YOU'RE going where?'' The question was directed to me with a mixture of horror and amazement. Doubt had entered my mind, and not for the first time. Trincomallee, on the northeast coast of Sri Lanka was not, it seemed, everyone's idea of a holiday destination.
Rooted in the heart of Tamil-territory, the area had suffered in the last few years from the civil war, and Sri Lankans told me the whole area was impossible to get to because of the troubles.
But there was a way. By rail. The ticket seller at Colombo railway station automatically presumed my destination was Kandy, and seemed stumped at the request for a single ticket to Trinco.
''Two?'' he enquired hopefully smiling at my male companion. ''No, only one''. An eyebrow was raised. I swallowed.
''First or second class?'' The difference was 50 rupees (HK$10). If I was going to be captured at gunpoint en-route, it might as well be in relative comfort. Hang the expense. ''First Class''.
Even the night before, an elderly newspaper journalist I had been working with telephoned me to try to persuade me to change my plan to go to Hikkadoa instead. But the prospect of the popular south coastal resort of Hikkadoa with thousands of lobster-skinned European package tourists on packed beaches was a rather tame alternative.
BEFORE the sun rose the taxi was on its way to the station for the 6am train. A well-dressed young businessman emerged from gloomy shadows and asked: ''Which train are you waiting for, madam?'' ''Trinco - is this the right platform?'' ''Yes, but why are you going to Trinco?'' ''A holiday.'' Pause. ''A holiday?'' he repeated slowly, ''Alone?'' Here we go again.