It’s election day in Colombo so business establishments are shut, traffic is light even during peak rush hour, and despite our concern at being so close to the sea when all that everyone back in India can talk about is the fear of another tsunami, Galle Face is calm. “Let’s not go,” my wife had said, looking away from the horrifying television images from Japan, but that was all pretence, especially since our daughter too was away, in Goa, and had made light of her mother’s fears of the sea.
Colombo really is a cleaner version of Kochi, with traffic that is less chaotic, and no one toots their horns, but just like New Delhi it seems to come to life at night-time — and election or no election, and unlike the dry days this results in in India, the liquor is flowing. It’s also small enough to get around easily, so it’s no surprise that you meet for a drink at a downtown bar, book a table for dinner at a speciality restaurant, and wind up with Irish coffees somewhere else – and that’s only because it’s our first day in town and our hosts don’t want to tire us with a midnight trip to the beach (a few wines down, my wife appears quite game for it, having forgotten about tsunamis for the moment), or to go out clubbing. Even so, it’s long past the witching hour by the time we’re back in our room.
I’m not sure whether it’s because Sri Lankans lack flamboyance or that Colombo believes in small-town discretion, but we’re with some of the biggest homegrown millionaires, and they look like nothing more than a bunch of overgrown boys out to have a good time in town. They’re all “kings” of some commodity, or product line, represent multinational companies not just in this island country but out there in India as well as in Southeast Asia, but prefer the back row to a seat in the front, and are hospitable to a fault, any and all of them volunteering to take us around town.
Would we like to go shopping? “Er, no,” I say. “Definitely, yes,” butts in my wife. Are we free in the morning? “Any time after nine,” says my wife brightly. “Sweetheart,” says the rotund gentlemen who is our chosen escort, “let’s say we meet up somewhere for breakfast around 1 p m.” “You mean lunch, don’t you?” asks my wife suspiciously. “Aren’t you on holiday?” he remonstrates, “I have no intention of getting up before noon,” which in a country that goes to work at eight in the morning seems deliciously wicked — but millionaires can afford their maverick ways.
To a person they are delighted to have us visit them at their homes, or to show us around, and everyone is insistent on the shopping – for jewellery, for china, for clothes – and to help out with contacts. We must have a head massage because “my son’s wife’s, mother-in-law’s sister-in-law’s friend” is renowned for it, and while we’re at it, for the upcoming Mardi Gras party that has brought us to Colombo, there’s all the preparation we need to check out — wigs (for men too, our hostess laughs at my pate), accessories, blue nail paint (this last, I think, only for women), glitter. “Rest up,” she advises, “it’ll be the party in town” — even though it’s on Sunday, which seems a long while away to be getting into a state about.
Guests are flying in from around the world for the celebration, a birthday bash planned by our friend’s wife for all his pals, but even before the wildness sets in, the mood is already delightfully decadent: this evening, perhaps we’ll order champagne at tea-time to enter into the spirit of things.