“On paper Sri Lanka has two airports”: Mattala Rajapaska International, the airport without planes

Another busy day at Mattala Rajapaska International Airport. Image: Anuradha Dullewe Wijeyeratne.

If a plane flies into an empty airport, does it make a sound?

On paper Sri Lanka has two international airports. One, Bandaranaike, is long-established, and sits conveniently about 20 miles outside the capital city of Colombo. According to the Civil Aviation Authority of Sri Lanka, it saw over 55,000 air craft movements in 2014, with those planes shipping nearly 200,000 tonnes of air freight and the best part of 8m passengers.

This makes it rather busy for a single runway airport. So, around a decade ago, the government of president Mahinda Rajapaska (2005-15) authorised the building of a second international airport to relieve the pressure on Bandaranaike.

Ballyhooed as a greenfield project, and an opportunity to demonstrate the expertise of homegrown Sri Lankan engineers, the second airport was built to strict international standards, under advice from the International Civil Aviation Organisation. It cost $200m to build, and is currently costing the government 2.5bn Sri Lankan rupees a year in debt payments to its Chinese creditors. It’s compatible with the world’s largest passenger aircraft, and has a projected capacity of 5m travellers a year.

There’s only one problem: almost literally nobody is using it.

A right royal mess

Located near the proposed Hambotota Sport City, earmarked as the site for Sri Lanka’s bid for the 2018 Commonwealth Games, the project was seen as a catalyst for the economic regeneration of a poor agricultural area, principally known to Sri Lankans as the birthplace of the warrior king Dutugemunu (161BC-137BC), a sort of Sinhalese Henry V.

The existing Bandaranaike airport was named in honour of the political dynasty of same name. SWRD Bandaranaike, founder of the Sri Lanka Freedom Party and Prime Minister from 1956-59, died in office, assassinated by a Buddhist monk. A year later, his widow followed him into that office winning election by a landslide, and in the process becoming the world’s first female Prime Minister. Their daughter Chandrika would be elected President in 1994; their son Anura has variously been a minister, speaker of the parliament and leader of the opposition.


Perhaps inspired by this tradition, Rajapaska’s government decided to name the new airport after another influential Sri Lankan political family: his own.

That probably made some sort of sense in the abstract: Hambotota is the President’s home district. Earlier plans, vetoed on environmental grounds, had been for the military airport at Weerawila to be converted into an international hub (Weerawila being not merely in Hambotota, but the President’s actual birthplace). That airport would have kept a variation on its old name. But with a new location selected, Mattala Rajapaska International Airport (MRIA) came into being.

Unfortunately, the 2018 Commonwealth Games were awarded to the Australian Gold Coast instead. And while the airport was completed, much of it impressively ahead of schedule, estimations of its attraction to international visitors proved wildly optimistic.

Planned rail updates were delayed, and then never happened. MRIA is, as the crow flies, closer to a lot of Sri Lanka’s tourist spots than Bandaranaike – but the lack of transport links makes it an improbable destination for international holidaymakers.

The airport opened in March 2013, a grand occasion in which the President himself was a passenger on the official flight into the airport that bore his family name. Less than two months later, Air Arabia, one of the few international operators to sign up for the airport in advance, quit flying into it.

An Airbus A330-200 on the runway, back when the still showed up once in a while. Image: Sakith GW/Wikimedia Commons.

In 2014 the airport saw 69 tonnes of freight, and just under 21,000 passengers, which between them needed less than 3,000 planes. (And yes, those numbers are definitely right.) These figures suggest it wasn’t relieving the pressure on Bandaranaike at all.

Its figures have likely dropped further in the year or so since. Shortly after President Rajapaska lost his bid for re-election in January 2015 (losing narrowly to the former communist Maithripala Sirisena), the national flag carrier, SriLankan Airlines, abandoned Rajapaska International.

At present, Fly Dubai puts a single plane into MRIA every day – but that service also stops at Bandaranaike, whichever direction it’s going in. Rotana, the Abu Dhabu airline, also puts an aircraft into the airport once a week. It too stops at Colombo on the way there. And back.

This is shame. Anecdotally, people seem to agree that Rajapaska is, in many ways, a superb airport; well designed, attractive and user friendly. It just happens to be somewhere virtually no one wants to go. Or needs to be while on their way to anywhere else.


The white elephants on the runway

It’s not difficult to get the chattering classes to talk about MRIA. Everyone has a (probably apocryphal) story or a joke, even the former President’s natural supporters. There are endless anecdotes about friends who sat in planes on MRIA’s tarmac for hours as their flight made a box-ticking stopover, during which no one boarded or disembarked (those are almost certainly true); others tell of abandoned planes falling to pieces in the dark (those are probably untrue).

Other hangers, some say, are rented out on the cheap as large stores for agricultural material (quite possibly true). And the place itself is shortly to be closed down or knocked down or turned into a flying school (no idea). The dangers posed to the airport’s small air traffic by migrating birds are discussed (there have been notable bird strikes there). And there are anecdotes about elephants wandering, at the most inopportune moments, across the airport’s runway, because it was inadvertently constructed across a path used by generations of very traditionally-minded pachyderms (pass).

Some people are willing to give the former president the benefit of the doubt, seeing the airport as an attempt to give something back to the poor area where he was raised, an honest endeavour derailed by circumstance, or an attempt to have a concrete legacy unconnected to the country’s long and terrible civil war. Others don’t hesitate to call it a vanity project, misconceived from the start and consistently mal-administered to boot.

Kiri Muhuda, the lake at Kandy. Image: author provided.

MRIA has a long way to go before it becomes as celebrated a white elephant as Kiri Muhuda, a nineteenth century inland lake. The creation of that, involving as it did extortionate cost and huge loss of life, led more or less directly to the deposition of King Sri Wickrama Rajasinghe and the local aristocracy offering the sovereignty of Kandy province to the British, on the grounds that absolutely anyone else at all would probably be nicer. Two hundred years on, Kiri Muhuda is a beloved symbol of Kandy and a tourist attraction – despite the probability that the remains of hundreds of that king’s enemies reside on the lake bed, thanks to his habit of having them impaled on spikes in the basin during its construction.

There may be some future for Rajapasaka airport. Cinnamon Air are reportedly to start using it as a maintenance hub for domestic stopping flights between the Hambotota and the capital. Such domestic uses, though, will not be enough to secure the long term prosperity of a large scale international airport.

Somewhere in the government of Sri Lanka, as I am certainly not the first person to suggest, there has to be an official sat pondering: just how do you solve a problem like MRIA?

 
 
 
 

What’s behind the rise of the ornamental restaurant toilet?

Toilets at Sketch restaurant, London. Image: Nik Stanbridge/Flickr.

A few weeks ago, I found myself in the toilets of a zeitgeisty new Italian restaurant in east London called Gloria. As with so many contemporary restaurant toilets, those in question were an aesthetic extension of the establishment’s soul. The inventive menu was matched by two-way mirrored toilet doors.

The setup was this: cubicle occupants could see out while the unisex crowd milling around the taps could check their outfits on the exterior mirrors. All fun and games, I thought. But then I found myself mid toilet with a guy peering into my door to change his contact lens. Either he had spectacularly bad manners or he was unaware of the two-way door thing. (Let’s hope it’s the latter.)

Gloria’s toilets aren’t unique in their attempt to be distinctive. The loos at nearby Mr Fogg’s Maritime Club & Distillery are adorned with specimen boards of dead spiders. Meanwhile, Edinburgh’s The Sun Inn invites patrons to pee in buckets, and trumpets double as urinals in The Bell Inn in East Sussex. Men can wee into the vista if they’re dining in the Shard. And Sketch’s ovum shaped loos are the stuff of urban legend.

Further afield, transparent doors become frosted only after they’re locked at Brussels’ Belga Queen. In Otto’s Bierhalle in Toronto, diners can press a button to activate their own private rave. And the toilets in Robot Restaurant in Tokyo have gold-plated interiors and dancing robots.

What’s behind this trend? Are quirky toilets just a bit of fun – or an unnecessary complication to the simple act of going for a wee and checking you don’t have tomato sauce on your chin?

Yotam Ottolenghi’s London flagship restaurant Nopi crops up often in conversations about restaurant bathrooms. A hall of mirrors glitters enticingly ahead of loo-bound diners. “The bathroom needs to be the nicest part [of] the whole place because that’s where you’re on your own,” says Alex Meitlis, the designer behind the space.

But no one is truly alone in 2019. If surveys are to be believed, nearly 65 per cent of millennials take their phone to the bathroom with them. Mike Gibson, who edits the London food and drink magazine Foodism agrees that the bathroom selfie – searches for which, incidentally, yield over 1.5m results on Instagram – is part of the reason that contemporary lavatory design is so attention seeking.


“Any new venue that's opening will be super aware that there's probably not an inch of their restaurant that won't be photographed or filmed at some point”, he says. But bathrooms like Nopi’s predate this trend. Indeed, Meitlis believes he has created a haven from the smartphone obsession; Nopi’s mirrors are angled in such a way that means you have to seek out your reflection. “You can choose whether to look for yourself in the mirror or not.”

Another driving force is the increasingly competitive restaurant landscape. “It’s almost like there’s some sort of ever-escalating competition going on amongst new openings, which makes every visit a faintly terrifying experience”, says food writer and New Statesman contributor Felicity Cloake. Gibson agrees. “Restaurants want an edge wherever possible, and design definitely comes into that.”

So novelty bathrooms get you noticed, promote social media engagement and entertain diners who are momentarily without the distraction of company. (Although, it must be said, quirky bathrooms tend to make the loo trip a more sociable experience; a Gloria spokesperson described the restaurant’s toilets as somewhere you can “have a good laugh and meet people along the way.”)

Nevertheless, I’m not the only one who finds bathroom surprises disconcerting.  One TripAdvisor user thought the Belga Queen loos were “scary”. And a friend reports that her wonderment at the Nopi bathroom was laced with mirror maze induced nausea – and mild panic when she realised she didn’t know the way out. Should restaurants save the thrills for the food?

“I think it's important not to be too snarky about these things – restaurants are meant to playful,” says Gibson. Cloake agrees that novelty is fine, but adds: “my favourite are places like Zelman Meats in Soho that have somewhere in the dining room where you can easily wash your hands before sitting down and tucking in.”

So perhaps we should leave toilets unadorned and instead ramp up the ornamentation elsewhere. Until then, I’ll be erecting a makeshift curtain in all mirrored toilets I encounter in future. An extreme reaction, you might say. But, as I wish I could have told the rogue contact lens inserter, it’s not nice to pry into someone else’s business.