Bangkok21

Boarding the plane is like checking into heaven. You don't normally feel this way about economy in a 747, but you've just spent three days in Bangkok.

You ooze into the seat, listening to Sinhalese laughter and not an Aussie in sight.

Leaving Colombo airport in a three hour taxi to Hikkaduwa, you're lost in early morning darkness, careering along the coast, looming upon late night roti stands and overgrown jungle. The spicy air is sticky. The driver, peering over the steering wheel, sits on the white line and drives forty kilometres over the speed limit. You have three near misses and are pulled over by police four times, not counting all the stops at army checkpoints.

"Going too fast, mate?" You tease him.

"No, no, they want my papers." His tar coloured teeth jut out at angles beyond his nose and pulling your seatbelt tighter you wonder if that's why he has trouble seeing the road.

You arrive at the guest house as the sun begins to rise over the palm trees to your left. Standing in the restaurant, the wide blue ocean stretched out only metres away, you gaze at the huge white moon unwilling to sleep, and the palm trees silhouetted against the orange sky beginning to turn green.

As the stars fade into blue, two muscled surfers paddle out to ride the first waves of the day. Reggae music plays from a nearby cafe and green turtles and tropical fish bob their heads.

Yesterday a bomb exploded on a bus in the hills near Sigirya. Sixteen civilians dead. You plan on going up north, but never quite make the bus.

Against the sunny days and balmy nights, the sunset cocktails and cheap beer, the movie nights and golden sand, roadside bombs, terror attacks and gunshots ring out across the north.

As weeks turn into months, your surfing skills have gone from appalling to pretty dam good. Your tan is gold, your hair is bleached blonde and your body and mind are healthier than ever. Your bank statement is only three thousand less than it was months ago and you're not even sick of all the tourists because there are none.

Sri Lankan boys sweep sand in front of their restaurant all day, remembering when the season stretched from August to March.

But nearby in Bangkok short-fused hecklers see millions of travelers like you and will see trillions more. In Sri Lanka locals drag you into their homes, feed you, give you what little they have and show you how to cook rice and curry. Shop keepers give you food and clothes whether you have the money or not, knowing you will be back the next day with the right change.

Roadside bombs are blowing up civilians all over the north and east, and since the government ended the ceasefire against the Tamil Tigers at the start of this year, all hopes of reaching a peaceful agreement are gone. Yet walking through the tea-covered hills past waterfalls and ancient temples, the existence of evil is but a dream.

Waiting on the side of a dusty road the bus is late like the day and you start chatting to a boy who works in a Bob Marley cafe. He just got his first real Bob Marley CD. Finally, he tells you, he's got the tunes to match the red, yellow, black and green paint that adorns every table, ashtray and napkin. He can hear the music flowing from the Bob Marley posters that cover his walls.

"Be careful on this bus, there is danger, you know," he says.

"Yeah, they drive like crazy don't they?" you say. "No, I mean be careful for the bombs!" the boy says with a laugh as the bus pulls up in front of you.

You feel sick as you climb aboard and your bag is passed over heads and onto the luggage rack. You think of those who have no choice but to cross their fingers and hope they don't become yet another casualty as they commute to work. How can you relish in the fruits of a tourist-free paradise when the reason causes so much heart-ache?

Back on the 747 and all the way home. Your mum meets you at the airport. She doesn't even recognise you wheeling your surfboard through the heavy, metal doors. Tears of relief evade her mascara and her hug is suffocating.

Returning to Victoria's rugged coastline your arms feel like lead in the thick, heavy wetsuit. Looking into the murky depths of the Bass Strait, you miss Sri Lanka's barren tropical beaches and endless hills of tea and reggae. With frozen toes and salty, tangled hair, you lie face down on the surfboard, eyes shut, and wonder what the Bob Marley boy is doing now.