Two nights ago I was awakened at 2 am by someone wailing the tar out of my right shoulder with a baseball bat. Or that’s what it felt like. I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, desperate for sleep, trying to find a position that wasn’t unbelievably painful. To no avail. The next morning I dragged myself to work. Or rather, I was dragged by a taxi driver, whose car stalled every five minutes and who took the opportunity of my catatonic agony to play chicken with all the other cars in between stalls, which resulted in me being flung around the back seat of the car like Raggedy Anne, too much in pain to even protest. By the time I got to the office, it was pretty clear that I was not going to accomplish much until I sorted out the shoulder issue. My colleagues sent me in a tuk tuk to a nearby clinic. It was a small and dingy room with a desk, a bookcase and a poster of a skeleton on the wall. The gruff doctor saw me right away. After poking and prodding a bit, he declared that I had muscular distress and wrote me a prescription, which I had filled on the spot. I was in and out of the clinic in less than 10 minutes. Total cost of doctor’s visit + prescription = 350 rupees = $2.64. In Rome, it would have taken me a half a day to accomplish the same thing, I would have had to wait two weeks for an appointment and it would have cost me a couple of hundred euro. It took a few hours for the pills to kick in but by last night I was feeling much better and today I am nearly back to 100%. So, Sri Lanka, you are (nearly) forgiven for the poor quality of your hotel food. More on that later.