(Sorry…no photos. It never occurred to me  to
pull out my camera in the midst of all this hoopla.)

I had a little mishap last week while traveling from Colombo to Hikkaduwa. I had been staying for four days in a lovely guesthouse near the airport after I arrived in Sri Lanka. I planned this stay knowing that after 21 hours of traveling through 11½  time zones (with little sleep) I would need a long rest. That was wise planning because it took me quite a bit longer to recuperate than it had in the past. Finally, on Saturday, November 9, I began the last leg of my trip to Hikkaduwa.

The plan was to take an Uber from Negombo (near the airport) into Colombo, have a nice lunch near the railway station, and then board the afternoon express train to Hikkaduwa.  I had plenty of time for a leisurely meal.

Everything started smoothly. I enjoyed a lunch of grilled chicken salad and refreshing ginger beer at a nice restaurant. Then I began the kilometer walk to the station. I had a small pack on my back and dragged my roly-bag.

Like taxi drivers everywhere, every tuk-tuk driver I passed urged me into their vehicles. (I call them the taxi paparazzi.) One was very insistent that it was more than two kilometers to walk. Brother! I did my research and it was barely one. It was a bit challenging to shake him off.

About two blocks on, I stumbled and fell face first onto the concrete. With the pack on my back, I could not keep my forehead from cracking down on the pavement. My first thought? “I’m going to miss my train!” I had reservations and I was anxious to get to Hikkaduwa.

Before I could even sit up, men were all around me “helping” and very concerned. “Madam, you go to hospital,” one said as he brushed my bangs back to reveal an emerging goose egg. I kept insisting that I would go to the train station. But they would have none of that. “There are more trains, more busses to Hikkaduwa, Madam. But you must see a doctor!”

I was shook up. It wasn’t a bad idea. What if I got on the train and passed out? Not wise when traveling solo. “We will get you a tuk-tuk.” I did feel taken care of. But of course, as always, suspicion niggled. Another disadvantage of being solo. If I had a friend with me, I could bounce ideas off them. As it was, there were at least five or six local men, all trying to be helpful.

One man took my suitcase and walked down the street beaconing me to follow. I did not have much choice without acting like a shrew. He loaded the luggage and me inside a friend’s tuk-tuk and started to join me.

This was too much. “No,” I said, “he can take me.”

“Take care, Madam—you are like my mother.” And he gave me a quick hug before we sped off. I was still tempted to ask the driver if he could just drop me at the railway station. But there was just enough worry in my mind to err on the side of caution.

I was whisked through the crazy Colombo traffic and soon we were near the hospital. The driver wanted to stop at a pharmacy to get a “plaster” (bandage). I said, “No,  just go to the hospital.”

He asked me, “Doctor? Or Hospital?” Oh…a clinic would be much easier. I was already imagining myself in some busy hospital emergency room waiting for hours while train after bus after train departed Colombo. My tuk-tuk driving friend in Hikkaduwa, Sampath, was to meet me at the railway station and I would have to text him with disappointing news. 

(I must pause now to make it clear:  Sampath is NOT one of those “taxi paparazzi” types I mentioned earlier.)

The little clinic was about what you would expect in a developing country—dingy, but as clean as I expect they could keep it. The driver unloaded my luggage and tucked it in the corner of the waiting room. I was about to pay him so he could get on with his day. But, NO, he escorted me personally through the clinic and into the exam room. Then he stood in the hallway supervising.

Well, at least there was no waiting. The doctor was already in the room along with his nurse. While the doctor examined the bump, the nurse took my blood pressure. I was not surprised that it was 174/77 in this heat and turmoil. But the doctor was more concerned about that than what turned out to be a “mild  contusion” on my forehead. I told him that my blood pressure was normally high but that I am on medication That seemed to assuage him. He prescribed antibiotics and the nurse disinfected and covered the wound.

The “plaster” fell off after about an hour of being soaked in my sweat. I thought the antibiotics to be over-kill. However, the meds were dispensed to me directly in the clinic as I left, so I did not argue. Instead, I downed 600 mg of ibuprofen once I got to the railway station. (Ibuprofen—my go-to anti-inflamatory!) 

The total cost—for everything? 1500 rupees—about $5.00 US. I don’t think I will bother submitting the bill to my travel insurance.

Now my helpful driver loaded me into his tuk-tuk and whisked me back to the station. I looked at the time—I would make my train! On the way, I contemplated how much to pay him.