A Jaffna journey

During Sri Lanka’s 25-year civil war, the north was off-limits to tourists, its spectacular islands and beautiful beaches hidden behind kilometres of barbed-wire fencing. After the 2009 ceasefire, the region was declared safe again and now it’s almost like there’s a brand new country to explore.

I’d met my driver Mutalif that morning, piled my backpack into his van and set off with him telling me we’d be on the road for the whole day – just us and his CD of Sri Lankan pop.

My breezy Sri Lankan holiday just got interesting.

The road to Jaffna

Indeed, while I’d spotted a few Western tourists at the checkpoint, there were plenty of Sri Lankans making the journey, no doubt excited to see the part of their country that was inaccessible for so long.

“There’s the new railway,” says Mutalif, pointing towards a group of workers clearing land for the new Colombo to Jaffna train line. “Before the war, many people travelled to Jaffna by train. The old tracks are behind those trees, but the line was ruined during the war and they couldn’t fix it, so the government decided to build a new one.”

We’re jolting along, past overgrown green fields, complete with grazing cows, slushy mangroves and spiky palm trees – a completely different landscape to the wild southern regions. It looks like a tropical version of the set of The Sound of Music, until I notice a series of white, red and black flags sticking up from the grass.

“Landmines,” says Mutalif, confirming my suspicions. Some flags have crosses on them, and there are more black flags than white ones, which Mutalif tells me means most of these landmines are active. It makes me feel sick just thinking about it.

We’ve almost reached Elephant Pass – a causeway that links the main island of Sri Lanka and the Jaffna peninsula – when Mutalif brakes. Two young women in polka-dotted skirts are crossing the road, flak jackets and fresh curries in their arms. They walk to a black-flag field, pulling their flak jackets on.

Between 1983 and 2009, more than one million landmines were scattered across the north of Sri Lanka and when the war ended, the landmines stayed. Now, NGOs are educating locals about their dangers, and employ some of them to help with the demining process. The girls have settled on the grass beside the road to have lunch. Nearby, workers wearing protective clothing are walking carefully into the flagged fields.

While abandoned buildings and crumbling statues along the side of the road are stark reminders of the fighting that took place here, it’s the signs of busy progress that impress me the most. This is a region rebuilding itself and looking to the future, not dwelling on the past.

It’s dark by the time we reach Jaffna and no one, it seems, has heard of my hotel. The roads are nearly empty, with shopkeepers and restaurants locking their doors. I feel like I’ve driven into a city that’s bunkered down, waiting for something to happen – they’re just not sure what. “Hotel Lux Etoiles?” I try in my best French accent. My answer is in the three blank faces staring back at me. We ask a man in a tuk-tuk a bit further up the street, but he has no idea what I’m talking about. I’m starting to wonder if the place exists when a friendly face appears in a car beside us.

“Ms Manara? I’m Nihal from the Lux Etoiles. We thought you might have trouble finding us. Just follow me and we’ll be there in a few minutes. The hotel is near the main temple in town.”

I have no idea how Nihal knew who we were, but we follow him and, remarkably, arrive five minutes later. Lux Etoiles is more of an inn than a hotel – a plain building wedged between gated mansions in Jaffna’s wealthy suburb of Nallur. Inside, dark 1970s-style rooms are more like a war reporter shelter than the cosy French bed and breakfast I was expecting, but the staff are cheery and they’ve certainly got the best concierge service I’ve ever encountered.

I haven’t eaten all day, so when Nihal asks if I’d like some food, I tell him I’ll eat whatever the kitchen can prepare. As I open a door with a torn mosquito net and cautiously step into the empty dining room, I wonder what I’ve got myself into. But I’d heard great things about food in Jaffna, which is a mix of Sri Lankan, southern Indian and Malay cuisine, so I sit down.

When the waiter appears with a tray of dishes, including three types of rice, onion sambol, a teetering pile of coconut roti, steaming chicken soup and an enormous bowl of Jaffna crab curry, I’m embarrassed that I’m the only person eating. They’ve prepared a banquet – and it smells irresistible. I happily spend the next hour dipping thick chunks of roti into the peppery curry, crunching crab legs and mopping up all the sauces with perfectly cooked rice. By the time I make my way out of the restaurant I’m a kilo or two heavier – a small price to pay for the best Sri Lankan food I’ve ever eaten. I go to bed with a full stomach eager to discover the area early the next day.

Exploring the islands

Not far from them, a seagull pecks at the roof of what must have been Kayts’ most commanding estate. Hidden by overgrown trees, the cracked garden path and peeling pink walls tell me it’s long been forgotten by its inhabitants – much like the rest of the island.

We reach the dusty main road, where a few stores offer sacks of rice and bags of herbs and spices for exorbitant prices.

“Life is hard here; it is expensive,” says Paramanathan. “A bag of rice costs 10 times what it would cost in Jaffna. Most people left during the fighting, but now a few are coming back to their homes, despite the cost.”

Each time we cross the causeway to a new island, I’m amazed by the different landscapes. Some have marshland; others are covered in green fields with ponies and cattle. I’ve spotted a few people swimming and many of the village women are outside, collecting fresh water from the island wells.

Everyone’s smiling at me, and I smile back. I’m about to join hundreds of strangers who suddenly feel like friends on a ferry to visit a place that five minutes ago I’d never even heard of. I clamber on to the boat, which is so full it’s teetering. My knees are pressed to my chest, a bag of bananas squashed by my feet, a seagull swooping overhead. The captain guns the engine and we edge across the water.

Ahead of me is a beautiful, empty beach, with crystal clear water and white sand. It looks a bit like the Maldives, and I’m so surprised I nearly run into a rogue wild pony.