Sri Lanka is chaos. Before we leave the Colombo airport, we partake in an unplanned appointment with a uniformed man (military? airport employee?) who has led us to his office and has not spoken for half an hour. The kids are goofing around on office chairs, sitting upside down and swinging their legs; Kyle and I are employing our official everything’s-all-right travel faces. We are clueless. Turns out we got bad advice about our visas before our arrival here; they should have either been purchased more than twenty-four hours in advance or at the airport counter in person, instead of what we did—buy them online mere hours beforehand, during a layover in Kuala Lumpur. Crisp American bills suffice as collateral for necessary passport stamps and stickers, and so with a stack high enough on the man’s desk and a conniving smile to prevent our eyes from rolling with annoyance, we are allowed into the country, this pear-shaped island southeast of India.
I have never before seen an airport like this. Past the baggage claim, we push our stack of bags on a trolley and walk through a gauntlet of furniture and appliance stores. We are now in a mall. Vacuum cleaners, reclining chairs, dishwashers, electric teakettles—the price is right on household goods in the airport. Who buys a washing machine after a transoceanic international flight? I wonder. There really are decent prices on Maytags. Too bad I don’t have a house to put one in.
We hail a taxi and have it take us from the airport appliance outlet to the commotion of the train station. We don’t know what to expect and we don’t exactly have a plan, other than to find a way to our guesthouse. We were told the train is the cheapest and most efficient means of traveling from the capital city of Colombo to our guesthouse in the town of Kandy. We were also told we wouldn’t need passport visas in advance.
Turns out it’s fine to buy train tickets at the station gate; there’s plenty of space in first class at five bucks a seat. There is no place in the station to store our bags while we wait for the train, however, and we are starving after our marathon journey from Sydney. A day ago, we left Australia’s capital city at ten o’clock in the evening and arrived in Kuala Lumpur at three the next morning. There, we piled together like bears in a den and slept on the dingy Malaysian airport floor until our flight to Colombo at 10 a.m. I think we’ve been traveling for nineteen hours, but Sri Lankan time is four hours, thirty minutes behind Australia’s, so who’s to say?
We keep the weight on our backs and search for food to take on the train.
Outside the station, men sit on curbs munching on corn on the cob and oranges; they stop midbite and stare at us, as if we’ve stepped out of a sitcom. Toddlers hold hands with grandmothers and uniformed schoolchildren run past us, rushing to a bus stop. Motorized rickshaw taxis slow down and walk with us, honk their childlike horns to announce their availability. Women in vibrant saris of green and gold flash against the sunlight, intermingling with men’s plaid wraparound sarongs and polo shirts. The sky is yellow-gray with pollution again; the air smells of factory smoke, curry, and sweat. Passing crowds slow down and stare once more at our flaxen-haired children. Vendors thrust fried samosas, oranges, brochures for grand tours of the capital city, and fake Rolex watches toward us.
The five of us circle back to the train station, find a tiny attached bakery swarming with customers vying for next in line, and push our way forward for sesame-covered rolls and a variety of samosas. For the kids, I hope at least one of the triangle pastries isn’t spicy. We load up on bottled water and pray that they weren’t refilled under the tap.
We trudge through the train station, wave at the ticket vendor who recognizes us, toss our bags on the ground, and sit on them. I open the bakery bag and pass out pastries. The kids nibble a feeble corner off their samosas, pass them to Kyle and me.
“No thanks,” they each say.
“Aren’t you starving?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I sigh and reluctantly give them the plain sesame-dotted rolls, and Reed picks off the seeds. Kyle and I eat the five samosas. The garam masala potato filling dissolves in my mouth; Kyle groans with pleasure. They are divine.
Looking at a map, this is an odd stop on our journey. Sri Lanka isn’t near anywhere else we are visiting, and neither Kyle nor I know anyone here. We don’t know that much about it, either, but when we planned our trip months ago, we noticed it was an even stop between the Australian and African continents, and huh—I wonder what it’s like? That seemed like a good enough reason to stop, and so, we are here because it’s here. It exists. It floats in the Indian Ocean, a teardrop southeast of India, and there probably won’t be another time we’ll fly across it.
It has not yet been a full day since we were in Australia, where highways felt familiar and smells were commonplace. Now we are surrounded by mystery.
A train pulls into the station and we strap on our packs. First class proffers padded velvet seats, a spitting window-unit air conditioner, and a movie without sound or subtitles, starring B-list American teenage actors. The screen wobbles above the emergency exit, and a few minutes later, the sluggish train departs the station. We pass graffitied concrete walls and piles of trash, a few boys playing dangerously close to the tracks. I see some of Colombo’s skyscrapers and the coastline in the distance. The scenery gradually transfigures to stubby shrubs with giant leaves, towering banyan trees, rusted corrugated tin roofs, old women hanging brightly colored laundry, and young men on bicycles. As the train gains speed, it begins to gallop. Our bodies start to wave forward and back, our heads wobble; I feel like I’m on a high-speed carousel horse. My velvet seat begins to shift sideways.
“Mom, I don’t feel very good,” Finn moans.
“Me neither. You can lay down and close your eyes.” He curls up next to me.
Tate looks up from her book. “I don’t think I can do any school right now,” she says. Reed laughs at the roller coaster ride, sways with the rhythm, and bounces in his seat. He sits by himself and the rest of us close our eyes. I hear Finn snoring. Towns and villages bobble up and down, and I keep my head straight as I pray for a vomit-free journey. Nameless teenagers fight on the screen and shout silent obscenities.
I don’t know how we’ll find dinner tonight, and I hope for a corner store near our house for eggs and a few veggies—we are nutrient depleted and pastry bloated. It’s dark when we arrive in Kandy, and we hail a taxi. He speaks some English and offers a price that sounds extortionate. Kyle texts the German homeowner, who is currently in Europe, to verify the price.