Weligama, Sri Lanka

His name was Alan. I first saw him hanging on the outside of the train to Matara. He was wearing his blue cotton shirt and shorts and his ever-present smile shining down the length of two coaches and illuminating my day, By the time we disembarked at the little seaside town of Weligama, he had convinced us that his uncle’s guest house, the rather optimistically-named Hotel Ranmal, was the only place for us. Rival tourist hunters (for they themselves say the go hunting for tourists) were dispatched with perfunctory criticism of the standard of their rooms or the honesty of the owner ringing in their ears.

Alan spoke perfect English, he is a burgher boy (his own words), a descendent of the C18 Dutch “Burghers” who first colonized this area. He is also a salesman, self-appointed guide and constant companion. He also says he is 14, but looks barely more than 10 and stands no higher than 4 feet on tiptoe.

He is loquacious to an extreme that I have not witnessed since the frenzy of Bombay (as it was then still called). He guides us around the Bhuddist temple, he himself is Christian. The next day he takes us snorkelling and to see the Bhuddist monument, in between hunting for other tourists and returning with a solitary and surly German in tow. He takes our lunch orders, exhorts us to order more, drags me out of the back of the house to see a tribe of monkeys crashing through the palms at the bottom of the garden. Everything is “Yes Sir,” “Come Sir,” “Where do you want to go now Sir” – if he wasn’t such a fantastically cheery person it would be stiflingly oppressive. As it is, he just makes us feel happy and wanted.

The next day, Alan and Erri (best friend and constant companion) take us, the German and a whole host of their friends we have met around the house to see the “Giant Bhudda”. In the evening we play cards and carom (the Indian billiards-like board game) with Alan, Erri and the German. Mum and Dad watching over, jazz playing on the tiny cassette in the hot tropical night.

In the morning, I am unwell. Nothing is too much trouble – a special lime drink? Lime tea perhaps? There is a doctor next door? Alan even comes in and rubs my stomach.  24 hours later I have recovered and we are sadly on the train to Galle. Alan and Erri accompany us to the station and get on the train with us. The 32 km, 3^rd class coach costs us 8p each – Alan and Erri don’t pay. They will return on the train to hunt more tourists. Before we part, I have to promise Alan to come back and stay with them when I return to Sri Lanka.

This account, taken from my diary at the time, was from 1982. On 26 December 2004, Weligama was engulfed by the Boxing Day Tsunami. The town was badly damaged and some 400 people lost their lives. I like to think that Alan and his family survived. I can find no trace of a Hotel Ranmal or a building that relates to their address at the time. However, a wider internet search reveals a Ranmal Beach Resort at nearby Hikkaduwa and a middle-aged owner with a beaming smile. Could it be?