After a train trip to the religious capital of Kandy in the Central Highlands, all I wanted was to buy a pack of cigarettes, not get murdered in the streets

By Mark Orwoll

The superficially safe-looking skyline of Colombo, Sri Lanka. But just wait until the sun goes down. Photo by Just a Brazilian man/Wikimedia Commons
THE TEMPLE OF THE TOOTH in the ancient religious capital of Kandy. That’s what I used to tell people when they asked about the most exotic place I’d ever visited, mainly because it sounded way more adventurous than the Hot Dog on a Stick stand at the White Plains Galleria.

Kandy is a pilgrimage site in the Central Highlands of Sri Lanka, which is a tiny nation in the Indian Ocean often called “the Teardrop of India.” This is either because of its geographical shape and location, or because the Sri Lankans took one look at the alarming amount of pollution wafting south from New Delhi and started crying.

The Temple of the Tooth in the religious capital of Kandy, in the country’s Central Highlands. Dentists the world over come here on a pilgrimage. Photo by Thimuth/Wikimedia Commons

I personally contributed to some of that pollution in Colombo, the capital of Sri Lanka, thanks to my former pack-a-day cigarette habit. But here’s the good news: I don’t smoke anymore! Thank you, Sri Lanka, and also thank you, Mortal Terror.

I quit smoking on April Fool’s Day, 2001, which in retrospect seems like exactly the right date for such a decision. I credit, in part, a memorable experience I had one night near the waterfront in Colombo—an experience that, to this day, leaves me trembling in the night, although admittedly some of that is because I drink coffee at 11 p.m.

Travel writers like to describe Colombo as “vibrant,” “the gateway to the wonders of Sri Lanka,” and “very densely populated.” And sure, that’s all true—IF YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT DAYTIME. But after dark? Oh, after dark, Colombo transforms into the kind of place where the tourism board’s slogan is “Please Don’t Die Here.”

Trying to Leave Colombo Turns Out to Be Harder Than You’d Think

I was supposed to meet a ship that would ferry me across the Bay of Bengal to North Sumatra, which is 4,842 miles to the east. That’s when trouble arrived wearing a name tag that said, “Hello, I’m Trouble.”

I showed up at the port only to learn that our departure would be delayed by at least five hours because the fueling tender didn’t have enough ballast to reach the fuel ports. I have absolutely no idea what any of those words mean in that particular order, but that’s what the guy told me, and he seemed pretty confident about it.

The harbor at Colombo, Sri Lanka, where my ship should have been ready and waiting. But no… Photo by Zapata1000/Wikimedia Commons

So I hailed a scooter taxi. And yes, I realize that no story that begins with “I hailed a scooter taxi” has ever ended well.

I had the driver drop me off near the Taj Samudra, a proper hotel where I’d slept the previous night. It was in what I remembered as a decent neighborhood. But after my scooter driver zoomed away, I realized that nothing whatsoever was happening in this neighborhood. No cafés. No pubs. No cheerful sounds of humanity. Just the kind of silence that makes you think, “Huh, this seems like a place where bad decisions are made.”

So naturally, being a veteran travel writer with years of experience making bad decisions, I thought: I’ll bet the pubs are over in…THAT direction! This is the same kind of flawless logic that leads people to pet strange dogs.

In Which Things Get Progressively Worse

The streets remained deserted no matter which way I turned, and I soon found myself in what could charitably be described as the part of town where travel insurance becomes very important.

But wait! In the distance, down a long, narrow street, I saw a light. A shop! Evidence of civilization! I may have actually jogged toward it like I was in a Mentos commercial.

Beware of grocery stores! If you think this place looks dodgy now, just come back after sunset. Photo by Calflier001

Inside, I found the usual exotic fare: 25-kilo bags of rice, cans of vegetables, several jars of what appeared to be either organ meat or the contents of a high school biology lab, and approximately six bottles of water in a refrigerator case that had apparently given up refrigerating sometime during the Clinton administration.

Having exhausted the store’s attractions in roughly 11 seconds, I approached the counter and asked the young cashier for a pack of Capstans. He told me the price was about U.S. $1.15.

“Tell you what,” I said, radiating the confidence of someone who has never been punched in an alley, “how about you sell me two packs for two dollars U.S.? Easiest sale of your day!”

Five or six young men who’d been drinking tea near the door immediately stopped what they were doing to watch. Some shook their heads. Others nodded.

The clerk eventually accepted my two-dollar bill, which I’d been trying to unload for a month. I pocketed my cigarettes and walked back into the street, heading in the same direction as before, which is to say, absolutely no particular direction at all, since I had no idea where I was.

At the next corner, I encountered a dicey situation. Fifty or sixty young men were gathered in the middle of the street, some yelling, some shoving, and some just standing there watching, the way people do when they think violence might break out and they don’t want to miss it.

That meant running the gauntlet past Drunk Street, Gang Fight Avenue, and the Convenience Store of Churlish Youths.

Now, I didn’t know what they were all riled up about. But I do know that you rarely go wrong by avoiding large crowds of agitated young men. So instead of walking through the angry mob, which would have been insane, I made a left turn. This seemed brilliant. Except it turned out to be the opposite of brilliant.

This new street was lined with drunk men. And I don’t mean tipsy like after a wine tasting. I mean drunk drunk. Vomiting. Arguing with lampposts. Using buildings as urinals. The whole nine yards of inebriation.

I walked faster, past the Festival of Public Intoxication, until I reached a section of road that had no streetlights whatsoever.

Welcome to Colombo! We hope you made a will!

It can’t get worse, I thought. This is called tempting fate, and fate has no sense of humor.

It got worse.

An old man materialized from a darkened doorway and grabbed my elbow. “You want hash?” he whispered urgently. “A nice young girl?”

I jerked away and power-walked into the darkness, which was now complete and total, the kind of darkness where you’re absolutely certain there are assassins with scimitars waiting around every corner. I had only the vaguest sense that my ship was somewhere…over there. Maybe. Possibly. Who knows?

I realize I am what my wife Kathy describes as “a complete moron,” “someone who should absolutely not be allowed to travel alone,” and “Exhibit A in why men shouldn’t be left unsupervised.” At least I’m self-aware. After the fact. Which doesn’t really count.

The Part Where I Make Even Worse Decisions

I figured if I retraced my steps, I could find my way back to the hotel or the port. But that meant running the gauntlet past Drunk Street, Gang Fight Avenue, and the Convenience Store of Churlish Youths. The alternative was to keep going forward into the darkness, which seemed like the kind of decision that ends with you being featured on “Unsolved Mysteries.”

So back I went.

This time, the hash-and-prostitutes guy was really persistent. I had to hop into the street to get past him. One drunk man yelled something at me in Sinhala, which I’m fairly certain did not translate to “Have a blessed evening, friend.”

Back at Gang Fight Avenue, the crowd was dispersing but still looked ready to rumble. I turned onto what I hoped was the right street and saw the most beautiful sight in the entire world: the shining tower of the Taj Samudra, maybe a quarter-mile away.

Palm trees in paradise! Or is that Purgatory? Photo by Muunaa-Selva

I was going to march right into the Lattice Lobby Lounge and have Samir make me a bone-dry martini with two olives, and I might need another one immediately after, and maybe a third for good measure, and possibly some kind of sedative.

This is the part where you think the story is over and everything works out fine.

Ha! No.

The 30-Cent Incident That Changed My Life

With the hotel literally in sight, I heard a voice behind me: “Hey, you dirty thief!”

It was a line straight out of a film noir, except delivered with a South Asian accent. Before I could even process what was happening, I was surrounded by four teenagers. One of them was holding up the two-dollar bill I’d used at the cigarette shop.

Apparently, the cashier—who was not exactly a math wiz—had miscalculated the exchange rate by about 30 cents. Rather than absorb this devastating financial loss, he had dispatched his posse to track me down.

For. Thirty. Cents.

The four young men escorted me back to the shop. More of the owner’s friends had gathered outside, and they looked at me with what I would describe as “not-friendliness.” More specifically, the kind of look that suggests dental work may be in your future.

“What do you want?” I demanded, trying to sound indignant and worldly.

“Twenty-five rupees,” the cashier said, tapping the counter.

I’ve been threatened before, but I wasn’t about to get beaten up over pocket change. The problem was, I had no Sri Lankan rupees. Only a twenty-dollar bill, and I had the distinct impression that if I handed that over, I’d never see it or any change again.

However, I did have some useless Indian rupees left over from an earlier stop in Bombay. I tried to pull out my wallet discreetly, which is difficult when a dozen hostile eyes are staring at you like you’re a piñata that might contain money.

I extracted an Indian 10-rupee note—worth about 33 cents—and offered it up. Would he take it?

A 10-rupee note with an image of the Temple of the Tooth. Photo by Alfiyah Rizzy Afdiquni/Wikimedia Commons

He snatched the bill and held it up to the light, apparently checking to see if it was counterfeit, in which case he would have been legally justified, in his mind, in having his boys mash me like a well-boiled potato right there next to the rice bags.

He must have decided it was real, because he put it in the cash drawer. But he gave me a look that clearly said, “You got lucky this time, American, but we will meet again. Oh yes, we WILL meet again.” At least, that’s how I interpreted his facial expression.

I walked out of the shop slowly, trying to maintain some dignity, and exactly two steps outside the door, I ran like a terrified child all the way back to the Taj.

I burst into the Lattice Lounge, ordered a martini from Samir, and collapsed into a chair, refusing to look at the entrance in case someone had followed me.

And that’s when it hit me, in a moment of clarity that would soon be erased by Samir’s excellent gin: “I just found a new reason to quit smoking.”

MARK ORWOLL is an author, journalist, and the former International Editor of Travel + Leisure. He writes a weekly column on Substack, Mark Orwoll Is at It Again, where this article originally appeared.

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