Guests and Ghosts

The Pool and the Guns, Kandalama, Sri Lanka 1999

4 min read

The jungle pressed in, not with hostility, but with the quiet persistence of a thing that knows it will outlast you. The Kandalama Hotel emerged from the tangle of green like an afterthought, its stone walls half-reclaimed by vines, its balconies alive with the skittering of monkeys — small, quick creatures with eyes that held the glint of mischief and something older, something untamed. They watched us, these soft-skinned intruders with our guidebooks and sun hats, before vanishing into the foliage with a rustle as if we were no more consequential than a passing breeze.

Our rooms carried the scent of damp earth, the ceiling fan groaning as it churned the thick, wet air. Outside, the jungle hummed — locusts, the whisper of leaves, the occasional thud of a falling fruit. All four of the children were a tempest of noise and motion. The teenagers prowled the balcony, restless as the monkeys, pointing at birds they could not name. The younger ones pressed their faces to the glass, transfixed by the spectacle of a lizard clinging to the window, its throat pulsing a vivid red.

Lunch was a riot of spices — fiery curries, rice laced with coconut, pineapples and mangoes so ripe they surrendered at the slightest touch. Open to the jungle; the dining hall carried its sounds inside: a distant hoot, the skitter of claws on tile, the rustle of unseen things moving just beyond sight. The waiters moved like shadows, their smiles polite but never quite reaching their ears. They spoke little, but their hands were expressive — directing us to milder dishes, steering us away from those that might scorch foreign tongues.

By afternoon, the jungle exhaled around us, thick and drowsy. The monkeys, emboldened, tapped at the windows. The children, finally still, murmured in their sleep. And I, listening to this ancient symphony, wondered if we were guests here — or merely intruders in a world that had no use for us.

The children’s restlessness had reached its inevitable crescendo — they had spotted the pool below, its turquoise surface shimmering like a mirage. Their pleas grew urgent, a chorus of Daddy, please, let’s go now! until, as always, the duty fell to me.

Changing into swimwear was its small chaos — four sun-browned bodies, limbs darting like minnows, their Australian upbringing evident in the ease with which they slipped into the water. They had been swimmers since infancy, which still struck me as odd in this land where pools were ornaments rather than places of play.

The water was nearly empty, as expected. Sri Lankans, by and large, did not swim — could not swim. The pool was for looking at, not plunging into. But my children moved through it like creatures born to it, slicing through the surface, splashing, laughing, their voices bouncing off the tiles. They belonged to the water in a way the locals never would.

And so I took my place in the shallows, a silent sentry, watching the ballet of their play — the way they twisted, dove, resurfaced — keeping vigil, as fathers must, over the small, fierce joys they took for granted.

In the corner of the pool, a group of men lounged, their voices loud, their bellies jutting out, their laughter sharper than it needed to be. They sat on the edge, legs dangling in the water, their bodies tense in a way that suggested something beyond mere revelry. Sri Lankans, as a rule, did not swim—I understood why they clung to the edges. But my children swam like the water was their birthright, careless in their joy.

Then — a crack, sudden and violent. A pistol shot.

One of the men had raised a gun — a gun, in a hotel pool — and fired at a bird overhead. The sheer audacity, the casual disregard for life and safety, and the unspoken rules of a society that claimed to revere all living things sent me a cold shock. My children were in that water, just meters away from these reckless, armed men.

I did not shout. I did not hesitate. I called my children out of the pool, dried them with quick, efficient strokes, and herded them back to our room. Their questions hung in the air, but I had no answers — only the slow-burning anger of a man who had just witnessed power exercised without thought, without consequence.

Later, I made discreet, careful enquiries. The receptionist’s voice dropped to a murmur. A government minister was staying at the hotel. These men were his security detail, assigned by the Ministry of Defence.

Ah. Of course.

The revelation settled over me like a weight. Not just carelessness, then — entitlement. The kind that came with badges, authority, and the unspoken knowledge that some men were beyond reproach.

I thought of the bird, the gunshot, the laughter that followed. I thought of my children, splashing innocently in the water, unaware of how close danger had been. And I thought of the jungle outside, watching it all with ancient, indifferent eyes.

Some things, it seemed, were wild in ways no vines or creatures could ever be.