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Soon a stage will spotlight dancing girls in saris. The British may have left Ceylon in , but the locals have been celebrating ever since, throwing huge euphoric parties each year on 4 February — Independence Day. At the same time, history has been amended. The country is Sri Lanka again, its name in ancient epics like the Ramayana. And school children like to tell a fanciful tale that casts the British as pea-brained teachers: they came, taught cricket, and the Sri Lankans allowed them to stay only until they could be beaten at their own game. Then they were asked to leave. Such a story presents colonialism as a toothless anecdote, but it also reveals something about how Sri Lankans want to be seen by the world today — as shrewd, self-reliant, and equal to the larger powers. This is a country that has endured centuries of foreign rule. More recently was the tsunami, the greatest natural disaster in living memory. The quarter-century civil war has taken even more casualties; though it officially ended in it leaves an ethnic fissure that is yet to heal in the battered north. Sri Lanka is like a patient who has spent decades in the operating theatre, occasionally flat-lining. Travellers often beeline for Colombo after landing at the airport. But a better introduction can be found slightly north, at this shaggy beach town of Negombo. It sets the scene perfectly, on Independence Day or any day at all — the laid-back lifestyle, the gaudy colour palette, the fragrant tang of cardamom and cumin drowned in coconut milk. Negombo slows the heartbeat to Sri Lankan speed, a necessary adjustment, because travelling here takes a lot of time. Partly this is because the beaches are so hard to leave. Travelling south past Colombo and Galle all the way to wind-swept Tangalle, this coastline is postcard Sri Lanka, with languorous palms, crab curry, and dark crows circling above white dagobas. To reach it from the south I board a bus in Tangalle, change at Wellawaya, and rumble up a vertigo-inducing series of switchbacks. Ella is perched at the top, gazing down on the blue coast through a gap in the mountains that creates a natural frame. People rush past with umbrellas held above their suitcases. You can trust your luck to traditional hotels, scouring the internet; or you can allow yourself to be swept along on a current of suggestions, spreading money to the people who need it most. The driver takes me to his friend S. Namal Priyantha, who runs the aptly named Great View Inn, a modest but comfortable addition to his family home. As Priyantha points out the hot water and mosquito net, his little girl delivers tea with barely suppressed ecstasy. She lifts the lid off the sugar and explodes into giggles. I draw a map of Australia in their guestbook. Often the infrastructure of travel separates visitors from the local people; the tourist exists in a sort of parallel world. Sri Lanka is different: you can find the thick of everyday life with very little effort here. This is how I end up at the Dowa temple with its year old Buddha etched into stone; and an Ayurvedic spa called Suwamedura, where a man rubs coconut oil into my head as the lights fritz again over images of Shiva. Priyantha also recommends Haplewatte Tea for a tour of the factory and a taste-test. It would seem grotesque were it not hilarious, like a museum lost in translation. Most everywhere else the Sri Lankans have taken the British legacy and created something new. In Haputale, just before Nuwara Eliya, the tea factories remain the driving force of town — but it is a thoroughly Sri Lankan town, like a ramshackle bazaar with stray dogs sunbathing in the middle of the road. But the things I like most are the tunnels, which Sri Lankan children treat as a game: they lean out the carriage doors and scream. We clear the tunnel and the children howl with laughter, running down the aisle. A man walks past selling curried prawns and peanuts. The train through Hill Country was originally intended to transport tea for trade, terminating in Colombo. Eventually we land up in Dalhousie, a carnival sideshow masquerading as a town. Everything else unfolds like a vivid dream. Sri Pada looms above, a single vein of light illuminating steps. Surrounded by old women and monks in saffron robes, it takes more than six hours because the staircase narrows dramatically, causing a bottleneck of devotees. But there are teahouses to rest in and a buoyant atmosphere. By the time the sun rises, spilling gold, I am high above the cloud-line crouched in silence. Everybody makes the journey together. In a way this feels like Sri Lanka summed up: stunning diversity crammed into a single small space. And it reminds me later of something I read in an old guidebook. Clarke, the British novelist who lived in Sri Lanka until he died. But if you are interested in people, history, nature and art — all the things that really matter — you may find, as I have, that a lifetime is not enough. Places change over time, but when it comes to Sri Lanka that sentiment seems both vital and true, particularly now, as the sun rises higher and this tiny island shaped like a teardrop comes into its own again. How to get there Singapore Airlines flies toColombo daily with a transit inSingapore. When to go Much of Sri Lanka experiences only a wet and dry season. The best time to travel on the south coast and around the Hill Country is between December and May. Otherwise try these options. Affordable: Great View Inn: modest but comfortable home-stay with a local Ella family. Luxury: The Last House: final architectural masterpiece by Geoffrey Bawa offers a private seaside escape. Where to eat The best food can be found in home-stays and nondescript local eateries. Be sure to try kothu rotti, curry, string hoppers and short eats. Otherwise try The Hill Club — a hit-and-miss European cuisine but an entertaining time-warp with friends. Perfect for breakfast. Near Ella, the little-visited Dowa Temple is home to a year-old Buddha carved from stone. Water the bodhi tree and light a candle. Best thing about Sri Lanka Sri Lanka rewards curiosity. You should know Australians require an Electronic Travel Authorisation to visit Sri Lanka, which can be obtained in advance. Female travellers can be hassled here. Advances almost never go beyond catcalls, but women should exercise caution, particularly in the evenings. The country grinds to a halt on poya full moon days, when alcohol is prohibited and many businesses close. Avoid climbing Sri Pada on a poya day. Sri Lanka is currently booming as a travel destination. This means ballooning prices as local vendors push the limits of what people are willing to pay.

Sri Lanka: Beyond curries and colonialism

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RSS Feed. Poems Prose. Poems Short-Stories Non-Fiction. Mirissa D. As a child, doctors told Mirissa that she would live in a nursing home, confined to a wheelchair, crippled by pain. Instead, Mirissa uses her medical experiences to inspire others, living each day with a passion to spread pain-free smiles through her dental work, writing, improv comedy performances, and nonprofit work with children. As though this woman was always screaming in joy and in pain, in hope and in lines at the grocery store. Of course, she, too, would be screaming at the time of her murder. But not in the way a lover screams out ecstasy at the touch of a hand, or in the way a child screams out for her mom, lost in a crowd at the mall. She ran across a busy street, screaming before her boyfriend. In terror. On Pepperwood Avenue. When we know only her name. Not her face or her hair color. Not her job, or if she was a student. When we know nothing matters. Except she was screaming. Except she was dead. A gun modifies terror. A call for police modifies a scream. On Monday through Friday. Or how she fell in love with a man on the edge of suicide. Or that blood was necessary to modify a murder. The relationship ended. With no reason except her twenty-six years summed up in one scream. She was a woman. He was Austin McQuade. Found dead in their home, soaked red in her exhale. And there never are suspects to modify a scream. We just stop feeling. I turn the radio up to listen to a track I never understood. I never liked. Played the dozenth time, it sounds alright. Enough to bounce my head. Enough to hear the conversations around me. How they no longer sound cold, and no longer sound real. In this world. Her face is straight. The song can play without her mourning, too. Watching thousands collide with a plane in another dimension, hearing dozens implode with a bomb. She tunes it out: the single so monotone she now nods her head. Or another life lost. Or another sun set on this new they call normal. The smoke never does stop rising from a blaze. But when the clouds become ash, the smoke starts to look plain. This is where we will find ourselves at the end of the chapter - cradled in bed, your thoughts above my chest, your words wrapped around my hands. I let my thumbs slide across your empty margins. You and I - the only two looking out. From the height of my pillow two seagulls take flight. Three immigrants land. You go on rambling and I go on listening. I know what vibrancy you carry. I know the size of the line space between your quote and my thumb. I see your face on the jacket. They list your name, and your face in honorable mention — nominee for the national book awards. Of this ending year. Recognized in your genre of reprinted truth. Lost to a story. I open the pages to the image of you, my protagonist, painted in simile, reflected in prose. Congratulating your whisper, as I end chapter four.

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