It was wrong, it was good. For the first time in my life, I saw a whale, and I was so close it looked like special effects in a Telugu film. Our handlers said it was a blue whale, which everybody else on the catamaran wanted to believe. Later, the whale lifted its tail and dove. By now, we knew this gesture as the blue whale’s goodbye. We had seen six whales, or maybe it was the same beast emerging here and there, playing some complex cetacean prank.

We were in the open ocean off the coast of Mirissa in southern Sri Lanka, on the perennial route of the great whales. There were several boats on the whale safari and they resembled overcrowded buses. Their navigators appeared to be friends, or at least, were linked by radio, and when they got wind of a whale sighting, they all rushed to the spot. Often, the boats circled the whale, their loud motors running. Passengers yelled, and gathered to one side of the decks to look at the whales, causing the boats to list. Some boats chased the whales until they refused to surface.

As we were in the care of the high-end resort, Cape Weligama, there were just about a dozen of us on the catamaran. Also, our guides were better trained. They never chased the whales, or tried to get too close, and they turned off the motors when a whale surfaced. Yet there can be no doubt that all of us on the catamaran were as guilty as the hundreds in other boats. We were patrons of a harmful industry. We did disturb and disorient the giants. Academics believe that the rise of the Sri Lankan whale-watching industry has forced the mammals to shorten the time they spend on the surface, resulting in a reduced inhalation of air. Also, the whales have begun to change their routes, resulting in collisions with big ocean liners.

So what must conscientious travellers do? Should they deny themselves the extraordinary experience of watching whales so close to their home? Should it be the privilege of the wealthy alone who can go to the West for a more ethical form of whale watching? And who knows, if we ever consult the whales, they may say those European tour operators are as disruptive as the Sri Lankans. Should we not watch whales from a boat at all? How much conscience must a traveller really possess?

Some boats chased the whales until they refused to surface. Some boats chased the whales until they refused to surface.



It would be simple if the humane fellowship can get the activity banned altogether. Righteousness achieves its ends best when it operates with the force of fundamentalism. But few organisations have the clout to ban popular commercial activities, and those that do are more practical than righteous.

So, it’s unlikely that whale safaris will be banned in the near future. The conscientious, therefore, could consider boycotting the activity, but that would only do more harm to the whales, because if an industry is going to function without the support of the informed and the ethical, then it is at risk of becoming more callous. The whale tourism industry of Sri Lanka might be opportunistic, but it is also under immense pressure to follow correct procedures because of a section of responsible tourists who make such demands. Also, the entertainment of wildlife tourism, however flawed, is the most powerful way to recruit new generations into caring for nature. When children see whales at such close quarters, they become lovers of the beasts for life, and it is then easier to impart what is not as much fun—how to save the whales from humans.

Sri Lanka itself is disputed territory for the conscientious traveller. After the extermination of the Tamil rebels in 2009, as the details of the brutal military action in Jaffna against civilians and rebels alike came to light, the Sri Lankan government, under Mahinda Rajapaksa, faced the condemnation of the global cultural elite. Writers, including Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk, who were to attend the Galle Literary Festival, found excuses not to.

If you are morally outraged about something, get closer to it. If you are morally outraged about something, get closer to it.



I had seen a documentary that showed how Rajapaksa had ended the civil war in his country. The film contained graphic images that the Tamils had captured on their phones in their final moments. They were massacred, and there was evidence that many faced much worse than massacre. I was raised in Chennai and Sri Lankan Tamils were a part of my childhood. I knew exactly what they were saying when they were begging the soldiers to spare them, and their children. I could not visit Sri Lanka after that.

I was surprised by my decision because I’ve always considered self-righteousness a disease that writers must never contract. It converts a complex person into a simpleton who’d pass facile judgments on a community in whose welfare he or she has no stake. In any case, Rajapaksa was unaffected by all the criticism. In fact, he became very popular in his small kingdom, and when he eventually fell, it was despite his violent triumph in the civil war.

In time, the world forgot its anger. And when the government changed, people found an excuse to visit the nation again. Including me. I have come to feel that if we are disturbed by the government of a beautiful region, or an activity there, we do a great service to justice by visiting, rather than boycotting, it. Having a sustained connection to a region, and continuing to help it thrive, is an emotional stake that is more valuable than a self-righteous boycott. Maybe it’s a good idea for the conscientious traveller to acquire such a habit—if you are morally outraged about something, get closer to it.