Hiking to Heaven

What kind of place is this that we have landed on? The terrain of Sri Lanka is incredible, everything from white sand beaches to red wood forested mountains. A train ride through the hill country is all you need to take your breath away. The old rickety trains ride along the edge of the mountains, giving a breathtaking view of the valleys below. The mountains surrounding the valley stretche so high they pierce the clouds and cause sunlight to spill onto the small colorful villages below. The hillsides are decorated with bright green tea bushes. Redwood and palm trees grow alongside each other and whiz by the train window. Every now and then we pass a sparkling waterfall, or plunge into a stone tunnel carved into the mountain that is dripping with dew and moss. Any minute now I feel the train will pull up to Sleeping Beauty's castle.

Instead we land in Dalhousie, home of Adam's Peak, or more poetically, The Temple in the Sky. Stretching over 7,300 feet into the sky, the temple holds the magical footprint of Buddha, causing pilgrims from age 2 to 92 to clutch with white knuckles the rickety steel railings and to acscend the crumbling stairs to pay their homage. Tradition has hikers waking at the wee hours of 1 and 2 am to hike to the summit to witness the sun rise. I had no desire to be a rebel, so I dragged myself out of bed at 1:30 am and began the climb. The path was well lite, which allowed me to distract the male hikers who don't seem to find any moral dilemma in hitting on women on their way to church. Vendors sold crackers and tea along the root, and Buddhist monks stopped to give me a blessing (for a small donation). I reached the top at 5 am, and huddled and shivered with the crowd as we waited for the fashionably late sun to rise. There is no words nor photographs that can do that sunrise justice, it would be like trying to put the splendor of heaven in ink or describing the way chocolate tastes. It can only be experienced by the individual to grasp the magnitude. However, since I pretend to be a better writer than I am, I will make an attempted.

The sun, always going at it's own lazy pace, peaked it's sleepy head over the skyline, and spilled over the mountains like melted butter. The earth below appeared to light up from underneath. The lakes rippled as if from a buried heartbeat and the pulsations caused the water to dance and sparkle. The hills on the opposite side of the sun's face were covered in a blue haze that slowly evaporated with the morning heat. Low hanging clouds slither through between the layers of mountains with irritated movements, as they are not ready to wake up and face the day. The monks are chanting in a tune that is slow and deep and matches the movement of the sun. And then, it a quick jerk movement, the sun pops to full view and the rise is over. The monks are silenced and the sojourners immediately begin their descent. And I continue to be overwhelmed at the incredible and extraordinary beauty that my two very ordinary eyes have seen.

Riding the Lunatic Express

We left the southern coast to head toward the hill country via Sri Lanka's extensive and convenient railway system. The boxcars are old and wooden with heavy steal railings, painted a maroon red with large yellow numbers indicating the class. It gives an old English feel as if I'm riding the express to Hogwarts, and the view can often be just as magical. It can also be extremely terrifying. The trains can take anywhere from 2 1/2 hours to go 20 miles, to 3 hours to cross the entire country. Getting a seat can be a tricky and dangerous animal survival game. Natural selections plays a large role. In order to even have the hope of getting a seat one needs the agility of a cougar and the force of a bulldozer. Tall nimble men throw their suitcases through the window and jump on the train while it is still moving, leaving little chance for the dehydrated American girls with 50 lbs. backpacks. The women and children push so hard I can see reverse evolution in process. The Sri Lankan hospitality has yet to fail me however, and there's usually some small girl or leering older man who squeezes over and offers me a seat for one of my butt cheeks.

On our trip from Galle, I am sharing a bench with a family of six. Jen and Megan somehow were shuffled (or violently shoved) into the next car. The train begins to move, and within a few minutes it's lurching and swaying at an unhealthy speed and in such a way as to give me that same sinking feeling in my stomach that I get when I'm riding in a 16-year-old's jalopy. Watching the boxcar ahead through the doorway swinging like a clock pendulum doesn't make me feel anymore sure about arriving in my destination in one piece. And one point I swear we catch air.
Every thirty seconds, like clockwork, I shuffle my feet out of the aisle to allow one of the million fruit and fried nastiness vendors to pass by. The dad of the family on my bench orders an apple. I watch horrified as the vendor pulls out a machete the size of my arm and quarters the apple an inch from my very soft and mold-able face. One lurch of the train and there goes my nose.

The bus rides certainly don't improve the odds of death by public transportation. One ride along the coast resulted in our bus driver receiving a speeding ticket. This was somewhat of a relief and concern at the same time. On the one hour ride through the hill cities to see a local waterfall, the bus was so full we were forced to stand in the open doorway. The bus flew at an angelic speed, hugging the cliff side of the mountain, while a thousand foot drop on the other side of the road was guarded by a railing of caution tape attached to sticks driven into the mud. My knuckles were white as I clung to the railing, and at every road sign with a large black "Z" on it I would feel increasingly more nauseous. More twists and turns ahead. The bus leans over so far I could lick the dirt pavement. The bus, like every bus on the island, is complete with an early 90's one-hit-wonder CD that always includes Fur Elise and a peppy version "Happy Birthday." Don't ask me why, except Happy Birthday does happen to have a catchy beat. No bus is complete without their golden, brightly colored paintings of Buddha tacked to the ceiling near the review mirror. Flip a switch and the disco lights begin to flash around the frame. The pictures are adorned with flower leis and incense. I'm not sure if that is an act of worship, or there to conveniently turn the bus into a mass coffin if we roll over the side of the cliff. The bus toots it's horn at a constant rhythm around each corner to warn any oncoming motorists, cars, pedestrians, and natural wildlife within a ten mile radius that we are coming at a speed that cannot be easily altered.



Often times, inside the bus is just as chaotic as outside. The possibility of encountering drunk men, vomiting children, or Buddhist monks is probable, as we've encountered all such circumstances. Women have also fallen asleep on my chest while the shawl of their Saree flaps in my face and their children backpacks are piled in my lap.

Therefore, as a general rule, we avoid the buses whenever possible, once almost opting for a four hour wait instead of a one hour bus ride. But at times we have not other choice. If it's not too crowded we snag a seat at the back.
The bus turns on.
Ricky Martin begins playing.
The driver flips on the switch and the Buddhas begin flashing.
Megan: "Oh...now we're on."
Jen: "I'm about to bust a move"
Me: "Only if they play 'Happy Birthday'."

The Enchanted Island

Place: Sri Lanka's Southern Coast


Ah, Sri Lanka, where the tea flows like wine and three men are making a wedding cake in my hotel lobby. Even the dogs and cats live in harmony here. This island really is enchanted. My prediction is that in a year or two, when the dust of their 30 year civil war has finally settled (it ended just a year ago), and providing there are no additional natural disasters, this place will have replaced Hawaii. I say a silent prayer for beating the crowds.

I am on the beautiful southern coast in a Dutch colony called Galle. The city is surrounded by a stone fort that is in remarkably good condition for being so old. The stone is dripping with black moss that creates a mystical feeling. Our hotel is more like a colonial mansion, with tile floors, wooden railings, and balconies shaded by tall trees. We spent a day hunting down the cheap seamstress shops to enjoy a little retail therapy in the beach town of Hikaduwa. Shopping was a success, I walked away with three hand made shirts for under $20. Jen and Megan scored Arabian pants and two dresses. On the train ride back we were all the rage with the school children just released from class. They surrounded us at the train station repeating the English phrases they learned in school and giggling when we responded. On the train they pushed ahead of the crowd to save us seats, then about 20 of them squeezed onto the bench across from us to stare and whisper.
Now, I am just speculating, I know nothing about the Sri Lanka government or their education system, but based on my observations, they seem to be excelling. The children are polite and speak more English than I would have expected. And they somehow are able to keep their uniforms bleach white. That only is a task worth toasting.



After Hikaduwa, we took the bus in the opposite direction to Koggala. One of the must-sees of southern Sri Lanka is the art of stilt fishing that is practiced there. Men drive large branches into the ocean and attach a horizontal stick, on which they perch to have a better advantage of catching the small anchovy type fish that live close to shore. It was amazing to see. The whole coastline scattered with sticks and resting fisherman. One old fisherman was friendly enough to teach us how the sport was done, and, eager to try, he helped me up on a perch and handed me his pole. After a few minutes he realized I was never going to catch anything, so to make me feel better he reached into the water and pulled out a fish with his bare hands and attached it to the end of my pole. I'm not sure how much better that made me feel, but it's the thought that counts.




The Sri Lankans in general are very friendly people. Too friendly sometimes. The men are as leery and talkative as the ones in Central America, but come off more inquisitive than aggressive. I'm not as familiar with the cultural faux pas here as I am in central America, so we have yet been able to determine whether the men are undressing us with their eyes, or seeing dollar signs in ours. Or just being friendly and want to practice their English. Or maybe a combination of all. The taxi driver who showed up in our hotel lobby asking to visit us at 9:30 PM did not increase my faith in the natural goodness of mankind. Don't worry Dad, we told the manager we were sleeping and shut and locked the door. Either way, I have yet to feel physically unsafe, and have long since stopped worrying about my belongings being stolen, let alone being attacked. Jen has a knife just in case. Except that it's too heavy to carry so we normally leave it in the hotel room. Again, it's the thought that counts.

"Your Friend Rajah is Missing"

Place: Negombo, Sri Lanka
His name was Rajah. He had extremely dark skin and a bright yellow smile with a chipped front tooth. He worked for the hotel we stayed at in Negombo and was borderline shady. He also seemed to be some kind of Pentecostal pastor in training, based on the loud prayer meetings that went on in the hotel lobby. Rajah greeted us all smiles at 2 am when we checked into our hotel.
"Were you from?" "Your first time in Sri Lanka?" "How you like Sri Lanka?" he asked. Little did we know at that point how many times we would be asked those same three questions. We debated making t-shirts with the answers on the back.
As he led us up the stairs to his room he turned and fingered for us to come closer. "I give you room with air conditioning...no charge" He winked, then burst out laughing. We hi-fived each other for our first Sri Lankan hook-up.
We slept until noon the next day. When I went down to get toilet paper, Rajah handed me the roll, then shoved a cup of overly sweetened tea in my left hand and managed to cram a mandarin orange into the crook of my arm.
"How you like the air conditioning?" I gave him the thumbs up and a double wink. He laughed out loud.
Later, while we were walking on the beach, we ran into some barefoot children playing near a low income neighborhood. They were so cute we could not resist a picture. Within a few minutes, some ladies came out of the tin-roofed homes. Before we could explain why three white girls were taking pictures of their children, they had whisked us into plastic chairs on their dirt floors and chopped off the top of three coconuts and handed them to us with a straw. Their English was rudimentary, but they tried and their questions seemed genuine. Other than the man standing behind them silently modeling a greasy broken chain he assumed we would be interested in buying, there wasn't a scam in sight. One of the ladies, Chamila, who had the best English (and nicest home) invited us over for dinner the next night. Since the only man in her house was her 13 year old son and 6 month old nephew, we agreed and were excited for a home-cooked meal and the chance to converse.



The next day, we asked Rajah at breakfast how to get to the local lagoon we had read about. He agreed to take us there, but we had to meet him at the leather shop in a few minutes. Not knowing why we couldn't just wait and walk with him, we agreed. It wasn't until he made us walk a block ahead of him to catch the bus that we realized he was sneaking out of work to take us. Two buses and a tuk-tuk ride later, he dropped us off at the end of a long dirt road and instructed us that the lagoon was at the end. We walked for an hour in the hot sun before we arrived at a murky green river. We asked the locals in the restaurant where the lagoon was.
"Lagoon? The lagoon is in Negombo." Grrr. "But some people call that the lagoon," he pointed at the slimy river. "It is like lagoon...only differed." Hmmm. The same, but different. I've traveled enough to have heard that expression before. We chalked up our losses by crashing on the cushy beach chairs in a 5-star resort down the road and past the rest of the afternoon reading and sun bathing.
"Your friend Rajah is missing," said the cranky housekeeper when we arrived back at the hotel in Negombo. She swept the steps, angrily pushing the dirt towards us. Apparently she was on to Rajah's moonlighting job of escorting tourist out and about town while on the clock. Smiling and shrugging we escaped to the room before laughing hysterically about this new shady "friend" we had acquired.



Dinner at Chamila's was much more pleasant and renewed our faith in Sri Lankan hospitality. Our appearance at dinner was apparently the talk of the town, as a few blocks from her house random shop owners, taxi drivers, and pedestrians began pointing the way to her house without us even asking directions.
She made the most incredible meal we have yet to eat on this island. Pineapple salsa, string hoppers, fish curry, rice, fruit, and juice. Despite the translation barrier, we were able to show her pictures of our homes and families, listen to Sri Lankan music, fight over who got to hold her nephew next, and try on her traditional Indian Sari's. We left after two hours promising we would come say goodbye before we flew out three weeks later.
We left early the next morning, and never said goodbye to Rajah.

The Singapore Stopover

The beginning of this journey began in Singapore for a one-day stopover. We had heard the tales that the Singapore airport was the top-rated airport in the world for layovers, with showers, free internet, city tours, butterfly gardens, fairy godmothers, and other types of magic. We would not settle for anything less than a 20 hour layover.
The airport was just as enchanted as we had imagined, with free internet, free foot massage machine (where we parked for several hours), and we took advantage of the city tour. Singapore is a funny place. Like the Winchester Mansion, it seems to just keep building and building for no particular reason. Singapore is a small country, pretty much a city state which consists mostly of it's downtown area, which is growing up as well as out. The buildings are so tall, I was wishing the airport had a free neck massage machine as well to undo the effects of all the gawking.
The city is also meticulously clean, trash isn't even allowed in trash cans (or at least that's what I was guessing as there were no trash cans anywhere). The atmosphere smells of a slight desperation to increase it's tourism, and as a result they have everything that any kind of traveler could ever want. Chinese food, Starbucks, tailors, amusement parks, a dolphin lagoon, casino, a "Merlion" statue.
Singapore didn't appear to have much culture of it's own, and instead tried to created one within it's concrete jungle. It even tried to blend it's Christmas decorations to embody multiple cultures, with funky fat Santa Clauses that seemed to be part women, flying seahorse ornaments with mermaid tales and angel wings left little to the imagination. I found it endearing, as well as humorous. Any kind of misbehavior or unsanitary habit resulted in a ticket and a fine. And possibly a public beating. All for the greater good I suppose.