Tangalle
So the wave swept away what I had mistaken for connection to the world.
Claudia barely noticed the wave.
We had been sitting under the same shelter, less than a meter apart. By the time the water retreated, her belongings were untouched. Mine had disappeared into the ocean.
My phone, still carrying what felt like my entire external life, had been completely soaked in salt water. It vibrated for a while, flashed uncontrollably, then stopped responding altogether.
Back at the villa, I could not stop thinking about what had happened.
After reading several desperate online remedies for a phone baptized in salt water, we managed to find a bag of pink rice. The shipwrecked phone was carefully buried in it, in the hope that some form of domestic folk magic might still work.
Left without connection — and strangely, without time — I turned to practical things. I had two days left before moving on.
Strangely enough, the practical consequences were manageable. I could still contact my family through WhatsApp on my computer. My bank cards worked. Nothing truly catastrophic had happened.
And yet, something in my mind had lost its usual structure.
The New Year itself passed quietly.
Tropical monsoon rain lasted through most of the day. The festive atmosphere I had imagined never fully materialized. Even breakfast at the villa felt more subdued than usual — sweets and fried pastries with coconut filling, unfamiliar to our European palate.
What stayed with me from those two days were the long conversations with Claudia. Mornings slowly settled into yoga, late breakfasts, and the sound of the ocean somewhere beyond the trees.
Still, something about the place remained slightly out of sync with my inner state.
After I left, Claudia later told me that another traveler staying there had been bitten by a dog shortly after arriving. At the time, it felt like one more detail folding itself into an already unstable perception of the place.
But I resisted the temptation to conclude too quickly.
Tissamaharama
A few days later, I left for Tissamaharama, near the border of Yala National Park.
I believed I was simply continuing the journey.
By the time I arrived in Tissamaharama, the island still seemed half asleep after the New Year celebrations.
Near Tissamaharama after the New Year celebrations.
The small guesthouse overlooked rice fields and stagnant water reflecting the heavy tropical sky. A young man who spoke no English greeted me at the entrance. The owner promised to arrive in fifteen minutes. An hour later, he still had not appeared.
None of this should have mattered as much as it did.
By then, the external world and my inner state no longer seemed to move at the same speed.
And yet my mind refused to release its grip on the dead phone.
That morning, before leaving Tangalle, I had walked past the same closed shops again and again, hoping to find someone who could bring it back to life.
The island was resting after the New Year. Everything moved slowly except my thoughts.
Eventually, accepting that nothing else could be solved that day, I asked for a place to eat.
Someone called a tuk-tuk for me and suggested a restaurant with the improbable name Lady Chef.
It was much farther away than I expected.
When I arrived, the restaurant was empty except for a few bored young waiters standing near the entrance. The place looked strangely neglected. While I waited for fried rice with seafood, tropical rain began crashing down outside.
A large plate eventually appeared in front of me. I barely touched it.
The rice was clearly not fresh.
What disturbed me more was the growing realization that I could observe my own mental state almost from the outside. I understood perfectly well that nothing truly dramatic was happening. And still, I could not stop the spiral itself.
When I finally asked for the bill, something unexpectedly softened.
The young men refused to let me pay.
A few minutes earlier, the empty restaurant had felt vaguely hostile to me. Now the same place felt unexpectedly human again.
That evening, the owner finally appeared at the guesthouse. His wife prepared rice and curry, and after dinner I went to sleep almost immediately.
The following morning, I finally bought a cheap replacement phone that would last until my return to Italy.
I decided not to go on safari after all. Instead, I spent the afternoon visiting a Buddhist temple.
A Buddha statue wrapped in orange cloth near Tissamaharama.
Early the next morning, I left for a place recommended by a man I had met almost by chance in Galle.
At the time, I believed I was simply continuing the journey.
I did not yet understand that something else was beginning.
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