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(Reproduced from the Daily News of December 4, 2001) His eyes are as blue as the sky above. His hair is the colour of the sand on the beach - and his eyebrows - are golden like the beer in his glass. I come across him, lying on a deck chair in the hot, hot sun, on the beach in Negombo. Before we begin to talk, we look at each other and burst out in laughter. He is doing everything he can to absorb the sun into his skin while I am doing everything possible to avoid it, for I do not want my brown skin getting any browner. "I'm from UK. Ten days ago I decided to go on vacation, searched the internet and found Sri Lanka is the best place for a solitary, low-budget tourist like me. Says John Whatshisname. He is not scared about the bombs and the LTTE. "Its the same back at home too, with the IRA. Christmas is round the corner and no one knows when a bomb will explode in London. No place is safe from terrorist attacks these days. So, here's to Sri Lanka." he says raising the glass of beer in his hands. John works for the American company called Edison. This is his first visit to Sri Lanka. Every year during June and July, when his sixteen year old son gets his school holidays John goes to Goa with him. "But in November I travel alone. I am divorced. Travelling alone can be lonely at times..." he trails off in mid sentence, but brightens to say "Now that I have discovered Sri Lanka, I hope to come next year too. Time I gave Goa a skip." My next interviewee is a pot-bellied seventy-something Scandinavian man with a walking stick. He is not as vociferous as John. He is German and knows "little English". He shows a stump of flesh where his index finger should have been and says "Second World War". I gaze in amazement. Am I staring into the eyes of a Nazi? But before I can ask him he makes a sleeping motion with his hands and says "Wife dead". Then he asks "You alone?". I shake my head and say "No. I am Married." He gives a low, delighted chuckle and punches me on the arm. "No ring!" he says pointing to my bare fingers in a conspiratorial voice. I collect my things, grab my bag and run for my life... ... and almost trip over Peiris. "He....ll...oooooo. Monkey? Elephant?" he asks me even though he knows I am not a tourist. Then I realize he is teasing me, that he knows I cannot afford to buy his wares. Business is not good for beach-vendors says Peiris. But he carries on anyway, because he knows no other trade. A few feet away from us, I watch Malkanthi selling a wrap around skirt to a "white lady" for Rs. 450. Malkanthi speaks fluent English and later tells me she knows German, French and Swedish as well. The goods in her hands belong to a shop owner in the town. She has to pay him his price. The balance is hers. "Business dropped when the airport was attacked. But now things have begun to pick up" says Vinifrida Paris. She has been a beach vendor for over twenty-five years and seems to be the leader of the clan of around sixty vendors on the beach. "The hotel people don't like us. And even some of the tourists. They point to the sun and say, "We come for that. We don't want anything else". But I think the main reason is that they don't have money. Everybody is poor these days. The whole world is going through a tough time." "I have two sons who work as drivers for the hotel. They are paid Rs. 3250 a month. They want me to stay at home. But I have decided to keep on doing my work as long as I can. I am determined not to be a burden to my sons, who have families of their own." "All our girls are good." Continues Paris. "We keep our beach clean. There are no prostitutes around here. We see to it that no one pollutes our beach." Meanwhile Michael who comes from Hathamme, in Daluwatte, patrols the beach with a rake in his hands. He is dressed in shorts and shirt, the same colour as those worn by police officers. He is employed by the hotel, works from six in the morning to six in the evening, and is given tea and lunch. One of Michael's tasks every morning is to drag a rake across the beach to sweep it clean. I offer my help. I ask Michael to stand aside while I drag the rake for him. He stands and watches me shaking his head in bewilderment. It had seemed easy when Michael had been doing it. But soon the rake becomes heavy on my hands and my shoulders begin to ache. The beach seems to spread on, endlessly. I give up. Michael is relieved. "I have to keep the beach ready before the tourists come." He chews the beetle in his mouth and continues. "They look as white as cuttlefish when they first come. But in a day or two they are like boiled prawns."He casts an eye over the stretch of beach I had swept and says, "Not bad for an amateur". I leave Negombo with Michael's words ringing in my ears. I have seen the reawakening of a tourist resort. The future looks good. The tourist industry seems to be picking up, and I have Michael's assurance of becoming a good beach-sweeper one day.
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