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Clove hitches

The worst deal in history involving cloves was undoubtedly when the Dutch exchanged a small settlement called New Amsterdam on the eastern seaboard of America for the British-owned island of Surinam, in order to access its spices, especially cloves. But we may have just experienced the second worst.

 

The weigh-in
The weigh-in

Picker in treeSpot the picker

 

We have four large clove trees. They last produced three years ago, they’re a bit temperamental like that, but decided to have another go this year. For those who don’t know, cloves are dried flower buds and you don’t need a degree in horticulture to know that this means there’s a short window of opportunity for picking them. Climbing trees is beyond us and our staff so it was a matter of finding some local lads, and quickly. The first candidates insisted on an hourly rate, irrespective of the amount of cloves picked. I wasn’t having that. I wasn’t born yesterday. Payment by weight or nothing. They decided on the second option and went away. Next day we found three more likely lads who were willing to be paid by the kilo. After some negotiation on price we agreed terms and up the trees they went, all the while watched by Martin sitting comfortably in a nearby chair. Keeping an eye on other people working is one of Martin’s two favourite jobs, the other being driving us to and from Kandy at breakneck speeds, with much jumping on the brakes. He was making sure that they weren’t sneakily throwing large parts of our crop over the boundary fence to their waiting pals. What he wasn’t doing, as he sat listening to his radio, was looking into the sacks to see they were actually full of cloves and not lumps of tree. The three lads duly turned up at our front door with heavy sacks and Martin in tow, armed with a weighing hook borrowed from the chicken farmer next door. The sacks weighed in at some impressive figure and I drew a sharp breath as we shelled out more than twice what I’d expected to pay, and off they went.

We still hadn’t checked the bags, and when we did we found that most of the weight consisted not of cloves but of leaves and twigs. Then I helped carry the sacks out to the back verandah for the cleaning process to begin, and it occurred to me that either I’d grown a lot stronger in the past few hours or the sacks didn’t weigh as much as we’d paid for. So out came the bathroom scales, whose main use hitherto has been checking the extent to which we’ve exceeded our hold baggage allowance on planes. Since you can’t read the scale with a sack of cloves (or a suitcase) on it, the method is to weigh (a) you holding said sack or suitcase (b) you on your own. Then subtract (b) from (a). Simples! And at this point we discovered that the chicken farmer’s scales were inaccurate, and not just by a bit but were registering nearly twice the actual weight. Double whammy. And we would advise the general public against purchases from our neighbour – needless to say, Trading Standards is a concept unknown in Sri Lanka.

cleaning on the veranda - Sally, Rani and Jake
Clean-up campaign  

The initial cleaning process took four of us two days. After the twigs and leaves have been removed the individual cloves have to be separated (they come in bunches). Only at this point can the drying begin. Our one stroke of luck was unbroken sunshine for the four more days it took to dry them out on the lawn. And of course the drying process shrinks the weight even further. Here are some cloves drying next to a clothes drier For goodness’ sake, please give over with these bloody puns!Cloves drying and clothes drier

Martin, ever the optimist like all Sri Lankans, says that if we hang on to the crop until June rather than selling it now, we’ll get over a thousand rupees a kilo. Which, according to my reckoning, will come to a little less than we paid the charlatans who picked it, not to mention the immense amount of time taken by us and our staff to get the goods into saleable condition. Or maybe I should just invest in clove futures. No, I wasn’t born yesterday, but probably the day before.

Postscript: Coronavirus-related panic buying in Sri Lanka. Panic buying is a cross-cultural phenomenon, stupid idiots not being associated with any one culture. But it can take different forms. In Sri Lanka the items of choice include turmeric and coriander seeds, both of which the locals seem convinced can cure COVID-19. Saves a lot on developing expensive vaccines. doesn’t it? And it occurs to me that if I can convince enough people that cloves also cure the dreaded disease we could turn our misfortune into a goldmine. Sadly, I do retain some principles of decency, though.

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Fascinating Ada

For some reason there is no English language TV channel in Sri Lanka despite English being commonly spoken and indeed the first language of some Sri Lankans. English language newspapers and magazines aplenty but nothing on TV. The best they can manage is a half hour English language news bulletin on the Sinhala news channel Ada Derana – where many of the adverts, incidentally, are in English. It’s on at 9pm and we tuned in the other night to catch a bit more detail and a Sri Lankan as opposed to BBC etc. perspective on what’s happening in the aftermath of the Easter Sunday atrocities.

The bulletin is proudly sponsored by the manufacturers of a toilet cleaner which might have given us sufficient pause for thought. But there was no time for contemplation as a young female newsreader launched into a breathless, staccato account of what the police and military had been up to all day. By the end of this ten minute tour de force we were also left panting. So much going on, so little time to tell it. Her producer must have had her injected with something which metaphorically turned the key to breaking point and set her off in her valiant attempt to keep up with an autocue set in triple time. Like one of those drumming rabbits that advertise a certain brand of battery.

The military and police had certainly been busy uncovering all kinds of things around the island. “Meanwhile, in Wattegama…”   yakyakyak “Meanwhile, in Batticaloa… “ yakyakyak “Meanwhile, in Kurunagela…” yakyakyak “Meanwhile in Matara…” yakyakyak  … and so on. Many exciting finds were reported and a few of them may even have related to terrorism. Rather more seemed to be crudely improvised petrol bombs and caches of knives probably put together by idiots seeking revenge on local Muslim communities but not terrorism as such. Some were buried and from the fleeting glimpses one had of them could well have been leftovers from the civil war that ended a decade ago. There were 12-bore rifles and ammo possibly belonging to farmers and hunters who didn’t have gun licences. My favourite was a bunch of spent cartridges dug out of a drain, presented with breathless excitement as yet another example of our security forces confounding terrorism. There were also finds of “clothing resembling army uniforms” i.e. the kind of faux fatigues easily available in many shops. But the impression one was left with was that army bases had been looted, or maybe that there were army insiders working with the terrorists.

Now I’m treading a careful line here. I am not belittling the possible importance of some of these finds, nor am I criticising for a moment the work of the security forces. My target is the ridiculous public presentation of their work, not the work itself. Ada Derana’s English news, wittingly or otherwise, contributes to a climate of fear and panic – as I imagine do its Sinhalese and Tamil counterparts – and studiously avoids any attempt to analyse or even contextualise its content. The remainder of the programme, although conducted at a more normal pace, consisted of statements by politicians, senior military and police commanders and the like. Sometimes informative but they were not questioned, just left to say their piece to camera before moving on to the next guy (all guys, needless to say). These statements were very crudely edited with obvious flashes and inserted words to create a short but followable narrative from what must have been much longer statements. The editing might have simply removed guff and verbiage; or it might have removed points that the channel or the authorities didn’t want to see made; or (for serious conspiracy theorists this one) could even have twisted the meaning of the statement to the opposite of what was meant. One simply cannot tell, but the technicals would probably not have passed muster in an average first year undergraduate film school class.

Ada Derana did not say that all or most of these findings were in mosques, but nor did it say that they weren’t. Result – an intelligent Sri Lankan we know concluded that the whole lot must have belonged to Muslims. I have no idea whether that is likely to be true since no-one tells us (my instinct is that it isn’t) but “news” presented like this, devoid of context, analysis or interrogation, actually serves to stir up rather than reduce inter-communal hatreds. On the ground, it feels very different. In Kandy – the only city I can talk about from first-hand knowledge – there is a high and very visible level of security, but all conducted with a commendable lightness of touch. It feels really safe, just as it always did in the war. But you would not reach that conclusion from either the Sri Lankan or world news media reportage.

The male presenter had disconcerting eyes and his left hand was on the desk performing a continuous squeezing motion. He might have been softening up some blu-tack for later use but I suspect he had a rubber bulb connected to a tube running below the desk through which he kept his female colleague pumped with a cocktail of amphetamines so she could keep up her Mach-2 delivery.

Anyone feel like starting up a proper English language TV station in Sri Lanka? There’s a huge market opportunity.

Mystery shopping

“O tidings of comfort and joy!” a friend texted shortly before Christmas. “Cottage Ham has reappeared in Keells supermarket”. ‘Cottage Ham’ is what Keells call their sliced ham, a pale imitation of what one can buy in any UK supermarket but manna to us expats. So off we all trotted to buy out the stocks and cause a further shortage. Cooked ham is but one example of a range of goods that mysteriously appear and disappear from the shelves of Sri Lanka’s three main supermarket chains: Arpico. Keells and Cargills/Food City, and the expat community regards it as a sacred duty to monitor their comings and goings, and to buy in bulk whenever these treasures put in an appearance.

Now I don’t know whether the ham is imported (which might explain the periodic shortages) but I do know that many of the other things that regularly do disappearing acts are locally produced. Since there is no discernible seasonal pattern to their presence and absence I am at a complete loss to explain why it is only sometimes possible to buy rhubarb (grown up in the mountains of Nuwara Eliya and thin gruel compared to its Yorkshire cousins but still very welcome); button mushrooms (grown in nearby Kurunegula and hardly seasonal); and most bizarrely of all, supermarkets frequently run out of coconuts for which Sri Lanka is justly famous and produces in biblical quantities. On one occasion following a prolonged button mushroom drought, we encountered a friend in Keells with a trolley loaded with button mushrooms. “Whoopee! They’re back!” we exclaimed but she, shamefacedly, admitted to having bought up the entire shelf, before passing two packs on to us to assuage her guilt. Local butter, produced in the hills of Kotmale and Ambewela, is sometimes available and equally often vanishes from the shelves for weeks at a time. Why? Does something happen to the cows? The imported New Zealand alternatives cost fully twice as much. Why are orange and mango cordials always available but our favourite, passion fruit, from the same range, only occasionally pops up? We shall probably never know.

But the deepest mystery of all concerns cling film. Sri Lanka is plastic-obsessed. The supermarkets all display signs asking customers to refrain from single-use plastic bags while their staff put everything into single-use plastic bags, staring in slack-jawed amazement if you ask that they desist. “But sir, the bags are free”. ”Yes, that’s precisely the problem”. Arpico is especially the home of all things plastic. It wouldn’t surprise me if their buildings are constructed from some form of plastic. There are shelves of plastic bags of all kinds, as well as aluminium foil, and an inevitably empty section labelled “cling film”. Meanwhile the staff in the fruit and veg area are busy in pairs wrestling with industrial sized cling film dispensers to wrap around anything larger than a peanut. But can you buy a domestic sized roll of the stuff? Only very rarely. And will they sell you the industrial sized rolls? Nope. We’ve taken to asking UK guests to bring out Tesco’s finest in their suitcases so we have some way of keeping leftovers fresh in the fridge.

In Jungle Tide we bake our own bread, so maintaining a supply of dried yeast is crucial. We usually have plenty in stock but in November a national yeast shortage struck and this went on until we’d completely run out by mid-December. Sally does not take such things lying down. She asked a staff member in Keells why there was no yeast. “All finish, Madam” was the predictable and uninformative reply, accompanied by the usual Sri Lankan grin and wobble of the head. “When is more coming?” “I do not know, Madam” (grin, wobble). “Then can I ask the manager?” “Sorry, manager not here” (grin, wobble). “Then who is the next senior person I can talk to?” “Ah, Madam, that is me”. “So can you tell me why there is no yeast?” “Yes, Madam, it is management decision.” (grin, wobble). “Why?” “I cannot tell.” So we left two full trolleys near the checkouts and stormed out in high dudgeon (expats tend to do these pointless things despite knowing better). The yeast returned after Christmas, and rumour had it that there was some kind of temporary national ban imposed to prevent the locals from brewing up too much festive hooch. But one never knows which rumours to believe in Sri Lanka. We managed to get some UK guests to bring out an emergency supply.

The mysteries continue to pile up. UK guests often offer to bring out Marmite, assuming we can’t get it here. But the shops are full of the stuff. However, Bovril is unknown. You can get Lea and Perrins easily, if expensively, but not English mustard (they have some horrific creamy concoction masquerading as it). Squeezy bottles of lime juice are easily available, but not lemon juice. Some common proprietary medicines are easy to find, others don’t exist. Thank goodness we run a guest house with plenty of European people passing through our doors, bringing us good cheer. I’m off for a ham and mustard sandwich. Happy New Year.

 

Did you mean Brixham?

This year’s UK peregrinations have so far brought us to Brixham, staying in a house swap which lacks a potato peeler, ironing board, bathroom bin and, most surprising of all, wi-fi but these deficiencies are more than compensated for by the ever-changing view over the busy harbour. Before reaching here, as one does, we were researching stuff to do, and being reminded en route of the vagaries of a certain well-known search engine. Because Brixham includes the letters B,R,I and X we’d expected the usual confusion with Brixton but no – our internet searching habits caused a different message to pop up:

Did you mean Brexit?

Just goes to show what political anoraks we must be. This gave me cause for reflection on Brixham and Brexit. Now I do not know how the good citizens of Brixham voted in the referendum, though I have dark suspicions, but however they did there is no doubt that Brixham and Brexit have a lot of connections. Brixham is the port from which our gallant prawn fishermen head out to annoy the French. It is the port where William of Orange landed in 1688, an event which initially might be seen as cementing the relationship of these islands with mainland Europe but which led, if one traces a tortuous historical route, to the DUP. Incidentally, according to a harbourside pub, King Billy was offered a pint of bitter when he landed – not, as one might have expected, orange juice. Or better still, gin and orange. The most prominent building on the quayside is a restaurant called Rockfish, which I surmise is named after Rockfish Rogan, erstwhile hero of boys’ comics and scourge of the Hun. In the harbour lies a full scale replica of Sir Francis Drake’s ship Golden Hind, dwarfed by several of the trawlers, to my surprise, but still a potent reminder of what we can do to the Spaniards when they get uppity. And where did the BBC’s Panorama visit recently to illustrate the issues around a no-deal Brexit? That’s right. We went on a mackerel fishing trip the other day and caught nowt. The skipper didn’t blame the mainland Europeans for our failure, however, but a megapod of bottle-nosed dolphin who have hoovered up all the fish in Torbay for the time being. Still, once we’re out of the EU we will have the right to ban bottle-nosed dolphin from our inshore waters. Won’t we?

Brixham has thrown up a few more surprises. They really seem to like marching bands here. Oompahs rise from unseen quayside locations every evening. And we seem to have landed in the middle of some kind of Beard Festival.

Did you mean Beer Festival?

No, you heard it right. The number and variety of ridiculous forms of facial hair all gathered in one small town can’t just be normal daily life, can it? And to my regret we arrived just too late to witness the annual trawler race, which must be quite a spectacle.

Farewell to Brixham tomorrow. Farewell to Brexit might take a while longer but at least our travels are taking us in the right direction, up eventually to remain-voting Scotland. And while the cavortings and lies of our two would-be prime ministers and the boorish behaviour of Brexit Party MEPs is just par for the course, I did feel vindicated at my decision – based on little more than a toss of a coin – to vote Green rather than Lib Dem in the EU elections when the Lib Dem contingent turned up at the European Parliament wearing the infantile slogan “Bollocks to Brexit” on their yellow T-shirts.

Did you mean pollacks to Brixham?

 

The Frightening Claptrap Office…

… should be what FCO stands for. By ‘eck I’m proper vexed by what they and their equally spineless counterparts in the US, Canada and Australia are setting out by way of advice to travellers following the horrific attacks in Sri Lanka on Easter Sunday. If you want to advance the cause of global terrorism under the guise of protecting your own citizens, what they are doing is a great way to go about it. People choosing to abort their Sri Lankan holidays in favour of another destination are exchanging a very small risk for a slightly larger (but still very small) one as the next terrorist target could be anywhere – but will probably not be a repeat performance in Sri Lanka. But governments are not particularly bright and we can only hope their citizens have and are prepared to use their mental and critical faculties when assessing FCO and other government “travel advice”.

Rather than go on about the advice specifically related to terrorist atrocities I thought I’d take a look at what else the dear old FCO has to say by way of advice to potential travellers to Sri Lanka. Advice which I assume has been on their site for quite a while and certainly predates the Easter Sunday bombings. So here are a few selected verbatim quotes from the FCO Sri Lanka travel advice, with my own comments added in italics.

  • “Organised and armed gangs … responsible for targeted kidnappings and violence … have been known to operate in tourist areas.”

Presumably there have been instances of such gangs operating in areas where tourists also visit (which is most of the island). But a Google search found no examples of any tourist having been attacked, kidnapped etc. by any “armed gang” in Sri Lanka. Ever. Context is everything. What on earth is the justification for putting out this piece of scaremongering without at least prefacing it by stating the truth that while there is a tiny possibility of this happening, so far it hasn’t happened to any foreign tourist?

  • “Operations to clear mines continue, particularly in the heavily mined area towards Elephant Pass.”

I assume this is factually correct but a Google search for “danger to tourists from landmines in Sri Lanka” brought up no results other than the above FCO advice. Once again, what justifies this decontextualized scaremongering?

  • “Feral dogs are common and sometimes carry rabies.”

The most recent report I found under a search for “confirmed cases of rabies in Sri Lanka” [NewsFirst.lk dated 21/9/18] reported that indeed 23 people had died from rabies in the previous year and 13 to date in 2018. None were foreign tourists. It also reported that there are over two million dogs in Sri Lanka. That suggests a probability that you’d need to suffer tens of thousands of dog bites to reach an odds-on chance of dying from rabies here. How does that figure compare with, say, UK road death statistics? I don’t know but it would provide useful context, wouldn’t it?

  • “Medical facilities are not always of a standard expected in the UK, particularly outside Colombo. Treatment in private hospitals can be expensive.”

OK let’s deconstruct this piece of advice. I can speak here from direct and indirect experience, presumably unlike the FCO official who wrote it. Sure, the facilities (i.e. the clinical environment) usually fall short of UK standards. However the FCO might have mentioned that the standards of medical care, treatment and surgery are at least as good as those you will find in the NHS. Expensive? Compared to what exactly? A guest of ours was unfortunate enough to contract a rare disease while on holiday in Sri Lanka a few years ago. Not only was he treated and cured in Sri Lanka, his GP back in Britain was astounded that the Sri Lankan doctor had been able to diagnose his condition correctly. We asked his wife whether their travel insurance had paid the costs. “We didn’t bother to claim”, she said. “The total amount was only a bit above our excess.”

  • “All regions of Sri Lanka experience outbreaks of the mosquito-borne dengue fever”.

As do all tropical regions. This is not a Sri Lanka problem and this ought to be made clear in the advice. The advice might also more helpfully add that the risks are higher in Colombo and on the coast and greatly reduced if you holiday in the hills. And that the dengue mosquito flies by day, so if you are bitten at night it might not be fun but you won’t contract dengue.

  • “There are ATMs in major towns and cities but not all of them accept international cards.”

Indeed – and there are ATMs in almost all small towns as well. You can have a great holiday in Sri Lanka avoiding major cities and still easily access your cash but few would conclude that from the above “advice”. And besides, it would be helpful to list the banks whose ATMs do accept foreign cards, wouldn’t it? [Commercial, Hatton, Sampath, HSBC for starters]. Or is the entire purpose of FCO “advice” to discourage rather than encourage foreign travel? Does that explain the depressing and relentless negativity of it all?

 

In solidarity with all the people of Sri Lanka, who depend on tourism. Please keep coming!

Happy New Year

Mid-April is New Year in Sri Lanka. They do like to be different. Both the Tamils and the Sinhalese share the celebrations, the ritualistic nature of which I struggle to get my head around. Something to do with the sun, moon, planets and horoscopes and with precise auspicious and inauspicious times. The practical effect is that the country more or less shuts down for a week, and a powerful lot of firecrackers are set off. It’s a very good time to leave the country, as I remind myself every year and promptly forget the next year.

As far as I am aware (which is not very far) Sri Lankans don’t allocate either numbers to their years (as in the west and Islam) or a cycle of names (as in China). I’ve never heard anyone refer to their birth year as anything other than the standard calendar. Though they are absolute slaves to their horoscopes as I’ve noted elsewhere. Romantic love counts as nothing if it is trumped by an inauspicious combination of star signs, and people delay moving house for a month in order to wait for the auspicious moment, whatever the practical and financial consequences.

I thought I would record in full for your amusement the schedule printed in last Sunday’s Sunday Observer – a reputable, almost dowdy organ which nonetheless appears to take all the mumbo-jumbo entirely seriously. Under a drawing of a sun with a grim-looking face is this column:

AUSPICIOUS TIMES

The inauspicious period

From 7.45am to 8.33pm today. All work should cease before 7.45am, and one should engage in religious activities.

Cooking meals

At 2.42pm light the hearth clad in yellow and red (bronze) facing the East. [It does not specify whether it is the hearth or the people that should be clad in yellow and red and face east]

Commencing work, transactions and partaking of meals

Today, April 14th at 3.54pm clad in yellow and red (bronze) facing the East.

Anointing with oil

April 17th at 7.40am, clad in green facing the East. [Does the type of oil matter? Brent crude? Three-in-one? Extra virgin?]

Leaving for work

April 18th at 4.52am, clad in green facing the East.

The more alert among you will have noticed that this schedule might prove problematic. Having no-one doing work of any kind from 7.45am to 8.33pm, albeit on a Sunday, might just bring the country’s infrastructure to its knees. Any food eaten must be cooked just so between 2.42pm and 3.54pm or there could be consequences in terms of food poisoning or just really tough chicken thighs and burnt vegetables. And woe betide those folk who live to the east of their workplace as they have to travel to work facing backwards. Bad enough if one walks but potentially disastrous if one drives. And if the posture is required to continue once one reaches one’s place of work – well, I think I might avoid taking a westbound bus on the 18th. Though I do intend to be up early to watch our staff turn up at sparrow’s fart clothed all in green-oh.

 

More from the wacky world of tuk-tuks

The Kandy Tuk-Tuk Philosophers’ Club seems to have been turning its attention to matters of fatherhood recently. These three were spotted during the same week:

IF YOU ARE DEAD I AM DAD

NO RACE DAD CASE

IF YOUR BAD I AM IN YOUR DAD

Plus a contender for the “Spot the Missing Words Round” of some quiz or other:

I CAN’T THINKING YOUR KISS

And a couple of signs on buildings in the city. One institution scarily advertises its function as “Predatory Mite Breeding Centre”. I think the authorities should take note and close it down forthwith. And another building boasts a plaque commemorating “Centenary of Excise Department 1913 – 2012” – I assume they deducted 1% for duties.

 

A trip to Kotmale

Sunken Buddhist temple, Kotmale -1

Until the other day Kotmale was mostly known to me as a brand of dairy products. Sure, I knew it was a place, and roughly where – off the Kandy to Nuwara Eliya road on the right. And that it had a dam and an impressive reservoir behind it (two, as it turns out, but I hadn’t known that). I’d never guessed what a fascinating place it is, for connoisseurs of off-the-beaten-track Sri Lanka which is a large part of what Jungle Tide is about.

It started with a conversation with our insurance agent Chandima who, like many professional Sri Lankans, leads a double life – suited and booted for the day job but with a completely unrelated sideline or two. He rocked up unannounced one afternoon with his cousin Kelum in a battered jeep, announcing that this cousin offers guests safari tours and Kandy city tours. There being no safari parks within a day’s ride of here, and Kandy city tours being ten a penny (and I’d personally choose either a tuk-tuk for fun or a nice comfortable car but not an ancient jeep with lousy sight lines) this wasn’t a promising start. But as he elaborated his sales pitch a couple of ideas piqued the imagination. One was an overnight camping visit to the Veddha village and reservation near Mahiyangama which sounded as though it might involve a more culturally sensitive and appropriate encounter with the Veddha people than the frankly embarrassing one we underwent three years ago. Though we’re not yet convinced.

The other was a range of day and half-day trips to see the various sights of the Kotmale area, about two hours’ drive from Jungle Tide – not far by Sri Lankan standards. The full monty day trip included hiking, mountain climbing and waterfall scrambling which we’re a bit too decrepit for, though we’d love some younger guests to test it out for us sometime. But we decided to try out the half day trip as we were especially keen to see a couple of ruined temples which emerge from the reservoir in the dry season – the last remnants of a large village which was evacuated when the dams were built in the early 1980s. If you’re from Sheffield, think Ladybower (if you’re not, ignore that last bit). The rains having just begun, this was almost the final opportunity before next February to see the temples.

On the way we were treated to a walk down to a riverside ‘bathing place’ where half a village seemed to be engaged in laundry activity, then on to see and photograph the ‘Foolish Bridge’, so called because it was assembled off site and then erected upside down by mistake, the guard rails suspended towards the river. The railway line it was supposed to carry was never built and though I’d like to think the bridge has been preserved as an allegorical monument to the folly of humankind I suspect the real reason it’s still there is that no-one could be bothered to take it down, and now it’s become a minor tourist attraction.

Foolish Bridge

Further upstream there is a very scary-looking suspended rope footbridge which we gave a miss to, then the main dam. Visitors are allowed to walk on the dam and take photos but it’s still guarded like a military installation and the ticket office is a 1km there-and-back walk from the dam itself, for reasons that only a Sri Lankan could understand. Our driver went off to get our tickets, though, and through the army checkpoint we passed and on to the very impressive dam, passing a series of notices forbidding various activities on or near the dam and, as a final catch-all clause, one simply saying ‘Behave Yourself’.

Kotmale Dam

The temples are reached by a longish but easy path from the road a couple of kilometres upstream, passing en route an abandoned factory in the jungle which we were assured used to manufacture false eyelashes. There are two temples, side by side – one Hindu, one Buddhist. Little remains of the Hindu temple. Whether because there was less to start with or because it has suffered worse from watering and weathering I couldn’t say. But the Buddhist temple, unremarkable from its rear wall, was astonishing from the front. One of the most haunting places I’ve been to. Chandima, who’d come along with his cousin for the ride, told me that no attempt is being made to preserve either ruin and they are both gradually disappearing. Whether this is an act of deliberate policy or simply negligence I don’t know, but a part of me quite likes the idea of not preserving everything, letting some things just go their own way as the elements do their work.

Sunken Buddhist temple, Kotmale -2

We left to the accompaniment of thunderclaps and reached the jeep as the first drops of rain began to fall. Soon the temples will be beneath the water again for another nine months. And to round the day off we impressed Chandima and Kelum by showing them a route back to Jungle Tide which was not only far more scenic but shaved twenty minutes off the journey time. When you know back routes that drivers are unaware of you begin to feel like you’re a proper local.

Kotmale Reservoir