Travellers called it Serendip because of its abundance of latent beautiful surprises, the English Ceylon and Tamils and Sinhalese variations on Lanka. The resplendent-meaning 'Sri' was added on independence. WhoreCull's middle-class tourist finds an island still in transition after decades of civil war with no long-term peace agreement. Let's hope it doesn't get exploited to fuck

There is nothing more difficult to plan,
more doubtful of success,
nor more dangerous to manage
than the creation of a new system.
For the initiator has the enmity of all who would profit by the preservation of the old system
and merely lukewarm defenders in those who would gain by the new one

Machiavelli - 1513

"You're going to Sri Lanka are you? Is it safe?" was the typical question I had as my trip to the island of Serendipity approached. I don't like cobras but I'm sure I'll be fine and I've got my anti-malarial potions, I thought.

They meant the Tigers. Not Hull City, but the Liberation Tamil Tigers of Ealam (LTTE). Well, yes and no. First of all, it's not simply about Tamils and Sinhalese. There's a significant Muslim population descended from Arab traders - just as we were leaving I read of a plot that was uncovered in Negombo, the tourist town where we were based - to assassinate the leader of the Sri Lanka Muslim Congress. That would do the situation no good at all. Then you have Tamil Hindus, Tamil Catholics (Portuguese descended), Tamil Christians (Dutch or British-influenced), even some Muslims call themselves Tamils, then Sinhalese Buddhists (the dominant religion), Sinhalese Christians, etc. A caste apart are the Sinhalese ruling class, who I think no-one likes. One man said the sum of the island's problems could be attributed to the police, the governments and the Pope (didn't find out the explanation to the latter).

The government and LTTE are still in talks and there are lots of unresolved issues and a lot of muck-raking about, for example, the LTTE's continued conscription of child soldiers (one for every household of three kids, The Island says). But as fragile peace goes, it's a lot more convincing than many others. So yeah, get me to Lanka - variations of which both Tamils and Sinhalese use to name the island. There can be no use of 'Ceylon' as that is a colonial sobriquet.

Unlike the relationship between say, Australians and Bali and all westerners to Thailand, the relationship between Sri Lankans and British is a lot more symbiotic than their mere providing us with tourist havens. Colonial legacy aside, English is the bridge language between Tamils and Sinhalese; their education system mirrors and is approved by the UK's and almost everyone else has been to our Septic Isle themselves or has relatives there (and the Middle East it seems). There is clear acceptance that their own island is still too underdeveloped, yet the quality of education instils a determination to prosper: so why not go elsewhere while you can? Lasting peace brings lasting economic benefits - everyone was adamant that they would stay on their island and work when it becomes worthwhile.

And I can see while you wouldn't want to leave. 'Sri' means resplendent and fully-featured its portfolio certainly is. OK, we didn't see or hear too much during our first two days' hotel acclimatisation, lively firecracker celebrations for New Year's Day on Negombo beach aside. But then we started moving about from our west coast base. Into main Negombo town we went the long way back past the beach fish market, a bloke there telling us that one main issue at the moment is youthful heroin addiction. No sign of that as we walked past the shanty town built up next to the market and past the community's Saint Sebastian cathedral.
Or on our first trip down to Colombo, the sprawling capital that seems to include pretty much everything past a few miles south of our resort town and a similar distance the other side. 30 rupees each (20p) for the posh "air-con" bus in. To place extra numbers in comfort, they have fold-down chairs that fill the aisle. Nice touch. It drops you off somewhere we weren't expecting, so we got a tuk-tuk (rickshaw) round to Colombo 1 - the business and commerce district - to get a map and familiarise ourselves. We used our white Western status for quick refreshment in a five-star hotel then stood and stared at their very own Twin Towers as the bankers sped past us for lunch. Past more banks and into Laksala, government-run department stores. Elaborate purchasing procedure: a member of their well turned-out staff picks up your chosen item, you then go and confirm the goods elsewhere and pay for them, then head off to another desk as the goods are wrapped. I'd love to see that work among impatient shoppers on a Saturday afternoon in Argos. 'Don't botha wrapping it love', 'Whachu taking that for? Iz mine', etc. Then up to a street near the port area in Tamil Colombo 13, Vivekananda Hill, for a bit of personal history for my girlfriend. She saw the site of her grandmother's house. It's now a faceless block of offices. What a waste. But we also saw her mother's Muslim friend from back in the day ('the sixties'), Faiz ur Rahman, who runs a huge transportation/logistics business from this unassuming street. His parent company is that Danzas who sponsored Everton in one of their unsuccessful phases. A charismatic man, he gave us lots of insights into the island and helped us with our cultural urges - getting Elias, another Muslim who spent time in Jeddah, to take us to Fort Railway Station for tickets and onto a high-rise office block on the Galle Road. There an agent booked us a hotel on the northeast coast. Those Sri Lankans who don't like clutter must be preying for a comprehensive electronic debiting system. Paying for anything involves an enormous paper trail as you sign and countersign for stuff. We didn't have time to chill out in Viharamaradevi Park but Elias got us through traffic and put us onto a rush-hour bus to Kattubadda in the south of the city. Very long bus for an urban journey this one, but liked the ticket conductor. He'd get off and shout the destinations in a kind of high-pitched repetitive mantra, with bell accompaniment. It was something we'd see again on the train, when people would come round with their food, in particular "vadai-vadai-vadai-va-va-va-vadai"; nice savoury vegetable bakes, vadais. It was a Hindu-driven bus.

After getting off we found more Tamil relatives of all generations, girls learning English and Sinhalese as well as Tamil - but will they get a fair shout at university with the Sinhalese enforced 20% Tamil-only law? Though this one-in-five law is roughly correct by proportion, it enrages many Tamils because, as cousin Shanti says, they have traditionally been disproportionately more active in pursuing higher education. Lucky for them, and for Sri Lanka's racist system, that many others harbour ambitions further afield than the island. Anyway, young girls, great aunties, mother's cousins. It was two households in fact, one more than usual because Shanti's house was being finished off. She has been working in Dubai to pay for it. Welcomed with Lion beer - bit fattening at 625ml-a-bottle local beer, pictures of the wider family from history and our first top "rice and curry" of the holiday. Spicy-as-fuck prawns and vegetables, top dall and crabs. Kushar thought they had spiced it down, but it was the top of my range. Thanks to them for saying "give him more". I ate the English way, but that did not spare my enjoyment of a great meal. Then lovely coconut-pancake things afterwards. Amanda gave English stuff, we in turn got back a Sri Lanka plate calendar for 1992 but really there was no need for this mutual pointless present generosity. Amanda left crying at seeing again Navamanie Auntie, her grandmother's sister. Lovely stuff. Back to busy Pettah bus station. Last bus of the day back to Negombo, where it was only a short stay before our Dry Country trip.

Get up and meet driver Kamal and his Nissan Sunny. Kamal was very informative, taking time out to show us things of interest and expand our knowledge. Long journey first to Polonnaruwa, via Kurenegala, working rubber tree cutters in some places and working elephants in others. It's an ancient Buddhist City developed mostly by Kings Parakramabahu and Nissanka Malla in the 12/13th centuries as a defence against South Indian (Chola) invaders, who had originally developed the place, and as a bulwark of Buddhist faith. Huge irrigation 'tank' system too. Marvellous, the Sri Lankans were, at exploiting the water. Pity then it was raining all day when we came, dulling the impact of the ruined dagobas, temples, tooth relic shrines and so on, but there was still no doubting the serene impact of the quartet of giant granite stone Buddhas, one standing, one reclining, two seating. The Queen stayed at a place near the tank - a big man-made lake, basically - the first such time since Ceylon's independence or something. Hoped the bitch had better weather than us.

Anyway, off to Sigiriya Village Hotel via a carving centre extortion (no, we can't afford your expensive chairs and big Ganeshs but I suppose we'll have to buy something after you showed us round the factory), lunchtime rice-and-curry stop and rejuvenation for the missus at an Ayurvedic centre: a glorified system of pampering which will be coming to an overpriced health centre near you soon. I found inner calm through reading loads of my book. Arrive at the hotel and thank fuck it's got a telly. Pleasant dinner with four-piece playing contemplative Urdu Ghazal songs in the background. Early morning rise for the reason we were here in Sigiriya - to climb the huge rock developed as an impregnable fortress by Kasyapa in the fifth century after a bloody big spat with his royal family. This is one of the island's most impressive ruins, and we thoroughly enjoyed the climb from the ground-level gardens, past the "sexy" murals on one side and on up to the top past the huge lion's paws that were carved as the imposing entrance to the climb to the summit. Very high up now, the last steps were those bolted on by worthy 19th C. British anthropologist and archaeologist CP Scott, who made the whole place visitable. Looking down is not advised. At the top at last, you can take in your ascent and imagine the sophistication of the ancient palace. Ponds, the king's stone throne, etc. Again, we were ably informed by our multi-lingual guide, another example of someone whose abilities far outstretch the opportunities afforded him. Not to say he wasn't devoted to his task at hand. Down we went past another of the holy animals' entrances, the cobra hood cave, and past the gift-peddlers. Out of Sigiriya via a batik shop (no, we can't afford your expensive fabrics but I suppose we'll have to buy something after you showed us round the factory). Batik manufacturers employ an elaborate melting-and-dying wax process to produce impressive designs for wall covers or clothing. But the produce is 10-a-penny across the island, so you have to be circumspect in places like these.
Our shorthand journey through the dry country's 'Cultural triangle' was not finished. We took light relief in an elephant ride through swamp land at Habarana, feeding the great Ganesh bananas through his trunk as he waded through muddy waters and having wildlife such as iguanas, 'monitor' lizards (I was looking out for a TV screen) and slothy crocodiles pointed out for us by the mahouts. Then we enjoyed counting the countless Buddha images in the five cave temples of Dambulla, which began to be developed from the first century. A Sinhalese, Kamal offered puja (prayer) at each of the main images. There's also an impressive huge golden seated Buddha atop the modern visitors' centre, and we saw our first monkeys pissing about on our walk back down. Cultured-out, we drove back to our tourist haven for rest, thanking Kamal. Easy evening of spicy prawns and arracks at local restaurants and being asked for either of us to dance by a drunk Sinhalese.

We had a day of rest before our next journey, filling it with trips into Negombo to change money and see the museum of Tamil song-and-dance icon Rukmeni Devi, a distant relative of Amanda's. Got talking to tuk-tuk driver Bashar, who volunteered one of his men to take us into Colombo at 4:30am the next morning. That journey was to Fort so we could get the train to Trincomalee, a Tamil area in the northeast only just recovering from the troubles. About £1:50 for the nine-hour cross-country, not because the island is huge but because the trains are so fucking slow. Still, we packed enough food and books, bought the odd thing off the sellers who come through the carriages at one of the many (and prolonged) stops and in truth the journey was not that painful. We were supposed to be helping out a young Muslim wife when we reached Trinco but she could not help herself, as she ended up getting off two stops early, thinking we'd arrived. Bit slow that one. Saw a few peacocks and other birdlife as we finally did enter the east coast port station. Even before we stopped the rickshaw drivers had spotted the white man and had jumped on to offer their services. How can you argue? We just took the first up to the resort, some ten miles or so up the coast at Nilaveli. Beautiful beachside hotel this one, and we rewarded ourselves by jumping straight into the tempestuous sea. Unfortunately it continued to rain and get more overcast so we decided to stay only the one night, hanging out the following day before the night-train. For the Manchester City fans among you, I saw a photo opportunity and attempted to 'feed the goat' among all the billies by the beach. They weren't having it though. Amanda took a more successful photo of one of the many shelled-out houses up and down the coast that stand as vivid testimony to the Tamils' struggle. Our tuk-tuk driver back to Trinco helpfully showed us round the town, including the Swami rock temple at the top of a military base. Apparently foolhardy Hindu lovers have been known to jump from the top down to certain death among the waters' rocky outcrops and the ruins of the previous temple that the Portuguese, with typical Catholic fervour, destroyed in their evangelising colonisation. The Dutch and British followed, attempting with a bit more respect to convert Lankans to Christianity rather than destroy the indigenous faiths. A quick drink in what was regarded as the female-friendly Parrot café, but which was actually nothing of the sort (no girls' toilet). Indeed, Trinco did seem a little dangerous after-dark for women, but this is a place trying to regain its status as a major destination on the island.

Back to the station. Another £1:50 or so for the journey, and at least this train had the 'sleeperettes' carriages, more comfortable, reclining old leather seats. Picked up a few delicious fish rotis before setting off. Let the all-nighter begin!! The sounds were wicked, the mantra of the lone junction bell as the train stood motionless for 30 minutes, the humming of the birds from afar. I was trancing out. That's because after continued reading I was close to sleep, so let's stop this dance-club metaphor. With the delays, the journey was closer to 11 hours so we were more than happy to pull into Colombo's Fort at about 6am. Only another bus from Pettah, kids and chickens on our lap, and a tuk-tuk from Negombo town (ripped off at Rs100 but who cares at that stage?) and we're home.

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After the travelling we had a quiet few days, taking a ride with the local catamaran fishermen who the hotel advises you not to deal with. Couldn't see why, they gave us a pleasant sail up to some coral reef area and back without any hassle. They were just a few of the regular procession of peddlers outside the hotel gates, which of course none of these vile local criminal scum could breach. The usual elephant-buddha-beachwrap crowd of course, as well as the odd bloke with python round his neck, or another with cobra in his basket. The majority of the mostly-German hotel guests bartered with them. The night before Kandy we had our best local night out, over the road mainly in the company of Kent's Bob and Kim from the hotel. They were very knowledgeable of certain aspects that had been eluding us, what to ask for to get the air-conditioning buses, how not to get ripped off, etc. Few drinks and travel-centric chat. They were very effusive about Bali, at the same time stating that during their trips there they never went to the soul-less strip of Oz bars that became the terrorist target and brought us a few Arracks.

Off to Kandy, old capital of the island right up in the hill country, the following morning. Terribly bumpy road from Negombo to the main Colombo-Kandy road compounded my hangover and after an hour or so I had to end my retching by getting out and vomiting profusely. Driver Silva didn't mind. He was an employee of Amanda's mother childhood friend Faiz, who most generously had laid on the car and the hotel in Kandy. Silva drove a Cedric, funny name for a Nissan 'luxury' car.

En route we had another taste of the Sri Lankans' rather rapacious attitude to selling. At Pinnewala, we had paid to see a group of about 30 elephants bathing in the Mahaweli Ganga, the big river that twists round to Kandy. Nothing wrong here, these jumbos have been taken out of the wild for justifiable reasons (one of them got shot in the crossfire and walks around with a stump fore-leg). But an unofficial guide latched onto us and, after seeing the elephants, handed us over to his mates in the nearby Spice Garden. This is another Ayurvedic centre and nothing to do with the Orphanage. But after an hour of 'free' massaging and other treatments we could hardly walk out of there without buying any lotions and potions. But the blokes were visibly disgusted with our tips. Look, we were virtually pressganged into here, and we've just bought your goods, so fair dos I reckon. Now we've got aphrodisiac marijuana bon-bons that we are assured "will take us to heaven" and other bits and bobs. I'm not doubting the legitimacy of the treatments on offer, just the methods used to sell them. After that slice of direct marketing, we cooled down with slow promenading among the Peredeniya Botanical Gardens. Plants and stuff from all over the world, and in the form of an exhibit from Java the world's largest tree. A gardener showed us this huge blue scorpion he had stranded on a giant leaf. Into Kandy at last, and the beauty of the ancient capital's man-made lake is immediately apparent. With steep green hills surrounding this centrepiece it evoked a Swiss city in springtime. And we were bound for the Hotel Suisse, a nice piece of colonial architecture and staff with colonial attitudes at the southeastern end of the lake. Big Muslim wedding in the hotel main's room that night, guests seemingly from all over south Asia to celebrate the bride and groom. But why did they blare out anodyne Western pop music?

Nice slice of 'authentic' Kandy culture at another hotel round the other side of the lake that evening. The male and female dancing troupes went through an impressive array of routines, from the masked Raksha Natuma devil dance and fire-walking to the marvellous spinning feats of the Raban. These dancers were dedicated lifetime proponents of the artform - the routines are not something you can learn in your spare time and many of them connect right back to ancient folklore. After a trip up the western hills to the imposing Bahiravokanda concrete Buddha statue, which offered great views of the city, we visited Kandy's real jewel the following morning: the Dalada Maligawa or Temple of the tooth. The temple houses in a bejewelled relic Buddha's actual tooth, supposedly snatched from his funeral pyre in 543 BC and later supposedly snatched and destroyed by the Portuguese (the Sinhalese claim they took a fake). The relic was passed around each ruling area and became more venerated as the centuries passed. Now it is a key symbol of Sri Lanka's status as a leading Buddhist nation, just as Kandy is of Sri Lankan independence (the province was never taken by the west, rather ceded to the British in 1815 by the chiefs in preference to being ruled by Sri Wickrama Rajasinha). The actual viewing of the tooth relic is a bit of a joke. Because there are so many people wanting to see it (mostly locals), visitors are carted up and round stairs until you finally get to the relic - and are given about three seconds to offer puja or just to get a glimpse. By contrast, the museums with their details of Britain's colonising role, ancient artefacts and information on the Tamil bombing a few years ago were a lot more instructive.
Final meal at the Hotel Suisse before we left the place they simply call Nuwara (city): always time for another temple visit on the route back though. Gadaladeniya's rock formations were impressive. Long drive down the hills and on the Negombo road home. That was, however, pretty much our last attempt at connecting with Sri Lanka on more than just the base tourist level.
We had one more day in Colombo, for some more Faiz generosity. He is one of life's great paternalists. He showed us the mini-citadel he has created behind his offices for the families of his many brothers and sisters. And after a trip to his gaff in the posh Colombo 7 (Cinnamon Gardens, very near to where three presidents have lived), we picked up a few more people and he treated us all to dinner at his favourite beachside restaurant, apparently frequented by none other than Princess Anne and the Spice Girls! And almost every international cricketer that has ever visited the island, the photos would suggest. His friend Austin regaled us with his tales. Another with experience in the Middle East, he worked for years for a big US construction firm and, more interestingly, spent six months as one of Saddam Hussain's human shields/hostages in 1990. His wife just said he was being voluntarily detained at the behest of all those Mesopotamian women. No, he was hijacked at Kuwait and moved around Iraq with scores of others for months. Psychological rather than physical torture. Another diner was Rami, a Lankan Briton who has moved to the island to work for Faiz. Be interesting to see how he gets on without any knowledge of Sinhalese or Tamil. Spicy fish dishes of red mullet, prawns and so on overlooking the Indian ocean. Amanda also got to find out a little more of her grandparents: both with a propensity to booze it up and eat beetle leaf apparently.

Two weeks was enough for my western product-dependent mind, but nowhere near sufficient to cover the island. We'd missed out on doing the beaches of the southwest and southeast, much more of the Tamil northeast, the tea estates and the wider hill country, in particular World's End (a mountain climb then a sheer drop of hundreds of metres to marvel at) and Adam's Peak, which if you climb by sunrise is said to reward you with a vista truly worth savouring. The tea estates were developed by the British and staffed by more Tamils brought over from South India: just to add more potential friction.

Holiday downsides? Everyone's selling you something. Their stuff, their rickshaw, the family jewellery shop. And once you've seen your umpteenth Buddha figurine, elephant ashtray, beachwrap or necklace you want to hurl them all in the sea. Our man Faiz said this is a by-product of the Tamil's liberation struggle: greater economic hardship on social unrest has made everybody that much more of a peddler. Sri Lankans brush the knock-backs off as the next man's a potential sale. At least in the second week someone finally offered me some draw - it may have been the half-arsed manner in which I was kicking my ball-substitute around the sand. Whatever, he was talking top wack for a bit of solid, so 'naeh' it was.

Then there's its burgeoning reputation as South Asia's next child porn haven. We saw reports on local TV about this and there's certainly a problem that comes from exploiting the still significant numbers of street kids in the big city (there's nothing cool about 'the streets' in this context). Look at the facts: it's Matthew Kelly's favourite place. The place is technology-savvy, and as the West will show you, the most popular applications of nu-tek are nefarious ones. My girlfriend and I also had fun with the couple from Kent, witchhunting a fat old western man who sat in Negombo restaurants on his own, just staring. I mean, definite pederast or what? Seriously, he did say to the Medwayers that he was a photojournalist, then broke his cover slightly by saying he'd hid his professional equipment under his hat to get past airport security. Ok, we were pissed up on arrack - double fermented coconut - so it was more of a case of our shit-stirring than his shit-stabbing.
So the last day; breakfast, pack and go. last on bus. Over-officious post-September 11 procedures at airport (the army handles the security: probably better than outsourcing to Airsec or whoever). Lots of delays before getting airborne. It's clear the Western world was approaching again with the in-flight entertainment. 'Sweet Home Alabama', 'The Banger Sisters', 'The Dirty Dozen'.

Ultimately the island's story is the familiarly complex one of invasion, inhabitation, more invasion, so battles for dominance, more invasion from afar, and more battles. Let's hope Simon Schama doesn't choose it for one of his hopelessly too-bitesized renditions of a nation's potted history. But as far as the Tamils and Sinhalese are concerned, everyone came from India at source.