Colombo

A Brit named Jason picked me up at the airport and drove me to his house where I fell quickly into a deep sleep. I loved his home immediately, even at midnight as I first arrived. It had a curving stairway in the foyer and a pool just outside.

In the morning, after a cup of tea, I took a trishaw into the city. I sat in the back of the little ricketdy contraption and loved the blur of traffick, heat, dust, crowds and signs filling my view. There were new sounds, new tastes, new smells, new textures to experience and I had a huge smile on my face.

I spent the morning in the immigration office getting my visa extended. It was fairly boring with very little to note except the moment when one clerk in the long line of clerks to be seen, entered the information from my form into a computer and paused. He said something to the clerk next to him in Singhala. The clerk looked at me and said calmly, "It seems your name is on the Black List."

They conferred and typed more things into the computer then gave me back my form and told me to go to a certain office. I went to the office feeling a little nervous. "But it's my first time in Sri Lanka," I said to the clerk. He nodded and motioned me towards the office.

It must have been a mistake because in the office someone hardly looked at me and certainly didn't look at my form before stamping it and sending me back into the line of clerks. I suspect there is some subversive woman out there who shares the name name, perhaps even the same nationality as me. Not only am I not subversive, but I am travelling on a brand new Australian passport. Australian Jen has hardly had a chance to break any laws yet.

I walked around Colombo a little bit but the heat and the dust and my fatigue got the most of me. I was walking along the concrete pathway by the ocean next to the "famous" Galle Face Green when a man engaged me in conversation. Galle Face Green was, perhaps, at one time green, but now it is a dusty patch of ground with hardly any grass, fenced in for some rehabilitation project that, according to the sign, should already be finished.

The man is chatting with me, the usual conversation about where I'm from and all that, and I'm only half paying attention. We get to the end of the promenade and we pause. "Where are you going?" asks the man. I'm not really going anywhere, but I point in one direction. "Don't go that way," he says, "there is nothing down there. Come here, I will get a trishaw to take you to the Cinammon Gardens. YOu will like that." And before I know it, he has hailed a trishaw and is giving directions to the driver. I thank him and get in, after all, where else do I really have to go, but as the driver takes off, the man jumps in too.

I'm not terribly comfortable with the situation, but I can always stay with the driver. Meanwhile the random conversation continues.

"You have travelled very far?" the man asks me. "Perhaps you are very tired?" I nodd my head absentmindedly. "Perhaps you would like a nice massage?"

"Massages are good," I say, "I just had a nice one in Thailand. But massages are very expensive."

"Ah, perhaps you would like a free massage?" He asks.

"No, I would not," I reply firmly.

"Why not?" asks the man.

"Because where I come from, we often say that nothing in life is really free."

"Perhaps what you need is a good massage from a very good friend..." he suggests.

Now I am definitely wary. It's clear where this is going. "No," I say very firmly.

"Oh well, at least, we can go to the Cinammon Gardens and drink a beer together. It's very romantic there..."

"I can't drink beer," I say. "I'm taking antibiotics. I have a very nasty infection."

A certain look crosses his face. Although I don't know it at the time, even by suggesting we drink alcohol together he is implying that I am a whore. Women in Sri Lanka, "proper" women, I mean, do not drink. Most especially alone with a man. If he thinks I am a whore, my random comment about having an infection must have hit a good mark.

At that moment, just as I am wondering what on earth I can do to get out of this situation, the trishaw enters some heavy traffick and luck is in my favor because for some totally avoidable reason, the trishaw then proceeds to crash, at slow speed, into the fender of a stationary car ahead of us.

"You know," I say, trying not to laugh, "I think I'll get out here." And I do, walking quickly down the streets in no particular direction, leaving behind the sound of traffick and shouting voices.