The policeman walks up to the car, rips out the keys with an angry huff and strides back to the police station at the airport. My illegal taxi driver smiles and shakes his head, in an effort to calm the situation down and assure his nervous passengers, a muslim family and myself. Our driver then runs out, chasing the policeman, in an effort to retrieve his keys. So much for trafficking myself into Colombo, Sri Lanka’s largest city and former capital.

I had arrived into Bandranaike Int’l Airport on Six pm on Sunday amidst an atmosphere of rain, wind, rain, rain, sweat, heat, and more rain. My flight was 36 hours, including a 12 hour layover in London visiting Peter N. and the British Library, as well as seeing the eminently queer Bahrain Int’l airport—with its throngs of, well, men. Everywhere. Bengali, Arab, South Indian etc. In hordes.

Stepping out of the airport, I turned left as my hurried self written instructions indicated, and walked through the throngs of people hailing taxis and waiting for relatives down to the end of the airport where I expected a shuttle bus to the main bus station, where I would catch Bus 187 to Colombo. 

A Sri Lankan approached me on the bus as I expected to settle into an unpleasent three hour public transit sojourn to my house in Colombo.

“Going to Colombo or Negombo?” he asked.

“Colombo. I’m taking the bus.”

“My friend has a car. AC. Very nice. 1000 rupees—he will drive you”

I say no and hesitate. 1000 rupees, about eight dollars, is cheap for the two hour ride, and certainly beats the bus. “Yes” I change my mind.  

He escorts me off the bus and we walk in the shadows past an airport policeman to his friend’s car. This is not a sanctioned taxi ride. After a few nods with his friend, who turns out to be an airport travel services employee operating an illegal taxi service on the side, I hop in the passenger seat.

On our way out, we pick up the muslim family. I then see the policeman stride up to the car.

In ten minutes our driver returns, visibly cowed. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. I ask him, “Baksheesh?” Indeed, there’s nothing a good bit of bribery can’t fix.

So the ride in was a bit stressful, but the reward was good conversation with the muslim father, who worked in Saudi Arabia for a few American families. Most of all, I get to see Sheela and my future housemates!

And, holy hell, I think. Will it ever stop raining?