Langka langkah ke Lanka - A rare step to Sri Lanka
In two days time I will be setting off to Sri Lanka for a month. And two days have passed and I’m sitting on a balcony in Kandy . Wondering what happened to the last two years. Strangely Covid seem to have passed me by; serious illness and death was always at a distance. In some ways I could almost understand the conspiracy theory if it hadn’t been for the pictures of overcrowded hospitals and the ever rising lines on the graphs of infection and deaths. Sadly sickness and death has touched some of those around me, friends and friends of friends, though none of them were caused by coronavirus. As time went on the need to get away and out of the country grew stronger and stronger. There were the three days in Berlin which were wonderful but not enough. I decided to visit Berlin then the restrictions in Germany grow stronger, I would like to have gone to America to see Madison or to Indonesia but travel to both of those countries was difficult. Finally I booked a flight to see Brooke in Sri Lanka and edit was the easiest country to enter if you are fully vaccinated and there are no problems in getting a tourist visa online. No sooner had I booked my flight then Brooke had to move to Bangladesh and Covid restrictions began to be relaxed around the world. I have I am and I have no reason to regret my decision except that the trip would’ve been even pleasanter if I was meeting some old friends here.
Colombo seems like any other modern Asian city but not as crowded and bustling as most. Although my hotel was in the business culture and the glimpses I got of downtown seemed more typical. I spent two days in Columbo before taking the train here and in that time I climbed the clock tower that had been built by the British during the colonial times and visited the splendid National Museum. At least the building is splendid but I was slightly disappointed by the collection. True there are some amazing sculptures and artefacts but for a country with such an extraordinary culture and extraordinary past I thought there might be more. I suspect that the real glory of Sri Lankan past will be found in the many archeological sites rather than in a museum.
The train to Kandy rattled and rolled its way inland passing the corrugated iron roofed shacks of the poor living on the city’s fringes then fields with a few grazing buffalo, banana trees and coconut palms; I could have imagined myself in Indonesia except for the occasional chalk white stupa and huge golden statue of the Buddha. I was sitting in a crowded second class compartment and could see only glimpses out of the window but later as the train climbed up into the hills I went and stood by the open door of the carriage and gazed out at the steep jungle covered peaks and down into valleys where far below rivers and roads snaked their way past tiny farms. I was met on my arrival by a friend of Brookes, called Anoop, who had arranged a place for me to stay. And that’s where I am now sitting on the balcony looking down at the busy road below while Mynabirds flutter around and sometimes land with an awkward clatter on the roof above my head.
Colombo seems like any other modern Asian city but not as crowded and bustling as most. Although my hotel was in the business culture and the glimpses I got of downtown seemed more typical. I spent two days in Columbo before taking the train here and in that time I climbed the clock tower that had been built by the British during the colonial times and visited the splendid National Museum. At least the building is splendid but I was slightly disappointed by the collection. True there are some amazing sculptures and artefacts but for a country with such an extraordinary culture and extraordinary past I thought there might be more. I suspect that the real glory of Sri Lankan past will be found in the many archeological sites rather than in a museum.
The train to Kandy rattled and rolled its way inland passing the corrugated iron roofed shacks of the poor living on the city’s fringes then fields with a few grazing buffalo, banana trees and coconut palms; I could have imagined myself in Indonesia except for the occasional chalk white stupa and huge golden statue of the Buddha. I was sitting in a crowded second class compartment and could see only glimpses out of the window but later as the train climbed up into the hills I went and stood by the open door of the carriage and gazed out at the steep jungle covered peaks and down into valleys where far below rivers and roads snaked their way past tiny farms. I was met on my arrival by a friend of Brookes, called Anoop, who had arranged a place for me to stay. And that’s where I am now sitting on the balcony looking down at the busy road below while Mynabirds flutter around and sometimes land with an awkward clatter on the roof above my head.
Friday Night
Power cut in Kandy
When the lights go out what can you do?
No use in wasting the batteries in your torch
Or the little oil left in the lamp.
Best just to sit it out
Open a tin of beer and light a cigarette.
I know where those are.
On the table just outside the door.
I can sit and watch the lights of cars
And little tuktuks passing by below.
In the city they keep the power on
But I am just outside the limits.
I can see a line of street lamps
And house lights, that divides my world.
Like that black shadow running north and south
That divides the world into night and day
So here I sit, Beer in hand,
Slightly jealous of those who still have light
And patiently waiting until my turn comes
As I know it will
Either when the power is restored again
or the Sun rises in the morning
When the lights go out what can you do?
No use in wasting the batteries in your torch
Or the little oil left in the lamp.
Best just to sit it out
Open a tin of beer and light a cigarette.
I know where those are.
On the table just outside the door.
I can sit and watch the lights of cars
And little tuktuks passing by below.
In the city they keep the power on
But I am just outside the limits.
I can see a line of street lamps
And house lights, that divides my world.
Like that black shadow running north and south
That divides the world into night and day
So here I sit, Beer in hand,
Slightly jealous of those who still have light
And patiently waiting until my turn comes
As I know it will
Either when the power is restored again
or the Sun rises in the morning
Tomorrow morning I will be leaving Kandy. I am heading to the archaeological sites to the north and leaving my big backpack here for a week. I have already been one week in Sri Lanka and it seems as though I have only just arrived. While I’ve been staying in Kandy I have visited the temple of the tooth, walked in the forest reserve, visited a huge statue of Buddha, walked around the lake and visited the botanic Gardens. Of all these things I have in most impressed by the botanical Gardens, which must be some of the best in the world. They do not have the huge glass houses that you meet in Kew Gardens the grounds are filled with tropical trees and flowers. Here they have no need for glasshouses. As well as the flowers and trees on the grounds of the botanical Gardens and one of the best places to see birds, as well as the 24,000 flying foxes.
There are power cuts twice a day now and the situation does not seem to be getting better. First the island was hit with Covid and disappearance of tourists and now the situation in Ukraine is making things even more difficult.
I’m trying to write this blog now using my iPad and voice recognition but it’s really difficult and fiddly. The editing tools are very awkward to use and typing without a keyboard is even worse. But on the whole I’m glad I’m not carrying a laptop around with me.
Sigiriya
Today I climbed Sigiriya Rock. I can’t remember how high it is or how many steps there were, but there were a lot of steps; the steepest parts using an iron staircase and the rest steps cut into the rock. View from the top was hazy but nonetheless spectacular. But most amazing were the ruins themselves. There is no point in giving you the history which can be easily found online these days but what interested me was the mystery of the place. We are told that it was a royal palace and home for the king and his many wives in courtesans and also that it may have been a monastic retreat, but neither of these are really satisfying answers. It seems an awkward place to have built a palace or a pleasure garden; messengers, envoys, ministers and all the officers of state would have been coming and going all the time. As with the idea of pleasure garden, a kind of weekend retreat for King, it is just on too grand a scale when you take into consideration all the ruins and extensive gardens around the base.
As for the idea of it being a monastic retreat there are no obvious religious ruins. No signs of a stupa or temple on top. Although the place did remind me of some kind of iconographic map. Perhaps a representation of Meru, with Nirvana on top, as is represented in Borobudor. I was also reminded of Alamat, The Eagles nest and home of the Old Man of the Mountains. I have never been there and know it only from stories, but that too, in the stories anyway, was a kind of artificial paradise perched on a rock. I wondered if the place was a vast religious metaphor designed to strengthen, reinforce and reward loyalty to King and Religion. The only surviving decorative features are the beautiful frescoes reached by climbing a vertiginous spiral staircase and descending by another. The paintings are mainly of pairs of women, one scattering flowers from a tray offered by a blue skinned other. Some people think these are the wives of the King while others think they are female spirits, Asparas, scattering flowers to mark the path of right living. That makes more sense to me and fits in with the idea of religious metaphor.
Even though I set off in the morning and started climbing before 730 I was still absolutely drenched in sweat by the time I reached the top. After coming down I found a flat rock in the woods and slept for an hour before going on to explore the gardens. Sigiriya is a very expensive place to visit by Sri Lanka standards and some people prefer just to look across from the viewpoint in a neighbouring rock but they are missing something very special and extraordinary.
Pollonaruwa
Polonnaruwa was an easy bus ride from Sigiriya and and only a small town, so easy to find one’s way around.
I had booked into a place called My Home within walking distance of the bus station and yet I had trouble finding it. Finally using GPS I found it at the end of a short dirt track. The house looked as if it was in the process of being built with bricks and bags of cement lying about. The only person around was a very old lady who spoke no English but when I asked her where the guest house was she replied, this My Home. I realised then what as stupid name for a guest house it was. Name designed to cause chaos and confusion. Like calling a dog Help or Free Beer. If it really was her home and I simply put down my bag and slumped into one of the chairs the who knows what would happen: screams and dozens of people rushing to her rescue perhaps. So I stood and considered my next move and as I did so I noticed a sign leaning against the wall, My Home. Around the corner was a row of three rooms looking as new and enticing as the had on the booking web page. When I unpacked I found I had left my headtorch behind and because of the power cuts I was reluctant to go out that night without a torch; nor for fear of being mugged but getting lost or falling into one of the gaps in the storm drains. Though I have to say that the storm drain covers were in far better condition than most other Asian countries I’ve travelled in. So that night I went without dinner.
Despite being part building site the guest house was fine, the room clean, good Wi-Fi and a good breakfast with lots of fresh fruit, including my first guava. But best of all the owner was very helpful and gave me a lift to the ticket office for the archeological park. It was not well sign posted and I could have easily passed it by. I thought about hiring a bike outside the park entrance but I am not confident on bicycles and felt I would be sure to fall off so thought I would walk. But once inside the park I found it was so huge that I gave in and hired a bike. They called it a bicycle but in fact it was some kink of instrument of torture. No gears, no brakes- just the squeal of metal on metal - and a chain that came off when I went over any large bump in the earth track. Nevertheless it got me around and the beauty of the ruins and quiet of the surrounding forest quite overcame the horrific bike ride. I feel there is little point in talking about the history and architecture of the places I am visiting as you can easily find that elsewhere if you are interested and in much greater depth than I could manage. In all I spent seven hours cycling and walking around the site and could easily have spent longer if the heat had not drained away all my remaining energy. The only spectacular site was three huge stone Buddhas carved into the rock, one sitting, one standing and one lying down. The rest were green mossy stupas, the massive walls which remained of an image hall and tranquil water tanks once used for ritual bathing by and as water supply in the dry season. Water management is one of the greatest achievements of these ancient cities.
For much of the time I was on my own or among Sinhalese visitors though as time went on a few hired cars and coach parties of Europeans arrived. Though not as many as at the Dambula Cave Temple I was to visit the next day.
Overheard at Sigiriya. ‘Did you see the Blue Peter programme about Ceylon?’
Overheard at Polonnaruwa. I was sitting drinking fresh orange juice in a roadside stall when a big car drew up and and an elderly English couple and their driver got out. They sat down on the grubby plastic chairs opposite me and drank coconut milk from the coconut with straws. The woman said to the Driver:
This is what we came here for. We would never do this sort of thing at home.
Somehow that struck me as unbearably poignant. It was such a simple hearted Raymond Briggs unassuming sort of thing to say. I wish now at my age I could find such pleasure in drinking from a coconut and and thinking I would never do this at home.
I had booked into a place called My Home within walking distance of the bus station and yet I had trouble finding it. Finally using GPS I found it at the end of a short dirt track. The house looked as if it was in the process of being built with bricks and bags of cement lying about. The only person around was a very old lady who spoke no English but when I asked her where the guest house was she replied, this My Home. I realised then what as stupid name for a guest house it was. Name designed to cause chaos and confusion. Like calling a dog Help or Free Beer. If it really was her home and I simply put down my bag and slumped into one of the chairs the who knows what would happen: screams and dozens of people rushing to her rescue perhaps. So I stood and considered my next move and as I did so I noticed a sign leaning against the wall, My Home. Around the corner was a row of three rooms looking as new and enticing as the had on the booking web page. When I unpacked I found I had left my headtorch behind and because of the power cuts I was reluctant to go out that night without a torch; nor for fear of being mugged but getting lost or falling into one of the gaps in the storm drains. Though I have to say that the storm drain covers were in far better condition than most other Asian countries I’ve travelled in. So that night I went without dinner.
Despite being part building site the guest house was fine, the room clean, good Wi-Fi and a good breakfast with lots of fresh fruit, including my first guava. But best of all the owner was very helpful and gave me a lift to the ticket office for the archeological park. It was not well sign posted and I could have easily passed it by. I thought about hiring a bike outside the park entrance but I am not confident on bicycles and felt I would be sure to fall off so thought I would walk. But once inside the park I found it was so huge that I gave in and hired a bike. They called it a bicycle but in fact it was some kink of instrument of torture. No gears, no brakes- just the squeal of metal on metal - and a chain that came off when I went over any large bump in the earth track. Nevertheless it got me around and the beauty of the ruins and quiet of the surrounding forest quite overcame the horrific bike ride. I feel there is little point in talking about the history and architecture of the places I am visiting as you can easily find that elsewhere if you are interested and in much greater depth than I could manage. In all I spent seven hours cycling and walking around the site and could easily have spent longer if the heat had not drained away all my remaining energy. The only spectacular site was three huge stone Buddhas carved into the rock, one sitting, one standing and one lying down. The rest were green mossy stupas, the massive walls which remained of an image hall and tranquil water tanks once used for ritual bathing by and as water supply in the dry season. Water management is one of the greatest achievements of these ancient cities.
For much of the time I was on my own or among Sinhalese visitors though as time went on a few hired cars and coach parties of Europeans arrived. Though not as many as at the Dambula Cave Temple I was to visit the next day.
Overheard at Sigiriya. ‘Did you see the Blue Peter programme about Ceylon?’
Overheard at Polonnaruwa. I was sitting drinking fresh orange juice in a roadside stall when a big car drew up and and an elderly English couple and their driver got out. They sat down on the grubby plastic chairs opposite me and drank coconut milk from the coconut with straws. The woman said to the Driver:
This is what we came here for. We would never do this sort of thing at home.
Somehow that struck me as unbearably poignant. It was such a simple hearted Raymond Briggs unassuming sort of thing to say. I wish now at my age I could find such pleasure in drinking from a coconut and and thinking I would never do this at home.
The Bus to Anurhadapura
It was a beautiful five hour bus ride from Pollonaruwa to Anurhadapura past lakes and padi fields lined with papaya trees. Houses with hedges of scarlet and yellow hibiscus. Men and women in the fields harvesting the rice and the grain spread out on mats to be winnowed. In between the talks and fields small green hills like upturned bowls or the green stupas of Pollonaruwa. Colourful shrines to Ganesha signaled that this was largely Tamil country.
Later we travelled through the dense jungle of a Forest Park, where we passed by two wild elephants grazing by the side of the road.
Every so often the bus halted at small towns along the way and hawkers raced alongside the slowing bus to leap on and be the first to sell their wares to the passengers. I bought a bottle of water and a snack made of small balls of fried stuff, possibly dal, and fried chilli. As I was eating a curious thing happened. A young man came on selling what looked like lottery tickets. Something usually reserved for the sick and injured but this young man looked healthier than most of the other hawkers. He gave a long and impassioned speech in Sinhalese and I thought I caught the word ‘vaccine, suddenly he lifted his T-shirt exposing a pair of women’s breasts. He continued for a minute or so longer with his speech and then lowering his T-shirt passed along the bus selling his tickets.
None of the passengers seemed shocked or even surprised and I have no idea what it was all about. I leave it to you to speculate. All I know - and I’m sure the coconut couple from Pollonaruwa would agree - it would never have happened on National Express.
Later we travelled through the dense jungle of a Forest Park, where we passed by two wild elephants grazing by the side of the road.
Every so often the bus halted at small towns along the way and hawkers raced alongside the slowing bus to leap on and be the first to sell their wares to the passengers. I bought a bottle of water and a snack made of small balls of fried stuff, possibly dal, and fried chilli. As I was eating a curious thing happened. A young man came on selling what looked like lottery tickets. Something usually reserved for the sick and injured but this young man looked healthier than most of the other hawkers. He gave a long and impassioned speech in Sinhalese and I thought I caught the word ‘vaccine, suddenly he lifted his T-shirt exposing a pair of women’s breasts. He continued for a minute or so longer with his speech and then lowering his T-shirt passed along the bus selling his tickets.
None of the passengers seemed shocked or even surprised and I have no idea what it was all about. I leave it to you to speculate. All I know - and I’m sure the coconut couple from Pollonaruwa would agree - it would never have happened on National Express.