North and a little further North

The North of the country is a lesser travelled road, or at least it is according to our seven year old Lonely Planet guide book that since travelling to the region, was noted to be haplessly out of date, inaccurate and if I’m honest just plain speculative in places. This is to be understood however, as at the time of print the war was just coming to an end with the Sri Lankan Army (SLA) having ‘killed’ all of the leaders of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, and the forces being on the whole disbanded and scattered. With all of this in mind, we were unsure as to what we would be finding when we arrived. Carcasses of buildings? Burnt neighbourhoods left to crumble to rubble? Swathes of poverty stricken families? Most of these ideas that we concocted are those so frequently seen in the media, that depict countries in the years that follow prolonged conflict, in their forlorn state, struggling to rebuild after so much turmoil.

Bright, fresh, lush, and dare I say, modern? These are the first smattering of adjectives that roll out when I think of Jaffna now. It was incredible. Make no mistake, there are relics of the war everywhere, with a burnt church no less than 50 metres from our hotel, but it seems as though the resilience and the desire to just move on, and begin anew is of the essence in the life of the northern people. My inquisitive mind pondered. Where did they get the money for that brand new Toyota Prius? Rows of houses that wouldn’t look a dot out of place in the boxwood lined Cheshire suburbs? Was it the government? So I asked. I didn’t need to seek people out, as they came to us. Group after group would pass us by and stop, milling around aimlessly, building the courage to ask for a selfie. It seemed mild celebrity status would follow us around everywhere. When I asked a group of young lads where all of the money was coming from, supporting the affluence in this area, they (and others) spoke of how in the north, both following and during the war, families had fled to Europe, Canada, Switzerland etc to escape. Many have since returned with the exception of the young who are now skilled workers, professionals and tradesmen all occupying jobs in the strong currency of other countries and are posting the bounties home, allowing the families to grow and rebuild.

Now, onwards to a slightly lighter note. We had made it our mission to visit the most northerly point of the island, having already visited the most southerly. Gotta catch ’em all, right? The name of the tip was Point Pedro, and it was a 25 km bus ride across the peninsula to reach it. Once we arrived, we then had a further 3.5 km walk along the coastline to reach our destination. I have to admit, there wasn’t really much about it once we got there. A simple sign, an Indian family who had beat us to the mark in an air-conned mini bus, and a rather penetrating aroma from all the fish that had been laid out to dry in the sun. We sat a while, took a picture or two before wandering back along the road and settling down for a short rest with a group of young fisherman who beckoned us over that were having a game of rummy, although not the version we know!

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As with most of our trips to an area, we had a three day stint. It usually consists of: an evening arrival, used to plan and do a quick recce of the tourist spots, a day of ticking off as much of the list as we can, followed by a quick trip to something major in the morning before jumping on our connection to the next town. So being at stage 3 of that process in the current story in Jaffna, we had a few hours in the morning before our next bus south, to visit a temple. The thoroughly impressive Nallur Kandaswamy Hindu kovil (temple) is one of the largest in the north and we arrived quite early to catch the morning puja or prayer. The sensory experience was everything I had hoped for, with bright flowers and dashed coconuts as offerings, waif and wizened gurus deep in thought and prayer and incense washing around on the hot breeze running through the temple. I got a little more of that breeze than was expected as it is necessary for gents to remove their shirts, my pasty torso looking like the Mentos in amongst the Minstrels.

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We left for Mannar shortly after the temple, hitting the road during the heat of the midday sun. The north is very hot at the moment, reaching 35 punishing degrees in the midday with the sun being so high in the sky that finding respite from it often proves difficult. We’re always sorted for hydration and protection before any of you protective oldies get onto us about it!

Mannar is a small island located two thirds of the way up Sri Lanka on the west coast. It is connected by two bridges, one for vehicles and one for trains. Both newly constructed having been damaged during fighting. Our draw to go there came from a number of sources. We’d heard about it from a local, Asker, whom we met on the train during our Anuradhapura leg, we’d seen a little about it at the fort in Jaffna, it is the most westerly point in Sri Lanka, and also, we had time. Many people seem to miss it, as if I’m honest, there isn’t a massive amount there. It was an important location during the war as it held a strong strategic position, being so close to India, that it was an area of constant fighting. It houses a ruined, bullet hole strewn Dutch fort, now occupied by the SLA boxing team, a number of kulams (ponds) and a large host of wild donkeys, about three thousand in all.

We met a team of charity workers in our hotel who invited us to the closing ceremony of their project, which was to rejuvenate and restore the kulams, as they are being filled in by locals who want to build on their sites and are also used as rubbish dumps. Once filled, they remove the drainage abilities of the heavy rains and have caused increased amounts of flooding in the area as their numbers have dwindled from hundreds to tens. The event itself was a blast, with us arriving in style (see below). We watched a game of *kabaddi, a game that involves two teams basically trying to ‘tag’ each other, but this can come in the form of a kick or punch if desired. It’s a brutal sport but is thrilling to watch, and more confusing to understand. We met at the party one of the brightest youths of our journey so far, Kavi, aged 16. Apparently Kavi is a very talented singer, but wouldn’t drop the mic when we all tried to make him do so, but instead treated us to hushed verses on the walk home. We spoke with him for hours, recommending sci-fi films, music, and also treating him to his first ever chicken burger, only being slightly amused when he asked exactly how* to eat it. He also shepherded us home, frightfully afraid I would be mown down by a tuk tuk as I stared at my phone walking down the street. Bless.

We had ticked off our most westerly point challenge with a trip to Talaimannar, a reasonably long bus journey from Mannar and another 3 km walk to the west point. After reaching the point we headed back along the coast, as on the way there we’d been given a lift by a local biology teacher on our walk up the road. So just to make sure we got our daily dose of exercise we took the scenic route back. It wasn’t quite the scenery we’d hoped for, as passing a fishing village we’d found the coastline there to be littered with bits of old equipment, huge piles of shells, fish carcasses, a stillborn calf, the bottom two thirds of a snake, and countless dead jelly fish. I think this may have been down to a reasonably strong looking pollution of the water, on what was otherwise, quite a potentially stunning beach. We got to within about 800m of the town before being greeted by a barbed wire fence. separating us from the pier we had been aiming for. Turns out the area I wanted to cross, according to the charming Navy soldier in the watch tower, was littered with unexploded mines. Being as fond of our limbs as we are, we took a walk back up the beach before cutting inland into the mangroves and palms and cut down a winding, sandy road through the undergrowth. Gemma’s silence and heavy nose breathing pointing heavily to the fact she didn’t believe this area was mine free, despite my reiteration of this fact and thrice checking it was safe with the Navy soldier. Still, we made it back to the road intact (moral victory claimed) and walked only a short way before our favourite biology teacher happened to be passing again. Whether or not he was just doing laps around the road looking for us or it was just another happy coincidence I’ll never know, but the air conditioning and introduction to his now present in the vehicle, wife and son was pleasant and refreshing.

Our stay in Mannar was pleasant, enlightening and friendly. The Tamil people are bright, welcoming and happy. Everyone is your friend, and learning a little of their language opened up hours of conversation, with many a party wanting to exchange details and keep abreast of our travels. We have loved our time up here but now another coast is calling us. With that we will pack the bags and begin what is to be the most arduous journey of our trip so far, a morning train, an overnight train, and then a 5.30am bus that takes around 5 hours will lead us to Arugam Bay and the home of surf and easy east coast vibes. Spoiler alert. Don’t expect me to be cheerful after that journey.

Go West

Mannar Fort boxing ring

Arriving in style to the party

Kabaddi game, blood was drawn and a knee was knocked

Kavi in borrowed glasses, looking every bit the hipster musician. His ‘uncle’ Jeremy to the left, arranger of the community project

Watching the play about keeping the kulams clean