Return to Dodge

We reluctantly, yet inexorably, pulled through the giant wooden gates protecting the peace and solace of Uga Bay from the outside world. The long stretch of road running the length of Pasikudah Bay, dotted with seaside resorts, was deserted. A plastic purple ice cream cone teased from across the street, standing crooked in front of a hut with its metal rolling door closed.

Greeting reality was like a splash of cold water to the face; on the east coast of the island, economic calamity was quiet. We drove near the town of Batticaloa in search of petrol before turning inland toward our next destination, Ella in the island's mountainous interior. A length of rope strung across the drive of the first gas station we came to. Orange traffic cones blocked the entrance to the second. A man sitting on the black and white striped bollard in front of the inert gas pump returned our questioning look with an upturned, empty palm. 

The drive inland was surprisingly peaceful. The road less crowded than normal. Either due to the lack of available fuel or the long holiday. Perhaps, some combination of the two. The landscape gradually rose. Wide expanses of scrub suitable for roaming cattle gradually gave way to low hills and islands of palmettos. The two lane road became more sinuous. Jungle palms crowded the asphalt, edging out the long plain of the east coast. 

We eventually found an open gas station and waited 45 minutes for 5,000 rupees, or about 11 liters, of petrol. I asked for more, but was told that was all I could have. I wasn't in a position to argue, as 30 men on motorcycles stared me down from beneath their helmets with yellowed, hallow, hungry eyes beneath, another 30 with gas canisters crammed in behind them. They carried two liter soda bottles and milk jugs. They would fill their baby's bottle with petrol if they could, and the pump attendant would dispense petrol into your uplifted palms for a 500 rupee "tip". It was enough to get me to 3/4 of a tank which would get us to Ella.

As we neared the last turn to Amba, the tea estate where we stay, the sky darkened, lightning flashed, and fat raindrops splattered the windshield. Soon, the skies opened up, and we rushed up the mountainside against a torrent of rushing water. We made it a kilometer from the main road before meeting a wall of water gushing across the road as though freed from a fire hydrant. The road had been washed away. We parked behind a tuk-tuk, idling alongside the newly-created riverbank. Two motorcycles stared us down from the opposite bank, their cyclopean headlamps barely cutting through the rain. One of motorcyclists braved the raging water once. Then, twice, rainwater running over his blue jeans and up to his knees. Eventually, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and the water slowed. First, the motorcycle crossed. Then, after some times, the tuk-tuk, too, before we were confident enough to attempt our own crossing. 

The next three days were restorative. Clove Tree Cottage is perched on the edge of a valley overlooking tea plantations. Across the lush green valley, Ella Rock guards the north end of the valley, a stone protuberance jutting into the sky. Opposite Ella Rock stands Eagle Rock. Over breakfast of toast and mango-ginger jam, one can watch the clouds roll over the face of Eagle Rock. Later in the day, as thunder rumbles ominously at one of the valley, and curtains of rain hide Ella Rock from view, a rainbow leapt over Eagle Rock. 

Peter and I climbed Eagle Rock with his friend and his father. Then, when we reached the bottom, immediately set down the trail leading to the slot cave, a narrow passage between one rock leaned against another, eerily reminiscent of the wadis in Jordan. The city is harsh and not conducive to outside play. When the kids get too loud, we aren't able to banish them to the yard. Ella was the panacea all had been seeking, a curing tonic. The kids ran away from themselves, chased by a more fearful version of themselves, wild, care abandoned. Yes, they mainly ran through the knee-high grass to escape leeches, but they also shed the shackles of school and the constraints of the city, the wind whipping their hair, splashing in cool mountain watering holes, and petting the farm's menagerie of cats and dogs. 

We finally had to leave Ella on a Friday with but a half a tank of gas. We heard reports the service station on the highway was empty the day before. We decided to pull off the freeway outside of Mattara and join a queue of cars easily more than a kilometer or more long. We waited two hours and 15 minutes. Fortunately, the queue stretched past a small supermarket where we could all go to the bathroom and Elise could buy crackers and processed cheese wedges to tide us over. 

The protestors in Colombo have erected a tent city near the President's palace. Last night, the streets were full and the green clogged by the demonstrations. It remains to very seen what the police will do to break ot up by Monday morning, the end of the long Tamil and Sinhala New Year week.