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| Train: Weligama to Colombo |
We stepped into the dark street and started walking, intending to do so until we found a bus stop. We saw a bus approaching before walking five metres and Chris threw his arm out to hail it with not much hope of it working. It did though and we boarded and arrived in Weligama with great efficiency. And, for a grand total of 40 LKR for both of us.
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| Colombo Fort railway |
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| Colombo Fort railway |
I got a quote for posting a parcel to Melbourne but the bargain hunter in me thought I could do better. I went in search of the Sea Mail office. I went next door to the post office as directed but was redirected, and redirected and redirected until I ended up in a back alley with people sorting mail. I entered a dingy office where I was told sea mail would cost twice as much as the airmail I was quoted at the post office! I wandered back with my tail between my legs to the woman who told me that was probably going to be the case.
Instead of trudging back around the station we were on a mission to find a way through. We trekked across the tracks hoping to avoid the ticket guys who stood at every exit. No luck. So, we walked through the station and as we exited and heard them request our tickets we simply put our heads down and claimed selective hearing.
By now it was 10am as we still had to find the bus station. It was a sensory overload as we explored the streets of Colombo. Coconuts were on fire on the pavement. Men carried loads of fruit and veggies on their shoulders, sweating under the weight. Men at the street stalls sold all manner of things including giant speaker systems which suddenly explained why everywhere played loud music always.
The bus station was a hot, dusty, confusing mess of diesel puffing giants. As we squeezed between them a Tuk Tuk driver offered us his services. Not offended when we declined he kindly directed us to where the airport bus would pull up and chatted to us until it did.
The bus arrived and slowed just enough for us to yell 'airport?' see a nod and climb aboard. We paid our fare (100 LKR for both of us) and sat. And sat and sat and sat. To the point that we were unsure if we were on the right bus. Nothing looked familiar. Had we really seen 187 printed on the bus before we climbed on? Was 187 even the right bus? Was the guy hanging off the bus yelling 'airport' every minute or so just yelling some word that sounded like airport? Our nervousness grew as an hour and a half passed and, having posted our Lonely Planet back to Australia, we had no point of reference. Chris jumped off at the petrol station and confirmed that we were on the 187 but was it the right bus? Was it taking us to Negombo airport? Did Negombo have an airport? We consoled ourselves in a way that has worked quite well over the last month. With 'surely' statements. "Surely this is the right bus." "Surely there is only one airport." "Surely there's not a Sri Lankan word that sounds so similar to airport."
Finally, the ticket salesman made eye contact with us and indicated that we should get off. After a short walk past some men with guns and down a road with no real foot path we arrived at the airport with three and a half hours to spare, or so we thought.
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| Spice Jet |
We ate some expensive muffins (you know they're expensive when they quote the price in US dollars) and tried to process what was happening then jumped on a shuttle bus and out they took us to our 'aeroplane.' If you could call it that. It had propellers. And was tiny. And the window was sticky taped on. And we watched a very elderly woman get picked up out of her wheel chair, carried up the stairs and man handled into her seat. But it got us to Madurai in 40 minutes so we could wait in the immigration queue for another 40 minutes. A man sang. Another blared his iPhone. A few had no shoes. Lots stood all up in our personal space. And my splitting headache, that had been creeping up since being told our flight didnt exist, was now in full swing. To add insult to insury, out of all of the crazies at the airport, the man at immigration gave us the third degree. Questioning us considerably on what our plan was because we didn't have a ticket out of India. We got through though, and once through immigration (about 3 metres later) had our passport checked again (incase the guy a few metres back at immigration didn't do his job properly we guessed), went through another security scan and collected our bags (one from the carousel and one from the ground where somebody had so kindly dumped it) and stepped out into India about 4:30pm. By force. We wanted to stay in the airport and sort out what to do next but a police man with a large gun ushered us outside and we were not about to argue. We again tossed around our options. Chennai vs Madurai. As much as we liked the idea of flying by the seat of our pants and entering India through Madurai, which Lonely Planet described as India's soul, we just weren't convinced. And when we asked a couple of taxi drives about buying a motorbike in Madurai and they gawked at us in disbelief (or a lack of English) we decided to keep going to Chennai.
We thankfully got our onward ticket with little hassle at a Spice Jet counter on the outside of the airport. Lucky, because you're not allowed into the airport without proof of having a flight for that day. We got inside but were allowed no further as we were so early for our flight that wasn't leaving until 6:40pm. So we sat and rested my head which was now thumping viciously until we were called to go through the first of many many security checks. The first was just so we could get to a security x-ray of our check in bags and then proceed to the check in counters. Then it was upstairs to go through yet another passport, bag and personal security check. This time with a good old fashioned pat down. Mine got done in a little discreet booth while Chris got put on a pedastool, literally. We finally got some food into us before going downstairs through more security to our gate. The power at the airport went out again a few times while we considered what Chennai may bring.
Another shuttle bus took us to our next plane for the day. This was was thankfully slightly larger. My headache felt like my head was about to burst at this point and all of the aircraft noise was not helping. They did dim the lights for a few minutes during takeoff and landing though which provided some relief. As we were landing a little girl sang "I like to move it move it..." and I found it funny. I must have been feeling better!
We arrived in Chennai and fought with four plane loads of people for our luggage which had all been put on one carousel. We were suddenly understanding the Indian way of doing things. Then it was off to find a taxi, or Tuk Tuk or something that could get us safely to our guesthouse.
We took the first taxi that was offered to us. 500 INR. After the taxi driver moved some rocks out of the way so he could drive out rather than going around and we climbed into his very old fashioned British car turned cab, he took us about 200m before seeing the traffic was banked up and pulling over in a dark side street next to the highway. He got out, wandered around, jumped on his phone and wandered some more. We had no idea what was happening but eventually got it out of him...his car wouldn't do so well sitting in traffic so his friend was going to come get us instead. And he did.
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| A family outing |
The taxi ride was probably the most nerve racking hour and a bit of our trip so far. The amount of close-calls was a joke as the driver pretended he was a motorbike and zipped between cars, trucks, motorbikes with families on them and anything else that got in his way. Chris took advantage of the situation, sticking his camera and head out of the window and into the traffic to capture some awesome photos, mainly of men and women and their sleeping child on motorbikes with a sari and the flowers from their hair blowing in the wind behind them. We got about half way before the driver stopped for petrol and demanded we pay him then and there so he could pay for his petrol. Wary but with little bargaining power we agreed and hoped for the best. And it was fine. The guy even tried calling our guesthouse, asked numerous people for directions and took Chris' phone around the place barefoot to help him get an idea of where our guesthouse might be. We found it finally, down some noisy side street, saw the room and without thinking much, agreed to it. After paying and filling out a form we went back to the room and realised what we had gotten ourselves into. A squat toilet (stinky), no sink, no sheets, a fan that only worked on cyclone mode and enough noise coming from the other guests that sleeping seemed impossible. We opened the Lonely Planet and vowed to find another place to stay tomorrow before rearranging the room so our two 'smaller than single' beds were together. Naw.
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