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Sri Lanka is now open. Come on in and pet the elephants.

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hey want meatop precarious poles. heyre tilting over the to take their pictures. hese surly seamen balanced
water, trying to catch two-cent minnows. hey wave me over with roguish grins and implore me to document their existence. Its an offer I cannot refuse. he stilt shermen of Sri Lanka are an iconic sight the way moon craters are an iconic sight: seen in a few photos but rarely in person. And to think the stilt shermen who hover before me almost disappeared forever.
SRI LANKA

Bay of Bengal

Colombo Arugam

he Boxing Day tsunami of 2004 swalGalle lowed more than 30,000 people here in one disastrous moment. he shermen abandoned their posts. Nobody felt much like hovering over the sea anymore. he wave came during a civil war, amid a stew of indigenous unrest. Sri Lanka had seen its share of strife. But Sri Lankans are resilient. Incredibly, the tide is already turning. I know its turning because they invited me here. Not to dig them out but to witness a true endangered species: the last untouristed country. I arrive like a big-game hunter. Camera in hand. Notebook poised. Ill mount my kill in a magazine and tell my grandchildren: I was there before the tour buses. An hour off the plane, Im petting elephants in the wild. No game park. No zoo. I just ask my cab driver to pull over, walk a few paces into the bush and stand face to face with this hulking wonder. She could crush me with her eyelids. But instead, she extends her wrinkled trunk Upscale resorts to touch my outstretched hand. like the Amangalla Did you see that? I ask my driver, (right) reect Sri wishing hed snapped a picture. he Lankas organic and untrampled driver returns a happy little head-wobble. backdrop. You should not do this, he says. Really? Why not? Very, very dangerous, he wobbles. You could die. You see? his is what theyve been telling us all these years about Sri Lanka. Danger. Keep out. But the war was isolated to the far north. he tsunami affected a stretch of coastline. And that elephant was actually very friendly. So here I go. No plan. No guidebook. No map. I rush right into the jungle and pet the rst elephant I see before they can build a fence around it. Before they can write Do Not ouch. And OK, maybe Ill get trampled to death. But maybe next time my driver will remember to snap a picture.

i wake up in he 17h cenury. anique bed. clawfoo bathtub. My room at the Amangalla Hotel in Galle may be only 100 years old, but the Dutch colonial fort just outside dates back much further. One step out the door and Im part of a living museum. Uncaptioned and inescapable. Women in bright saris with brighter umbrellas stroll narrow

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The faces of schoolgirls, teaplantation workers and fathers make it hard to believe that such a difcult history was only a few short years ago.

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One step out the door and Im in a living museum. A driver pulls up in a three-wheeler. Come, I show you everything.

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I had to ask the bellhop, Am I the only one here? He laughed. No, no. he hotel is almost 20 percent occupied right now. Very full.
cobblestone alleys. Old men creak their rocking chairs outside crumbling mansions. Historic storefronts are open for business. A rusted three-wheeler pulls up and the driver offers a learned grin. Come, he says. I show you everything. he freelance tour guide is one of the classic beauties of the untraveled country. For a negotiable pittance, your tour comes refreshingly unorganized. And of course, Where are you from? Ah, Obama. Homer Simpson. American Idol. You like see temple? Maybe buy gemstones? Sure. Why not? And doh! In a whir of wind-in-my-hair three-wheeling, my guide delivers a 200-year-old tea plantation still producing Sri Lankas fabled virgin white tea (from seed to sip never touching human hands). Next we visit a 40-yard-long, 12th-century Buddha, where young monks interrupt solemn meditation to chase monkeys from the shrine. hen come the olfactory assaults of a spice market and roadside sh still moist from the sea. At each spectacle, Im the only tourist in sight. My driver tags along, pointing out photo ops and fabricating factoids. Each bend in the road presents a thrilling bouquet of surprises. But the isolation is getting a bit eerie. I hadnt expected to be so right about being the only tourist. Like at my previous Sri Lankan hotel. It had decadent views and private beaches, and I had to ask a bellhop the obvious. Am I the only one here? No, no, he said, laughing at my silly question. he hotel is almost 20 percent occupied right now. Very full. Empty isnt a problem for a romantic getaway, but its less than ideal for shooting portraits. So my driver takes me to the popular Unawatuna Beach, an international cliche of beachfront cafes and techno traditionals. I shoot pool with some Dutch backpackers exploring the country on motorcycles because they didnt know anyone else who had done it. Were joined by a Russian girl whos here learning to surf and might buy some land. I like the warm water, she says. Beyond that, most of the clubs are fairly empty. Waiting, it feels like. I step out to the beach, staring impatiently at the groggy afternoon night life. his isnt what I was looking for. I head up the beach toward massive trees and houses on stilts. I sit on a boulder overlooking a small river Fishermen and meeting the ocean. iny sh have swum elephants pose upriver and become trapped in an eddy. for the novelty of cameras. EndCrows are feeding on them, but get less beaches and chased away by chattering monkeys. gigantic Buddhas Wild dogs burst from the jungle to chase stand as dormant sanctuaries. the monkeys. Before my eyes, the cycle of

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life spins its wobbly wheels. Im trying to photograph this unlikely collision when I notice a young monk seated beside me. Red robes. Shaven head. Eyes like the rising moon. Hes staring at me as if I were the only puzzle piece out of place here. I snap his portrait and he delights at his own image in the display. Again, he beckons. Again. We repeat the shot a dozen times. Id never believed what they said about photos stealing souls until I met someone who actually had one. Finally, I turn the camera off and the monk wanders off disappointed. Its almost dark, but I take a moment to inspect my shots of the monk. heres something in his eyes. Something completely out of place. I zoom in closer on his eyes. A distorted reection glimmers back. Holding a camera.

my driver is waiing o whisk me away. Life is better on three wheels. Its wide open. No doors. Cracked windshield. he road blurs past at arms reach. Ox-drawn wagons. Rice paddies. Monsoon horizons. I promise I wont think of tsunamis, or even say the word. his road is amazing, I tell my driver. Im surprised to nd such perfect pavement way out here. he Americans just built this road, he explains. And then he has to say the word. After the tsunami, no road at all. Since my arrival, Salaheem has served as my driver, tour guide, translator, historian, dinner date and personal shopper. Hes my best friend here. You must have lost many roads that day, I say, expressing my worldly compassion. Roads? he says. I lost my house. My family. Everything. Following a guilty silence, my ride home becomes a posttsunami tour package. Coming up on our right, youll see the housing development built by the Germans after the tsunami. And there is a water tower the Dutch donated after the tsunami. his electrical plant was from the English after the tsunami. Its a punctuation mark: after the tsunami. Even logging on to the Internet, after the tsunami, download speed not so good. Wasnt the tsunami, like, seven years ago? hats back when Myspace was still cool. hats pre-Prius. Seven years is not so long to a child who loses his parents, Salaheem replies. Oh, hes good. So much for dodging the tsunami. Maybe its better to wave right back at it. Certainly its more interesting. Where were you during the tsunami? I ask Fred Netzband-Miller, sitting on the ocean-view veranda of his Siam View Hotel. Fred arrived in Arugam Bay in 1970, parked his motorcycle, met a girl, bought the land and never left.

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When the tsunami hit, I was right here on this deck, he says. From his second-story balcony, we look out over Arugams famous point break, once part of the world surng tour. Id just invested my life savings into building 24 bungalows, he says. We threw a big party the night before to celebrate their opening, and the next morning the waves came in. We sat on this very deck serving gin and tonics thinking it was the end of the world. Im surprised youre still here, I say. I couldnt afford to leave if I wanted to, he says. I lost a million dollars in half an hour. Down on the beach, a crowd of Sri Lankans are gathering for a pre-sunset splash. Playing cricket. Building sand castles. Wading the gentle shore break. Fred says this is one of the few areas where Muslims, amils and Buddhists mingle. Staring down on the crowd, any distinction is invisible.

he ciy is an eyesore. raffic. smog. indusry. wors of all is the military presence. Soldiers on every corner. Machine guns and checkpoints. I raise my camera toward a soldier and he aims his Uzi in reply. Point taken: Dont shoot the soldiers. I should have told this story backward. Colombo is the wrong ending for Sri Lankas golden return of tourism. My meeting with the monk was better. Lessons Learned So were the empty beaches and friendly elephants. P. 8 2 And the tours on three wheels. Anything but this. But its my last day, so I march into the urban wilds alone and terrified. Or maybe just exhausted. Each alley feels vaguely threatening. Constrictive. I can barely breathe here. he three-wheel drivers approach like hustlers. Children no longer beg to have their pictures taken. Women quicken their pace. Soldiers tense their trigger ngers. he city is busy. An elephant trudges along the sidewalk, shackled in Christmas lights and prodded by two handlers with a tip jar. Exploiting natures wonder as a sideshow novelty. I snap a photo and drop some change in the jar. hen I head for the sea. he boardwalk welcomes me. Pony rides and cotton candy. Children with kites and drums. Sunset over the ocean. Soldiers lower a ag, and I shoot a nal image in the dying light. he sky is bruised and bloody as I sit on a curb eating street curry and scrolling through my images. here are shots of waterfalls and the stilt shermen. Plantation workers and the crumbling relics of Fort Galle. If I delete them all, Sri Lanka might cease to exist. My grandchildren could visit and there would still be no tour buses or ticket lines. heyd pet the wild elephants and Colombo is abuzz with its high-prole people would say, What tsunami? stupa (left) and But real stories dont tell themselves markets (top right). backward. History is a freight train. But the mood is still humble in Fort A young man sits on the curb beside Galle, where policeme, eating his dinner of curry, same as women and g mine. You are a photographer? he asks, trees are the most welcoming gures. glancing over at my camera display.

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here are soldiers on every corner. I raise my camera toward one of them and he aims his Uzi in reply. Point taken: Dont shoot the soldiers.
No, not really a photographer, I say. Just a tourist. You should come to the north, where I am from, he says, still looking more at the camera than at me. So very beautiful. His comment reminds me of how much of the country Ive left untoured. Isnt that where all the ghting was? I ask. he war is over, he says. So much beauty there. Very remote. hings you cannot see anywhere else. ell me, why does this city still feel so military? he war has been more than my whole life, he says. We are still being very careful. But dont worry. You are safe. Are you a tour guide? I ask. No. I am a soldier. But maybe, someday. hat is my dream. he ocean is just a sound now. A dark memory. he sky is shot full of holes. Magnicent and mundane. What else have you seen of Sri Lanka? the soldier asks, nodding at my camera. he display reveals those iconic stilt shermen, and I recall how theyd invited me to climb up their poles.

he sil fishermen have reurned o he waer. And they want pictures. hese surly rogues. hey didnt smile when I snapped their photos, but theyre all toothy now as they invite me to sit atop their teetering perch. My mouth says, No, no, I couldnt possibly but already Im passing off my camera and rolling up my shorts. Photographically speaking, stilt shing is Sri Lankas dening image, gracing the cover of Lonely Planet and every other recently distributed travel guide. I cant help thinking to myself, if stilt shings purpose is to avoid disturbing the sh, then what could possibly be worse than busloads of tourists tramping out to collect their souvenir photos, whenever that starts happening? oday, however, theres still no stepladder. No handholds. No You must be this tall sign. I shimmy up the pole and squirm, twist and wiggle into a trembling semblance of semiseatedness on the fragile crossbar. And there I am: a tourist on full display. I wave to the beach, where a salty sea dog snaps away with my camera, worth several years of tiny sh. Even from here I can see hes got the lens cap on. islands.com/srilanka

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