TRAVELMAN TANGALLE BEACH, SRI LANKA: Master Negotiator and Scam Spotter

I decided to pack up and go to Tangalle beach. I pulled my backpack from my locker in the morning, making as much noise as I possible, and packed my things, zipping my zippers as loudly as possible.

See, I was doing this in retaliation to the inconsiderate assholes sharing my dorm room. For the past two nights, they’d returned from the late night beach party at three in the morning with total disregard for anyone (me!) who was planning on learning to surf in the morning and therefore went to bed before midnight.

I had attended the late night beach party on the first night and and stayed out until past four in the morning. The beach bar/restaurants appear to have an agreement wherein they rotate who has “the party” each night. (Where the party at!!!) After partying like it was 1999, I returned to the room as quiet as a mouse, my roomies did not return the favor on the following two nights. They, instead, returned and acted like it was the common areas in the middle of the afternoon, talking at full volume despite the stink eyes I was throwing from my bunk.

This meant war.

I purposely dropped things and clanged around in my locker. I failed to awaken my main target, the snoring surfer. I clanged some more, nothing. Damnit! I wanted to walk over and shake him. I was unsure if I succeeded in waking the two women.

Damn... Oh well, I tried my best at being vindictive, guess I’m not very good at being a jerk. (I’m aware that any ex-girlfriends reading this may beg to differ on that point, as well as many other points to a head spinning degree.)

I checked out and walked the few meters to the bus stop to catch a ride to Tangalle, then walked back to my hostel to give them the locker key I still held in my hand, and walked to the bus stop again. Living with an absent mind can provide exercise.

It was a twenty minute ride to the transfer bus station in Matara. Buses are so incredibly easy and cheap to ride in Sri Lanka! And the driver’s play upbeat Sri Lankan music at top volume that blasts from the speakers they’ve installed throughout the bus. Some of the busses even have a tv screen playing music videos on loop at the front of the bus. It’s like a party bus, but instead of a party it’s a bunch of people of all ages sitting quietly going to work, home, shop, run errands, or ride home from school.

The bus drivers behave as though they’re trying to beat their high score on a bus racing video game. You can either stand at a bus stop or flag the bus down from the side of the road. As a passenger, you’ll often find yourself suddenly lurching forward due to the driver slamming on the breaks to pick up a rider, or you find yourself lurching from side to side as the driver weaves around tuk tuks, motorbikes, and slower buses. The music’s pumping, the bus is rocking, the locals are disinterested, it’s quite fun.

The bus I boarded at the Matara station was almost empty. I sat in the front bunk seat. Five minutes later, a monk boarded and pointed at where I was sitting. I wasn’t sure if he simply wanted to sit next to me or for me to move. I chose to play it safe and move to the empty seat directly behind that seat.

A local gave me a slow nod of what I interpreted as approval for giving the monk the seat. I’m unsure if it’s a thing that they sit in the front. I think it is, and I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to sit next to them because no one did even when all the bus seats filled at the next stop. Then again, no one sat next to me either, but I had two bags stuffed into the space with me (eventually a woman tried and we gave up). I also think that if they board when the bus is full it’s customary to give them the front seat. Damn monks, too bad they don’t have rollercoasters in Sri Lanks, they’d never have to wait in line and always get the front car.

Yep, envision that, monks on a rollercoaster. You’re welcome.

Before we left Matara, a gentleman boarded the bus, stood at the front and held up various English learning coloring text books, flipping through them and giving his sales speech as though selling a set of knives at Costco. The monk purchased one of the books. I’m not sure if it was for him or a friend. Maybe he just enjoys coloring. It can, after all, be meditative.

I arrived at Tangelle Beach and walked along the road in search of a Homestay. I asked a male backpack carrying - uh, backpacker walking along the road what to expect as far as prices. He looked to be heading out of town. He told me I could find a place for 700 to 1000. A bunk in a Mirissa hostel ran between 1500 and 2200, so that seemed pretty great.

I walked a few more meters. A tuk tuk driver standing next to his, well his uh- tuk tuk, offered to show me a cheap place. I figured it was worth a shot. We walked for thirty seconds to a homestay, it was nothing special. The young man there originally asked 2000 for the non-AC room. When I shook my head in the negative and smiled, he went down to 1500. Still way too high. I realized the tuk tuk driver was probably getting a comission and I headed for cheaper pastures.

I’d been in that situation before when arriving in a new town, whether it be a tuk tuk driver, restaurant employee, shop owner, if you ask them about cheap accommodations, they’ll take you to their friend’s place and try for an easy high sale from the live one they’d just caught swimming down the tourist stream.

I passed on that first place and crossed the street to another Homestay. It was one thousand a night (after the initial sucker asking price of 1300). It was decent and run by a pleasant seeming family, so I called it a deal and dropped my bag in the room.

While they cleaned the room, I went in search of cheaper, or better, accomadations for the following nights. I found some places with an almost beach view for as low as twelve hundred, but in the end I figured it wasn’t worth the change from my present place. At one point in my search, I had come to what I thought was a deal with one hotel owner for 5200 hundred for four nights.

I presented it to him in the form of a total sum because I’ve noticed in my travels throughout South Asia that shop/hotel restaurant employee/owners are completely incompetent when it comes to small math. They will use a calculator to add 100 plus 150. This is not an exaggeration, I’ve seen it multiple times. So I knew he’d hear the large, enticing total and not be able to easily figure what that was a night. I was right.

“5200?” He said like a guilty kid who’s been asked if he’s taken the cookie. He stood there looking up, thinking, making a futile attempt to figure it in his head, then gave up and agreed to the price. I have indeed improved in my negotiation skills on this trip.

Then he lost my trust. We said, okay, I’ll just return tomorrow morning, the room will be ready, etc... That’s when he said, “Okay, 5500. Four nights.” As though that’s what we’d agreed upon.

I smiled at him like we were joking around and I’d caught him. “No. 5200. That is what we agreed upon.”

“No, you said 55.” He said in an accusatory manner.

“No, man. I clearly said 52 more than once. You even repeated the number!”

“Okay, you come back in morning, we discuss price.”

I said, alright, with no intention of returning.

On my way back to my homestay after lunch and two Lion beers, a local gentleman with bloodshot eyes said hello to me as I passed him on the street. He’d also said hello when I was venturing out to lunch. I returned the hello. We began a conversation. I’ve also learned on my travels to be weary of overly friendly locals on the street.

Red-eyed man said that he’d like to write a letter to his friend Peter (I think Peter was from England), but he didn’t know how or couldn’t write it, or something. Whatever it was, he needed me to write the letter for him and asked if I would come back to his house, have some tea, and write the letter. I heard a voice in my head that sounded like it came from a character in a poorly written investigative crime drama, “Let’s take his offer. ...I just want to see where this leads.”

We walked about thirty meters up a side street. He sat me down on his porch. Two young girls about 10 and 12 years of age also sat in chairs near me on the porch. The one introduced herself. I returned the introduction. A younger boy stared at me from inside the open house. A few adults floated around the area, they didn’t seem interested in my presence, although I could see one staring at me from across the porch. I very much felt like the latest mark.

The gentleman returned with pen and paper- If I remember correctly, I had to remind him to get it. He also brought out a cup of tea. “It is very good tea!” He said multiple times, “I offer you very good tea!.”

I picked up the pen and asked what he wanted me to write. He encouraged me to have some tea first. I sipped it, and asked what he wanted written. It was something like, “I hope you are well.... My family is well, etc...” Then he encouraged me to have some more of the tea. “It is very good tea!” I looked at his red-eyes as he smiled at me and I seriously began to wonder what was in the tea! I felt like Brad Pitt at the end of the movie Se7en, but instead of asking “What’s in the boooxxx???” it was, “What’s in the teeeaaaaa??? ...Awwwe, what’s in the teaaaa!!”

Then he brought my attention to a fishing net behind me. He said he fished and he could take me fishing, at least in his broken English that’s what it sounded like he was offering. ...But there was a catch, and it wasn’t Red Snapper.

“But my net is ripped. I am very poor and need 1000 rupees to have it fixed by morning.” He’d surpassed the limit of his two-bit conman skills. He continued to focus on the money and say how poor he was, I tried to bring his attention back to the letter that had only gotten through the “I’m fine. How are you?” section. He’d completely abandoned the letter ruse and focused on why I needed to give him 1000 rupees at that moment to fix his net.

I explained to him that I honestly felt uncomfortable with the fact that he’d asked me for money shortly after sitting me down and that I’d rather get to know him. He responded with something to the affect of “Yeah, yeah, sure, after you give me a thousand rupees.” Then he encouraged me to have more of the tea, “It is very good Sri Lankan tea!!”

(What’s in the teeeeeaaaaa???”) I said yes, it is very good. At his prompting, I took another tiny sip, checking in with myself for any feelings of wooziness.

Then I prepared to remove myself. I told him if he wants to get to know me, he’ll see me around, we can talk, I’ll be here a couple days. “But I’m not giving you money right now, after just meeting you like this. Thank you for the tea, it is very good.” I said, standing to make my exit before the suspected ruffi/sodium pentathol took effect. I wondered if the sleepiness I felt was from the sun, beer, and lunch or his diabolical plan.

I bid him goodbye as he persisted in me giving him money and me drinking his tea, which I’m now quite certain was intended to guilt me into giving him money like free samples guilt people into buying a pastry.

I turned and walked home. It had led exactly where I thought it was going to lead. Other travelers have told me of people inviting them into their homes in India, for tea, then giving them a hard sell to buy some trinkets... Then they wake up in a dumpster 12 hours later and one of their kidneys is missing! (Okay, I just may have made that last part up.)

It just goes to show; never trust that a guy on the street with red-eyes and who looks like he may be on something wants to write a letter to his English friend Peter.

(P.S. — I always feel funny using “funny” as a tag in any of my posts. I always feel like people are like, “Oh, reallllly? You think so, huh? Well, that’s just rich!”)

!steemitworldmap 6.0391 lat 80.8112 long Negotiating and escaping scams in Tangalle Beach, Sri Lanka, d3scr

Check out the baby sea turtles yo

https://steemit.com/travel/@travelman/fci1hj8j

Or some more video I shot but this time it’s a herd of wild elephants