On the night train from Jaffna to Colombo. Listening to Friedrich Kuhlau. The third class is not as nightmarish as expected. Wagon A I bet is a former second class, but wreckaged, still does the rail, still serves for a three class ticket and quite suitable, for now. I have my own seat, my seat neighbour decided to move further down to B, in the filthy brownish incident ceiling light, colouring the scrap of the twilight, I could see fear in his eyes and heard him, grabbing for his belongings and pointing on me with a nodd, commenting my evil epiphany, “Paccha Siraa.” And in my mind´s eye a film sequence starts, a close-up, old man´s face, saying, “Gozilla.” I feel no efforts to smile at him – my mouth the muscle ache, I don’t mind to have a seat for my bag and stretch my legs loose. Prior to this a bunch of young Sri lankans were standing outside the wagon, in front, between us only the time-brushed window, using hands aside their faces to shade their surprise, touching with their tip of noses randomly the glas. Knocking against, in furor, like at a freakshow, taping on their heads, like imitating a monkey, poking with their forefinger at their underarms, laughing, thumbs up, repeat, forhead taping, underarm poking, laughing, thumbs up, knocking against the window rechecking if I still follow the show, in which ny accident I sneaked in, without paying. Frankly, I am getting a bit tired of watching wild gesticulating freaks. Don’t want to pay even with my attention anymore. As I am checking the comfort of my roost, the navy soldier returned, who introduced himself as I was waiting at the platform to board the train, living in Gaulle, not liking Jaffna at all, “But good money.” – this stance on my favorite place in Sri Lanka I heard sadly too often, married, a five year old son, sort of odd in his approach, presenting me with a silly and alienated giggle his favorite website, a gay dating service. “You, also, here?” pointing on my cock. “Not yet.” Giggling, just him. Further web browsing. If I wouldn’t be that tired of gazes and especially impotent government employees, I had lots of questions now, but I decided, he seem to be alive and his well-paid service distracts his cock with temptation. “See you later, my friend, yes.” I continued inspecting. Fans are working, no need to open the window and let more flies in. My seat is right back in the corner. The ceiling and the walls are fuzzy covered with spiderwebs and their constructors lurking around, not huge but enough to decide I haven’t seen this. Erase! Just do your job and kill some moskitoes. It will be dark in an hour or so anyway. There is the horn and off we are, the spiders, the cock sparger and me. All doors are open as always. Behind me, the bathrooms. When the train stops an intense malodorous smell of dead cesspit moisten the brownish atmosphere with its odor. It needs a couple of rail rattles till the air is deeply breathable again. I went on the toilet later, decided to buy yummy milk tea from one of the sellers, jumping on the trains station by station, course by course, searching my pockets, standing in some sole-deep whatever-I-don´t-wanna-know. A twenty rupee bill flapping down my leg, kindlyntouches my knee before it launches, floating for a second on the surface of the watery unknow, before it sinks. Me in panic grabbing it, furling the less than 20 cents, but worth half a coffee, dipping my scarf with its ending into the sea while bending forward. I laugh out loud, this is so traveling. I hate and love it.

Remembering… and I don´t want to miss to mention the lovely sellers of Muneeswaran Road in Jaffna, at its end my accomodation was located. Every morning when I walked up to the mainroad, passing their stalls, we greeted each other in a humorous and comedic respect, taking pictures of us, laughing together. Such wonderful people. One of them would shout at me, jumping out of the dark of his stocks of clothes, yelling and undressing his shirt, “I love you!!!” In fact they are, like as many in Jaffna, living from hand to mouth, them and their families. Jaffna, like the government employees say, “Good money, but not nice to live there.” I am sure they never left their limited minds. I pity you, my friends. Sellers, fishermen and their families as far as I have seen. You don´t deserve this, nobody does and particularly not after decades of war, but business has to keep going and the army is still there, without… I only have hate to spit into your faces.

By hour seven after midnight, 5:54 a.m., I could be already in Colombo, but the train rested in silence, five hours, nearby Galgamuwa railroad station, in pouring rain, maybe a landslide, at least I found some sleep, not being shaken thoroughly.

As the train started to rattle again, we passed the accident scene. The night train coming from Colombo hit two baby elephants, one lying there, burst wide open, innards everywhere. The second couple of meters behind, seems like this one is sleeping, just having a rest after the turmoil. Wild elephants, hit by a train. I have never seen that before. A tear is running down as I look into the baby´s eye for a second. Locals standing aside, not able to interprate their state of emotion. Sri Lanka and its amazing nature.

19 hours later I am in Negombo. A city of randomness, because I am in between already. For the last time I enjoy the Indian Ocean, the sea, the wideness, realising I didn´t go for a swim once. – Sri Lanka was a catch and finally a road of marvellous meetings. My head in my heart I bow low.


What I love about Jaffna…

Around the Fort, the main sightseeing spot of Jaffna, on a cute seaview road, part of the reconstruction program, with some luscious green shreds for the cows and goats and stony benches for couples to enjoy sunset, sunrise, their amorousness, or for some wild dogs having a lunchbreak nap. From the top of the Fort´s wall it looks like a sort of these road carpets for kids to play traffic, jamming or road kills. Maybe because it doesn´t match with the surrounding, too recently constructed, to clean, in comparison to the wasted area of the fishing harbour or the sewage-soaked coastline 100 meter up north. And what kind of business could be more adaquate than… instead of a Seaview Inn Restaurant, which doesn´t exist at all, unfortunately I have to concede, even if it would be mostly for tourists, but also highly enjoyable. Straight behind the Fort, on the other side of the cute seaview road, on spacious green and dusty paths, almost two driving schools set their practice area. In a queue locals, women and men, wait for their turn, to slalom on a motorbike, to excercise parking a car or a transportation bus, to let the engine of a tuk tuk roar or to leave the practice ground and drive around the fort, on the seaview road, with a huge red L behind the windscreen. The setting reminds me to my childhood when we practiced the traffic regulations on a specifically built ground, with a close to retirement policeman.

The food… in Jaffna I started to get into the cuisine of Sri Lanka, trying dishes, fruits and drinks, just at the end of my travel. Because people are so much more welcoming, not being spoilt by tourism yet. And the mangos… the best ever touched down on my tongue to explode in a frenetic cheering from every gustation in my mouth.
The Kottu, the different curries, lentil dishes, spicy as hot as hell! I love hell, you know. And the milk tea, mostly a stired up nescafe powder, but still, sooo tasty and cooling the hellish heat.

Shopping, at tiny timbered shed in a small fishing village or at a supermarket in shopping mall, if they don´t have change, small coins, at the cash desk, you get, a handhold away prepared to convert, sweets, like jelly or a bar of chocolate, tiny but reasonable and why the stock not!

“You are alone? – Where is your girl-friend? – No wife?! – Why??? – Are you crazy? – You don´t like tschiggy tschiggy [sort of the cambodian bum bum I suppose]?”

There is nothing more interesting than life at the edge of past, boardering, even though in Jaffna the alterability is on hold. First roads, a shopping malls, a modern prison, the Ministry of Defence and Urban Development and some new barracks and then maybe then the government takes care of the pollution, the poor, living in ruins of war, from fishing and hoping for a change, a change god-sent, still devout. Imagine how a system would have to deal with its own dreadfulness and abuse of power – which is of course immanent, without having this piousness, installed obviously not without purpose. You can not imagine, because without religion there might be no war, driven fundamentalistic bloodlust. – I would love to help them.

The approach of residents, straightforward undressing me. “Why you wear shirt and cap?” Show off, be proud to look like a freak, gangster – they would.

Today I leave Jaffna. With a third class ticket for the night train. On a more or less bench, hexing sleep, stucked between human flesh, animals are not allowed luckily, and their belongings, questioning my decision, punishing my good sense, from the deep down of my back, disciplining me for days after. Dreaming, half with my ass rattling the rails, of the alternative option, the night bus, comfortable seat, AC, a high on volume hindu movie and being dropped off in the middle of nowhere next to Negombo at 4 a.m. You never know and at one point you have to go. I have two days left arriving south, to jump on the plane at the 12th to Bangkok, my stopover on the road to Kathmandu. Sounds doable, yes. Shut up, back!

Jaffna is a wonderful farewell for a bumpy one month travel in Sri Lanka.
In Cambodia during this time missing people found dead – no reason to reach out for conspiracies, and alive after paranoid hunts. A fire at a club in Siem Reap killed at least 5 people, the rest victims of corruption, covered by ashes, disappeared in the furrows of ember.
On the Philippines people are fighting with the effects of a typhoon. – I forgot the name, how controlling to give the nature names anyway, strengthen the community, we and all together, to fight a common enemy instead of blaming the government for the sustainable mismanagement. Raging overland, destroying land and life, naturally first hits the poor, their barely existing fortune, their huts, roofed by a collage of plastic bits, maintained by hope with garbage. My minds are with Cesar and the other homeless families I met. I hope we will see each other again in march.
Beside all this, and that, me drowning in illusions… love was around and followed me like a blind – pretended, shadow, demanding my compassion – tricky bastard. Me standing at a tennis court in Colombo, watching sister and brother challenging, a flash flut of emotions, pouring in sweat and tears inside and outside, remembering the not-at-all good old times, but missing my sister heavily, my nieces and my parents. A suddenness of a constant controversy. We fighted till we literally shed blood. I don´t miss the pain, but I miss the affection, which has taken place after, the silent pity and the never-expressed complicity, a state, which has to be changed and changed already, in this moment, me standing at the fence of a Sri Lanka tennis club, hearing the horseflies from far away, crunching red ashes and facing the doggedness of our childhood. I love you, my dear twin sister. Thank you Sri Lanka, I will keep it in mind and in my heart – I will find this mysterious thing someday.


I arrived in Jaffna in the evening, in my astonishment a reflection of a magnificient train ride up north from Colombo, clattering over paddy fields, swamp land, herons, crows, eagles blinding the dim sun, a vastness of moist green, next to me a navy commander returning back to work, shuttling between colombo and Jaffna, government employers are allowed to travel for free, at least three times monthly, so why live in the past if there is Colombo – one reason why the trains are fully booked for weeks. And, no military, no police, no check up at the railway station, a useless valid permission in my pocket.
– Jaffna, what a wonderful broken world you are. After 5 years peace the city still lays in ruins, greenish bruises, cemented bullet holes, a tamil culture eased with the silent of peace, domesticated with the diplomacy of a warmachine, slowly coming up on his feet again, after 20 years a wobbly stance on a common national tribune watching the growing prosperity and menace of totalitaranism. The Ministry of Defence and Urban Development supposed to be finished december 2013, still working on it. The special investigation office for crime is a wooden sheg, roundaboutside of the clock tower, next to the police station, which is not more than a larger version of the sheg, not wooden, but mossy and obviously a place to feel unsafe. The prison performs my picture of not-a-place-to-die but a place to break, even if not compulsory. The Special Task Force camp is a spontanously wire fenced green field with a tiny security post and other buildings I can´t distinguish from the bordering civilan neighbourhood. The Sri Lankan government is very sure about, that there will be not a growl of a tiger again. I have seen so far one patrol walking through a miserable neighbourhood. The peacekeeper are not welcome. It seems the ending of the war has drawn a bleeding line between tamil and sinhalese. Maybe a reason why soldiers like the navy commander lives in Colombo, a nearly 7 hours train ride from his working place. The tourists, who come here are rare, I haven´t seen one by now. So guess how kind of exhausting is a walk through the city, a city which makes me smile, a city which touches my heart. If there is a bleeding line, I wanna be on this side, here, in Jaffna, the place to be on Sri Lanka, ambivalent, split in half, connected by disbelief, a recounstruction without reprocessing, not odd at all, regarding the fact, that the same government, who ended the war is still in charge and will be re-elected january next year, I dare to forecast.
I walk around the city for hours. Today is sunday and I have a rest, like half of the city. People are mostly christian. I have seen some hindu temple as well. The fishermen drink today. And not only them. Some of can barely walk already, at 10 in the morning, smudged religious painting in their mad-eyed faces, some of the cursing me. The anger of the repressed and the forgotten. I can hear people fighting, couples I assume. Children crying. Jaffna lives on its own. There is not much to export, which the rest of Sri Lanka needs or can´t export by themselves. The fishing harbours sell the catch to the next located village. “We fish only for us.” – Colombo is building the second gigantic trading harbour, next to the hometown of the president. Any questions? I can see signs with some reconstruction programs, promoting the costs the organizations spent already. I see parts of the city they live disconnected, left alone, with their grief, their efforts to recreate a routine, a home, a live. What is worth an apartment house for the subclass if you have no economic growth, no work, but powerlessness.
During a stroll around on the second day, nearby one of the fishing harbours – always my haven and approach, in a lower class district, I watched a scenerio, still drowns me in tears, left me powerless, helpless and ashamed of haven´t acted different. To my left a roman catholic burial ground. Over the white wall, which sourrounds the holy ground, in its center a chapel, with some homeless, cows and goats searching for shelter and a ressurection of divine grass, I can see some angels and their dotty naive glances heavenwards, some Jesus Christs, hanging on their crosses, pussyfooters – you stay nailed and dare you piss off again, tired to watch, “Oh my god-oh-god, what have I done”. One by one they seem to avoid witness, only the palm trees are rattling in turmoil. To my right a small shop, from upstairs I can hear a kid desperately screaming, crying, weeping and screaming again, in a way which pierces my heart with thousand of nails, arrows and spears. In a way you know it´s men-caused. And there she is, the mother, yelling and beating, I can hear her hand bruising the childishness, causing damage to the rest of its life, and this for sure not the first time. An outrageous situation. Neighbours passing by, looking at me, confused, wondering why tears running down my face. I couldn´t figure out a scope, a way to help, I felt like a child, the son of me, I was scared. And it scared me more, that nobody was affected by the kid in agony. The mother suddenly appeared, running down the stairways and I felt relief for a short moment before I realized… she went to the next bush, broke away a branch, cleaned it, shredded some tiny branches and leaves, in rage, I felt her rampage, more nails, arrows and spears. I was standing there, bare, shocked, unobtrusive and discreet, she didn´t even recognize me. Nobody did, with the punishing rud in hand. Two elder women came out of the room, disturbance in their facial expression, a mix of lack of understanding and acceptance. The mother on its way upstairs. I saw the willow whistling in her resolute pace. As she passed the two women, maybe her older daughters, no communication, wordless, no efforts to ease or to stop the rampage. They entered after her. Darkness. I stopped crying, breathing, living, like before an explosion, watching the drop of a bomb, knowing what will happen in a second, preparing for leaving the past – from this moment on everything will be different. I stood there for hours, maybe for a couple of minutes. Silence. Fear expanded. The bomb was not an illusion, I saw it, with my own eyes. I was more and more terrified as longer as it took. I left. I walked away. I stopped. Listened. I walked, stopped, listened, I could hear a kid crying, I think, I was not sure. I walked, didn´t stop again. Took some corners, searched for an hideaway, like the boy who broke the glass of the window with a football.
Me the son of my parents and the pussyfooter.
Let me tell you this. All you elders, abusing, beating, slapping, harming your kids or any other kid in any way, physical or mental, physical and mental, reap my deepest and honest scorn from the bottom of my hate. You deserve to, no, not to die, this would be to fast. I would wish to believe, in hell, kept comfortable blazing, just for you. There is no excuse to use children for your frustration, your disability to handle your life, your stupidity to continue the circle of violence in your family, generation by generation. “We also survived and it didn´t harm us.” This is the most stupid sentence and excuse I have ever heard and sadly too often. Just for this sentence you deserve at least a broken nose. What do you think harmed you than, beating your own child. This is how you offer your children a different life, a better future? Teaching them violence? Not one time is acceptable and if so, because we live in a out-of-order world, you gonna fucking excuse yourself in a more than decent way. What you do if you beat or slap, out of proportion, unjustified or punch just a bit too hard, even if it was for fun, an elder person? You excuse yourself, because you might still have a rest of decency or you just are afraid of revenge. – So why you think hurting children is justified? WHY!!! Because this is reality and you want to teach them a lesson? Strengthen them, steal them, prepare them? If you think this world is fucked up and violence is part of what you call reality, than it is because of people like you, YOU, you huge enormous shit of an asshole, no matter how poor, rich or fucked up you are! Get yourself in treatment or die in my personal hell.


Back in Colombo for two days. Something has changed… I didn´t pay for the bus trip from Bentota to Colombo. I didn´t pay for any kind of public transportation at all. No tuk tuk driver followed me. No silly attempts to trick me – how can I take revenge now!

My mission for the first day, get the permission to enter Jaffna up north in two more days and book a seat on the train. So I went to the Colombo Fort Railroad Station to ask at the Tourist Service Office where to get the mysterious permission the government just set up a couple of weeks ago. Some say because of the result of some house searches, as they found some documents indicating that drug and weapon business has started again, launched by foreigners – might claim the corrupt government. Anyway. As a foreigner you need this piece of red tape parade confetti. At the office I was told to apply at the Old Parliament, 10 min walk from here. Easy. No problem. After asking at the gates of the parliament, it appeared that I have to go to the Ministry of Defense, which is located nearby. 20 min search. Easy. No problem. At the entrance of the ministry, which is structured as following, a roofed entrance for vehicles, with an underground sort of a settling, to inspect if they don´t carry bombs along, guarded by MPs and other more odd than hazardous looking guys – peacetime. Easy. A small building aside, through which the pedestrians have to walk and to register. The way to go. A grotty room. Five wooden paint peeling tables. No phones, no computers, barely something on it which looks like administration. Cheap red plastic chairs. A nonpictorial calendar on the wall, mold on the roof. A lousy cabin for body checks. Nobody speaks proper english. The duty officer or what rank so ever, told me I have to wait 30 min, because “not working now”. And I am not allowed to enter, because of my shorts, you have to wear trousers and at least a t-shirt. No signs outside or anywhere of this show off of necessary subservience. It has fucking 37 degrees outside! And I don´t respect your stupid salute game anyway. No problem. “Wait here 30 min.” I filled out a form and started to wait, everything seemed to be alright and easy. 1.30 p.m., after two hours I was hungry, didn´t had braelfast, lunch or a sip of water. No problem, stay seated, “Wait 30 min”. And suddenly something was going on, like efforts, something like you could call work. The two uniformed ladies opposite to me were drawing with a pen, which was also used as a drum stick before, mutual their palms, giggling. The guy next too, anti bomb squad was balancing absent-minded a ruler on his wrist, the other 8 duties in the room, military police and soldiers did the same, nothing, just randomly standing up, walking around, advicing some passengers, returning from toilet, bringing lunch, playing games on their mobile phones and staring at me, investigating my tattoos, that was it. And if this wasn´t enough exhaustion to watch them, the whole gate seemed to be freezed as an helicopter arrived, two, picking up the president, on his election campaign. That causes another two hours during literally nothing happened, only more soldiers joined, some high ranked, doing the busybodies. So we, the civilians, couple of locals and me, were stucked, for another two hours. Anyway I didn´t had my permission yet. I tried to be, I always try to be respectful and polite, without efforts, but especially at silly facilities like this, but this was just comedy. My inners turned into a knot, like when you feel you will explode very soon, an emotion bomber, scattering all his incomprehension and scorn, cursing their waste of life. I had chats with some of the locals, my inmates, one commented this act with “Time is rest”. I answered, “This time is waste, my friend.” He explained me more about his theory, another religious bullshit. “No! TIME I-S W-A-S-T-E. Watch them!!!” Religion as a calmer and military as a treater, guess how I felt. After five hours I left the building. The president hasn´t arrived yet, special forces on motorbikes, hooded, heavily armed forces, securing the entrance. What an absurd spectacle. Finally I did it, and my ticket subsequently. Good ridparade.

As I entered the dorm back at the hostel I exploded finally but into little happy bits. Who is sitting there, next to my bed, Jaime, my friend from Brazil. We were ending up, after the amazement, giving us a hearty hug, we know how hard it is to find pleasant company. And how lovely to meet him again. How lovely, Jaime. And you are just happy, because of how coincidence works and being a part of. – Jaime and Jose, you guys are killing me, each of you in his very special way. “Scheisse.” and “How much.” I can still hear the echo of your heartiness.

And some sad news in the end, I buried my flip flops today. After 8 months my loyal company, in wet, soggy, stony, sandy, salty, dusty, in good times and drunken times, you have always stick to my pace, I always loved you, but now you have to rest, on a dump outside Colombo city. I am sorry and don´t you worry, I already found a beautiful new pair. Everything is substitutable, even loyalty.


A one night stopover in Bentota, a coast town covered with signs and advertisement in german, sold off to luxury hotels and resorts, where old ladies giggling their dentures on their buffet plates, german sausages with potato salad, after the poor beggar of a waiter made a compliment – priceless for leaving tipless… a Sri Lanka was following down my way to find a room for a night, calling me rasta man, “Please, stop, bleiben Sie steh-en. Hallo, wie geht es?” Holy bullshit, are you kidding me? And that happened to me not for the last time, I am not sure for whom this is more embarrasing, “Hello.” “Wo kommen du her?” “Sorry?” “Ahm, where kommst du-her?” “Germany, but I don´t speak german.” It was so hilarious that I didn´t want, not one word more. Most of all the scammers, tuk tuk drivers and tour guides on their hunt for some cash just suppose straightaway you are from Germany. Please, travel agencies, stop packaging Sri Lanka! “Rasta man!” Haha, Game Over, my friend, just after not even 5 minutes. “My Frau von Deutschland.” A skinny guy with long thick rastas, barefoot and a dopey smile. “Nice tattoos, rasta man!” “I am not rasta man, dude.” “Ich denke du rauchst, you need?” “Why?” “Because wegen der Tattoos.” Holy straight edge. “No, I don´t and please stop calling me rasta man, I hate reggae music.” Immediately I felt sorry for saying that, but it´s true. He insistent that I have to join him to his house, where he leaves with his german white fat whale, sorry for the category, but… anyway. It took me a while to get rid of him, a bit rude behind the punction, but of course as a rasta man he feels no anger, no pride, just dope, man! I really was craving for some silence… so stopover in the weird town of Bentota, beautiful beaches thou, on my way to Colombo. On MY way, even though, but I deeply enjoy to be on my own again, interrogating my lonesomeness, my love I feel, my pain and the demon hunter´s knife on my aorta. I had to go, I needed to and I wanted. See you in Jaffna, Me. Hold on, stay bold.


The world is a crossing, so I cross, I am human, in an amusement park of a blessed life, screaming the joyride of doom, serving us with rigid shelter, acquired illusions and a concept of understanding, centrifugating in an acid brain washing machine, manufactured use of belief, money, media, drugs and aggression to keep us distracted, based on a misinterpretation of an aged zodiac. Religion is satan. And I come across humans on my road, who are not aware of their immaturity, their blindness, their stupiditiy, greed, indifference and the fact, that they have never seen more than what their world wanted to let them see. Temples. Statues. Monks and meaningless singsong. A proof of power, reigning, in charge, more than ever industrialized before. But just an occasion to rethink the materialism of the west, to replace it with the enlightment of the orient, an exotic outburst, a different chassis, an upgrade, update, preventing an overload of followers – amusement needs its variety, being amused new creators, idols, guiding brands, approved and labeled by the system, so named artists, self-made men, escaper, heros, who seem to have been at the right time at the right place, igniting their ambition and desire to be different and make a difference. And not one of us, not one of them, creates ever a difference. There is no difference. Ending up finally be nothing less than a pimp, worhipping a myth, in a state of money and slavery, global. Pretending distrust, a lack of interest in politics, not wanted to be involved in a system of corruption and crime, as far as they have money, honestly earned of course, however that worked. What does that mean, in a system of corruption and crime – a farce and pointless, and producing a rebelief of an existing, peaceful, sincerely system, concept, idea – even not a square is real, did ever and will ever exist, because it is too late. So fuck your temples, your traveler attitude and your hippie transfigured whatever you think it is real. Your enlightment is an egoistic self-protection. Your run away, your dubiousness, a worst conypiracy against men. This is life, this is what made you an human, in an artistic way. We are, all is a product. Artifical. Your physical vulnerability the remnant of humanity. If you think you can be different or make a difference you only keep the coin turning. Being different doesn´t mean you are mad. Madness appeases your pain. Madness allows you to breath, provides you the space to let off some steam. Being against, feeling proud of being a part of a change, treats your pride and eases your fear, you as a member of a movement against, straight up with your head in your capitalized arse, with your looping dreams, visions of a new disorder, a disorder in order, till your ride come to an end, some kindly cotton candy for your servants and by remote maintance off you leave, in your spiritual abscence, afterlife – And now imagine you have to go through this again, HELL! […]

“This kind of mafia-like structures as part of the system is impossible in” – here we go – “Switzerland”, a swiss company, as we were talking about corrupt systems, like Sri Lanka, which faces next election on january the 8th. – The best I have heard for months.

“Why you think the government doesn´t want you to be educated?”
“I don´t know.”
“What you mean?”

The sun is shining again out of my arse! Guess I had too many conversations with men-made men, in the last weeks, on their search to reach, regain or belief in humanity. – I appreciate my regained silent madness, even if it is artifical.


“Today we have to divorce.”
“Yes, unfortunately, I have to leave you pregnant.”
Laughing both of us, but me for sure with a smile of sorrow in my corner of my mouth. Jose runned 101 marathon, all around the world, for about 20 years. And still the idea of having a belly, cute, small, barrel, doesn´t matter, you can see his self-potrait horrified and outraged.
Thank you, Jose, for being a best company, you are still in my head, questioning everything, providing me a smile and lust to be the monster – not the rasta man. See you again, I am sure we will. Love and passion, stay and run who you are.
The world is a crossing…


“Mr. Tattoo man!”
“Hey monster.” How asian people called me during my first travel, more than 10 years ago.
But finally, a term about I can hardly smile, actually not at all, “Hello rasta man!”, which I heard mostly down south. Morons are everywhere. I mean seriously, rasta man?! And offering me Bob Marley shirts and rastafari bracelets. I would rather cut my hand off than wearing a rastafari bracelet, and my ears before, just in case they turn on some reggae dope, my eyes first, not to see their donkey smile. You guys really have no idea, stop smoking!


You sweet yellow glowing loveliness. I kiss and embrace you, eternally. I won´t leave you again. Stand by me, let me stay on your side, inflame my heart, my tender passion, look in my eyes and arouse my energy, my strength and at least, thank you so much for drying, me, a sponge-mutant. – We arrived in Galle. Down south at the coast. Oh my Buddha, Mohammed, I tell you, what a relief! First, we emptied our bags, washing, I just packed all of in a bucket, put a greedy handfull of washing powder on, water and just stepped on it, stamping grapes, mashed dirt, sweat and humidity, under a hot shower, cleaning myself and my possession, manic-relieved and so contented.

Galle was my mannequin climax so far. “Hello!” – I should stop smiling at people, they misunderstand this as an offer to talk to me, “Many tattoos, can I take picture?” A group from Bangladesh, business men, four, one by one, than by twos, and as they started a quick-tempered foursome, “Game Over, my friends. Insert coin.” They looked at me, smiled, appreciated and went off. Unsuccessful business idea from the first level. Sri Lankan, mostly teenager, “Me and the monster.” I know I put myself in chains, somersaulting, monkeystyle. I don´t care. I do not. No. Ok I am bored. In countries, where capitalism has cast its downfall, worthless values, ideals, movie stars, blockbusters, brands, lenders and fancy pants, loaded with a rolled stack of dollars, gold on their fingers, blood under their nails, nevermore dirty hands… why not me, a show of a “handsome” – pop – gangster making the difference. And the ukrainans know what I am talking about, posing with a couple, in the embracement of a typical eastern monster of a man, his hand on my plated shoulder, a freshly nested egg between the set of uncompromising by blood darkened teeth of a wolfish fox. Out of his jaw a strong pouring flavour of his last loot, schnaps. Me, the skinny stick next to flaming like a match in a second to a pile of ash. Nice guys.

Maybe I love Sri Lanka. As longer as I stay as more I understand the mentality, the humour, their smiles, their background and why I was wrong. Chatting with farmers, market sellers, fishermen and outcasted low class bums, I enjoy their beauty and loveliness, feeling like to give them a hug, at least touch them, pinch punch tip them with my sincere sympathy. Just to see them smiling, from the bottom of their heart, for a very short moment, filling me with so much peace and affection. My favorites roadbusters, ideals when it comes to take life as it is, even you have to shit in front of its gate. – I was wriggling in the nets of Galle… Sri Lankan mosquito gangs are chasing me in the early morning hours on the street. I have no idea how they manage to sneak through, searching for flesh to poke their bloodlust inside. The mosquito net, not sufficiently anti, so “Let´s tap him!”. Bastards of freaks! Waking up at 5 a.m. or more apposite deciding to stand up, being horrific pissed of being sucked, feeling like a sow, involuntary farrowed, I made the best out of it and enjoyed my first sunrise in Sri Lanka, on the bol walls of the former fort in Galle, on my excursion to one of these treasure hunting moments on the road lostwards. I found myself at small fisherharbour with some eviscereting stalls roadside, beyond the walled fort, selling the fresh catch, straight from the boats. Harpoons, knives, wooden chopping blocks, buckets with dead wide open last gazes, remains of a hunt floating in blood, the seacarved faces of the workers, crows feet in wait, for chopped heads, the giblets and intestines, shredding black beaks, screeching claws, what else you need in the morning – fuck off coffee, especially when it´s nescafe. Different story. “You have cigarette?”, they keep asking me, surrounded by them, harshness in their eyes and the energetic blow of the sea shaping their pyhsical strength and tenacity. On my second morning, of three in a row, I had packages with me, as an offering, empty before I located my lighter, being blessed with their thankfulness and in particular their hospitality. I stayed. I watched, I chatted, I got undressed. Before I left, with heavy regretfullness in my farewell, falling in love with these kind of character, again the tempting invitation to join the hunt, starting at 2 a.m. In boats, don´t imagine big boats, I am talking about catamerans, with my not existing experience being at night out there, on the Indian Ocean, what a dream of a dream – and “Damn it!” I rejected, thinking twice of staying one more night, but did a reasonable decision, bringing my screwed collarbone, my ligamental strain and the next trekktense stopover Kathmandu to my mind – no risk no miss. Helping them to pull the boat on the beach was hazardous silly enough. “Come with us. No work, sit, look.” “Like a captain?” “Like guest.” But the idea not helping them made me feel more uneasy, rocking my idle tiredness and for sure jamming their working routine. Fuck off nescafe, temples, sightseeing and tours, dip into the everyday life, worth a stay, extending my day. The salty madness in their eyes I will miss, guess I found a good reason to return, to Sri Lanka.

And Jose, my loved friend, reminded me with his type of a character, unwanted for sure, but anyway, to create relationships, not to disagree moody with the efforts of men facing you, for whatever reason, giving me a hard time, being the person of interest, spoilt my curiosity. Even he sometimes is driving me crazy, asking at nearly every shop, interviewing nearly every seller, who was looking, staring at us, at me, and back at us – we must appear like a comical gay couple, “How much? – And these? – And that? – Ok, I come back. – Is this the way to [placeholer]?” Not even one corner later “Excuse me, way to [placeholder]?” Asking him why he is doing this, thinking it is rude, knowing he doesn´t want to buy anyway, and annoying, because I know the way and his map app anyway. And me and him wouldn´t even mind to get lost. “I just want to know if they are polite or telling me the truth.”, he said. Better facing them first, before being faced, leaving the bubble of the observer, functioning more rewarding in Sri Lanka. So I did accept his unaware excuse for annoying me. And we both have lots of fun.


Ella – last stopover on the way down for the long missing in haze sunshine. My loyal company, Jose, and me traveled by train around six hours from Kandy southwards, sneaking through the beautiful and therefore famous and so not less popular highlands, for a luscious brumous green reason. Tea plantations as far as you can´t imagine. Hilly ground. Steeply sloping, smoothly roping into moldy villages and romantic lakeviews. With doors on the train wide open, surfing on the steps, rainswept, freezy tangent head wind, broken by dripping narrow tunnels and railside lingering copse, drumming wagon by wagon seeking a face to sciss´. With Adam´s Peak towering at the horizon, challenging my reasonable patience, not to climb – owing to the ligamental strain boring me. Bored of being patient with my condition. Shoulder. Ligamental. Capsule. Mental weakness. Suicidal backslide. Rice and curry. Turning my immune system upside fucked. On top the moskitos, you miss a spot on your body to cover with repellent, it will be marked by their sensational thirst. And it´s too cold basically. Causing a tremendously tiredness. Don´t know why, the hobbling around can´t be the reason. Maybe the fact, that I haven´t been to toilet since a week. Being a tentant in paradise – still appreciating the fact – not always the sun is shining out of your arse, sometimes it´s pretty cloudy… maybe traveling in company… even though it is really down-to-road, we laugh, we share, we enjoy, also the same distaste. However I am reported missing, not in a lost way, but in a neutral way, objectified, unreleased, unconversant. Or is it the gaze of Sri Lanka, “Nobody has it, maybe in one year more people will have, they copy you.” Wherever I go, it is about my tattoos. “Nice haircut! Where are you from?” Germany might be not as tolerating as you think, Sri Lanka.
But we haven´t arrived Ella yet. On the train, first class with us couples from all around the world, so I did what I had to, earphones, Wilhelm Stenhammer, enjoying the snaily ride, mostly hanging windside. Ella itself is a touristic hub, the final call for a trekk, up to at least little Adam´s Peak, offering a stunning view… there it lies, a tamed lion, with its enriching leafy coat, persecuted by steep peaks of a cragged crown, wild behind its misty bushwhacking eyes. Its paws crawling southwards… southwards… I can only think about sun, sun sun sun, where is you hearth, hiding behind an off-white eclipse. Crawling each morning since days in a textile moist zone, “Better not wash, just keep wearing, smells like mold spirit.” I made finally my peace with Sri Lanka up on the Lion´s shoulder. As smaller the towns are, either packed with tourism, people appear and fortunately are honest, humorously and welcoming. But still, I won´t return. But never say never.

I enjoy. I stay. I am here. I live here. This is my road. Taking rests aside. Everything is on my way and nothing is less close to a touch of freedom than having the choice. My choice. Calming down. Any place is my home and nowhere I feel like dying. Life is my first choice as long as I die. Contented to death.