Pas la bonne saison. I wanted to go somewhere remote, to a place where humanity lay barren, plain, pure, both to its better and worse. Sahara came to my mind, with its vastness and rare, but so fascinating human presence. Together with a friend, I started investigating a crossing from Niamey to Tamanrasset. It had been a classical road for African travelers, now next to dead, due to the instability in Niger and the Tuareg rebellion in the North of the country, respectively Al Qaida Magreb’s involvement in the area; as a Tuareg from Tamanrasset put it, “ce n’est pas la bonne saison pour cela”.  Yet it was tempting and, after many refusals, I found someone willing to come pick us up at the frontier post in In Guezzam. At the same time, another crossing came to mind, from N'djamena to Bangui. I looked into both options, somehow preferring the later until, a few days later, my friend gave up any plan. I pondered for a short while on doing it by myself and eventually decided not to, given the higher costs of hiring the odd off road vehicle, let alone other miscellaneous expenses there could have occurred during such a trip. Actually I was just a lazy coward. One that belonged in the East, to poor (by our narcissist standards, yet only by that) people that found happiness in the pattu that kept them warm, the pot of masala chai that gave them hope, respectively the small loaf of roti and faith that has kept them going for centuries.

North-East. It was already December 18 and I had my holidays beginning on December 23. I was looking for a country that required no visas as there was no time left for that and that lay in the right direction. Sri Lanka came to my mind and Air Arabia tickets were still available from Istanbul to Colombo. As for Bucharest to Istanbul, Air Moldova provided a service via Chisinau at half the price of the direct Tarom and Turkish Airlines flights. As booksellers in Romania either had not heard of the country or wanted to charge 4 times the recommended retail price for a guidebook while it was too late to order online, I bought the pdf LP Sri Lanka from the publisher's website, printed it and was ready to go. I was going East by North-East.

Run, Forrest. I was leaving Romania just in time, when everyone had started with the standard holiday wishes, de rigueur xmas greeting cards, tasteless panettone, tacky empty chocolate santas and strawberry flavour sparkling wine. One wondered why people need a special occasion, a precisely designated time of the year, to be nice to the others. Maybe because mankind, just like many other species, like to flock, and cattle need guidance, blind-folded obedience to be efficient. The flight to Chisinau had been canceled due to thick fog in the Moldovan capital (and possibly also as there were very few tickets sold for December 24), so I got to Istanbul faster, as they put me on the non stop service which would have cost twice as much. While the flight from Bucharest to Istanbul had been filled up mostly by Turkish businessmen going home for New Year's, the one from Istanbul to Sharjah was filled half with Europeans going on holidays on a budget airline and the rest consisted of large families of Arabs with an average of 4 pieces of luggage per person; there were also a few exhausted immigrants from the Subcontinent that stood up from the majority through their silence and fatigue. Air Arabia had grown since my last flying with them and this could be felt in the welcome life beat at their hub, but nothing had been done to develop the airport facilities accommodate those thousands of people in transit at once, most of which were coming from the Subcontinent and the Far East, even though, as a touch of irony, they were often mistreated by their own folk, as the airport staff also consisted mainly of immigrants.

Passengers could have hardly provided a more contrasting image. Quiet, formal Arabian families where men walked with a steady, firm pace ahead of their wives, often met noisy, colorful Indian crowds, the rare Afghan group with their light, almost surreal walking, as well as the odd European couple looking for a bargain in the duty free store. Merchants leant against their bulky hand luggage, poorly paid immigrants slept on the floor, families on holidays were having an AED 8 hot meal, while pilgrims were telling prayers and businessmen were enjoying a chocolate-dipped, puffy donut with a large cup of cappuccino. All met in a seemingly incoherent crowd, yet it did not take one long to see they completed each other to create a vibrant, outstanding human congregation. I had already spent a few hours at the airport when someone stood out of the crowd: the carefully tied red headscarf, as well as the colorful, long dress with a rich flower pattern and the intricate vest on top brought back fine memories long before the rather strong, aging woman asked about the boarding gate for the Tashkent flight. The outstanding thing about a low cost flight is the chance to meet regular people of all types, of blending in this heterogeneous crowd and of once again behaving like an imperfect human being in an imperfect world instead of the dull, little wheels looking for illusory perfection we have got accustomed to turn into on a daily basis.

My 14 hour transit time was eventually over and I got on a packed aircraft to Colombo together with a large group of Russians, one of which was very drunk and asked whether he could smoke one, just one cigarette during the 4 hour flight. The air was hot and humid, the airport came complete with ladies wearing beautiful turquoise sarees and a duty free shop selling household appliances including large fridges, cooking stoves and TV sets. My feet into sandals, I walked out and, when asking the bus driver whether there was time enough to go buy a bottle of water (silly question, as we were to wait for almost an hour, as the attendant was calling for more passengers), he gave me his bottle for a sip. One needed not much else. It felt great to be back in the Subcontinent.

We started at 5 AM, changed the bus at the airport exit and eventually reached Colombo at 6. I hopped on and off another bus, 6:10, tickets in hand by 6:20 and I was on the platform for the 6:30 service to Galle. Colombo Fort looked poorer than its Indian counterparts, but was far easier to get through. While waiting for the train to arrive, one could not ignore the TV crew and many flags, as well as many of the passengers holding flowers, all only on our platform. They were commemorating the December 26, 2004 tsunami wave that resulted in 35,000 casualties and over half a million people displaced; the wave had caught that very train service en route to Galle and people had died being trapped in wagons, as the railway followed closely the coastline. For the entire journey to the disaster site they played prayers on the train loudspeakers, while people along the way waved to the train which had been adorned with national flags and insignia. At the scene, people got off the rain and formed a long line to the beach where they lay flowers while chanting. The ride to Galle was scenic (as I was lucky to have a seat facing the seafront and not the slums on the other side), allowing views of extensive, seemingly deserted beaches, small resorts, fishermen villages, palm groves, sand and that seemingly endless ocean.

It was hot when I reached Galle. Life seemed to have come to a stand still when I left the busy train station and crossed the bus station with attendants calling for passengers to various destinations. The old colonial town was like a trap, a cluster of houses surrounded by the extensive fort walls and torn away from the world outside. Those narrow streets bordered by period houses most of which nowadays hosted guesthouses, restaurants and arty shops were quiet with next to nobody around. One could only see a few people walking at a distance, along the ramparts. But it all was to change in the evening, when the whole place got filled with foreigners coming back from the beach, from trips around the city or from the cooler shelter provided by the many guesthouses and small hotels. Even though I was tired after two days and nights' travel, I fled to have a stroll across the "new" town, the one where locals lived in colour and music, where one could get engulfed in their amazing life beat. Some were shyly approaching the stranger, asking about one's country of origin; if one answered and a discussion began, the questions went on about age, marital status, profession, family, income, time in Sri Lanka. And they expected to be asked back about these issues, eager to share their happiness and sorrow with the others. It did not feel at all like going to the country for the first time, but rather like returning; a great return.

Walking up at 4 AM and starting all stray dogs in the fort, I got on the bus to Badulla. It took the coast road to Hambamtola and, after the break of dawn, one could have glimpses of the same stretches of seemingly unspoiled beach separated by palm trees and small towns or villages: exactly what I was not after. We then continued to the North, and the forested hills soon appeared. It got cooler and, after a winding stretch, the road started to gain elevation. Steep slopes bordered deep valleys, while rugged cliffs were covered by an overwhelming mist. Tea estates appeared later on, also hosted by steep slopes and dotted with constantly moving dots: the Tamils working on plantations, big sacks tied on their foreheads, plucking tea leaves. The colourful statues at Badulla's two temples provided a refreshing, quiet break, with a next to total contrast from the buzzing town outside. Two more bus rides and I reached Haputale, a small community of friendly people located on a windy, cooler hilltop. There were luckily less foreigners (other than in graveyards located next to the frequent Catholic churches) as one went North of the coast, or so it appeared for the moment. It was cold and damp during the night, which made useful the sleeping bag I had carried along.

"An early start" seemed to be Sri Lanka visitor's alter ego, if one wanted to enjoy the place before the mist and / or heat came in, catch long distance buses (the average speed, including going round towns / bus stands for passengers, was 35-40 km./h.) or simply go with local people rather than with chartered vehicles. The early afternoon saw things slowing down or turn to a more local level, while the early evening would bring around a vibrant, but short-lived revival beat especially around marketplaces and major transport junctions with all trade that came together with them. And then, just before one learnt it, everything turned dark, quiet and dead except for a few rickshaws aiming at late arriving buses and tourist places where foreigners ended the day with an 8.8% alcohol Lion beer.

The 6:30 AM bus to Dambatenne Tea Factory was nearly empty except for a coupled of workers and three Czech girls. Soon after leaving Haputale, the single lane road started gaining altitude slowly, while crossing a steep slope that soon got covered by extensive tea plantations of a boosting green. Some 30 minutes later we reached the factory and could visit it following the procession flow at the end of which we could see the family of teas produced in Sri Lanka: Darjeeling, Assam types, even though one would assume as Indian brands, were among the others. "Globalization", as one of the Czech girls put it. Of the qualities produced on the estate, the lowest went to the local market, while the better went to foreign markets, according to the strength each of them required or was used to. I needed some fresh air, so I started walking up the paved road that zig-zagged on the gentle slopes above the factory. That seemingly endless mass of green took turns at being quiet and vibrating of tea pluckers' low key singing. They all greeted the stranger in a warm, yet simple and honest way, while not expecting back anything except for some schoolchildren asking for pens. I had not heard that question since my trip to Yemen more than 5 years before.

The walk up was easy and pleasant, while the view from the top, known as Lipton's Seat - relaxing -, as I found myself on the peak surrounded in endless, thick mist. Rickshaws carrying foreigners soon started to arrive to their great disappointment as there was no view to enjoy. I started walking down, to find the tea plucking Tamils having a meal break along the road. I got back to Haputale on a van carrying fresh onions to the local market and, after my first masala chai in Sri Lanka - it was strange I only then realized I had missed it so much - I got my backpack from the guesthouse and stopped by the station to inquire about the train schedule to Ohiya, wondering in a dim voice whether I could leave the backpack with the train station master for a couple of hours, until the train arrived. The man came out of his office, unchained the platform gate and simply said:

"Here, you can sit here and take some rest."

Indeed, even though I had thought to get back to Haputale's buzzing streets, I instead decided to follow his advice and stepped in that quiet station with its perfectly preserved, century old station master's office including the period equipment and complete with a classical red phone booth on the first - and only - platform.

Going in a 3rd class wagon, with wooden benches and - thankfully - windows that most times could not be closed, was - as always in the lack of convenient, but blinding comfort - a supreme experience. Score children took turns at singing, respectively shouting (when the train was going through a tunnel), every single tiny spot was filled by people. The scenery from Haputale to Ohiya was dramatic, as the railway followed a forested ridge through a bird reserve.

I was just about to look for the "first small shop opposite the train station" that was supposed to have a couple of "rudimentary rooms" and then subsequently to start discussing with rickshaw drivers about early morning transport to the Farr Inn when they both came to me instead, as a mid-aged driver approached me upon getting off the train. He was keen on providing transport to the Horton Plains, yet I was keen on finding accommodation first. So he soon realized he had a room to spare and we both agreed the price he had asked for in the first place was not a realistic one, so we eventually settled it down from Rs 3000 for transport to and from the Farr Inn, accommodation, with dinner and breakfast extra, to Rs 2700 for transport, accommodation and meals. Some 5 minutes later I was listening to protected or unprotected birds' singing while sipping tea on his house's veranda facing an extensive forest.

It rained all night and the air was fresh in the morning. I entered the park gate at 06:30 AM, after paying the equivalent of USD 30 in taxes for myself, the vehicle and an odd service tax. The mist started dissipating with the dawn and we continued across a partly wooden plateau: the Horton Plains. Tall grass alternated with bushes and forest patches while, as we were the first visitors to enter the reserve that day, we almost ran into a flock of sambar deers that had come drink water from a stream near the road. The road ended at the Farr Inn, a former hunting lodge beautifully located in the middle of a clearing surrounded by dense forest; from there the wide and well trodden, 9 km. long trail started. Both the Little (or Mini) World's End and the main World's End were but the places where the plateau ended with steep, partly vertical, slopes ending in a deep valley some 500 m. below. Without being breath-taking i any way, the scenery was very pleasant and enchanting, while the break from the buzz not more than score kilometers away was welcome. And again, it was all fine until, close to the end of my walk, minibuses started arriving bringing in dozens of tourists, most of which would not see much unfortunately, as it was already too late and the mist was quickly settling down.

On the way back to Ohiya, Prasanna, the rickshaw driver, started singing different family-related songs where the simple lyrics message met a human, down-on-earth vocal emphasis. He then took me back to his house, as his whole family had returned from a trip to some distant relatives. And all members of his family (father, mother, himself, brother, three sons, brother's 17 year old wife and their son) were delighted to have their picture taken in smaller or larger groups, with different parts of the garden as background, with or without the dog or wearing a different shirt. It was moving to see that such a futile thing for some of us stirred so much interest and brought so much happiness to this family, half of which - on board of two rickshaws showed me to the station at the end (as both father and one of his sons were rickshaw drivers).

Getting third class tickets was a good idea again, both as I enjoyed traveling there and because the whole train, 1st, 2nd and 3rd wagons included, was packed. After getting on the train through the kitchen, I traveled in the dining wagon (actually more like a compartment, as the kitchen took more than half the wagon), together with two dozens of other passengers sitting on, between or under the tables, on or under their luggage. A drum and harmonica player that also took turns at singing added to the already familiar orange and snack sellers or beggars, as the train was crossing again a quite dramatic area, with endless steep slopes covered by extensive tea plantations. A quick walk across Hatton's central area and two bus rides took me to Dalhousie, the place where Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim and Christian pilgrims started their walk up the many stairs leading to the Sri Pada, a mountain they all believed someone else had left his footstep upon reaching or leaving the earth: Buddha, Shiva or Adam.

"We don't have available rooms, but we can find a solution: if you want, you can eat here and pay for food, and at 8 PM when everyone goes to sleep we shall arrange a mattress somewhere for you", the lady running the Green Guesthouse greeted me because, as always, I do not like making bookings. A sense of tranquility and peace lay in the air and I stuck to their garden and to a pot of tea. Walking up at 2:30 AM for the 3 AM start up seemed a bit strange in the first place , as I reached the top at 4:30 and the sunrise was at 6:30. The way up was however enchanting, with families of barefoot pilgrims, young school boys, trekking dressed foreigners, as well as monks were all forming a compact line of humans following the seemingly endless and ever steeper stairs up the mountain. The whole crowd would slow down or even come to a complete halt when the elder pilgrims needed a break. There were teahouses, roti and snack stands, as well as small temples on the way, but I did not feel like stopping.

"The view is great from up there, you can see the sun coming up from behind the wooden hills. Don't forget to look for Adam's Peak shadow on the hill opposite, it is very important" the guesthouse owner had told me.

Past a few monastic buildings, one reached the platform which had at its centre the rock bearing Adam's / Shiva's / Buddha's footstep. It was chilly, a light wind was blowing and the drizzle completed the picture. At around 6 AM, as the sunrise was getting near, the clouds seemed to disperse, with everyone crowding to hopefully see the first sun ray. Half an hour passed without a single noise, with everyone in quiet expectation, then they started the prayer. The sun did not show up, as the whole Eastern horizon line was engulfed in thick clouds. Yet the dissipating mist and the distant clouds created a filter which granted a magical touch to the whole view, with a dozen subsequent hill ranges at a distance and the light coming in fascicles, like on a stage.

As the mist was slowly settling in again and it was raining, people started going down. Upon getting back to Dalhousie, I went on to Hatton and then got on a crowded bus to Kandy. I had been reluctant about this town and its famous relic temple, yet I decided to stay there overnight so as to break a long journey. Past the typically vibrant bus station area, the town had initially developed on one side of a pond, pardon me, reservoir. The other 3 sides of the reservoir now looked like a fancy resort, with hotels, restaurants and fancy trinkets. The temple came to complete this bizarre image, with a larger than necessary structure, the lack of any sort of proportion sense especially with the addition of the new Thai wing and chaotic collection of items. Except for the otherwise very colourful and interesting old town full of small shops and buzzing of life, everything else in Kandy fitted the name perfectly: a supposedly exotic place just perfect for cruise ship passengers. A pity it did not lie on the coast. As for me, after feeding the local crows on the pon… reservoir shore, I went to bed and decided to leave early in the morning.

If the South and the highlands saw more independent travel, Dambulla and the ancient town area would see more groups. Past the grotesque, no, hideous Golden Temple, Dambulla's cave temple had interesting, if not repetitive statues depicting the Buddha and royalty. It was rainy and cool outside, hot, crowded and humid in the caves. The serene, pious atmosphere of the place was affected when a couple of monkeys decided to have sexual intercourse right in front of the entrance to one of the larger caves, to the amazement of foreign visitors; one wondered how they thought monkeys spread.

"Tonight is new year's and all buses to Sigiriya are crowded" the rickshaw driver warned me as an introduction to the glorious solution that he takes me there. The bus was indeed packed and canned, as they got in as many people there was physically possible, but most people traveled a very short distance, to the first villages past Dambulla. The town of Sigiriya itself was actually nothing more than a pothole-filled road almost flooded due to the heavy rains of the previous days, lined with shops, guesthouses and other businesses catering for tourists. But the rock fortress (well, arguably a fortress) was an outstanding place to be, with the view form the top embracing the land to the mountains around Kandy on one side, respectively submerging in endless, apparently impenetrable forests to the horizon line on the opposite side. The structure on the rock top, a former Buddhist temple, reminded one of the remains of a ziggurat if looked at from the lower part of the rocky plateau. At the same time, the frescoes at the intermediate level of the rock were simply amazing, with the very well preserved colour intensity. Down in the village through a heavy - but short - rain, the day (and year for that matter) ended in crickets', birds' and mosquitoes' buzz.

January 1st was - thankfully - just an ordinary day and I got on the 7 AM bus to the main road together with many children going to school. The bus change was quick and I found an available room at the first guesthouse I checked in Polonnaruwa. Visiting the various sites by bicycle was a pleasure, especially as - for the first time after a few days - it was sunny and hot. The ancient town was spread around a vast piece of land and the site was partly crossed by a major road, with next to no traffic except for that. Excellent stone carving details, from dwarf figures to zoomorphic patterns, a very relaxed and orderly town layout (even though not following geometrical rules like other master architecture plans of the same time with Polonnaruwa), as well as a prevalent peace prevailed throughout the site. It was interesting to end the day cycling through the countryside around town, with buses and trucks speeding up while passing 2 inches from me while a slow pace, totally different world began at the very road shoulder, one of poor, small houses, where time had a totally different meaning and course.

Changing buses at the Habarana junction, I got on one called "Faith Express" and watched a Bollywood movie as the bus was shaking from all joints due to the very bad road for the last section to Trincomalee. With its narrow streets bordered by single or two floor residences, rare cars and plenty of rickshaws, the town had a slow, relaxed and welcome life pace. There was no major attraction in town, except for the few Hindu temples, a Buddhist one and a blue church, but those small houses with wooden window shades, the quiet beach lined with colourful boats turned upside down, as well as the many friendly soldiers at various posts across town, eager to talk to the foreigner, all were a fine break from large or famous towns, not to mention there were next to no tourists around.

As I had already noticed on my first days in the country and as it was natural weather-wise, the bus station was not so busy in the afternoon and there no longer was a bus to Anuradhapura. So, after looking into all possibilities there were, I decided to go via Horowpothana. Soon after leaving Trincomalee, the road turned into a tearing apart ribbon of something that might have been asphalt some decades before. Villages - or any human presence for that matter (including army posts) - were scarce and long distance in between. The gaps were filled with jungle, flooded clearings, swamps and desolated fields where buffaloes and cattle shared the land with various birds, among which beautiful peacocks. It turned cooler as I got on the second bus, as the day was slowly coming to an end. There were frequent villages now, while many men and women were bathing in ponds or streams by the road. Traces of recent floods were omnipresent, with many houses being affected by the high waters, as the villages were located on hardly higher ground than the rice plantations or all the way swampy area surrounding them. Just like in Bangladesh, the demarcation between life and death was just a matter of inches and / or a few day's rain.

Before I knew it, I found myself in a pot full of noise, fumes, light and dust stirred by buses speeding along bumpy roads: I had got to Anuradhapura and, after arranging an early breakfast and a bicycle with the old man running the guesthouse, I was off to wash clothes, my filthy self and sleep. The old town was extensive indeed. The good side was the fact that several of its religious sites were still functional and the place did not feel more like a museum, like Polonnaruwa; thousands of pilgrims' prayers followed the visitor from the bodhi tree to the many dagobas around. Also, the fact that the town was older than Polonnaruwa and it had been devastated many times had resulted in a maze of sometimes partly flooded ruins one lost his / her way through, which turned it into a great experience. On the other hand, many decoration details had faded or had been destroyed and the traffic criss-crossing many parts of the site was tiring at times. I spent the afternoon at Mihintale, enjoying the remoteness and silence on the Et Vihara Peak with its vegetation-covered Elephant Dagoba providing fine views to rice plantations and endless forests that merged with the haze at the distance.

Sri Lankans' kindness was contagious, as they greeted one in the street, most times with no interest at all, just out of curiosity and courtesy. They were helpful, always smiling and even the frowning soldier at a checkpoint, ready to send me park the bike 100 m. away changed dramatically when approached with a smile and courteous greeting, with the usual questions about his well-being or duty. Rickshaw drivers, beggars, people selling various merchandise or cashew nuts at a bus stand and initially approaching one only for that, all seemed to forget the very reason they had come for and long discussions emerged which quickly passed the "where are you from, are you married, do you travel alone?" stage. Yet they rarely turned annoying, and most times one felt as if traveling at home and not a mere 7-8 hour direct flight (assuming there had been one) distance from home.

I needed backtrack to Colombo in order to get a permit from the Ministry of Defense that would allow me to travel up the A9 to Jaffna. The road to the capital was partly undergoing rehabilitation works and for pretty much of the remaining part it was plain bad; a lot of traffic completed the image as we approached Colombo. The city had woken up and one could never deny that. The streets in the Fort and Pettah quarters were filled with noise, merchants, customers, merchandise, heat, dust, music, an imam's call to prayer, while colonial architecture, Hindu temples and mosques were hardly noticeable under many billboards which granted the whole place fresh, bright colours. After applying for the permit and securing a seat on the Night Mail to Vavuniya, I continued my walk ending with the imposing British era commercial and administrative buildings. The vicinity of the Presidential Palace and other offices meant roadblocks and no-go areas. It was hot and the clouds had gone away, so that the strong sunlight made it all worse. A cool draught got my attention all of a sudden: a church. St. Patrick's, built at the beginning of the 19th century. I could not care less about history at that moment, the important part was that they kept most windows and doors wide open and it was cool inside. So I found shelter from the heat there, reading obituary ads on long deceased officers and relaxing for nearly 3 hours, until the caretaker turned off the lights and started closing the doors, as he was preparing to lock the place up.

The A9 permit in my pocket, I was just walking down the quay when a boy approached me:

"Do you remember me?"

It took me a while, but I then realized he was one of the guards at the Ministry of Defense and I had indeed greeted him upon going there to apply for the permit. He hardly spoke any English, but that did not matter. He was 21, coming of a rice farmer's family living near Anuradhapura. He made lightly over USD 200 a month working as a guard, but one could not ignore that joy in his eyes while talking about his family or home. I was to see that again later that day, when, while waiting for my train, another person came to me: the canteen wagon attendant I had briefly talked to in Trincomalee, when going to the railway station to see whether I had a train Anuradhapura a couple of days before. He only wanted to ask whether I was OK or he could in any way help me. And again, that joy of being what he was, there and then, that spark in his eyes.

Arriving early in the morning in Vavuniya, I woke up with a ginger coffee and realized the obvious: I stank, so I tried to find a guesthouse to have a shower and change before getting on the bus to Jaffna. Bad luck, they were full, locked or the only one that opened up and was available wanted to charge a night's stay. I therefore took my stench for a walk across town and then we both got on the bus to Jaffna. Past the checkpoint where they checked my permit, the road turned bad, pothole-filled or even into a piste at times. There were rare communities, several military bases, some children schools raised by international organizations, shacks that were trying to replace the no longer existent houses destroyed by war. Vast stretches of forest dotted by weed-infested clearings occurred every now and then. Past ruined houses, one could sometimes figure to the left the place the railway had once been; now there were only the mound on which the rails had been and the odd railway signpost. Jaffna welcomed the first time visitor with ruined, half destroyed colonial era houses and public structures some of which had been restored, a typically busy bus commercial area that hosted the bus station and plenty of energy.

I popped into a guesthouse, left my stench there and went to Point Pedro in country's most Northern area. It provided a great, relaxing spot, with those narrow streets, countless joyful children keen to show me to the lighthouse which was nowadays overshaded by a much taller mobile phone repeater, colourful boats on the beach and extensive road along the coast lined with irregular palm trees, palm leaf cottages and army bunkers hosting otherwise friendly soldiers. The military was actually part of the scenery up there, they had posts and checkpoints everywhere, at street corners, on the beach, in someone's backyard or vegetable garden, as well as in a locale's dark corner. One needed them to remember the fighting had ceased not long before.

It was late when I got out the following morning, the sky was clear and it was hot already, and furthermore I got on the wrong bus, which added to the delay and air temperature by the time I actually started towards Kurikadduwan. One suddenly exited the apparently madding crowd in Jaffna, passed by the not so obvious Dutch fort ruins and then engaged on a bumpy road along the causeway: this was how the journey began, while sitting next to an elder man which was returning to his village together with his wife and emigre son. He was one of the many people I was to talk to or simply notice which were coming back after the war, their eyes wide open to see whether the street, house or yard they had been familiar with was still there to recognize.

After crossing an island which hosted a couple of villages with the houses spread among palm tree groves and swampy or flooded areas, I reached the little dock located at the end of a street lined with shacks selling foodstuffs and souvenirs. An overloaded wooden boat made to stops: to the Buddhist and Hindu temples on Nainativu Island, so that pilgrims could get off according to their confession. As for the odd stranger, he / she got off at the former and then walked to the latter in the shy giggles of the many young men selling hats, sunglasses, Kik Cola and religious trinkets. The serene, relaxed setting of the Buddhist Nagadipa Temple, with its silver painted dagga placed in a garden-like green oasis was a fine retreat, while the chants and procession at the Naga Pooshani Amman Kovil, where would-be mothers went to pray and men could only enter shirtless, balanced it well.

The midday heat caught me on the way back to Jaffna and I decided to leave the town again, after a chat with a SLTD conductor I had asked in the morning about the Kurikadduwan bus and was now curious to see how it had all went. This time I managed to get on the right bus destination-wise, but it ran out of fuel on the way. With more hiccups and shakes than usual as the engine was using the last drops of fuel at the bottom of the tank, we eventually made it to a gas station so that the journey could continue and before I knew it I got off once on Karaitivu Island. There were few houses going Southwards on the island, but it all came to an abrupt end just before the stretch of water separating it from Kayts Island. Many destroyed, rusty boats were lined along the quay, while the wire-gliding, speedboat engine-powered, small ferry had a landing slot sandwiched between these wreckages. Lush vegetation allowed one to notice a vast area full of rubble, but with no standing wall:

"That used to be the Sinhala-inhabited quarter", a young boy told me after the familiar questions.

Once on the other side, the same wreckage lined the shore, while the village of Kayts could be described as half dead or half asleep. Every second or third house showed obvious signs of the fighting (like in "bullet holes" or "ultimate ruin"), there were very few people in the streets compared to the size of the village and the most obvious inhabitants seemed to be a dozen of audacious goats, a pack of stray dogs and the familiar crows above. People were more curious than ever and it took me a while to walk for 50 meters, while talking to virtually all those passing by me. A few shops, a "hotel" (i.e. basic restaurant selling roti, tea and samosas) where an image showing Jesus stood next to a Ganesh, a couple of craftsmen, two churches, some residential streets and twice as many ruined or destroyed houses, this was Kayts. Old colonial style houses with weeds popping off the windows or off the huge holes in their walls, newer villas which no longer had a roof or front wall, a once beautiful property which came complete with jungle and nowadays hosted cattle in the living room, the picture was of a harsh realism through its very appearing surreal, especially given local people's kindness and gentle curiosity.

I had some roti and tea in the company of the bus driver and conductor, then I returned to Jaffna as darkness covered it all, allowing only some hopeful light to be seen at a distance. Back at the guesthouse, while talking to Peter, the UNICEF - employed American I shared it with, I realized he had been the only foreigner I had noticed in the area: no tourists other than Sri Lankans, while when seeing me local people automatically asked whether I worked for some international agency. While on the whole the country was not rich, the North saw the worst roads and central government-run facilities, foreigners needed a permit to go to Jaffna and the army employed score thousands of exclusively Sinhalese at checkpoints and military posts just around every corner. A sense of occupation lay in the air, with President Rajapaksa’s image surveilling the living from every second wall or electricity pole, as he shook hands with high ranking army officials, waved to the people or simply smiled to the future.

It rained all night and the city streets had turned into small scale swamps. After visiting the extensive, refreshing Nallur Temple with its fine archway and chants, I got on a bus to NGO and UN agency - friendly Vavuniya. It took me a while to find an available room in a guesthouse, but at least I found one near the train station and could easily get on the early morning service to Colombo. After a night in Negombo's old world New Rest House, I left Sri Lanka hence completing a journey that had started 4 years before in Kathmandu. Upon getting back home, a friend asked me about the poverty and cleanliness of the country I had just returned from. Sri Lanka was indeed neither rich, nor proper by Western standards. But it needed not, as it had much more than that, deep within the people living there. They had hidden all richness there, inside themselves, from all colonists, from wars, garbage and poverty. As for Westerners which built their culture around the package and not the contents, they only took from Sri Lanka spices to make their meals tastier, yet they completely ignored the immense richness lying beyond the Cinnamon Gardens.