The Colombo Traffic Symphonic Orchestra
What was it like to drive through the busy congested streets of Colombo, Sri Lanka? Let me take you on a "musical" journey. In some parts and times in the city, this is not yet ancient history.
You can listen to this piece on Episode 4 of the Tales under the cat tree Podcast
This piece about driving in Sri Lanka was written in 2010. On a recent visit, I noticed how remarkably silent traffic is in the capital city of Colombo. The roads are much more organized than what I describe from 15 years ago. A small part of me misses this orchestra. To be fair, it's a pretty small part of me. My ear drums thanked the peace. I have updated the piece to be relevant to 2025. However, you may find that the streets are much quieter—in some places.
Driving in Asia is an experience everyone should have at some point. Don’t worry about driving on the other side of the road—if that’s your concern—at least the pedals are in the same place. If everything goes wrong, just close your eyes and pray. In Sri Lanka, with one of the world’s greatest density of religious public holidays and every Bodhi tree a holy shrine, the very trees may be listening to your prayers. Just don’t hit a Bodhi tree. The populace will likely be angrier at that than any bodily injury you may have incurred.
Of course, driving in Sri Lanka can also be quite dangerous. In 2024, more than 6 people were killed each day in a traffic-related accident. That’s quite high. But let’s not dwell on such morbidly fascinating issues. Driving in Western countries is quite simple and, frankly, comparatively boring: you get in your car, adjust your seatbelt, straighten your mirrors, get into your lanes, watch out for traffic lights, and off you go. Heck, these days, it’s likely the car does all that for you.
Driving in Sri Lanka—and I suspect most of Asia—is about participating in a symphonic conversation conducted in concert with a giant stage production. A theatrical show featuring cars weaving in and out, narrowly skirting pedestrians and acrobatically twirling drunks, while avoiding certain death and dismemberment by the other vehicles on the road. Your car horn becomes more than your friend; it is an extension of the car, your communication tool, and, occasionally, your saviour.
Let me describe the opening allegro movement of this car horn symphony on the streets of Sri Lanka as recorded in 2010.
“Hi I’m here!” beeps the Nissan Sentra
“Oi, I know you’re here, just beeping twice!” honks the Nissan Prado.
“Your owner is old, my car is newer!” barps the Toyota Corolla with the new license plate and the stylish driver in a suit.
“Watch out I’m thinking of moving out into the next lane!” sounds the Suzuki Maruti
“What lane are you talking about? I’m already here!”
“This is Sri Lanka! What the hell are you all talking about lanes?!”
“Hey watch out for that pedestrian!”
“I’m honking to the pedestrian as well!”
“Okay now I’m honking so the pedestrian knows I’ve gone!”
“Honking twice. That three-wheeler is barely moving!”
“Get out of my way I have vegetables to deliver!” A truck with headlights blinking incessantly.
“Ha yoooou may think you’re big but I’m bigger!” A towering and teetering public bus bears down on the truck. The conductor is frantically waving out the opposite side as if warning everyone in front that the driver and bus has gone mad. The bus passengers are all praying silently.
“Oi, I’m here too!” A three-wheeler with the engine of a lawnmower on steroids tries to pass the bus which is passing the truck which is passing a pedestrian who is now wondering why he didn’t just get in a car to cross the road.
Now for the slow movement:
“Ah, just honking even though there’s no other cars!” A small Maruti passes by.
“Hey you on the motorbike, I’m behind you!” A bike laden with an entire family passes by with a car gently nosing its way out to pass them.
A bus coming from the opposite direction gently blinds the car with its powerful lights.
The car pulls back.
“Thanks!” The motorbike honks.
“No problem now, I’m passing you!” The car moves out and passes.
And then the Minuet:
A drunk twirls seductively waving his arms in the air. He falls gracefully onto the road.
A motorbike swerves.
“What the hell are you doing you stupid bugger?!” The car driving opposite honks.
A pedestrian dances across to the drunk.
The drunk waves him on as a conductor.
And finally we enter the Rondo:
“Get out of my way, get out of my way!” The sirens of a motorcycle are blaring.
“Can’t you see I’m important, I have ‘police’ written on the side!” A black car with shades honks deeply.
“Look I SAID get out of our way, your little lives are worthless!” Another motorcycle with lights and siren blaring.
“You should know by my deep honks and flashy car that I am one of your ministers you pathetically struggling people! Out of my way!” That’s the big four-wheel drive with the wife of a government minister or one of his children.
“No, don’t listen to him in front, remember to vote for him in the next election!” A smaller car beeps plaintively as it now passes in the motorcade.
“Okay you can go back to business. I said go back to business!” The last motorcycle zooms by with its sirens blaring.
“Hi I’m here!” beeps the Hyundai Accent.
Remember to master the techniques of conversing with the horn when driving in Sri Lanka or you too shall be an uninteresting statistic on a news item. If you come to Sri Lanka, take the moment to sit by the side of the road—I suggest behind a concrete barricade—close your eyes and listen to the undulating conversation of horns and sirens. The giant conductor in the sky is telling a lively story about life, politics
, and death. You just have to listen.