There is a line, or at least a rough space, at which your lines are crossed. In a country where the color of your skin is the best indication of status, walking down the street is enough to draw attention. Everyone seems desperate to be friendly, at least with your wallet, and the propositions, even if only for attention, can become overwhelming.

While everyone seems desperate to try out that one English word they know, no where was this more apparent that during the hike up Sri Pada. The stairs were scattered with teenagers, emboldened by the social credit they were sure to receive from their peers. These interactions, however, which had little if anything to do with me, don’t compare to when that one word is intended to obligate you into handing over money.

Of course this works both ways. “Where are you from?” was far too common a starting place. Pretending I didn’t speak English became a favorite tactic. While in Kandy, a English tourist asked me, “Are your from Canada or the United States?”, apologizing for being unable to place my accent. From that point on when asked the tiresome question, my tactic changed to one of an assumed nationality. “Canada”, I would say, beaming proudly.

And so I was caught of guard one day in Kandy, when a man responded by saying “What part? Ontario?”

“Oh, no no”, I said, trying to catch my balance and distance myself at the same time. “Vancouver.”

“Oh Vancouver!” I was about to learn this was not the right answer. “I used to live there.” Apparently this man who spoke more than just one word of English, but wanted my money none the less, went to school in Vancouver. He precede to rattle off a list of his favorite spots, places about which I was now obligated to enthusiastically reminisce.

I refused his taxi service, explaining that I was going to the train station and would like to walk. “Ah yes,” he said, “Canada very big, you guys like walking.” 15 minutes later, and completely lost, I hired a trishaw to drive me. It was one block away.

And so it was that Kara, Keven and I were taking a walk, with more success this time, to dinner. We were discussing Jaffna, and the possibility of Kara visiting, or rather the lack thereof. Jaffna, at the northern tip of Sri Lanka is home to largest concentration of Hindus, Tamils, and the Tiger rebel group. Things are decidedly restless, which I secretly think made Kara all the more restless to go. No one was exactly sure how long the trip there would take, but the consensus was two days by train. Sri Lanka isn’t that big, really, the trains are just that slow.

“I don’t think so”, Keven said to the ad-hoc itinerary, met by a stream of Kara’s faux protests.

Just at that moment, a trishaw pulled up. “Where you go?” the driver said, spouting off another common favorite.

“How much to Jaffna?” Kara spouted, spinning in his direction. The driver was too stunned to reply, and Kara, like the rest of us, could have looked over her shoulder and seen that personal line go right on by. “We go to Jaffna, and then you wait two hours, and come back. How much? 300 Rupees?”

I would have felt sorry for the man, but I was laughing too hard.