Sri Lankan diary. Part 4

  In a particularly cold December, the beaches of Sri Lanka have to be the main attraction. Shortly

after we left, both Europe and America fell into a deep freeze making us feel even more grateful to Jaquetta for masterminding this vacation. Eveline and Charles's beach hotel was the final destination but our reservation began after Christmas. Long before leaving Europe Caroline booked the Daffodil Holiday Guest House on Unawatuna beach as the place to meet Scarlett and Isabella for our Christmas weekend.

  If the beaches are a main attraction, I'd say the lodgings, generally, are not. I shouldn't complain. We stuck to rock bottom prices, and they were cheap. In fact too cheap for the last place and too cheap for this latest place as well. Upon arriving, after a long and sweaty bus ride to a vague destination chosen from Google maps and a laden hike

into a crowded, tacky beach community, our Rastafarian host sheepishly asked for more money saying he mistakenly quoted, thinking we would automatically be taking the breakfast. Poor guy.  I didn't feel sorry for him. Scarlett and Isabella had their own room. Thomasina and Isolde had their own room. The eight of us took every room, and in this competitive little Beach town, a full house at asking prices can't be that bad. It didn't take much convincing. Our house in Italy is offered as an Airbnb accommodation and I found myself, at first, sympathizing with these small business having to cope with rude tourists. But now, writing this, I think they could have done better. All of them. And the whole process of relying on guide books is ridiculous. These places are creepy! Unfamiliar beds, weird plumbing, tasteless decoration, thoughtess furnishings. Anyway, enough ranting. Maybe I'll write a post about Airbnb hosting.

looking for the beach?

  While we were spreading out in our beach resort, Scarlett and Isabella stepped in off the street, dazzling everyone. We now presented six striking women, one fit dude, and an odd looking old man who needed a haircut. Walking down a narrow, winding concrete Lane, running the gamut of shanty tourist businesses, one had to peak between buildings to get a bearing on where the water was. Once gained, the beach was great. A rocky point with a Buddhist shrine on it protected a sweeping bay with a rocky island. The rubbish shanty bars and restaurants on the Lane generously spread nice shade constructions and comfy furniture out on the sand without ever asking us to drink or leave. The place was full of polite people having fun on holiday. After many days in the interior of a hot, humid country,

this, believe it or not, was the top nosh.
all you can eat and a roof top
dining terrace

enjoying their hot crowded buses, we were ready for a plunge. Thomasina, Isolde and Dominic must have felt especially ready because they got in trouble trying to swim to the rocky island. A local on a surf board had to be sent out to steer them back in. And, yet again, that evening Alex somehow sniffed out the best all-you-can eat rice and dal curry joint on the “strip” were we could take plates onto the wobbly flat roof under palm fronds.

  Before we left Europe, Dominic proposed we throw our names into a “secret Santa” lottery which was such a good idea that we appointed him the administrator. I drew Ev & Charles's young son Alex and decided the only thing suitable would be a Ferrari t-shirt. Sounds easy but it wasn't. In fact, it wasn't until we got to Kandy that I found one. This was on a quick stop in the market stalls which also netted me (and Isolde) a pair of leather peasant sandals along with the discovery that we had been seriously duped by the prices of ayuverdic essential oils at the botanical gardens the day before. I padded around proudly in my locally made sandals thinking I was blending in nicely, until I hit the salty sand and realized that one needs native feet to wear native sandals. I quickly rubbed up bleeding blisters that are going home with me.

   We spent two nights at the Daffodil which was a nice change. Too much of our valuable time was being spent on government buses ticking off well trodden tourist traps. The girls got a proper visit to the island in a glass bottomed boat along with a dive to see the little coral reef. This was Christmas day so we treated ourselves to a baked fish cooked on an open brazier on the beach with all the other tourists.

  On boxing day we backpacked out to the highway and caught the coast road bus to Balapitiya where we walked down a jungle lane and out of SriLanka and into the Calamansi Cove hotel, a white-walled compound of four private villas, two four bedroom owner's houses with private kitchens and big, fanned verandahs, a fresh water swimming pool, restaurant, bar, library, life-guarded natural beach front, and a white- jacketed staff to keep things cut, pruned, sprayed, and immaculately tidy. We arrived before EV, Charles and the boys, and met by a group of polite staff who immediately presented us with cool, damp white washcloths, lifted the bags from our shoulders, and led us to our private rooms. Wow. We weren't leaving for eight nights (Thomasina, Dominic and Caroline left early after six nights).

  And it was a lovely week of big family meals, lots of little outings on bicycles and tuk tuk, hours by the pool, and swimming in the surf.

  Happy New Year all.

Sri Lankan diary. Part 3

  On the 23rd of December our van driven by Blackie crested the mountain pass crowded with small vegetable farms and we descended a few hundred meters into the old tea station of Nuwarelia [“New wah rail ya,” accent on rail]. The guide books give it a pass, but Blackie drove us through at a stately pace, passed the golf courses, parks, and what must have been a polo or cricket field. He grandly drove us up to the front door of the grand Hotel, waving to the uniformed doorman and on down the road to the somewhat distant train station. Call me a sentimental imperialist dog, a capitalist pig, out of touch with the people, or an insensitive tourist; but I thought this place showed off Sri Lanka at it’s finest value. How I missed this on our itinerary, I don’t know. Here was clear cool air, good living, fresh vegetables, a minimum of awful squalor and a sort of harmonic feel of agreement with the mountain environment. We should have booked a stay here. If I were to do it again, I would. Catching the train here was a good strategy on Blackie’s part, and we could have done it without him had we only known. All too quickly we were through Nuwarelia and onto the not so beautiful train platform

where the intrigue reached it’s peak. Blackie corralled us on one spot, put me in charge of the tourists, took a handful of big denominations and began his bribery. One minute he was part of the gang, cracking jokes with us; the next minute he would vanish and return to introduce me to someone who didn’t speak English. “Wait here for this guy. He will reserve the seats for you, he works for the railroad, I have known him for 25 years [he didn’t look a day over 23], the seats might not be together. He will cost 5000 rupees.”

  The train finally rolled in. There was a great shifting of people. Damned few got off that I could

count. We stayed put. Blackie and his man could be seen shuttling back and forth among the rail cars. Then he reappeared with a shake of the head. No reserved seats. You must stand. Come with me. We raced down the platform, stepped into a car, “No! Not that one.” Back down the train. Another car. People scurrying like sand crabs, leaving us like clods in slow motion with our heavy backpacks. Up step. Cram in. 5000 rupees returned in the scrum, and we found ourselves waving goodbye to Blackie as the train slowly gained speed. Despite his failure, I wished him well and felt he had done his best to the end.

  I can't decide if it was the highlight of the trip, but it did deliver wonderful scenery, winding slowly through the mountains on a fairly high traverse. Local farmers did try to use it. One poor guy sat on the sink. A couple of others brought their collection of hoes, cultivators and sacks of potatoes aboard, tangling the feet of the tourists. We found ourselves across from the counter of the dining car, windows only on one side. The car was crowded. Those who stood at the windows across from the counter held their territory, but sitting on the floor at the two open doors at the end of the car

delivered the most fun, and comfort. The train would pass a little tunnel, emerge on the opposite slope, and the sitters at the door would find their feet hanging over a sick-making precipice. One valuable door seat was occupied by a snoring, tattooed backpacker who tempted me to roll him out on a suitable traverse. The rest of us stood, pitching and weaving, staggered by the ageing track, stooping occasionally for a peak at the countryside. This could be a bus trip in that regard except for one thing. No road. Without a road to deliver customers, there were no roadside vendors with piles of coconuts, stacks of worn-out tires, smudgy cook fires, rusting tractor parts, cheesy Chinese clothing, and empty, rotting vendor shelters soiling the country. The views out of the window looked a lot better. No wonder this train ride is so popular among guidebook writers. And the popularity didn't really hit me until we pulled into Ella, our highly recommended, “quaint” little mountain town. The great press of white faces squeezed out of the train and clogged the platform, everybody dressed in the backpacker uniform, like me, leaving the train luxuriously empty. A local, caught in the crush looked at me and said, “Badulla is better..” Badulla is the final stop, and looking carefully at the map, we missed a nice length of track. I'm haunted by the thought that Blackie had the right idea but the start/stop stations wrong, but I'll never really know.

 

 Ella, then. Our next goal, The Tunnel Corner Guest House, we found under a low corrugated, verandah roof. The disarmingly smiley host had our rooms ready and served up a nice, complimentary tray of undrinkable tea or coffee on our arrival. Our low room contained two double beds with full, four-posted mosquito nets and no room for luggage and people. The mosquito nets almost touched the ceiling. Once two adults and two teenagers filled the beds, the temperature became unbearable. There might have been a window but I don't remember it; but it's surprising what one is willing to forgive for a place to safely drop a heavy backpack in a hot climate. Next stop, the loo. And then, the Wi-Fi password. After the long train ride, we didn't have a lot of time left for Ella, but we did have the intention of walking to the top of Little Adams peak. And that was great. It was such a relief to get ones feet on the actual ground. Dominic ran to the top in an alarming show of fitness, then he ran back down to us and ran up again. We stood on top just at sunset.  Leaving Ella, we also left the Central Highlands. Our bus rumbled across increasingly flat, hot, and humid open country occasionally relieved by sodden rice paddies or small lakes and clumps of rubber and coconut jungle. Throughout SriLanka I felt frustrated by my poor preparation for the plant life.
    Back in Dambulla, I loved it when Ebony and Teak trees were pointed out. Mango, Jack fruit, Papaya all grew in a jumble and I tried to keep them sorted. Three types of coconut were identified, including the hairy brown ones for eating (remarkably tender and mild compared to the dried out pulp we find in the supermarkets), and a smooth yellow one that locals would try and sell. They would lop the top off and stick in a straw and charge 100 or 200 rupees. My favorite is the pineapple, it's rough skin sliced off and the fruit radially sliced to present big up when held upside down by the leaves. You break off chunks of the spears getting sticky hands. Mangos are sliced longitudinally alongside the big seed giving two “halves” the flesh of which is crisscrossed. Then when the skin is inverted, the fruit is popped up presenting little cubes and the hairy seed with its rim of fruit gets handed to the kids.

      Move. Eat. Sleep. Move. Eat. Sleep. We were becoming nomads and the act of actually living in Sri Lanka seemed to be slipping through my fingers. We walked the length of main street once, then back, then stood in front of a restaurant that had a gadget high in a tree that projected tiny moving colored lights all over the road. There was nothing to learn here, except that mass market tourism is king.

      Next morning up early for a bus to Tissamaharama on the boundary of the Yala national park. At this point we had a gap in our planning. Leaving Italy, we had been unable to connect the tour from the mountains to the coastal resort where we would join the rest of the Cadell clan. In the way, stood national parks featuring wild animal safaris. Blackie told us to go to Yala and to get an old scout to drive us and that's what we did. The day before, Caroline and I made an Airbnb reservation on the fly that looked like a remarkable bargain, and with that as a goal we set off. The host of The Tunnel Corner escorted us to the roadside and waved on a couple of busses until the right one arrived. We'd have to anticipate our jumping off point and hire tuk tuks but we were assured that this was the bus. It was surprisingly empty and we all found seats, but the comfort was short lived. Two or three switchbacks down the gorge we passed a truck on its side, somehow missing the precipitous plunge that some of its cargo experienced. After a couple of stops, I found myself compressed securely by my neighbor for the rest of the two hours across the flat alluvial plane of southern SriLanka.
       Shortly after we turned up in tuk tuks on the outskirts of Tissamaharama, La Safari Inn realized we were staying for cheap. Their listing at AirBnB allowed me to book all six of us for $24. I was put on the phone to the owner and held them to our agreement. Airbnb already had my money but unbeknownst to me, they cancelled our Airbnb reservation. That wasn't very nice. They finally agreed the damage was done and rather than risk a bad review, they let us stay. It would only be fair if we employed their Safari services to terrorize the animals. But they only offered a morning drive and we had already arranged something for the afternoon. The hotel workers were very nice and offered us bicycles to explore the surrounding rice paddies, which I did, and I tipped them nicely.  The rest of us took the Safari which went well, everybody had a great time even spotting one of the famous leopards. That evening we walked a kilometer or two to the outskirts of Tissamaharama where Alex and Caroline chose another dirty little restaurant which the rest of us would never dare enter. And, once again, we enjoyed several helpings of tasty stuff for next to nothing, entertaing the locals while we were at it. We walked back through dark jungle tracks. And next morning, we were on another bus.

Sri Lankan diary part 2

  I'm not speaking for everyone, but I loved the Ameelia Guest House. I think the girls hated it.

Caroline felt Alex and I got the best room. It wasn't especially clean or comfortable: No screens or mosquito nets, no soap, no hot water, a crude cabinet with a clothing rail but no hangers, thin mattresses on creaky wooden slats, spiders the size of tea cups, geckos in the shower, and a long way to the shops. And all this for 23 bucks a night. For two. We took all three spare rooms, Dominic and Caroline in one balcony room, Alex and I in the other. We stashed the two girls into a damp, windowless cell. For the first time since we landed, I felt we had finally escaped the well trodden tourist track and stepped into the country of the SriLankans. Kumari and her husband Abey have lived in the house for 30 years. It is named after their younger daughter who attends law school near Colombo. Ameelia was home for the holidays but I only spoke with her once. Kumari and Abey were clearly proud of their house and possibly blind to its shortcomings in the eyes of western travelers, yet completely generous with anything it could offer. The garage was spread with mangoes recently harvested from the huge tree over their driveway and ripe ones were selected for us. The house is built on a steep north slope with a nice view of high mountains to the north. Unlike the last stop, we were in a modest family home in the suburbs away from the noise and mess of town. It is a brick structure with a white plaster veneer. A clean, tiled verandah spreads across the front with an attached double garage alongside over which they have built two bedrooms with adjoining balconies and two bathrooms in the back. Their kitchen reminded me of the old masonry kitchens of rural ltaly with its crude gas burners mounted in a large masonry niche in the wall which was likely a wood burning fireplace originally, the whole thing fairly grimy with age. Every sink and water tap we encountered in SriLanka was loose, and the Ameelia house was no different. When you turned the tap handle, the spout would revolve until water poured off the side of the sink. I often found myself reaching underneath and finger-tightening the fixing screws. We didn’t encounter running hot water until we reached Eveline and Charles’s hotel. I tried to spend as much time as I could with Kumari and Abey trading stories of fixing up old houses and bringing up two daughters. Abey described the mix of the SriLankan population: a majority of Buddhists, ten percent Hindus left over from English imported labor, and a smaller fraction of Muslims and Christians. The Tamils grew out of the Hindu fraction and a militant wing has caused a lot of trouble until brutal suppression by the government has rendered the country reasonably stable. Kandy is an important city in the central mountain region. It's economy benefits largely from the tea plantations begun by the English and now entirely owned by SriLankan interests. Muslims, it was explained, were more acquisitive, more forceful business people and would be found in the cities. They were different, they wore hats. When it came time to visit the city of Kandy, we walked down the hill and caught the “government” bus to downtown.

  I recognized something in Kandy we hadn’t seen for a while. Sidewalks.  And more-or-less western style shops. Kandy is apparently prosperous enough to afford sidewalks and they were surprisingly welcome to me. Maybe it’s because I fall down a lot after wearing progressive bi-focal eyeglasses. In a couple of days I would miss a step and fall in front of an audience, skinning my shin. Luckily I didn’t fall down in Kandy.

  Kandy is famous for the huge Buddhist palace, the Palace of the Tooth. The tooth is a relic found after the Buddha's funeral pyre had cooled. It is capable of miracles, and it has been usurped as the symbol of royalty for thousands of years. The temple built to house it sprawls along the shore of Kandy's lake, and like all buddhist temples, painted bright white and brilliantly lit. It's entrance is graced by a large park and protected by a reflecting moat. One joins the “foreign” ticket que to enter, first paying an unusually large amount, followed by a somewhat lesser amount to safely leave ones shoes. Only Caroline and I felt it worthwhile. We followed the mixed throng of white-robbed faithful and curious tourists. Our que slowed and compressed until it became necessary to push with real, competitive determination. Two drummers, amplified to a painful level, tapped a somber beat, highlighted by occasional bangs, repeated hypnotically and joined occasionally by a recording of monotone, reedy chanting. Firmly sandwiched between strangers (Caroline and I mercifully separated), we inched along and up some steps until, suddenly, we gained a small window giving an incomplete, internal view to a ridiculously ornate golden, inverted cone maybe three feet high and ten feet away. Passed this, the pressure eased and we were able to escape and wander to admire

offerings

the architecture, people, and lesser relics; disoriented by the amplified nasal horn chant and drum bangs. We left with the gift of a small CD, hopefully a recording to hypnotize myself with later.

temple museum

    Now it was time to find something to eat. Alex and Caroline leading us again past respectable looking places with printed menus to sidewalk vendors with butane tanks and open burners (and no sinks!). We bought a plate of chopped and chillied tortillas leaving me yearning for simple dahl and rice. At the end of the sidewalk stood the Muslim Hotel with its open restaurant on the ground floor, a bank of stainless cafeteria chafing bins displayed threatening ponds of dark curries. Muslims eat beef and this appealed to Dominic. They also serve dahl and rice which appealed to me, and within a sort of glass phone booth at the entry point someone was slapping dough into a hot steel surface which appealed to the kottu eaters. We sat at a marble table in a lofty, noisy room and got no service at all. A white bearded fellow was doing the best he could with a full room and every so often a dish of something was slid onto our table as he passed. Thomasina reminded us to eat with our right hands until a few damp spoons arrived. Over in the back corner one was encouraged to use the public sink. Near the end of the meal, stiff paper place mats arrived which others appeared to be using as napkins. I was mesmerized by a neighbor eating alone who spent a long time tearing his tortillas to bits and building a small hill. He then dipped each bit into whatever curry was in front of

him. It all looked so appetizing I copied his method from then on, being careful not to bring my left hand near my mouth.

fresh mountain air

  The next day in Kandy, we rejoined the tourist trail. Over a mountain pass to the east sat a small town bragging a domestic elephant treatment center with a nationally subsidized botanical garden next door. The six of us, looking doubtfully at the confusing choice of buses, attracted the attention of a tour guide and his father's van. He quickly convinced us we would save no money on a round trip bus ticket for six vs. his very good value van, not to mention his deep experience and social connections. We expected a scenic drive in the mountains, but instead suffered an awful, nonstop, choking cruise through deep valleys lined with shabby, one room businesses stuck in a carbon monoxide inversion layer. Surviving this, we found ourselves paying to look at elephants unfit to slave

away in the logging camps, but cured enough to perform a few tricks for the foreigners. Next door at the essential oil farm, a talkative guide took us on a walk through a beautifully groomed forest with small bottles of extract at the base of selected plants. We were led under a palm frond shelter where a group of young, shy trainees quickly had our shirts off to practice the art of Ayurvedic massage therapy. I found it quite funny, maybe because I'm ticklish and horribly skeptical. Sufficiently softened, we then found ourselves subjected to a serious shake down in the gift shop which proved four times more expensive than the local markets. Safely delivered back in the chaos of Kandy, and satisfied with our true Sri Lankan experience, we ambled through the street markets and returned to our Muslim Hotel for supper.

   A backpacker’s website convinced Alex that one of our main goals in Sri Lanka must be the train from Kandy to Ella through tea plantation country. There was some agreement among train spotters on the internet that this was one of the most wonderful train rides anywhere.  Precise information on anything in SriLanka is never easy to nail down. Probably because nothing runs to schedule or description. It was suggested we try and reserve tickets for this train over the internet, but due to prevarication and an inability to agree on our touring schedule, we waited until we arrived in Kandy before trying to buy a train ticket. Which proved to be a month too late. Our public display of disappointment attracted the attention of a particularly clever van owner. “Blackie” began with Isolde,

Blackie's windshield

explaining the map of SriLanka and where we were and where we wanted to go. Then he picked away at me, working his way to Alex who clearly held all the cards. It took a bit of time and a bit of cagey diplomacy but he succeeded in proposing a plan to board the train at a halfway point in the mountains where he predicted many locals would get off. To get to this halfway point, he, of course, offered his van along with all his tourguide knowledge for a mere fortune, virtually guaranteeing success and Alex’s happiness. Unable to resist for lack of a better plan, and being pretty much fed up with Kandy, we accepted his offer. But not without negotiating a free pick-up from our guest house on the mountain. Six in the morning, there he was with his van waiting for us to finish packing and off we went for a long drive into the mountains.

  Honestly, it was a fairly spectacular ride. Most of it was an endless, switch back climb through gorgeously groomed tea plantations dating back to the British Empire. All the plantations are located at high elevations and all continue to be maintained in exquisite condition despite being owned entirely by SriLankans funded by SriLankan banking. The British names have been retained so Lipton still shows up on the signs. Blackie had a nearly new van with excellent, mild air-conditioning; and he drove well, stopping now and then to let us see the sights. Tea in Ceylon is not native but a creation of English business. In 1824, the first tea plant was brought to Ceylon from India as a botanical experiment. By 1870, coffee cultivation was wiped out by fungus, but in 1867 James Taylor
already began the rescue by starting the first tea plantation in Kandy. By 1972, the government nationalized the plantations and began strict control of cultivation. Today it is a $1.5 billion business employing millions including over 200,000 on the estates. According to Blackie, the pickers are third generation descendants of Indian Tamils first imported as cheap labor by the English to work the coffee plantations. Women do all the picking, men work in the processing sheds, and the jobs are hereditary. They pick a quota daily which they can exceed for more pay. It was impressive seeing them high on the steep slopes shouldering heavy bags either barefoot or with thin sandals. From the comfort of our van, I appreciated, with some feelings of guilt, the gorgeously manicured mountainsides, a stark contrast to the endless shanty shacks of roadside businesses that spoil SriLanka. Along with tea, the mountains provide an abundance of fresh vegetables that thrive in the cooler, pure air. It's agricultura intensivo requiring intricate terracing and complex water management, but the crops go year ‘round eventually finding their way to the messy markets in Dambulla. A nice contrast.