We landed at our guesthouse and discovered a palm tree growing through the middle of our room; a little structure resembling a modern beach hut in Byron, complete with camping chairs and private hammock. We also discovered that the room itself wasn’t bug-proof, which wasn’t a surprise, and we spent the next half an hour refining our mosquito killing techniques – Richelle was liking the Mr. Miagi death grab and I the double-handed, straight-armed power clap.

Because most of the tourists were drawn to the bigger hotspots of Trincomlee and Aragum Bay above and below Batticaloa, respectively, it meant that there wasn’t a whole lot to do in Batticaloa. The general good vibes restored our hope in tuk tuks and we caught one to the what we believe to be the only cafe not attached to a hotel in the whole town. Sadly the price soon brought that restored hope back to zero. The cafe was pretty decent, but as we sat in Cafe Chill ready to do just that we met with the deep double bass of the kind of music that you’d expect to find in most nightclubs. Terribly repetitive beats with even more repetitive and unoriginal lyrics might be easy to get away with when your audience is shit-faced, but not so easy for two tourists looking to relax in what we thought was a reasonably sleepy town. Only leading us to believe that the towns sleepiness had led to the kind of pent up youngsters you’d find in the movie Footloose. With the beat now deep in our bones we half walked, half crumped our way home.

It’s safe to say, far from the worries and pressures of a western conditioned world, Richelle and I have let ourselves go. We’ve been eating ice cream after most meals and saying to hell with the bodies that we’d worked so hard to carve. Occasionally we try to come to our senses and do a couple of push-ups and star jumps, but we really can’t be bothered. The stress of reality has gently been replaced with a layer of carefree fat. I personally think this is a good sign for our souls, Richelle is starting to worry.

We spent an evening walking along the beach. Rubbish stuck half-out of the sand revealing the odd treasure, but mainly trash. Groups of people clustered around cans of beer and small puppies clustered around their mothers. Batticaloa was wiped away by the tsunami in 2004 and the damage can still be seen 13 years later. Richelle spoke to a woman who lost her brother and his wife and kids, she’s now afraid to be near the beach and doesn’t let her children in the water. The boardwalk lies in pieces and an old church steeple sits on it’s side half buried in the sand. But the people move on, they have to. The old broken bits and pieces a constant reminder of what was and could be again. We randomly were able to get a pizza in a small little beach shack restaurant, which wasn’t bad. And we were able to find an ice cream on the way home, which signaled for us a day well done.

The last day we woke early and went kayaking. Feeling guilty about our recent splurgings. We paddled the 45 minutes down stream to the the local abandoned light house. The water was flat without creases like a giant sheet spread in front of us and we carved through it easily. Coming home was a different story. By now the sun was high in the sky and we were struggling up stream. Our lifejackets were now soaked in sweat and we were struggling to bother. This gave us a chance to watch nature. Small fish leaped from the water around us, one even making the brave flight over the boat. There were eagles fishing. They’d float high above, appearing disinterested in the going-ons of the world below and then they’d drop like anchors and fall to the surface, saving themselves at the last moment, a flash of silver a sign of its victory and a reward for its stunt.

We finally made it back to the hotel where we rented the kayak. Our shoulders ached and we treated ourselves to brunch at the hotel’s restaurant. I forget what we ate, but we were soaked and happy.

The next morning we were up as early as sanity would allow it and on a bus by 6 AM. We were fortunate to have a surplus of mosquito repellant as their numbers were ten times the number we found in our room; they’d obviously heard about the massacre and come for revenge. But we had the last laugh as the bus took off and they were sucked out the door. Next stop Aragum Bay.