Footloose in Sri Lanka

Breakfast in the breezy open air. Orderly guest contact with cutlery and crockery. Suddenly, semi-chaos. A cheeky crow has arrived, keen to share the scrambled eggs and sausages. This is where a smiley Mr Antony Jeeva comes in. His brown belted uniform and peaked cap convey authority of the more genial kind.

His job as “crow chaser” at my hotel in Colombo, the Sri Lankan capital, is to ensure enjoyment of meals in peace. I ask for permission to photograph him. “Of course,” he replies with that sideways-nodding gesture that is such a charming part of verbal exchange in Sri Lanka and its huge neighbour, India.

A regular guest explains: “Mr Jeeva has been on duty here about a year. He has a laser, as you may have seen. That red dot is meant to frighten unwelcome crows. If the laser does not complete the task, he uses his catapult. He must be careful with that function, but the clients here are the most important consideration. The brown uniform, you ask? This was once worn by police . . . in the days when we were Ceylon.”

Catapult? Most people in Australia say “ging” or “shanghai”. In the United States, it’s a slingshot. Sri Lanka’s British linguistic legacy is only one of its cultural threads. There have also been Dutch and Portuguese colonial periods.

After the first stroll on my 10-day solo holiday in the country, I find that smiling is virtually the national pastime. I understand entirely why visitors and holidaymakers join tour groups, but I prefer planning my own transport and accommodation. It’s simple fun. My other story (alongside this) on Sri Lanka, an island slightly smaller than Tasmania, offers tips on reaching A from B or C.

Wherever you are, in order to launch or extend a conversation, just mention cricket. I reckon this applies to most local male English speakers between nine and 90.

My itinerary encompasses three nights in Colombo, and two each in Tangalle, Galle, and a small west coast town, Negombo, just north of the capital and very near the island’s main airport.

For me, at 76, this is the first visit to Sri Lanka. The aim is eager engagement buttressed with caution. The capital has much to offer, as any good guidebook attests, but I am not heading for temples and galleries. I seek out Colombo’s post office workers, sellers of coconut milk, and owners of modest cafes where bottled water shares shelves with lemonade.

All these samples of ordinary metropolitan existence are within walking distance of my hotel, the Galle Face. On the enormous seaside lawn outside its entrance are large metal baskets where everyone is encouraged to put waste plastic. A sign of this nation taking environmental awareness seriously. If you want to buy bananas, or a pizza, there’s a mall-type shopping centre nearby. Got the wrong plug for your charger, as I have? Go to IPRO TECH, level five, Galle Face mall.

My next overnight stop is Tangalle, on the far south coast. In advance I have heeded the recommendation of a Perth friend who stayed at a rather luxurious rural spot called Villa Don Hendrick, owned by Raf and Harold, who years ago left home in Belgium to settle in Sri Lanka. Their villa’s swimming pool and delicious breakfast please me, yes, but there is an extra helpful touch: the owners lend a mobile phone to ease guests’ return from a visit to town, beach or wherever. On my full day there I make my way to a beach bar and watch the waves. But how to get back “home”? Easy. Even a techno-challenged grump like me can use a borrowed phone. The villa’s regular driver finds me at the appointed time.

Galle, a major town west of Tangalle, has an old section — the fort — that is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It’s a marvellous mix of old buildings, including churches from colonial times. No other town in Asia, citizens claim, has such intact treasures from across centuries. There’s a lighthouse, a mosque . . . and in Church Street you can find a pharmacy and library, as well as cafes and shops.

By the seawall at the bottom of Church I rest under a shady tree, with a fresh orange juice, and reflect on the incalculable worth of heritage. Galle took a fearful battering from the tsunami of December 2004, but the restoration has become one more reason for pride.

Go on, I defy you to get through a Galle visit without someone mentioning a particular name. Muttiah Muralitharan. It’s not an easy name to pronounce, but for almost two decades this Sri Lankan cricketer’s performances were even more difficult for Test batsmen facing his off spin bowling. He took a world record 800 Test wickets. The late and much lamented Aussie Shane Warne scored only 708.

Negombo, my final two-night sojourn, also has a fort in its oldest part. Built by the Dutch and eventually turned into a prison. Near the entrance, boatmen who have unloaded their daily catch at the fish market are mending nets when I sit to watch. Even the women waiting to visit jailed menfolk return my smiles. Take my word for it: Sri Lanka has not always been peaceful, but these days it has the capacity to soothe as well as send spin.