The man in the railway office was rather gruff when I asked him if I could leave my backpack there while I went for a hot drink. Tall, slim and bearded, dressed from head to toe in pristine white, I didn’t recognise him; perhaps he was new.
‘Big boss,’ confirmed Raja. He wasn’t always around in the sleepy backwater of Haputale.
Others in the room were smiling, but that’s not unusual for Sri Lanka. It is, after all, the ‘Land of Smiles’. I placed my backpack under the wooden table, as directed, and we walked along the road looking for a place which served decent coffee. Raja had just enlightened me as to how this could be obtained, in even the simplest of cafes: as a tourist, and perhaps even as a local, the ordering of just ‘coffee’ will produce a small cup of weak Nescafe (or worse); if you’re unlucky it might have milk already in it. It’s simply not worth the risk. Raja assured me that all I needed to say was ‘black coffee’ and the real stuff (if a bit weak) would materialise, ready-sugared. I am not yet up to negotiating the sweetness, but I’m delighted with the insider hack, nonetheless.
My train was in an hour, but I was unable to buy a ticket until ten minutes before departure. As the train was coming from Ella, and would therefore already be jam-packed with tourists; and as there is always a last-minute, mad, scramble-cum-surge as soon as the train arrives, with everyone piling on before anyone has managed to get off, I found this unfathomable, and quite disconcerting.
‘Can’t you just sell me a ticket?’ I asked one of the smiling station workers in brown uniform, when I collected my bag. He waggled his head at me. In this case, it was a No.
We sat on one of the slatted benches and waited. Raja explained that they wouldn’t open the ticket counter until they knew the train was imminent.
‘In case it’s late,’ he reasoned.
‘But I still need the ticket, no matter how late it is,’ I pleaded.
Raja pointed out that they couldn’t sell me a ticket early, as that would be tourist favouritism and would upset everyone else. I completely accept this. But I never did get to the bottom of the ten-minute rule. It just was.
When I looked up, there were two railway officials looking over at us and smiling.
At around a minute before the scheduled departure of my train, Raja signalled that it was time: they had opened the office and I could now buy a ticket. Gripped by a sudden sense of urgency, I trotted towards the window, as one of the uniformed men was coming towards me. Smiling, smiling. With gratitude I believed he had come to find me, understanding I was concerned about securing my place on the train.
‘Ticket?’ I asked hopefully, but he was blocking my path and calling his friend over. His friend was opening his phone and scrolling through his photos.
‘Wait!’ I complained. ‘First, I need a ticket!’
This was getting ridiculous. What did they want to show me? But they weren’t concerned. Triumphantly, the friend found what he had been seeking, and proudly passed me his phone. On the screen was a picture of artwork: a watercolour of the Haputale stationmaster’s house that one of us painted in January. They were staring at me, grinning, nodding. Suddenly I understood: they had been trying to place me, then the penny had dropped.
Back in January, our group spent a couple of hours in the railway station trying to get to grips with the perspective and scale, which was fairly challenging from my chosen angle, sitting on the ground. Some plumped instead for a picturesque old building directly across the tracks. There was much interest in what we were doing; with only short, ten minute bursts of ticket-selling activity, nothing much happens around Haputale railway station, and we certainly represented good entertainment value. When they saw the finished paintings of the house, though, they were ecstatic.
‘Ýou painted my house!’ exclaimed the stationmaster. We guessed we were the first to do so. Possibly the last, too, and the memory remained on this man’s phone.
I acknowledged that yes, that was my group. Yes, we were here in January and here I was again, although I wouldn’t be bringing painters to the station this time; we’ll be staying on the coast. Next time, yes, of course! Can’t wait. Can I buy a ticket now, please?
There was plenty of time. After all, it was they who would blow the whistle when everyone was aboard. They weren’t going to let me miss it.
