The China Bay Club of Trincomalee can trace its origins back to 1882, when the British Navy bought the former home of a wealthy Dutch trader and turned it into a club for officers. The China Bay Club adhered to the protocols of the countless other clubs across Britain’s vast empire: white-coated, dark-skinned servants waited on black-jacketed, white-skinned men of privilege who sipped gin and planned the course of history. The club, which was named for the crescent of water out its breezy windows, remained much the same up until the 1920s, when it opened up to a wider clientele, including civilians, wives, and the occasional mistress. By World War II, it became the center of the social scene in eastern Ceylon, peopled by international journalists, spies, and RAF pilots on leave from the nearby air base. After the war, and Ceylon’s independence, locals were finally allowed entry and over the years the club has evolved into a thriving, diverse social scene, retaining its imperial charms but with more of an egalitarian buzz.

A flock of giant fruit bats flapped silently overhead as Tusker and Ian walked across the lawn. It was a warm night, with a sea breeze that coated everything in a salty sheen. Tusker wore a black linen shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of khaki trousers. He’d left his red Mount Gay cap behind for once, a sure sign he was dressing up. It was only the second time he’d worn long pants in Sri Lanka, but though the club had relaxed its jacket and tie policy, shorts were still frowned upon. Ian wore a pair of lime green pants and a dark blue polo shirt.

They were greeted warmly by a beautiful Southeast Asian woman at the reception, who asked if they had a reservation for dinner. “No, we’ll just sit in the bar if that’s OK, love,” Ian said with his gap toothed grin. “By the way, do I detect a Vietnamese accent?” The woman blushed and nodded, gesturing to the room to her left and the two men passed into the bar side of the club.

The bar ran the length of the room, and sunburned European tourists, well-heeled locals, handsome businessmen in blazers and long-legged women in short cocktail dresses were all bellied up to it. It was warm inside and Tusker pushed through to the wide verandah out back. A very drunk man and his date were just getting up from a table and Tusker swooped in to claim it, sliding the collection of tonic water bottles and a heaped ashtray to one side.

A Sri Lankan waiter appeared immediately. He wore a stiffly starched white shirt with a black bowtie. Some things at the China Bay Club hadn’t changed.