Life above the trees at Gem River Edge
On the morning of April 19, I was supposed to leave from Gem River Edge.
The decision seemed perfectly reasonable. The room I had been staying in was small and slightly damp, and after several days at Gem River Edge, I felt it was time to continue the journey. Sri Lanka was waiting outside. There were more places to see, more roads to follow, and the island waiting ahead. What I did not know was that I would never leave that day.
However, once he learned that I was about to leave, Muna quietly altered the course of events. Looking back, it feels as though I was once again being offered a choice: to continue along the familiar tourist route or to stay long enough to discover a different side of the island.
This time, I decided not to resist.
The room upstairs came with a large terrace and comfortable loungers. Everything about it invited dolce far niente.
The terrace quickly became one of my favorite places. In the mornings and throughout the day, monkeys ran across the roof above my head. Most of the time, I knew they had been there only from the noise overhead or from overturned cups and other small traces left behind on the table. Only occasionally did I see them on the terrace itself. Muna chased them away in a playful manner, though nobody seemed particularly concerned by their presence. Like the dogs, the birds, and the countless other creatures moving through the property, they appeared to be part of the household. Everyone had their place.
From below, music often drifted through the trees. It seemed to accompany Muna everywhere. The selection changed constantly, yet somehow always felt at home there, alongside the sounds of birds, monkeys, and the forest itself.
Days acquired a different rhythm. Breakfasts stretched longer than usual at a table overlooking the garden. Tropical fruit appeared alongside large clay pots filled with buffalo curd. The taste was unlike any yogurt I had tried before — rich, slightly smoky, carrying traces of the wood-fired kitchen where it had been prepared.
The coffee was roasted by Muna’s mother. There seemed to be a hint of vanilla in it, though I was never entirely sure.
There was rarely any reason to hurry.
Without being asked, I gradually started helping in the kitchen after meals. It was not expected.
Downstairs, a large wooden table served as the informal center of the house. Around it stood candles, small statues, local artifacts, images of Ganesha and other deities. Nearby, an old cabinet held dozens of small objects left behind by travelers over the years.
Some had left books, drawings, or small gifts. Others perhaps wanted to leave a small trace of themselves behind. Before leaving, I added a small gift of my own, something I had brought from India.
Whenever he was free from the practical demands of running the place, Muna could often be found at that table. Sometimes listening to music, sometimes looking at something on his tablet, sometimes talking with whoever happened to be around.
The longer I stayed, the more often conversations with Muna became part of everyday life.
Topics changed constantly. Food, animals, village life, the island’s history, and future projects. It was rarely possible to predict where a conversation would end.
There was another curious detail I only understood later. Whenever I introduced myself, people often smiled in a way I could not quite understand. Only later did someone explain that “Inna”, or at least the way my name sounded in Sinhala, resembled the word for “wait.”
By then, I had already postponed my departure.
More than once.