A Sojourn to Sri Lanka’s Mystical East Coast
I was jolted awake, as the smooth highway asphalt abruptly turned to pot-holed residential streets. My muscles cramped and efforts to shift my weight from one buttock to the other and make things more comfortable were futile. We were still four hours away from our destination and with over 24 hours of travel time on the clock, I was itching to get there. The sun seared outside and the overworking A/C couldn’t pump enough cool air to stop our tee-shirts from clinging to our backs.
I had been here almost eight years ago to the day and I was on my way back in search of the same tropical, easy-to-surf right-handers I’d enjoyed so long ago. I was 8 years older, but my appetite for hunting waves hadn’t decreased. If anything, I had only become more ravenous in my pursuit of them. We were on our way to the far-eastern side of the country, where the promise of rippable sand bottom rights awaited. It was the tail end of the season though, and for an already fickle stretch of coast, heading there this late in the year was touch and go. It was too late now though, as we pulled up to take a break.
We stopped at a dingy, roadside restaurant, with plastic chairs and plastic table covers over plastic tables. It was grubby, and flies descended on plates yet to be cleared–a far cry from the airport McDonalds. A culinary “in at the deep end”. I hesitantly ordered a chicken curry with a side of roti, and a Ceylon tea. Minutes later, several plates arrived and while I had requested no spice, the curry I received stung the roof of my mouth and had my ears ringing. The flavours were incredible though, and the colours jumped out of the plate–reds, oranges and yellows. I wrestled with spoonfuls of rice to keep the spice equilibrium tipped in favour of my tame English palate. Sweat poured from my nose, as I handed over a fistful of local currency, worth about $6. Not bad for three huge curries and a round of drinks, huh?
We sped on, past low-lying rice paddies, rolling hills, lonely peaks, and twisting rivers. The landscape was a stunning green contrast between thick Crayola greens and the deep blue skies. Cumulonimbus loomed ominously on the horizon–threatening to unload their wrath and slow our journey further still. This part of Sri Lanka is also notorious for elephants, which cross the road at will. Elephants have the right of way here. With one eye on the jungle for potential sightings and the other on our driver’s alarmingly risky blind-corner overtakes, we made it to Arugam Bay in one piece.
The swell chart was dubious and I knew it was a gamble coming here at this time of year, but I desperately wanted to re-taste those luscious right walls. The waves in this part of the world peel beautifully and beg you to rip them to pieces, with little consequence. The next morning, I marched out to the point, filled with the same sense of nervous anticipation on all surf trip arrival days. I paced along the golden ribbon of sand that separates the jungle and the ocean at Arugam. It was early morning, and the breeze, while refreshing, was not a good indication of wave quality.
I rounded the final tip of the point where the waves came into view and saw that the ocean surface was coated in whitecaps. The waves were waist-high, maybe shoulder-high on the sets. A weak short-period swell was interfering with the longer-period primary and was cutting up the steel-edged lines I’d hoped for.
I sat at the cafe overlooking the point, feeling dejected over a grainy black coffee, inspecting the line-up. There were surfable waves, and on closer inspection, the inside section had some small but tasty-looking double-ups. Better still, there were only five guys out, sat further up the point and I saw countless waist-high runners, roll through unridden and unnoticed. I slapped myself, downed my coffee, waxed up, and paddled out.
It wasn’t pumping by even the keenest surfer’s standards, but having the place almost to myself and hunting down the clean double-ups was as fun a surf as you could ever hope for. If you could pick them off, the best waves offered enough clean face and power to race along and rattle off a few snaps and cutties. The water was bath water-like, and I was essentially surfing alone–a joyous experience, albeit miles away from what I had come for. At one point, a larger set came through, giving me a golden head-high wall and reminding me of the true Arugam.
Post-surf, I wandered back into town, stopping to gawk at a man strolling down the beach. The man carried with him a monkey, attached to his hand via a piece of string. Over his shoulder was slung a large purple sack, which looked to be full of something heavy. I studied him and saw that whatever was in the bag was moving–wriggling, and swirling around. Before I could guess its’ contents, the head of a python (yes, you read that correctly) slithered out of the bag, its neck the width of a baseball bat. I stared in disbelief as the man with the casualness only a snake charmer could have, pushed the Python’s head back into the bag. He didn’t stop walking.
In the same breath, another man rushed up to me; “Hello sir, you like smoking something? I have weed, mushroom, cocaine!” It was 8.00 am. I declined and made my way back along the main road, fending off tuk-tuk drivers and street vendors as I went. It was 35°C, and the humidity dial was off the scale. I made it back to the hotel, dripping sweat, and collapsed into a tropical afternoon slumber. I’d arrived, I’d surfed, and while I’ll certainly forget most of the waves I rode that morning, I certainly won’t forget the morning.
