Sri Lanka is a beautiful and wild place, especially when you venture beyond the popular touristy spots.
A friend and I decided to go and explore one of the more remote areas in the South, and proceeded to hire a set of mismatched bicycles from an altogether unfriendly vendor. Then, our packs filled with no useful supplies but overflowing with optimism, we took a path out into the plains where it was rumoured you could find wild elephants (forgetting momentarily that bicycles may not be the best getaway vehicle when facing a rampaging matriarch).
Riding out on the red, sun-baked earth tracks filled with ruts, we saw cows and various other wildlife who, judging from the withering expressions they gave us, seemed to take exception to our invasion of their otherwise people-free existence. It was beautiful, peaceful, and immensely hot.
After an indeterminate time of sweating and pedaling, we arrived at unexpectedly at the ancient ruins of a crumbling temple, populated solely by a bolshy troop of monkeys who had taken up residence, climbing happily all over the stonework and stopping periodically to give us a severe tongue-lashing for invading their home. To add to this, nearby we discovered a beautiful lake filled with all manner of birds, insects, plant life and numerous crocodiles, even though it was, perhaps fortuitously, elephant-free.
Having eventually had our fill of this visual feast, we grudgingly decided to begin the long ride back home where we knew food, shade, and more importantly water would be waiting for us. We were both feeling particularly parched, so much so that my friend, aptly nicknamed ‘bubbles’, had lapsed into an unusual silence, and whose red, sweat-stained complexion spoke worryingly of the onset of heatstroke.
Suddenly, without warning, 'snap'- the chain on one of the bikes decides it's had enough of being abused on rutted jungle paths, and with a strangely gleeful crunching sound leaped right off the sprocket to dangle uselessly within the chain housing. Great.
Now normally a chain popping off is an easy fix, however our bike was definitely holding a grudge against us and simply refused to be repaired, leaving me to settle for push-riding it (which, in the Sri Lankan sun, grows tiresome very quickly I can assure you!) in the hopes this was at least slightly faster than walking it back as though it was some pampered pedigree with a superiority complex.
This worked fine in the short run, but with water running low, and the sun beating down heavier than the glare your mum gives you for farting in church, things started to get a little desperate.
Knowing things were beginning to turn serious, I used my time as productively as I could, trying to determine which pose I should adopt in order to leave a heroic-looking corpse when the heat and dehydration finally overcame us.
But these musings were cut short as in the distance we heard the rattle and spurt of a tractor bumping noisily out of the heat-haze, full to the brim will staring locals, obviously wondering why on earth this weird westerner was awkwardly dangling on the side of his bike and giving it a one-legged push every few yards when it had a perfectly good seat just begging to be used.
Fortunately, with a little sign language and a lot of useless gesticulating, we manage to explain our predicament and 4 sweaty, shirtless Sri Lankan boys quickly scooped both us and the bikes up out of the dust and onto the tractor’s trailer. Inside the trailer we were perched precariously on a half-ton of what looked like compacted asphalt, the mixed fumes of hot road and man-sweat enveloping us in a merry (if rather bumpy) rescue ride several kms down the path towards civilization.
However, Murphy's law can only be suppressed, not defeated on days such as this, and we had finished congratulating ourselves on this wonderful stroke of good fortune, we were made aware that the tractor had to abandon us, needing to go to wherever it is that 4 Sri Lankan farm boys and a tractor need to be with a half-ton of asphalt, and they proceeded to unload us onto the highway.
Before disappearing though, they all jumped off the trailer and took it in turns to each have a go at fixing our sadly disabled road bike, alternately using hands, sticks and even a fishing knife to try to persuade our disgruntled chain to return but, of course, all to no avail.
Through all of this, they never once asked for anything in return for their help, though it was obvious they were very poor, only smiling genially at the opportunity to provide some assistance to these tragically ill-prepared foreigners. Eventually, of course, they had to leave, but not without much cheery waving and head bobbing, communicating with absolute clarity their sincere desire that our fortunes improve on our journey home.
Fortunately, we had covered enough distance to be back on an actual road once more, and we began the painstaking process of covering the multi-kilometer journey back home, our spirits buoyed despite the still rather desperate situation we were in.
Now while tarmac is a darn sight easier to push along a non-pedaling bike scooter-style, it's still super hot, tiring and frustrating work, and I found my thoughts gradually returning once more to the eternal question of whether a 'dab' or the classic 'thinker' position would be more impressive in repose once rigor mortis set in.
Death, however, would be waylaid once more as, after what seemed like an age of push, coast along for a bit, cramp up, then grit your teeth and push again, the hellish cycle was interrupted by the miraculous appearance of a shoddily painted menu board, positioned crookedly outside of a house whose location could literally be described as being 'in the middle of nowhere'.
Therefore, ignoring the tell-tale thoughts in the back of my mind that this was how every horror movie I had ever seen seemed to start, I turned my little bike-come-scooter into the drive, and plonked myself down on one of the plastic seats, set mercifully in the shade of an awning, and waited to see if the shadows emerging from within the house towards me were carrying rusty chainsaws, meat cleavers, or (did I even dare to dream?) a laminated menu.
But fear not, dear readers, for now I shall dispense with my colourfully morbid hyperbole to bring this story to its happy conclusion:
We soon discovered the owner of the little place spoke fluent English (pretty much a first for us in Sri!), was raised in Canada, and very much sympathized with wayward travelers who stumble into his home covered in road dust and trailing a stubbornly uncooperative bicycle.
He promptly has his son break out the toolbox to fix our bike (taking an emasculatingly short time to do so) and while this was happening, provided us with one of the best meals I had had in this country to date.
We chat happily, our host sharing some local hot spots to visit and all of us trading our personal philosophies about life and travel together, all in a veritable oasis of cool and calm.
As I ruminated on the path that brought us there over a delicious coconut roti, I realized that had our day gone without the aforementioned mini-disaster, we would have missed out on not just an excellent meal, but the joy of receiving support from a local farm team, the pleasurable company of a wise patriarch and his family and also, incidentally, the hilarious entertainment that a crow eating a dried (and virtually thermo-nuclear hot) chili can provide. I swear that bird had more expression in its features than any I've seen Taylor Lautner able to produce...
So, if you've made it this far, let me just say to any would-be travelers out there- disasters will happen, but ride them out because they can lead to some of the most uplifting experiences you are ever likely to have.
Finding a comfortable seat on the trailer wasn't easy!
The croc infested lake
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