5th‑century BC
site tucked into dense forest. Built by King Dhatusena, it was most likely part
of a royal compound, though today it mostly serves as a place where tourists
wander around trying to look knowledgeable.
Sri
Lanka (or Lanka, as locals call it) is a street‑food paradise. I popped into roadside
stalls for prawn vadai—best eaten straight from the pan while still crunchy—and
dipped in sambal, chutney, or curd. At night, the streets came alive with kothu
stalls. Kothu is made by chopping roti, vegetables, meat, eggs, and
unidentifiable sauces with two metal blades in a rhythmic clanging that sounds
like someone trying to play the drums with kitchen utensils. The result is
delicious.
Arugam
Bay itself was a swing‑in‑a‑hammock kind of place. I swam in the lukewarm
Indian Ocean and ate chickpeas with chilli, coconut, and curry leaves—a perfect
snack.
Batticaloa
— Blistering Heat & Dutch
Forts (115 km)
The
next day was long, blisteringly hot, and the kind of ride where you begin to
suspect the sun has a personal vendetta. I crawled into Batticaloa and found a
basic room with a fan that moved air in the same way a depressed butterfly
might.
A
walk across the bridge revealed food and an ATM—two things I desperately
needed. The following day I explored the Old Dutch Fort and other historical
sites before retreating to my not‑so‑cool digs to melt quietly.
The
Pied Piper of Sri Lanka(115km)
The
road hugged the coast past rice paddies and tiny settlements. Every child with
a bicycle decided to follow me, giggling, as though I were leading a parade. I
felt like the Pied Piper.
Colourful
Hindu temples dotted the way, each more ornate than the last. The heat was
oppressive, the humidity worse, and by the time I reached Mutur I was ready to
collapse—even though Trinco was only 30 kilometres further.
My
guesthouse had clearly never hosted a foreign tourist. Other occupants came to observe
this unusual event. The owner arrived later to check whether I was still alive,
then sent his “house boy” to fetch me fried rice from a restaurant. It was
oddly touching.
Relaxing in Uppuveli (40km)
The
ride to Trincomalee—Trinco to everyone except mapmakers—was flat and scenic,
past China Bay with its colourful fishing boats. Trinco itself didn’t grab me,
but six kilometres further the beach village of Uppuveli rolled into view like
a pleasant surprise.
The
Aqua Hotel sounded fancy but wasn’t. It was, however, a solid backpacker joint
with a bar, a pool, and tables right on the beach. The kind of place where one
could easily stay for days. I had no intention of doing so, but naturally
stayed an extra day.
There
wasn’t much to do besides chill or walk along the beach past rows of fishing
boats and fishermen hauling in nets. The area had been hit hard by war and the
2004 tsunami, and many houses looked as though they couldn’t withstand a strong
breeze, let alone another disaster.
The
hotel’s internet allowed me to research my next move. I came up with no
brilliant ideas except that returning to Thailand and cycling to Myanmar seemed
feasible. Bangkok was rumoured to be the easiest place to obtain a Myanmar
visa. I hoped the rumour would remain true long enough for me to get there.
Yoga,
Tailwinds & Ancient Cities (120km)
After
an early morning yoga session—my attempt at being a balanced human—I hopped on
the bike and headed toward Anuradhapura. The road was mercifully flat with a
slight tailwind, a rare and glorious combination.
Finding
accommodation took some pedalling, but bicycle‑riding touts roamed the streets
looking for lost tourists. I usually avoid them, but this time they proved
useful, pointing me toward reasonably priced digs hidden in an alleyway.
Anuradhapura
was meant to be a one‑night stop, but the city was overflowing with ancient
relics. I spent the next day exploring the sacred city, built around a cutting
of Buddha’s fig tree brought by Sanghamitta, a Buddhist nun, in the third
century.
The
Kingdom of Anuradhapura flourished for 1,300 years before being invaded in 993.
Today it’s a sprawling complex of archaeological wonders, ruins, and monkeys
who behave as though they own the place.
The
Jetavanaramaya Stupa was astonishing. Built in the third century, it once stood
120 metres tall and contained more than 90 million bricks. A British guidebook
from the early 1900s calculated that those bricks could build a three‑metre‑high
wall from London to Edinburgh. I’m not sure why anyone would want to do that,
but it’s an impressive statistic.
The
sacred Bodhi tree, said to be the oldest plant in the world with a known
planting date, was… scrawny. Much like the Mona Lisa, I expected something
grand. Instead, I found a tree that looked as though it needed encouragement.
Puttalam
— The Guesthouse I Absolutely
Didn’t
Need (80km)
The
ride to Puttalam on the west coast was uneventful—pleasant, even. Shortly
before reaching the A3 highway toward Colombo, a budget‑looking abode caught my
eye. There was absolutely no reason to stay there. None. But I did anyway,
mostly to drag my Sri Lankan ride out for one more day, like someone refusing
to leave a party even after the host has started washing dishes.
I
rinsed my cycling clothes, took a short walk to the shops, found food, and
congratulated myself on my commitment to procrastination.
Fruit
Stalls & Flying Juice (105km)
The
road south was lined with colourful fruit stalls, each offering a refreshing drink
and a brief escape from the sweltering heat. Watching these drinks being
prepared was a performance worthy of a small stage and an enthusiastic
audience.
First,
the vendor sliced an orange or lime in half and squeezed it into a glass. Then
came a pinch of salt, water, and crushed ice. Next, in a flourish that would
impress a Las Vegas magician, the vendor switched the drink between glass and
jug, tossing it through the air with alarming precision. The juice travelled a
good metre, landing neatly in the pitcher every time. I half expected applause.
Temples
appeared along the way, each decorated with peafowl—Sri Lanka’s favourite
temple accessory. The birds gave the temples a festive, slightly flamboyant
feel, as though they were perpetually ready for a parade.
The
day stretched longer than expected, not that it mattered. I had no intention of
reaching Colombo. A hundred kilometres in, the sky opened and rain came
bucketing down. I pedalled to the nearest hotel, dripping like a disgruntled
sponge.
Colombo
Terror & a Timely Downpour (50km)
The
next morning I rode into Colombo, where the traffic behaved like a large,
chaotic family reunion—everyone shouting, no one listening, and tuk‑tuks
darting around like hyperactive toddlers. It took all my concentration to stay
alive.
I
reached the Clock Inn hostel minutes before another tropical downpour.
Fortunately, they had kept my bike box, sparing me the ordeal of hunting down a
new one. I packed the bicycle, rearranged the panniers into one large bag, and
visited a hairdresser who made me look almost normal.
Bangkok
— Backpackerville & Deep‑Fried
Scorpions
With
a flight to Bangkok booked, I arranged a taxi and soon found myself airborne. A
few hours later, the plane touched down in Bangkok, which looked exactly as I
remembered it—chaotic, colourful, and slightly surreal.
I
headed straight to Backpackerville, where one can stroll past ornate temples
and buy deep‑fried scorpions on a stick. It’s the kind of place where you can
have a spiritual awakening and a questionable snack within the same five
minutes.
Epilogue
Leaving
Sri Lanka felt a little like waking from a vivid dream—one filled with coconut
water, temple bells, tropical downpours, and the constant hum of life unfolding
in every direction. I packed my bike, rearranged my panniers, and stepped back
into the world of airports and onward plans, carrying with me the scent of
frangipani and the memory of roads where children pedalled behind me like a
giggling entourage. Sri Lanka had been generous, bewildering, and endlessly
alive. As my flight lifted toward Bangkok, I realised I wasn’t done chasing
places that made me feel that way. Not yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment