'Hic'ka

It's Thursday. Our nation's glorious leader has decided to shut down Colombo city and host a 5-day gathering for the boys from the SAARC, where he and his fellow nincompoops will spin fictitious tales for the ignorant. There's no point in sticking around to witness it - mainly because, apart from the fact that His Lowness's shenanigans interest me not, I'm not allowed anywhere near the summit movements. The glorious leader must be savvy to my cunning plot to stand on the newly-vacated Glennie Street and throw rotten tomatoes at his passing bullet proof vehicle. Dang. My plans will have to wait for another opportune moment, and for now I think I will ensconce myself elsewhere.

Perhaps I'll traipse over to the Hikkaduwa Beach Fest. The boys at the Tourist Board have been raising their sarongs about it for about a month now, via the Real FM people. It sounds very exciting. Fleeing Colombites have been promised a week's worth of sun, sand and festivities that are costing just as much as the SAARC... of course I simply must attend and join in the party. And because I am cool and new-age, I shall henceforth refer to the place as 'Hikka' in the hopes that I fit in with the more initiated.

I've never been to Hikka. No I'm not ashamed of the fact, so stop gasping like they've announced another petrol hike. Yes, of course I'm excited about going. That is why I've bought myself a whole new wardrobe for my two-night expedition. Seven outfits in all because, really, you never know when you might need them. Batik shorts to look suitably Hikka Hippy-ish and some of those flowy dresses that will make me look like a romantic music video, where nubile beauties skip merrily in the shallow waters of the ocean in their wet flowy dresses and cavort about like easter bunnies. I can be an easter bunny. Most importantly, I should not forget a swimsuit. I have been told it's a MUST when on the beach. Two hours at Beverly Street and my mid-region convinces me that I can't wear a bikini, unless I want to drain the marijuana out of everyone's heads in Hikka. Woe is me. I shall have to resort to my faithful one-piece suit, practice sucking my tummy in and pray.

Fast forward to Thursday evening. I have driven to Hikka. Is this actually the acclaimed party central of Sri Lanka? It looks like a ghost town at Christmas time. Fairy lights everywhere but not a dog in sight. Oh wait... there's a dog. Where is everyone? Oh look... cops, telling me I can't park on the side of the road. I thought I'd left all that behind in Colombo. My hotel cannot accommodate my vehicle in its already full car-park, mutters the ancient security officer who is guarding it. I will have to park at the police station a couple of feet away and lug my bags in.

I am now in my hotel room (the one I spent the last three weeks fighting for, because everything in Hikka was booked up for the beachfest). What are those marks on the bed sheets? Oh lord, there are pubes on my pillow. Is that a pee stain on the toilet seat? And WHAT is that brown streak on the towel? Ew. This is not how I planned it. I do, however, have to applaud the Hotel for their honesty... at least they've kept everything white so I can actually SEE the smut marks left behind by the patrons of the past. Almost a show of pride, this. 'Look... see how many people have slept on this bed and pissed in this toilet. We are a truly popular enterprise.'

Joy.

An hour later and I am dressed in the first of my seven Hikka outfits and sitting at the Red Lobster in the hopes of having dinner. The table cloths here outdo my hotel bed sheets. I am curious to know if this is a Hikka tradition. Why is the waitress/proprietress carrying a child and serving food? It's a cute child, but his fingers are dirty... the ones he just dug his nose with.
My devilled beef and fried rice is quite good. I can eat all of it, if I don't think of the state of the kitchen I see below the stairs. I am full, and ready to hit the Drum festival.

Oh My Hikka Gawd. This drum festival is fabulous! Ravibandu, Jananath, Elephant's Foot, Vibrations, etc., etc. Just my cup if tea and I can't stop gyrating. Wonder why there are not many people here... except for that drunk fellow in front, jumping around like a rhesus monkey on LSD.
A femal rhesus impersonator has now joined... her little belt-cum-skirt leaves nothing to anyone's imagination, but she's too stoned to notice. Oh dear... please don't bend forward, honey. Wince. Never mind... the awesome drumming is worth this ludicrous exhibition of bad dancing and pink undies.

Time has lapsed once more and I have just woken up in my stained bed, four hours since I fell
asleep. I am suddenly bonding with this room... the whiteness of it all appeals to my lack-of-sleep-drugged mind. I don't mind the stains anymore... they have become familiar patches worth pondering over. The view of the ocean outside ain't half bad...

A quick wash in hot water that isn't hot, and into outfit no.2. Breakfast is being cleared so I grab at the last of the boiled eggs and sausages. Should I try the kiribath, I wonder. Nah... perhaps tomorrow. An hour hence and I am at the much-publicized Beach Market.

Er... where's the market? Oh... you mean that tent selling plastic toys... ok then. I feel like grumbling that the 2000 rupees I painfully handed over in exchange for a beach fest ticket is starting to look like a rip-off. Sigh... might as well trudge back to the hotel and sleep some m... oh heyyy... look at all those lovely bumpy bodies playing beach rugby... hmmm... hello there....

Gah. They're all barely fifteen. With bumpy faces. I am a Hikkaduwa paedophile. Gah.

More slodging in the sand, and I am now at the back entrance of my hotel that overlooks the sea. There is a group of kids playing about in the water and making loud screechy noises. By the looks of it and the sound of the sri-american accents, they are from one of those international schools... what other mothers would let their pre-teen daughters wear such scandalous bikinis that barely cover anything up? Look at them smoking and rubbing themselves up on those pre-pubescent boys like they've seen it done on VH1 and MTV. Tsk. But that water they're in looks inviting. If only I didn't have a phobia when it comes to the ocean.

But it's Hikka... and Hikka is said to be the beach of opportunity. I will dare the sea water. With the help and patience from a strong arm to cling onto like a drowning rat, my one-piece bathing suit and I are soon waist-deep in the waves and strangely enjoying the terrifying thrill of it. I can see those darned international school kids laughing at me... or are they laughing at my old-aunty swim suit and the paunch it fails to hide? I don't know, and I care little... I'm too busy being proud of myself for having stepped into the sea after 20 years. I'm even so bold as to reach into the sand and pick up pieces of dead coral that have washed up from the deep. Are those actualy pretty little fish swimming around my knees? Wow...

Another two hours and an outfit have passed. There is no better way to satisfy the hunger pangs developed from a sea bath than the Mama's buffet down the road. The spectacular spiciness is making me sweat and feel faint. Has there ever been a yummier rice and curry meal? Mmmm.... Mama, whoever she is, deserves a culinary medal.

A quick nap later and I am back at the beach market, where they are now showcasing the sand castle competitions and kite flying festivals. 6 kites in all. For some strange reason, alot of sand sculptures depict women with their bums up. Must be a Hikka beach boy thing. Again, nothing much to look at...except for that dog who is coolly raising its leg to one of the sandcastles. Back to the hotel room to change for dinner and the Beach Rave.

Dinner is delicious. I hope everyone knows about the superb food this Blue Shadow place has to offer... I have never tasted devilled crab this good and this meaty. The panic-ridden-ant-like waiter deserves a hefty tip, as does the cook. I could get used to the food in Hikka. On to the rave.

I have never been to a rave. I looked forward to this so much, and now I'm wondering why. I almost feel foolish for having dressed up in outfit number 5. Yes, it does make me fit in better with the other girls around, who all look like they've stepped out of a magazine. (the same magazine, by the way... since all of them seem to be wearing the same thing, like little clone-dolls). What is this terrible sound, ah? Is this what they call trance music? Where's the music part of it? Thump thump thump thud. Repeat twenty gazillion times over. I don't see how it's making everyone wiggle up and down the way they are. This time at least the beach is packed... and you can always tell who's from Colombo and who's not. The Colombites will be the plastic-looking ones wearing too much make-up, trying to imitate popstars and speaking in ridiculous boru accents. Kiss-kissing the air, holding cigarettes and downing drinks just to look fashionable. The others would be the Hikka beach bums who've crashed the party and are now pulling unnecessary stirs with the Colombo boys. Almost makes those security checks and the special wrist bands at the entrance redundant. I have had my ass grabbed and my last nerve stepped on too many times and it's only 11 o'clock.

I am about to turn away in boredom when they bring on the dancing girls. 6 blonde hotties all the way from the UK in their gold bikinis, who are shaking their sumptuous booties at the herd of salivating men migrating rapidly towards the stage with jaws and eyeballs dragging behind them in the sand. Not bad for the tourist board, to brings these ones down. Very progressive, I must say... especially allowing them to show off those bums and what-nots to that extent. Wish I could shake like that... I would too, if not for the danger of my flying flab knocking someone out. Maybe that old lady sitting over there in the Nilkamal chair and covering her mouth in distaste. WHO decided to bring Granny to the Beach rave anyway??


My feet are aching after having stood at the rave for five hours, doing little else than disapproving of the silly behaviour around me. I have yet not seen the point of a rave, nor why I was so excited about going to one. Give me tribal beats and latino dance any day over this techno muck. I want my room... my lovely, lovely white, stained room. Skip to next day.

Ahh... that sleep was fabulous. It is Sunday now, and the breakfast is good. I have eaten too much, but it doesn't stop me from stuffing my face at a Mama's lunch one last time. Outfit number 6 covers up the sin of gluttony. The party aspect of this Hikka place is too overrated in my opinion, but the food certainly lives up to expectation. Reminds me of Pattaya- dotted with wayside cafés and cheap eateries with excellent food. A quick stopover at a rather nice little place called Drifters where I meet a few friends, and I'm convinced I should have looked into other accomodation options before selecting my hotel room... Drifters, for instance, is quite nice with all those little snoozable beach hutty beddy thingies. And I hear the rooms are clean, too. I must stay here next time... and those foot massages for 300 bucks seem a worthy investment.

Two days later and the SAARC boys have flown (or fled) back to their homelands. I am seated in office, reminiscing my trip via blogpost. Hikka didn't rock like it was supposed to, but many parts of it did turn out to be rather special in an odd way. Perhaps, just perhaps, I might go back for a second look... once the throng of Colombites have left it and it has detoxed into it's natural, calm self once more. I shall take less outfits next time around and possibly stay away from the raves. But for now, it's back to the real life and all its stress.

By the way, the more I read my own writing, the more alarmed I am that I am turning into my mother. Ew.