Sri Lanka, the geographic teardrop falling just south of the Indian subcontinent, is fabled among tourists as a land of untrodden beaches, jasmine-scented temples, and tea plantations that recall a bygone era when Britain ruled the waves. Alternatively, journalists and academics know Sri Lanka as a hotbed of human rights abuses and ossifying authoritarianism. The ethnic conflict for which the island is most famous pitted the majority Sinhalese against the minority Tamils, but the country’s larger history reveals a saga of haves versus have-nots, with violent undercurrents running both between and within ethnicities, religious groups, and social classes. Though the war officially ended in 2009, the peace of the past four years has been tentative at best.
I live and work in Trincomalee, Sri Lanka, a town of minorities on the northeastern coast. Throughout the “troubles”, as the locals term the conflict, Trincomalee (“Trinco”) was cut off from the country’s more developed areas. Though Trinco is home to a deep natural harbor and pristine beaches, buildings here are crumbling concrete blocks or corrugated metal shacks, and the few beach hotels seem forlorn. Stray cows roam the streets, their owners having long since fled or met worse ends. The whole place has an aura of non-permanence and squandered potential that comes from decades of economic isolation.
So why, in a country rated 2013’s top destination by The Lonely Planet, should Trinco be included as even an afterthought on a backpacker’s itinerary? After a month of living here, I recognize that seeing Trinco takes effort, from the cross-country bus ride to the non-metered trishaws. Appreciating Trinco takes real investment in familiarizing oneself with recent Sri Lankan history, which involves reading less-than-cheerful UN reports. But there’s more to Trinco than meets the eye, and with some effort, you’ll come away with a rare understanding of the Sri Lankan experience.
A small restaurant in Trinco’s quiet inner harbor illustrates my point. The Dutch Bank Café, as its name hints, occupies the renovated shell of a 19th century Dutch colonial bank. Tucked in a forgotten corner of the harbor, the café has for neighbors a naval base and several oddly fascinating colonial ruins. During the troubles, the Sinhalese owners had to flee and the building was left to the devices of nature and civil war. In the past month, the owners have returned and created an understated yet refined restaurant serving Dutch specialties (the meatballs are heavenly). When I struck up a conversation, the Tamil staff were unexpectedly open about Trinco’s complex history and their hopes for the restaurant. From the rooftop, they showed me the sunset over the tranquil bay and its colorful fishing boats.
While places like it are still few in Trinco, the Dutch Bank Café epitomizes a sliver of economic optimism that could not exist here until now. Although Trinco is rough around the edges, visiting here is rewarding precisely because it requires a little extra commitment.
And to think I’d walked down that road before and only noticed the ruins.