Stay long in Ceylon? Er, no.

Early morning rickshaw to the airport, typical fun with immigration officials. Merav gets: “Israel huh. How long are you staying here? What is your purpose? Why do you need a new visa? When are you going back to Tel Aviv?”

And to me: “English huh? Nice one.” Stamp stamp stamp. Done.

And then, “wait a minute.” He looks at my passport a little closer. The photo of a fifteen year old, short-haired, clean shaven, squashed-faced boy with no discernable features or colour in the eyes makes the dude look predictably suspicious. I do what I always do, hold back my hair and try to make the same dead-eyed sarky stare. He got the point and waves me on. I’m not an Israeli with a fake passport on a suicide mission, just a colonial long hair. It’s fine.

On leaving the airport a Swiss guy, dressed rather keenly in a clean t-shirt (ponce), nerdy combat trousers, bad white trainers and David Brent goatee asked us where we were going. We told him Kandy, to get a new visa. Kandy is about 100 km from Colombo airport. Without blinking/thinking he asked if he could come also. It turns out he was just as lost and drifting in India, and had nipped over to Ceylon for some arbitrary and spontaneous reason.

The three of us decided to take a taxi to Kandy as an airport official (who turned out to be our driver) convinced us that it made economic sense, rather than using public transport. I was dubious, but in the end I think it worked out.

On leaving the airport he drove us to his house about 500 metres away, to pick up his brother and give us a coconut to eat and drink. After a few hours on the road, we stopped for chai. However, it was not quite India. Chai in India is a small shack with a chai pot and a bench. In Sri Lanka (in this case) it was The Island Spice Grove which was some impossibly lush and beautiful botanical garden. We drank ginger beer in a plush restaurant overlooking the greenest of green spice fields. On the TV was cricket.

So, on first impressions, Sri Lanka was not quite what I imagined. I don’t know what exactly I imagined. The people here seem genuinely friendly. It is very developed and wealthy. The tourists here seem loaded. I can’t afford anything. The architecture is amazing. It’s predominantly Buddhist – nice. Straight, flat roads. Healthy looking citizens going about their daily business with smiles and clean clothes. Woah!

Our drivers drove us around looking for somewhere vaguely affordable in Kandy. It was hard work, and for this I was very grateful for having a driver. Having bargained down a double room to half its starting price, and finding it still too expensive, the driver stepped in and got us a further reduction cos he was mates with the owner. And to think a rickshaw would take commission.

On our way back from the cheapest meal we could find that evening, myself and Merav encountered our first taste of ‘strange Sri Lankan man’. Me being a blue-eyed boy with exciting hair, and Merav being, I dunno, a white woman, we are both used to the creepy attentions of strange Indian men. How will it compare here?

He was a rickshaw driver (rickshaws are called tuk tuks for some reason) and he slowed down as we walked. We were practically back at our guesthouse so decided not to accept an offer of a free ride. Then he stopped, jumped out and beamed a huge smile. “I like you” he said. He then stroked my arm. “Come with me.” Er, no. “Where are you from?” Israel, England. “Very nice, very beautiful!” And again, “I like you.” Arm stroking.

I should be more aggressive in these situations in order to deter future arm stroking. But I dunno, it’s funny. Besides, Merav is as sweet and gentle as they come and not one who reacts with aggression unless it is totally necessary. We played the usual trick, she put her arm around me and said, “I’m just walking with my husband. We want to walk alone. It’s valentines day.”

By now we needed to take a right turn to reach our guesthouse but it seemed Jimmy Beaming Smile would be following. As casually as I could muster, trying my best not to laugh, I pointed to the road to the right and said, “what’s down there?” Merav played along, “Yeah, it looks nice.” He explained that it was just a guesthouse. “Yeah, but it would make a nice walk though, huh?” He wanted us to join him for a beer. He wasn’t going to leave us alone but neither of us felt like being mean to him. Besides, we are in a new country. We don’t know how to deal with extra friendly men who want to take you for beer and then make you their pet. It was funny anyway. We were enjoying ourselves.

Then his phone rang and we took our cues and made a dash for it. He didn’t know what to do. He looked at his phone, then us, then his phone. Then he shouted something. Then he made frustrated noises. Then he answered his phone, then he shouted something again…and so on, until we were back to the relative comfort of our place to drink coffee juice.

So, today we went to the High Commissioner to enquire about new passports. It seems it’s not as simple as we hoped and will involve at least four working days. That means that at the earliest our new visas will be ready on Tuesday. I was supposed to fly back on Tuesday, so I am forced to delay my flight and stay more days in this amazing country that I can’t afford to be in with absolutely no idea what to do, where to go or anything. Oh, and Merav wants to find a meditation retreat tomorrow and maybe stay for over a week which leaves me on my tod. Arse.

I need to befriend some rich widow.