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A one night stopover in Bentota, a coast town covered with signs and advertisement in german, sold off to luxury hotels and resorts, where old ladies giggling their dentures on their buffet plates, german sausages with potato salad, after the poor beggar of a waiter made a compliment – priceless for leaving tipless… a Sri Lanka was following down my way to find a room for a night, calling me rasta man, “Please, stop, bleiben Sie steh-en. Hallo, wie geht es?” Holy bullshit, are you kidding me? And that happened to me not for the last time, I am not sure for whom this is more embarrasing, “Hello.” “Wo kommen du her?” “Sorry?” “Ahm, where kommst du-her?” “Germany, but I don´t speak german.” It was so hilarious that I didn´t want, not one word more. Most of all the scammers, tuk tuk drivers and tour guides on their hunt for some cash just suppose straightaway you are from Germany. Please, travel agencies, stop packaging Sri Lanka! “Rasta man!” Haha, Game Over, my friend, just after not even 5 minutes. “My Frau von Deutschland.” A skinny guy with long thick rastas, barefoot and a dopey smile. “Nice tattoos, rasta man!” “I am not rasta man, dude.” “Ich denke du rauchst, you need?” “Why?” “Because wegen der Tattoos.” Holy straight edge. “No, I don´t and please stop calling me rasta man, I hate reggae music.” Immediately I felt sorry for saying that, but it´s true. He insistent that I have to join him to his house, where he leaves with his german white fat whale, sorry for the category, but… anyway. It took me a while to get rid of him, a bit rude behind the punction, but of course as a rasta man he feels no anger, no pride, just dope, man! I really was craving for some silence… so stopover in the weird town of Bentota, beautiful beaches thou, on my way to Colombo. On MY way, even though, but I deeply enjoy to be on my own again, interrogating my lonesomeness, my love I feel, my pain and the demon hunter´s knife on my aorta. I had to go, I needed to and I wanted. See you in Jaffna, Me. Hold on, stay bold.