Day One

6/22/2010
After thirty plus hours in the culturally acceptable hell formerly known as commercial air travel, complete with in an in-flight curry and fish dish and an immovable gray box where my feet should have been for twelve hours, I landed in Colombo, Sri Lanka on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 22nd. I met a man at the airport who was to send me on my way down to the town of Galle, where I was staying. It turned out that there was another volunteer coming in on a flight about an hour after mine and so I attempted to kill time by reading in the waiting area of the airport. A sharp headache quickly ended that and I resigned to watching a game of cricket on a big TV in the middle of the room. Maybe it was the pain in my head or maybe the cultural divide but I could not for the life of me understand how it works. My best guess is an ancient form of country club baseball in which no one ever really strikes out, but every once in a great while hits a ball in any number of directions around the circular field and then may or may not choose to run from one set of funny looking sticks to the other. This run only takes only a very short time and never seems to be celebrated in an enthusiastic manner. By comparison, the coverage would occasionally zoom in on the pitcher’s face and show him screaming to the heavens in joy over some glorious pitch he had just thrown. I am not sure if the game ever ends.

The other volunteer arrived and we set off to the curb with the man who met us, hoped into a good sized van and were off to Galle, traveling through what would seem the entire length of Colombo. It was an endless stretch of the shops selling everything imaginable – breads and sweets, car parts (transmissions here, tires over there, engines down the block), rice and curry for one hundred rupees (less than a dollar), furniture, fish and occasionally a pharmacy. About a quarter of the shops at first glance appear to be selling mobile phone service but really they just get their name on a sign whose backdrop is for the major national mobile company, a nifty form of advertising not unlike what beer companies do at second rate bars in the states. At an intersection in the middle of Colombo, the man from the airport hoped out leaving us with an unnamed driver and the promise that he would take us to our destination. Fiona, my fellow volunteer from Ireland who while well traveled, was on her first solo trip exchanged a look of hesitation with me, but before we could think much of it we were again gunning down the lawless streets.

Driving here follows several very basic rules. First of all, that un-solid line dividing lanes of traffic is really more like a guideline or reminder that someone once thought it would be a good idea to have two lanes of traffic going in the same direction. The reality is that if you see any amount of space between cars ahead of you, you are obliged to thrust your vehicle forwards and fill that space, basically the automotive version of the old saying, “If we all push and shove we will get there a lot faster.” Second, the tuktuks - three wheeled taxis where the driver sits in front and up to three can jam into the back bench are second class citizens. They are slower than you and thus you must cut them off and pass them at every chance you get. The third rule for city driving is that you shall ignore motorcycles. They are smaller and more nimble than you and as such will move if in your way. I have yet to see one not move. When you finally pass level one and exit the city you enter the daredevil world of two lane driving. The same rules as before apply with one addition – if you think you have room to pass the next guy ahead, you do. Doing so may involve coming dangerously close to running a tuktuk off the road or being pulverized by a larger vehicle but just remember, you are in the hands of a trained professional earning more than ten dollars an hour.