ECO1011: Introduction to Tuk Tuk Economics 101

The first lesson in any introductory subject is always some dodgey lecturer standing up the front jabbering on about the subject material, boring the students to the extent they actually choose to read the newspaper. So if you're bored of this already, click here or here or here. Or you can listen to me explain the tuk-tuk's of Sri Lanka. Firstly, after investigating for about 8 seconds, I have realised why nobody understands what the heck I am talking about when I call those three wheelie things a tuk-tuk. According to Wikpedia, in South Asia they are "autorickshaws". <- click there. Whereas in South East Asia, they are more like this. I like urban dictionary, it's a much more technical reference dealing with the definitions of sexual positions: this is a rickshaw ho (ooer) and this is a tuk tuk (fuck political correctness). Whatever you call them, tuk-tuks rock as transport and surely are better than the two busses I would have to catch to work.

That's a picture of a tuk-tuk when I was in Usangoodya - looks like the outback, ey? Here's some pictures of tuk-tuk's I'm glad I don't need to catch. Doooooooooooooooooodge.



Tuk-tuk economics is a practical subject. It's all about avoiding being ripped off by dodgey little men in their motorbike cabooses. So arriving in Colombo, I've had to employ all my knowledge of Tuk Tuk Economics 101. First thing, find your local tuk tuk stand. Luckily here in SL, there's one every 12 meters with about four dodgey little men sitting around waiting to steal your money. But don't rush to make a deal with them.. that would be foolish. You need to stake out a bargaining position. So for the first three days of working in the new office from a new apartment, I took my street smarts to the street. Every day, there and back, bargaining and arguing and throwing tanties doing whatever it takes to get the best deal: they agree to 100 rupes (pr. Roops) occasionaly, but always bump it up at the end when they realise I am at the "other side" of Welawata. Minimum: 115. Maximum 150. 1 1-0 to street smart Bozza.

Aight.. time to bargain. So on Monday, I head to the tuk tuk stand in the morning.. as usual, four dodgey little men hanging out of tuk tuks waiting for their prey: bonus, I arrive, and I'm white stocked with roops that they reckon they can get their grubby little hands on. But no cigar: I'm well equipped with street smarts. "How much to Kirulapane" - they correct my pronounciation, 1-1 to the tuk tuk stand (even after two weeks they still correct me, obviously they don't realise we won the war and they speak English I don't speak Sinhalese). They try to charge me 150, but I aint havin' none of it. "Everyday, " (they love that word) "i will travel to work. Everyday". They ask me to jump in, but no price is settled. "I am not paying 150", "no problem".. yeah, 2-1 to my bank manager. We drive, I direct.. I know where to go, my street smarts is coming in handy already. I tell him a short cut, he likey very muchy, 3-1 to A-Z Colombo. We arrive at my workplace.. he stops. Assesses the drive and his imaginary tuk tuk calculator (based on distance, price of petrol, time of day, and a random variable that is positively correlated to the flavour of chupa-chup the shortest guy in China is sucking on); he quotes 125. We bargain, I start at 100, at which point he reminds me that the shortest guy in China is currently sucking a strawberry chupa chup - darn, 3-2 to Mao Tsu-Tung. I try 110, no cigaro. 120. "Okay, everyday?". Everyday. 120 roops to work. It's a draw, 3-3.

The next day, I head back to the tuk tuk stand, where four dodgey little men are waiting with their grubby little hands to get my money. But somethings different.. they wave me down from a distance. I acknowledge with a little hand movement. There's movement as one jumps in his tuk tuk and turns the engine on.. the other little man who took me yesterday directs me to get in; a different driver.. to worry? No. This country is a socialist democracy. They share me around like the rickshaw ho I am. When I get in, he pronounces correctly, "Kirulapane?", "Kirulapane". I never need to say another word.. right out the front of my workplace, he stops. What convenience.. that surely is worth 10 roops a day! But sadly, I only have a hungie.. "Tomorrow, I give you 20 more, ok?" I spatter out in my pidgeon English with a dodgey Sri Lankan accent that they seem to understand much better. "No problem". Next day, I pay 140 and never hear about it again.. the system works!

Getting home isn't quite as easy, but I still always pay 120 roops. The tuk tuk stand is a part time dodgey little man hang out; often, nobody is there to take my money so I need to wave down an empty tuk. This doesnt take long, but it does mean explaining where I live, and while they try to bargain "150 sir, price of petrol high" I steadfastly say "120 or I walk". They always let me in.. but I don't get that 10 roop convenience discount.. bugger.

Déjà Vu

Well, here we go, another Evacuation. This time, it's for real and there's no turning back. Last time, it was _only_ the insurance companies that freaked out, but if you give them enough money they will let you stay. This time, however, the Government and ultimate employer is freaking out. Fearing parliamentary inquiries ("Mr Dooschbag, please explain why you would let our nations youth and future into potential conflict area in nothing but a helmet, flack jacket, big 4x4 with sirens and flashy lights, and a sticker saying 'No Guns'?"), they pulled out the four volunteers quicker than you can "WTF?". Sri Lanka in the North and East is now on the same footing as Iraq, Afghanistan, and all those other nice civil and unjustified wars around the world (1).

So out of Ampara we go, and back to Colombo to reside. Emma's basically job less.. and well, sadly I still have a job. Fortunately, Emma's family were here visiting at the time and so she preemptively packed up part of house before she left (unlike some of the other evacuees, who have nothing but the shirts on their backs.. .and pants). So instead of mulling over all the lost friends and lost work and the like.. we decided to head down south to party on the beaches of Tangalle (re: next blog and phlog entry).

So, where to from here? Well, Emma has the option of finding another job or going to her head office. I myself will just relocate my belongings to Colombo, and continue travelling around the South and the East as if nothing has changed. Meanwhile, we will get the most out of our free months accommodation in Colombo while looking for a new place.. and of course, use this as a good opportunity to completely flaunt my organisations internet connection. Abusing their cheap ass narrowband connection.. yay!

To all the fans out there in Ampara: World Vision, see you here soon and we can party likes its the evauation of 99! To everone else, who will inevitably hang around while bombs drop next door ("I'm not a war tourist! I'm committed to development!"), keep the party going and I shall be there soon and often.. if for no other reason than my big remote control car with flashy lights and sirens that go wooo wooo woo and little flags is still at Bills place.

(1) It is important to differentiate the North and the East in Sri Lanka. The island might look small on a map, but it's as big as Tasmania! There are significant differences in the North and East, for example the existence of a Tamil community as the majority; as opposed to the South, West and Central Sri Lanka which is dominated by the majority, the Sinhalese. I don't want to get into the politics, but feel free to Google it or even read the World section of your local paper (what a novel idea) and read up on it for yourself. But for the purpose of Byron and Emma, we are safe in Colombo and there is plenty of scope to dodge bombs from where we are. And besides, they don't want to kill white people - we are on the top of the pecking order, the highest caste their is.. we would only be collateral damage.

A Hundred Times The Pain

Health. There’s no “Fun” in the word health, unlike “Fun” or “Funny”. I guess there’s “Ha” and “He”, but there’s also “Hate” and “Lthahe”. I am not a lexiconologist, but I am quite sure that the Latin or Greek or German or Whatever derivative of the word Health is not related to Fun or Entertaining or Excitement. It’s probably more related to Pendulum, something that swings back and forth forever changing its speed and position and always gravitating to one spot (which could be death, or could be life, or could the bottom of the pendulum swing). Regardless, this is not a humorous story. It’s also not meant to be one of those stories that propels you into a philosophical state wanting to contemplate life and death like Aritstotle or Plato or Descartes or Doctor Kevorkian or Doctor Nick Riviera. It’s just a story. If it makes you sit up in your chair and go “Fwoar” or “Wow” or “Holy f’ing crap, your jerking my gherkin?”, then cool because 49% of the population is male and 100% of that population likes gruesome stories. If you think that it is a long short story that goes on and on without much of anything, then that’s fine with this author, at least you won’t ask what happened again. But this is my story on the night of Sunday the 9^th of April 2006 and the morning of Monday the 10^th of April 2006. This is my story, these are my thoughts, and these are the events.

I am in Mirissa, by myself. I have been dropped off by the Danish Red Cross en route, and my mate from Colombo isn’t coming til tomorrow. The beach is very quiet, as it is the week of Sri Lankan New Year, so most local-tourists go to the hill country where it is nice and cool and the rest go back to their village to be with their families. It’s also off peak season in the South, so there’s fewer tourists. Hanging with other whities seems pretty lame, so I head off to my Beach Posse headed by Kasey. It’s their holiday season; no work, not much to do. Time to crack open the Arrack and smoke some joints. Merrily, I join in for the night. It’s the third or fourth time I visited – he remembers me, and his slow laid back half-Jamaican half-Sri Lankan half-Pidgeon English voice asks about Emma. I try to imitate his voice, to make it easier for Kasey to understand and because Beach-going-holiday-making Byron is cool with the gang; Emma’s fine and will be joining in a few days. The drink and smoke and talk goes on for hours, from the waves in Aragum Bay near where Emma and I live to the different sort of weed in Australia and Sri Lanka. And then, I decide, it’s time I crash.

I hate my shoes. I bought them in Bangladesh, and just never got around to upgrading. They are not comfortable. They are a hassle to buckle and unbuckle at every house and office. They are falling apart. And they smell like my feet. But never have they put me in danger before. Never have they caused such a raucous as tonight. I have to walk along the highway by night to get to the hotel, so I kneel down to buckle my shoes. It’s dark in Kasey’s beach side restaurant. The lights are off, but I don’t even think twice before placing my right knee on the hard floor to do up my left buckle. I’ve never seen anything dangerous before, have I? My eyes are half shut, I’m slow and tired. I fiddle oh so briefly with my left buckle before I notice a pain in my right knee, growing and growing. Before I can finish my right shoe, I stand to see what it is. Perhaps I am kneeling on a lit cigarette? I look down at my right knee and see nothing. I lift my shorts, because I can definitely feel the pain. There are two holes, one slightly larger with a drip of blood running down the leg. I’m perplexed: but how can a cigarette do this!? I look around on the floor to see what has breached my skin, twice, and caused this pain to grow and grow and grow.

It’s long. I’ve never seen one as large as this, in or outside of Sri Lanka. But could it have been this that pierced my casing? There’s nothing else around. It’s a dark dark red leading into black along the edges. It’s two thirds the size of a school boy’s thirty centimetre rules. It’s walking, almost wriggling, away. It knows what it has done, and it probably thinks revenge is on its way. But it’s not. I still don’t have my shoes on it to squish it in its tracks. I am so perplexed by all this, stunned, shocked, in awe of what is going on, that I just watch it walk and wriggle and walk away. It’s got at least a hundred legs, all black all walking in synchronisation to get the body out of harms way. And before I realise how much pain I am in, the centipede is gone. I look back at my leg like it’s a foreign part of my body, the pain has grown to verge on excruciating. I contemplate heading back to the hotel and not saying anything, thinking the pain will just disappear. After all, it’s only a centipede, right? The pain grows and grows. I call Kasey who is standing by the door a foot or two away. He’s talking to some other members of the Beach Posse. Him and the one I call Pissu Lanka (Crazy Lankan) come over. “I’ve been bitten by something”. Kasey looks at me as perplexed as I looked at the centipede, “What do you mean Byron?” he says in that slow laid back way that makes me think he’s half asleep, “you’ve been bitten now?”. I try to keep as cool calm and collected as one can be in the face of language barriers in the face of adversity and all other random events blocking the communication path. “Yes, I’ve just been bitten by something, it’s got lots of legs is red and black and walks and is this long”. I lift up the right leg of my shorts to show the two pricks one with blood where the centipede violated me. One final time I am asked, “You have just been bitten now? Here?”. A stern short curt but not unpleasant “Yes” is resounded.

Instantly, Pissu Lanka and Kasey get into gear. Voices are raised, lights are turned on. Pissu Lanka pulls out his torch that he uses to check out the waves around the full moon period to do night surfing. I point to the chairs and tables where the centipede had crawled towards. Kasey throws a table and chair across to the other side as if they were what had bit me. Kasey keeps prodding me for information, “What did it look like?”, “Are you feeling alright?”; followed by reassurance, “Don’t worry Byron, you’ll be fine”, “No problem Byron… no problem”. They furiously look in the corner of the restaurant, but to no avail. After a minute, they give up and return to me. All the commotion leads to panic setting in, “What’s wrong Kasey?”, “Is it dangerous?”, “Could I die Pissu Lanka?”. I ask that final question several times to the two that speak English, “Could I die?”, “Is it deadly?”. I wait for an acceptable response, which arrives with comfort. “No, you will just be in pain.” “Have you been bitten before?” “Yes, twice”, Kasey retorts in his oh so laid back manner. Comfort arrives, though panic and pain still remain.

“Byron, we need to get you to a healer”. By now I realise that this is not an ordinary centipede, but rather that it is poisonous. The entire region around my right knee is starting to warm up, with this throbbing pain that makes it feel like it is on fire. “I need a tourniquet, I need some string to tie my leg”. They look for string, and Pissu Lanka looks for lime to reduce the pain, but the restaurant is closed in the off season and nothing is available except Arrack, and that won’t do. They try to tie my leg off with a plastic bag that may as well have not been there. We begin the walk to the nearby tuk-tuk stand. It’s probably fifty meters away, and I walk on my own for the entire length. Kasey and I keep asking each other questions, “Are you feeling okay?” making me more worried followed by “This isn’t deadly, right?”.

We arrive at the tuk-tuk stand, but nobody is around except the five or six members of Kasey’s Beach Posse that have come along. Everyone is talking in Sinhalese around me, and Kasey keeps asking me if I am feeling alright, if the pain is getting worse, and where the pain is. All the Sinhalese chatter in the background is happening at such a frantic pace with such a fear in the voice, that without understanding a word I know exactly what is being said. The pain is intensifying, but not spreading much further than my leg. People are standing around, but nobody is running off to try and get a tuk-tuk or vehicle. They are yelling at each other in a hurried voice, trying to make a decision as what to do next with the sickly foreigner. The stakes are high, for everyone.

“Kasey, I’m feeling faint”. Out of nowhere, the words whimper out of my mouth. I didn’t even mean to say it, the words just came right out of my mouth before it seemed that I had even started feeling faint; almost a reaction to the situation. The pain is intense, but suddenly my entire body has started to weaken. Shit Byron, what’s going on. Panic. Fright. Terror. Fear. Alarm. Horror. Dread. “You’re feeling faint Byron?”, he asks rhetorically but in such a way that I know he knows exactly what it means. “Yeah man… faint”. He says something in Sinhalese, and two of the posse prop me up, one under each arm. I’m out of my mind at this stage. Picture it: On a main road in a “sleepy hollow of a town” (Lonelyplanet); using two local boys for crutches just so I can stand; there are no vehicles in sight (no parked cars, no vehicles fullstop, except one bicyle lying around); I am surrounded by six or so twenty something year olds so frightened of the situation they almost seem whiter than me; and no mobile phone. I quickly check my pockets on this last point, and no mobile phone. Later on I will briefly ask to borrow somebody elses phone to make a call, and then realise I don’t know any phone numbers in Sri Lanka except my own mobile phone. The situation, from the outside, is not looking good. And it definitely is not looking good from my position.

“Yeah man… faint”. As soon as those words pass my mouth, as soon as those two boys prop me up, it gets worse. I pass out. I lose consciousness. I know its only for a brief moment, but it feels like forever. I start to recover, my upper body comes back first, but I cant focus on anything; everything is just a blur. I am still not standing on my own two feet, though I try and try and try. Its as if my feet cant get a grip on the solid group. My legs try to push up and hold my weight, but they just flop around like a fish on and. In and out of consciousness. When out of consciousness, everything is blurry and I cant hear or make out any words – just voices that seem in the distance. When in consciousness, I feel weak, pain, and my head tries to grasp the events that are occurring, “I need a tourniquet” thinking that will help. Out of nowhere, a plastic outdoorsy chair comes. As soon as I fall into, my body collapses into an epileptic fit. I’ve never had one before; it doesn’t feel strange, it just feels like sleep when actually fitting. I have no control or awareness of my body. I begin to come out of it, and realise that my body is still massively convulsing with five of the boys pinning me down to the chair trying to prevent me from shuddering and convulsing and shaking. Its not use, the body is doing what it does and nobody can stop it.

In and out of consciousness, perceptions are completely distorted. Tuk-tuks, cars and trucks are passing, and they are trying to stop them but they dodge the group which must seem like a gang about to hijack. Picture it. A group of boys on the side of the road, me in a chair that cant be seen, all waving frantically and in the middle of the road trying to stop your vehicle – would you stop? This is no use, nobody is going to stop them. “Pick me up Kasey, I want to get into the middle of the road”. Maybe, just maybe, they may stop if they see me? Two people prop me up in the middle of the road. Lights are coming, but I cant focus. I cant hear whats going on around me. The lights seem also as if they are here. I shake my head to straighten things out, and squint to focus on the lights as hard as I can. I try with all my might. Eventually, it focuses on the lights – its much further than I think. It’s a tuk-tuk, taking forever to traverse down the beachside road at night. They literally corner the tuk-tuk on the nearby bridge, it has nowhere to go. There’s a mother and a daughter in the back, and a driver wondering what the heck is going on and just wanting to be out of there. I get my two five foot four crutches to help me hobble to the vehicle. By the time I get there, they know what is going on and the passengers reluctantly get out.

One of my crutches gets in first, followed by me and Kasey flanked on my right with my leg on top of him. Three others try to get in the vehicle, but I make some noises that may have sound like displeasure, and only one other gets in. There’s four of us in the car. Myself. Kasey. Pissu Lanka. And another random guy who always smokes the roach to the end. I hear that fresh laid back voice again, “Keep talking to me Byron, you gotta keep talking to me”. We talk. And talk. And talk. About waves. About his past experiences with centipedes. Within minutes of entering the tuk tuk and raising my leg, I am completely conscious and fine, “Wow, that seemed close Kasey”. A wry smile crosses my face… everything’s going to be just fine.

It takes a full half an hour to get to Matara hospital. It’s been just over an hour since I was bitten. I throw a thousand rupees at someone to pay for the tuk-tuk here and to get them home. The hospital is bare, though it seems well equipped for snake and insect bites – after ten minutes of explaining to numerous people what has transpired, I am in the “emergency” room which has a picture of thirty odd snakes and some Sinhalese under each one, instructions for what to do. Once propped onto the bed, the lady night-doctor asks me the same question I have heard about thirty times before, “So you have been bitten. What did it look like?” as she peers over the two punctures. I am completely kept in the dark over the process, but strangely I feel comfortable as I imagine they have done this thousands of times before. They come back with three pills – two Panadol, one Puritin (basic antibiotic). They take some blood, which I can only assume is to test the type of poison pulsing through my veins. I try to explain that I have had an epileptic fit in the meanwhile, but they just ignore it and move on – later on the next night-doctor will interrogate me more about this, and then forget it had ever been talked about. That same doctor will also say, “In Australia, doctors tell patients about everything they are doing and all the processes. Yeah? Ha Ha. Not in Sri Lanka.”. I was sure he was trained in Germany.

“Mr Pakula, we are going to keep you over night for observation. You will be fine”. That’s the most I ever get out of any doctor. I get moved to another bed in a room with forty two other patients, half coughing the other half asleep and wriggling. I receive special treatment, not having to be in an aisle and being close to the doctors table. Everything is orderly and scant, except the patients. Somehow I have managed to keep a book in my pocket the entire time, so trying not to touch the dirty sheets too much and not wanting to sleep in this environment, I prop my head up on my elbow and read Phillip Roth. I hobble out for a smoko around 3am, and again at 6am after I accidentally sleep for a little bit. I hobble across the road to the roti shop at 8am pretending not to be a patient and buying some breaky. After three more doctors checks, and having to wait for the fourth by the head doctor on duty, I finally get the all clear to head out… and not a minute too soon. I have had enough of the stench of death and disease, and Pissu Lanka was waiting to take me back in the tuk-tuk. Two more Panadols later, nothing to sign and nothing to pay, I walk out of the hospital and head back to Mirissa. I think I wont smoke any more joints today.

Just Because You Are, Doesn't Mean I Am

The Blog would like to use this opportunity to celebrate and congratulate all those things filled with goodness happening outside of Sri Lanka. So without further adue, and in reverse chronological order beginning with the letter P, Come on Down Pete!! (Play price is right music in your head.. doo do de do da doo do de doo do repeat)

Pete & Ren, Congratu-fuckin-lations on your marriage (waaaaaay too belated) and your little bub, Mr Oliver. Who I hear is already learning to phone home like ET with his relatively george-like Fingers. Here's a snap of him when he first popped out and was like, "WTF, I want a Plzen".. those Czech babies sure do start early:

Oh, isn't he darn gorgeous? Looks just like his Pa.

And here's the happy fam.


Joel & Katie: Bout time you got on your knees Joel.. and proposed. Well done. As I am reminded each time I speak to Joel, the final date will be the 3rd of January and I surely wouldn't miss it for the world! Congratulations. Here's a picture of the happy couple at their engagement party.

Oh hang on, I think this is them at their engagement party(1).

George & Phi: Big round of applause for the happily newly married couple. Sorry I couldn't be there, but it may have been best Phi as it could have ended up in another tequilla competition. For those who know them, you would have seen all the photos on their website - sadly, I dont got any with me. So instead, here's a picture of Paul, my ex housemate, on his way to the 'new' star wars VI movie.
Lyle: Yo Bro, congratulations on being a smart pumpkin and winning that Alumni Award for your PhD. Now, go get a high paying job so I dont need to keep volunteering, will ya? Although my brother likes to think he is smart, doing his atmospheric science "i wanna be a weatherman" storm chasing stuff, not-so-deep down he truely is just a redneck. Here's Lyle with a gun, trying to hunt the bear that stole his trailer door:
Byron: You are so funny, talented, experienced, and all other goodly wordly things, and what? You've only just turned 26? Well Gee, Happy Birthday you son-of-a-gun or brother-of-a-gun-tooting-redneck in this case. For all those who forgot, which is half of Melbourne, it was May 3rd - and if I ever earn money as a volunteer, I am writing you out of my wills goddammit. This was my first birthday outside of Melbourne... surprisingly... at least now I know why I ought to have it in Melbourne in the future a) so I can prod people and tell them what to get me, b) get bigger presents, c) so I can win another go-karting championship.

(1) Next time Jozza, when you send photos, try sending ones of the happy newly wed couple? Though I do love alex and bonnie too. Here's John's rendition of the little pooches:

Phlog, Smell and Blognotes

Essentially, there are two mediums wherby I can communicate life in Sri Lanka: text, and photos. If the sense of smell could be used, then there would be many more entries relating to bowel movements (1). However, as visual stimulisation is the only medium a blog can afford (and due to bandwidth problems, I aint touching movies with a 10foot networking cable), I shall proceed with the use of the Phlog (as defined earlier, See International Jetsetters Extraordinaire: D1). These are random photos taken at random places at random times. The only thing common throughout is the Ricoh Caplio GX and my right index finger. Enjoy.


Bundalla National Park (Wetlands): Spoonbill Stork, or something
Monkeys in bin on side of the road
Bundalla Wetland: Peacocks

Rice Paddy, Ampara:

Galle Face Hotel in Monsoonal Rains:

Lake near Nuwra Eliya, Highlands:

Flower and insect, Horton National Park:

Flying Insects - Cooler in Xray?
I personally prefer my X-ray editing (c/o Adobe Photoshop, my best friend).


(1) After five days of strictly no solid bowel movemements, I am glad to say that I am FREE! Yes, you heard me correctly, I took a dump today. And I swear, there's nothing better than the euphoria of dropping the kiddies off at the pool, especially if they have been steaming up there for five long days. Cartmen said it best, when a 60 foot sattelite came out of his arse, expressing his sincerest happiness and relating it to the worlds largest shit. I am also reading a book by Haruki Murakami (Hard Boiled Wonderland and The End of the World), which in one passage has the key character not piss for 48 hours, then he goes for two minutes and stays there enjoying the state of happiness afterwards. I too, did not want to leave that bowl of bowel goodness. (2)
(2) I was reading a book that had footnotes in it, and I thought I too will bring back the footnote. They are underutilised in this day and age, the reserve for intellectuals in their reports. When I was at university, my lecturers told me not to use footnotes. I think they are wrong, and cant think outside the square. They are essential, and I think the only way they can be brought back is by using Blognotes. The modern footnote for all bloggers.

International Jetsetters Extraordinaire: D1

Disclaimer: Apologies that this blog entry goes over a few pages.. and that it is so late, but the reason is interlinked: dodgey internet connection and poor bandwidth. So Chris, and Caz, without further adue, this is the entry I wrote for you nearly two months ago: I am here now to post it for you. Bravo, bravo. P.S. It all starts again this week with Emmas family coming, oh boy.. surely with Ange as one of the four IJEs, it will have nothing on your trip! P.P.S. No offence Ange, but we both know I don't like you, and pretending's something you do when you give a shit - not when your thousands of kilometers away.

On March 11 2005, at 00:45 hours, they arrive. Bags filled with clothes too warm for the beaches and too cold for the hills; but at least there are sufficient provisions of tuna and weet bix and rolly papers and vegemite for their hosts. Looking blarey eyed after 8500km of high altitude flying in a compressed sardine can, and misguided attempts at joining the mile high club, they exit the airport with a wry smile on their face. Chris and Caroline (a.k.a. Caz) have arrived.

Lethargy and fatigue are not enough to stop the traditional Aussie reuniting over beers and cigarettes until four in the morning, with neighbours ruffling their feathers from the noise. Jet lag is not going to defeat these International Jetsetters Extraordinaire. This perhaps has just set the scene for the next 168 hours: living in a state of perpetual fatigue, constantly dispelling the drags of sobriety, and two-bit hostels filled with cockroaches mosquitoes and all the other luxuries of a developing country.

Phlog noun (pr. f-log) 1. An entry into a blog relying on the aid of photographs to describe the entry. (I was going to write a blog, but I got lazy and posted a phlog instead). verb 2. The act of striking a tuk tuk driver over the back of the head when they are not driving fast enough for the next train. (I was running late and needed to be in Kandy that night, so I gave my tuk tuk driver a phlogging with a hundred rupee note over the back of the head).

Day 1: After waking up a very groggy and grumpy blog writer at some ungodly hour that began with a seven, the foursome ventured out into the streets of Colombo. First thing first, nothing better than starting a new hung-over day with a local breakfast of string hoppers and curry – Mmm, diarrhoetically yummy! And the introduction to the use of the lamest word ever "WOWZZA" that Chris skwarked everytime he ate because the food was too spicy. Didn't help that byron kept telling him the mildest thing on his plate was the coconout sambal (grated chili and coconut and spices)

No spicy food at the Cricket Club
Stroll on the beach near Fort:
This was followed by the first of many tuk tuk drives: air rushing through the hair, pollution filling the nasal passages, prices far exceeding what any local would pay in their right mind, and life threatening swerves between busses trucks and pedestrians. Time felt as if it had almost slowed down, enabling us to squeeze more into this day than should be possible according to Newton, Einstein and Hawkins. Shopping, walks by the beach, AFT after AFT (see below), visiting the local Petah market, watching an elephant munch through palm leaves, drinks at a very colonial Cricket Club, afternoon siesta, and even getting smashed at the local night club (R&B).

AFT expletive (pr. A-F-T). 1. Acronym, “Another Fucking Temple”. Derived from the European version AFC (another fucking castle or church), represents a travellers frustration with viewing cultural icons particularly religious-based houses of God. (“Oh no, not another AFT. Can’t we get pissed instead?”)

How close was the bus Chris?

AFT1&2:

International Jetsetters Extraordinaire: D2

Day 2-3: Another early morning beckons, this time to board the three hour scenic railway to Kandy. After standing for a while, we managed to hustle out some elderly European tourists suffering from incontinence and probably the previous night’s curry who took a toilet break at one of the stations whilst we took the available seats. Upon arrival, we ventured to Perediniya to gawk at Stumpy The Three Legged Elephant and his mates bathing in the river and munching down some coconut palms in their hostel. Elephants Rocks. I think Chris and Caz wanted to adopt one, but settled with a batik painted with elephants instead.

Train to Kandy (poppin' our heads out - do not try this at home)

View of us from above

Elephant Orphanage (Is this a repeated photo?)

The following day we managed to visit the Pedro Tea Estate in Nuwara Eliya, an extremely colonial town “more British than Brittain”. Looking like four gumby’s (Am I really the only one who remembers the green man made from playdo?), we did a speedy tour of the factory and went for a walk through plantations. This time, I think Chris and Caz wanted to adopt the cute-as-a-button tour guide, but settled with three packets of tea instead. That night, we got drunk and played a game that rue’s my life, Seven Famous People.

The Four Pedro Gumbys:

International Jetsetters Extraordinaire: D4

Day 4: Another ungodly early morning, this time beginning with a six, we began our decline from the hill country but not before stopping at the end of the world, Horton Plains’ World’s End. We walked for three hours, jumping over streams (in the photo, he didn’t make it), trudging through the muddiest of trenches since the first world war (or you walked around it like the rest of us), over hills, past the plains, along the rivers, stopping at waterfalls, taking photos of flowers (wait, that was just me) and passing the end of the world. It was p.cool… if only we didn’t still have Mr Jack Daniels on the brain.

Chris about to get wet:

MUDFIGHT!!! Much more fun with another person, Caz.

All of us at The End of The World.

Then we drove and drove and kept on driving and drove some more; the guy was driving like he was driving Miss Daisy; we were being driven crazy and driving each other nuts; then we drove slowly as we drove over a piece of metal that jutted into the wheels, which drove everyone more crazy and more nuts; then we stoped driving in Hambantota so that we could continue driving faster by driving with four inflated wheels; and we drove through the sunset and drove into the night. Driving, driving, driving some more… then we gave up driving in Mirissa, after everyone was driven into a differently abled state after driving each other up the walls. We drove for thirteen hours, and Miss Daisy’s Geeves drove back. And all we saw was a monkey wank himself after eating a banana, and some cool scenery.

Monkey full of our bananas, biscuits, and wanking (ought to see the movie!)

International Jetsetters Extraordinaire:D5

Day 5-6: There was some serious stuff going down in Mirissa, and I am talking RE-LAX. The toughest these days got was a thirty minute tuk-tuk ride to Unawatuna from Mirissa for a change of scenery. In Mirrissa, we were staying at Kasey’s joint (who will feature in a future blog, re centipedes) who hooked us up big time for some whacky tabacky – you got to have your beach boy posse to hook you up with Bob Marley and The Reefers. Embo and Caz managed to squeeze in a bit of shopping, surprising even the local shopkeep by buying the two faro-out tubes and straw hats… I never laughed so hard (nor Chris or the three local boys) when that massive wave came out of nowhere to dump poor Em and Caz who’s assess were stuck in the tube with their legs and heads poking out. Mental Note: Never Rely on a Blow Up Tube When Near Surfers.

Em and Caz in their tubes pre-wipe out (Mirissa)

Emma heading to Parrot Rock on Mirissa Beach.

Unawatuna was p.diddy cool too; in between drinks we managed to squeeze in some snorkelling, checking out the awesome parrot fish, blue gropers, angel, clown, and other bright coloured fish swimming amongst the tsunami riddled corral. When Emma and Caz went jewellery shopping, that was a sign for Chris and myself to head out for a swim to greet the thunderstorm and rain. I must agree Chris, there’s nothing quite as cool as swimming in the warm ocean with the chilly rain pelting down.. until you get out and look for a dry towel. Saving the best for last though, we had one awesome final meal.. fit for a king, several queens, two jacks and one joker. The spread was fantastic: lobster, crab, prawns, calamari, fish curry, and so on and so on. Whilst you couldn’t describe the atmosphere as a vibrant, the scenery was beach lovin’ candy to the eyes and the food was jelly belly scrumptious.

Not a bad view lil' beach Unawatuna, 'eh?