Peeling Paint

A cool air pulls down the narrow streets of old town Galle. It’s as if it beckons you towards the shore to glimpse the panoramic horizon from the old Portuguese bastion of Flag Rock.
It would be nice to see the sunset, but there is a strange kind of peace here amidst the peeling paint and weathered rooftops.
Undulating roof tiles, some terracotta, some blackened by moss, hang like the mottled teeth of some lurching beast. The spaghetti of wires that crisscross the street bring power occasionally. But less reliably than they provide gangways for the monkeys and squirrel-like creatures living in the wreckage of a bygone era.

Negombo

This all seemed a world away from my first night back in Negombo. Yet it was merely a couple of hours on a train journey that cost about £1. One which through lack of any closed doors or windows, treats you to the sounds, sights and smells of the palm-lined coast along the way.
Perhaps Galle’s thick fort walls had helped contain something that had ebbed away elsewhere.
Negombo had tired fishermen sat in lines of colourful boats and their young attending the nets drying sardine on the shore. A few pitches still clung to the early evening light in the fish market, desperate to sell their spoiling catches. While in the square people played sports on the parched grass, or stared at me with a coldness in their eyes.

I wont pretend that plunging my foot in to a river of what I can only describe as “fish essence” didn’t influence my view of this place. Nor my failed attempt to hike out there when I misread the map and ended up face to face with stray dogs and heavy traffic. But I definitely felt uneasy there, and I was so desperately seeking some comfort in my first few days of travel.

Galle

The charm of Galle provides this in abundance. Right from the beauty of the crumbling Dutch-colonial architecture, through to the smiles and helpfulness of the countless people who stopped to chat to us. Even the crow that turned up at breakfast to watch us tackle our first coconut with chilli and garlic, seemed to have a friendly tone to its caw.
Of course there were many who had beads and taxis to offer us. Livings must be made after all. But they came and went softly like the tumbling tides near the shore on Lighthouse beach. Not once did we feel buffeted by their attentions like the weathered breakers further out.
Galle reminded me of Venice in some ways. There were pristine and palatial fronts contrasted beside crumbling bits of history. But nowhere I’d been, reminded me of the kind of community and relationships the people had built here.

Its true the Dutch engineered this place, bringing trade, architecture and even a fortification that withstood the 2004 tsunami. Inevitably when that power retreated, with it went some of the splendor of that time. But as I lay shaded by palms on the coral-littered beach, I am surrounded by families of many generations. While up on the fortifications couples sit, their smiles reflecting the warmth of this place, with the arc of ancient branches cradling their love.

Perhaps the paint that peeled away in Galle merely shows a different coat underneath. One that was always there. Long awaiting it’s time in the sun.