When we left Sri Lanka at the end of January, after a month of ambling about the Pearl Isle, we felt extremely grateful for the experience. Lonely Planet had named the country its ‘top destination’ for 2019 and, even though the tourism season had been quiet (a brief period of political instability at the end of 2018 seemingly the cause), there was a real sense of positive change occurring.
We encountered a country full of the kind of restless energy you might expect from somewhere plagued for so long by civil war, now emergent, and looking forward with boundless optimism. And, as I documented over that month, people aside, we found a country of immense natural beauty, staggering historical riches, and gastronomic jewels that left us enriched and energised.
More recently, we met an Indian/Dutch couple from England, who had been travelling in Sri Lanka at about the same time. Like us, they’d had a most fabulous time. In Kandy, where we spent a wonderful few days, they had befriended an enterprising young local determined to open a guesthouse, seeing it as a viable path to self sufficiency, to being his own boss. He had been saving and saving and saving. He had recently emailed them to announce that he had finally achieved his dream.
This was at the beginning of April.
When I heard the news, about the terror once again rained down upon this beautiful but scarred landscape, my first thoughts were about people. Before I remembered that we’d stood in some of those churches, passed by those hotels with perhaps a slight tinge of accommodation envy, I thought of people.
I thought about the tourism professionals we encountered, whose industry is now wounded. Much backpacker and mid-range accommodation in Sri Lanka is provided by family-owned guesthouses, and all over the island we were welcomed into family compounds and shown wonderfully warm hospitality.
I thought about the wild young Russian who married a local, moved to his home country, opened up a hostel in Galle, and now helps travellers to navigate their journeys. The father in Polonnaruwa, who spoke so passionately about wanting his children to know the past but to also be free of it, and to reap the benefits that peace was now bringing (and whose wife cooks some of the best food we ate, and this in a country full of spellbindingly good home cooking!). Or the young entrepreneurs in Jaffna, so keen to show visitors a different face of the formerly civil war-ravaged Tamil north.
I also thought about the many other locals we shared a moment with, nameless, anonymous, who were only too happy to point a couple of hapless backpackers towards right bus or train platform; the Muslim family who indicated we should stand by them so we could take their seats when they alighted off the overcrowded bus; or the many young checkout operators at Cargill’s who’d look at us bemused but smiling when we’d stop in for bottles of cool soda water and packets of ginger biscuits.
And I also thought about an old school friend who was holidaying in Sri Lanka as this unfolded, and was a good source of firsthand information. Fortunately she was safely away from the locations targeted and, while plans had to be changed – Negombo was off the itinerary – essentially, her trip continued. There was an increased security presence, of course, but otherwise her group of friends were able to continue moving about and enjoying the island.
I suppose that could read as a bit tasteless, continuing to holiday in the shadow of a terrorising national tragedy, but sometimes circumstance puts you in impossible situations. And whatever one feels about when the time is right, Sri Lanka will rely on tourists returning, and quickly, to help it move passed this attempt to destabilise its still nascent peacetime.
It has already been reported that mass cancellations are being predicted, as you would expect. How quickly the country recovers will depend on how successfully the government is seen to be responding effectively, in both bringing those responsible to justice and also to reassuring the broader public that the country is safe.
I hope a blame game does not ignite. A couple of learned Sri Lankan friends on Facebook have been quick to point out that the country does not have a history of either Islamic extremism or targeting of its Christian communities. This kind of radicalism has been imported, and we should not jump to any conclusions and assume it relates to any wider malaise or brewing of instability.
We spent our last day in Sri Lanka in Negombo. In the morning we walked passed St. Sebastian’s church and observed frenetic preparations taking place; a fancy wedding we assumed. Later that evening, returning to our guesthouse, we came upon a multi-coloured archway of lights that stretched down the street for literally kilometres, leading us back to the church and one of the most wonderful, bizarre sights I’ve ever seen.
Unbeknownst to us, it was the day of the feast of St. Sebastian, and we had stumbled upon the festival and special service in full flight. It was loud, it was musical, and a visual feast of colour and decoration. It’s an enduring memory of an unforgettable month; a celebration of living and the wonderfully diverse place that Sri Lanka is.
Just as in Christchurch (and, sadly, too many other places), time will heal these latest wounds and colour will seep back into life. There will be time again for festivals. I hope it is soon, and I hope it is shared with many visitors.
So, astoundingly, we’ve passed the halfway mark of our trip; it’s crazy to think that we’ve been on the road for three whole months.
On the one hand, time seems to be rushing passed us this time, unlike 2013, when the landscape in front of us seemed endless, for so long. Everything was new then, every day a sensory overload, hour-by-hour to be savoured. It definitely is a different experience second time around.
But on the other hand, thinking back to the day we rolled into Colombo and the huge distance we’ve covered since, you realise just how much you’ve seen, and the sizeable bank of new experiences and memories that will remain visceral for quite some time.
We left New Zealand pretty exhausted and battleworn from what felt like a long, tough year. It’s nice to realise that we are ready to come back, refreshed and rejuvenated, with energy to start again, and yet we have three more months in front of us yet. Now that’s a feeling worth savouring…
Sri Lanka was the perfect starting point. We were originally going to start in India, and make our way down, but, in a stroke of genius insight, I guess, one night I suddenly had small palpitations about the thought of returning to India, tired, worn out, but fresh and green, and directly into the chaos of Kolkata. It just felt too much, too soon, and if Sri Lanka was going to be a less crazy version, then that is where it felt right to leap off from.
Sri Lanka in fact isn’t any kind of version of India at all. It’s somewhat related, true, but it is entirely unique. And boy did we love it.
In direct contrast to India, we found it one of the easiest countries to travel around. The train system is great, and we used it wherever we could. Where we couldn’t, the bus networks were vast, frequent, and easy to navigate, and everything was helped by the fact that people were, on the whole, super helpful and friendly.
We started in capital Colombo, passing a pleasant three nights as we settled into and found our new rhythms. A lot of people bypass the city, but we found it worthy of exploration. It’s also undergoing massive and rapid change, so will be fascinating to see what it becomes in the near future.
Visitors usually head for the country’s south coast beaches, and rightfully so: it’s truly glorious (and we say that as people of the Pacific). We didn’t dally about for long though, spending just enough time for a beach day and another exploring the magnificent Galle fort, before heading inland for an elephant safari. A part of us wishes we did dally longer, so maybe that will have to be reason #1 for a second trip.
But it was towards the second key selling point that we needed to head, hill country, and we spent a fabulous week passing through Ella, Nuwara Eliya and onto Kandy. We strolled around hills and lakes, rode world famous train routes, saw giant Buddhas, vistas, and tea plantations, and witnessed devotional frenzy.
And then there was our epic overnight adventure and trek to the most holy site of them all: Adam’s Peak.
Sri Lanka’s fascinating ancient capitals were up next, and in quick succession we visited the breathtaking Sigiriya, the giant Lion Rock upon which a capital was constructed, the astonishing caves at Dambulla, full of ancient sculpture and paintings, and then the ruins at Polonnaruwa, full of temples, dagobas, monasteries and more.
The first, longest-lasting and most extensive of all the ruined capitals, at Anuradhapura, was one of the final places we visited, and presented another piece in the Pearl Isle’s fascinating historical puzzle.
From ancient hearts we headed to coastal breezes, and firstly towards our only misstep, but a charming one nonetheless: Batticoloa. There we found a strange emptiness that we attributed to the devastation wreaked by the 2004 tsunami, the evidence of which still remains distinctly evident. After that, the far north coast and Jaffna provided a truly fascinating insight into an area still emerging from decades of civil war. It’s a completely different side if Sri Lanka.
Our last couple of nights were spent north of Colombo, in the tourist-oriented Negombo, but even that we found charming, to be honest, and we left Sri Lanka totally enamoured.
In 2013, we spent six weeks travelling around India’s southern tip, from Goa to Chennai. This time we started in Chennai, hustling through the bustling megatropolis in 48 hours, before moving on to another energetic city, Hyderabad, before heading all the way west to a deliciously relaxing week in Goa. Goa is India’s must-do state; in fact, the whole of India’s south remains overall our favourite part.
We then headed north to finally do steamy Mumbai properly, and we loved it, again. The astonishing caves at Ellora and Ajanta, also in Maharashtra state, saw us at our intrepid best, and were all-of-India highlights.
From there it was an unplanned leftward turn, which became a joyous introduction to the state of Gujarat. We spent time in Vadodara, Pavagadh and cool capital Ahmedabad, soaking up its intoxicating forward-hustling energy.
Next up we returned to alluring Rajasthan, starting in the extreme western expanse of Jaisalmer and the Thar desert, before taking a southern loop to see India’s biggest fort, at Chittor, and the undiscovered cool of Bundi, with its dilapidated fort, palace and myriad of stepwells.
From there, it was on to the capital, Delhi, and this time, rather than being overwhelming, she purred like a kitten. Delhi is the face of a fascinatingly changing India, I wrote.
At this point, we were onto the home stretch of our subcontinental trek, with hugely rewarding but whistle stop trips to the infamous erotic temples of Khajuraho and a return to the sacred utopia of Varanasi.
Finally, just before returning to another of our favourite cities, Kolkata, we spent a most fascinating week exploring the hills of West Bengal, the towns of Kalimpong and Darjeeling, and the feeling of having left India for Asia while still being in India. It proved another trip highlight, simply because it was so unexpected.
And that, friends, brings us up to date, although, for a little culinary inspiration, there’s always my take on India’s gastronomic wonderland to read as well: part one and part two
Onto the second half: Thailand, Myanmar, Malaysia and Hong Kong. It ain’t over yet…
Here is part three of my four-part public service announcement; my attempt to throw back into the blogosphere, that which has given me so much, pratical information given in an entertaining way, for those considering travel to the wondrous isle of Sri Lanka. Parts one and two, on food and buses, are here are here.
Trains, oh trains. There’s something undeniably appealing about train travel, at least I think so anyway. Maybe it’s a lifetime of using trains as an everyday form of transport, maybe it’s that trains don’t travel on roads so give a slightly different perspective, a different view? I don’t know, it’s definitely not Maybelline, but I find myself drawn to train travel and will use it over and above other forms if available and practical.
As in other former British colonies, a working train system is one of the (perhaps few) beneficial practical things to remain from Sri Lanka’s long colonial period (dating back to the Portuguese). We took a number of trains, riding in different classes and using a few different ways to get out tickets, so here’s our experience.
First are foremost, seat61.com is THE best source of information for travelling on trains in Sri Lanka (and many other Asian countries!). Its wealth of information is encyclopedic! The Sri Lankan Railways website was also a good way to look up timetables and train options.
Colombo to Galle (on the Matara line); difficulty level: easy as.
Our first train ride and experience of the Sri Lankan railway system was on the popular southern coast line. You cannot book tickets, so, as seat61.com says, you turn up on the day one hour before the train leaves, buy a ticket, and get on.
We were there a little earlier, using the intercity reservation system (discussed below) and, like clockwork, the counter I was standing at was suddenly ticket-operational at 9.30am, for the 10.30am train. The front of Colombo’s Fort station is open to the road, so you just walk along and find the counter(s) selling tickets for the line you want. I went to the counter selling ‘all classes’ tickets for the Matara line (closest to the road side), as I knew you could get unreserved tickets for both second and third classes. As I say, like clockwork, at 9.30am, the man on the other side of the counter, who seemed to be filling some kind of money change order and ignoring the world, suddenly looked at me, and it was all go.
“Two second class tickets for Galle please” (yes, it’s pronounced Gaul or Gaul-ey, or Gaul-er…it’s seems to be all and any; go with Gaul though).
“The 10.30 train?”
“Yes, thank you” (remember your manners).
He told me the price, I gave him the money, he gave me the change and tickets and told me the platform to go to (platform 5). It was as easy as that, and two other railway workers made sure we were on the right platform, one as we were crossing the overbridge, and another who was working a train that stopped on our platform; as I’ve mentioned elsewhere: helpful!
So yes, it is a lolly scramble for seats on the Colombo-Matara line (and on any unreserved carriage ticket), and we were just plain lucky that the doors were very close to us when the train came to a full stop, so we were able to get seats on the left-hand side (which is not the coast side).
But, actually, we were fine on this side, able to see both the sea and also the villages, towns and estuaries we passed alongside. Also, we found the patronage quite fluid throughout. At one point we were able to move over to the right hand side, and the group of Germans originally standing were able to sit down after not too long a time, as people got off the train at other stops.
In terms of baggage, just find a space! We were able to, just, squeeze our backpacks into the overhead racks.
My advice, just enjoy it wherever you are perched. It’s not worth fighting over a seat/position unless you’ve never seen a (tropical) coastline. Also, those who boarded last, probably strategically so, and perched in the open doors, were evidently having a great time. In short: it’s fluid in unreserved, man.
Ella to Nanuoya to Kandy; difficulty level: we pre-booked.
This is the somewhat famed train ride through Sri Lanka’s glorious and picturesque hill country. We broke this up into two trips, pausing at Nanuoya to spend a few nights in Nuwara Eliya and do the Adam’s Peak pilgrimage.
You cannot currently book trains before you arrive into the country via Sri Lankan Railways’ website. I wanted to make sure we had reserved seats for these trains, and in second class too, so the carriages would have windows we could open (i.e. not an air-conditioned carriage). Therefore, I used a service recommended on seat61.com: Visit Sri Lanka Tours.
I followed the instructions there and it worked just as it said it would. I received an email with reservation numbers, which I took to the Ella train station, along with my passport, and got both printed out at the same time. It did cost more than double the normal in-Sri Lanka prices to use this service – paying via Paypal – but it was worth it to secure reserved seats in a carriage that was never going to be squashed, and no jostling for space and views with people standing.
The first leg, to Nanuoya, was an extremely pleasant experience. The seats in the observation saloon were very comfortable with plenty of leg space, and the carriage itself was very roomy, making it easy to get up and move about, go and see the views from the full-length windows at the end of the trains, and so on. The windows pull up, the breeze is delicious, and you can poke your heads (and cameras) in and out across the entire journey.
This journey starts with rolling tea country, which is truly picturesque, and you’ll like see loads of locals and tourists alike moving in and around the train tracks as you pass. The valleys and mountains you steam through will have you wanting to capture the moment at each new turn. Eventually, the scenery becomes a bit more forestry, before returning to more tea country as you get closer to Nanuoya. Without wanting to overhype it, it is the train journey you’ve read about, it’s well worth doing, and I think worth securing good seats for (at our Nuwara Eliya our fellow housemates had fought out the Kandy – Nanuoya leg in uneserved third, and it sounded like a pretty hideous experience overall; it’s all luck of the draw in third).
The second leg, onto the cultural capital of Kandy, picks up where the first leaves off: loads of luscious views, tea, tea and more tea, although it does become noticeably more tropical-looking again, as you descend into the area around Kandy. For this leg, we were on the newer Chinese-built blue trains, and the ride and carriage was just as spacious and comfortable.
Polonnaruwa to Batticoloa; difficulty level: easy as.
If you are going to go to Batti – and I’m not entirely convinced it’s visit-worthy; at least not yet – the train ride is a real joy, winding your way out to the coast through rice paddy country. I’m not too sure how typical our experience was, but we turned up at 9.30am, for the 10.20am train, sat inside the clean and quiet station until tickets became available (10am) and then bought third-class unreserved tickets.
Rather than packed to the brim, we enjoyed a truly breezy and leisurely ride in an almost empty carriage the entire way, sitting in the open doors, or otherwise watching the countryside pass us by. It was truly a pleasant ride, and redunkulous value at around one NZ dollar each.
Jaffna to Anuradhapura to Colombo; difficulty level: easy as
For our last trains, we again broke up the trip with a stop in Anuradhapura, the first ancient capital. For these tickets, we went to the intercity reservations office at Colombo Fort Station when we first arrived in the country (counter 17; it’s actually an office), again following the instructions on seat61.com.
Inside, there are different counters for different trains, and it is somewhat confusing, so what I would recommend is this: use the timetable feature on the Sri Lankan railways website to find the trains you want to take, write down the stations you want to travel between, the date you want to travel, and the train number and name (e.g. #4004; Anuradhapura to Colombo Fort; 25 January) and take this with you. As trains do apparently sell out quickly, it is helpful to know what other trains are travelling on the day you wish to travel, the times and train numbers, so you can book alternatives if your first choices are not available.
We were lucky and got the ones we wanted, and the experience was pretty straight forward, as straightforward as it is ever going to be anyway in these cross-cultural, cross-lingua franca situations!
The north of the country is quite radically different, as I’ve written about elsewhere. The first leg of the train ride was essentially a repetition of what we saw on the bus ride north: a quite pleasant but sparse landscape; lots of rice paddies, very few people. Our train, which was going all the way to Colombo, was quite empty all the way (I suspect it gets more and more full the closer to the capital you get, and certainly a lot of people got on at Anuradhapura). What this meant is that I was able to quite freely move around the carriage during the journey, moving from left to right sides. It was overall a pleasant ride, although quite bumpy in places; the kind of bumpy where you look at each other and think, “is this carriage about to come loose or derail?”, and you are calmed only by the fact that no local seems at all perturbed (that old trick!).
The final train ride of our month, Anuradhapura back to Colombo, was an early start from another of Sri Lanka’s charming deco-era stations. It was really a rinse-and-repeat of the previous leg, just a whole lot more packed (as I predicted it would be) and, because we were seated in a group of four (two inward-facing seats with no table), not quite as charming or comfortable as our other rides. No biggie by this stage.
And that’s a wrap on our train adventures; hope some of the information is helpful for anyone intending to travel to Sri Lanks in the near future (as you should).
Here’s part two of my four-part summary of our treks and travails across this most wonderful South Asian jewel. Part one, about its luscious, luscious food, is here.
If you choose to use them, you’ll quickly come to see how buses are the lifeblood of the nation. This makes bus stands, as they’re called here, fascinating places to see the nation in action. They’re a hive of activity, with people and goods moving about, on and off buses, in and out of eateries and other produce/goods shops that circle the areas. They are also fairly easy to navigate. We used both buses (and trains) to get around the pearl isle, and found signage straight forward and people overhwelmingly helpful, eager to see us on the right bus.
When you enter a bus stand, it’s not a front door situation; just walk up from whichever angle you are approaching. Essentially, you just need to walk around and look for the bus you want to catch. Red buses belong to the state corp, blue buses are private. Side note: in reality, the blue buses are a little more blingy and comfortable, and they be a little more expensive (??), but we found very little difference between them, and would just jump on the first going wherever wanted to go.
Each bus gate will likely have a sign telling you which route is served by that spot. Easier, each bus will have signs on the front of the bus that will state its origin and its destination, e.g. Colombo and Matara (a popular south coast route). On the side of some buses, the main stops along the route are also printed. So, for example, we caught the Wellawaya to Badulla bus to get to Ella, which was one of the stops along its brightly-coloured exterior (and the interiors of buses are treats within themselves!).
Each bus has a ticket seller, standing outside the bus yelling out his final destination. If you understand Sinhalese as it’s spoken colloquially then great, you’ll be able to make your way even easier. If, like me, you were looking at the name of your destination in a book/on a map and trying to imagine how you might say it, you’re imagining it wrong! What you hear will bear little relation to your imagination.
It’s more likely that you’ll stick out like a sore thumb, like all the other foreigners, he’ll make eye contact, ask you where you’re going, you’ll fumble something out that he’ll realise as a mispronunciation of where you actually want to go, and tell you to jump on!
Moreover, we found all of these gents to be keen for us to do so, helping us to either put our bags up front with the driver, on the less busy/touristed routes, or in a storage compartment at the back of the bus, where it’ll be waiting for you when you arrive at your destination.
The only slightly confusing occurence was, sometimes, multiple buses seemed to get plying the same route and more than one man was keen for us to jump on his bus. I’d like to think it is because they confused me with some dashing celebrity, and they wanted the bragging rights to be able to say, ‘you’ll never guess what…?’; more realistically, it’s probably just a kind of game, a bit of friendly conductor rivalry, maybe they get a certain commission from whatever they take.
If they are on commission, then certainly it didn’t feel like they saw an opportunity to charge ‘tourist prices’, as is the case elsewhere (not looking at anyone in particular, India). In fact, on some buses, the conductors had little ticket machines they used to print out tickets; on others they wrote it on a ticket and showed it to us, so we knew what the price was.
Only once were we told what the price was, which was more than we were told it should be, and given no ticket. However we’re literally talking cents here, and anyway, I had read that we might have to pay a second ticket price for our bags if the bus is busy; this never happened.
Indeed, we found people to be overwhelmingly honest throughout Sri Lanka. Obviously we have no way to really qualify this; you only have your gut feeling. But we just didn’t feel the same kind of ‘everyone’s out to make a dollar off everyone in anyway possible’ mentally that we find in India. This is not a criticism of India, just a reality: girl’s gotta make a buck; get that cash gurrl!
In truth, the helpfulness we encountered is also likely just plain old efficiency. As I opened with, buses are the lifeblood of the country, vital vital networks, and bus stands are busy places. Bus operators don’t have time to ass about with befuddled tourists standing around trying to grasp the basics of Sinhalese and public transport. You gotta go go go…
Only once did we come across an attempted scam. At Wellawaya, on our way up to Ella, a ‘very helpful’ young chap told us that the bus would be leaving at 3pm (it was just after 2pm), and from the road side of the bus station. He then started to try and engage us in conversation about where we were from, where we were going, did we have a booking…the usual story.
As I had read previously – thanks Lonely Planet – buses from Wella to Ella, a main route, leave every 30 minutes or so. I was therefore suspicious, so, I thanked him and said to my compadre, “let’s go find something to eat while we wait, eh?” We wandered back over to the other side of the station, and quickly found the bus to Badulla, which stops in Ella, and left about 10 mins later.
Scams are scams are scams; a part of life on the road. I rarely get angry or show frustration, at least I try not to. I just tell myself that life can be hard in these places, and that these people are just being entrepreneurial and trying to make a buck. If they can do so via a little nefarious manipulation of tourists that nonetheless still provides the service – transport or accommodation – then, well, it’s just how it is.
You have to have your wits about you, and if you’re at all suspicious, thank the happy helper person, make an excuse to wander off (or just wander off), and go looking for a second opinion or option. This is also where doing some reading and research prior to travelling is very helpful (although never foolproof).
Sri Lanka’s south coast is populated in what seems like one endless stream of villages and towns, and it felt like both locals and tourists were casually hopping on and off buses all along the coast for all sorts of purposes; it felt like quite a fluid approach to movement. I got this impression from doing a day trip to the beachside village of Unawatuna. It’s harder to tie your shoelaces drunk.
Get on the Matara bus (or indeed the Tangalle bus, if you want to go further along the coast), tell the man where you want to get off, enjoy the ride, get off the bus. Repeat in the other direction. I guess the only thing you’d want to make sure beforehand is that there are buses coming back in the other direction at the end of the day.
2. Galle to Udawalawe; difficulty level: easy as.
We jumped onto the Matara bus at Galle bus stand, switched at Matara to an Embilipitiya bus, where we ran into a plate of fried food heaven, and then boarded a final, smaller bus, to Udawalawe. Fortunately, we were staying right beside the junction/clock tower, so got off there (there are marked bus stops, but it otherwise appear you just kinda make moves like you are going to get off, and it’ll stop somewhere soon). The main bus stand – literally just a bus stop in this dusty one main street town – is around the corner (on the main road to the national park).
3. Udawalawe to Ella; difficulty level: again, easy as.
Our guest house owner graciously dropped us to said bus stand above, where we awaited the number 98 bus to Wellawaya. At the bus stand, some friendly men tried to sell us a van to Ella for 6000lkr, for up to six of us. In retrospect, if there had been six of us willing – there were some other tourists about – we might have taken up the offer as the bus was very busy and already quite packed by the time it got to us, as they said it would be!
We did manage to squeeze into a seat, but it was an uncomfortable, head-lolling-around-on-a-stick typa ride, remembering that we had been up since 4.40am for a safari, and it was hot. Oh well. The bus from Wella to Ella was much more spacious and super lovely once we started the road up into the hills, both in terms of views, and also as the heat started to dissipate, just a little.
We did this trip as part of our midnight mountain climb of Adam’s Peak adventure. The day before we wanted to travel, we visited the bus stand and asked at the office about a direct bus. We were told there was one at 4pm and, when we returned the next day at just before this time, sure enough we found ourselves on the bog standard public bus, going all the way to Dalhousie, with a stop for refilling of passengers at Hatton.
What is a little less clear about this route is how many direct buses there are and when they run, as I believe they only run direct during the pilgrimage season to Adam’s Peak.
However, the next morning, post-climb, we were on buses within minutes that took us from Dalhousie to nearby Maskeliya, where we joined a Hatton-bound bus and, once there, there were big and small bus options immediately available to bring us back to Nuwara Eliya (and so, it’s no doubt just as easy to do this in the other direction).
In other words, nada to worry about; I just wouldn’t recommend leaving too late in the day, especially out of pilgrim season (the season runs full moon December through full moon in May).
One tip, if you are going to do the midnight pilgrimage: once you leave Hatton, the road becomes incredibly windy, dark and unsealed towards Dalhousie; the bus driver doesn’t slow down for these factors, and is in fact a driving legend. But it will feel like you are heading more and more into the middle of absolutely nowhere, and, if it’s not a busy pilgrimage night, could make you feel like you’ve made a bad life choice. Fear not, all will be fine!
5. Kandy to Sirigiya; difficulty level: easy; a little uncomfortable between Dambulla and Sigiriya.
This trip requires a change of bus in Dambulla. The most difficult part about the Kandy-Dambulla leg was locating the right bus stand, as Kandy has a few and the most obvious one – by the clocktower – is not the one.
Guides talk about it being beside the Good’s Shed (which appears to refer to the name of a building used for storing goods needing to be shipped by train; now it appears to be just a busy marketplace). This is correct. More easily remembered, though, is that it’s simply back down beside the train station, where you may well have entered Kandy.
Walk around until you find the right bus, or, more likely, someone will ask where you’re going and point you there. This was one of the least easy bus stands to work out, due to immense numbers of buses and no sense of logical placement, so I’d just ask straight away.
At Dambulla, you’ll get off on the side of the road opposite the bus stand. When we did, some guys, trying to be helpful, told us that the bus to Sigiriya would pass by here. We were a little suspect so walked over to the bus stand, where we found the bus and jumped on. They were actually right, and the bus stopped there also. However it was already quite full, so at least we did get seats.
Lonely Planet advises that the bus leaves from north of the clocktower. This is also right as, inexplicably, the bus stopped there for ages. We left the bus stand on the hour, and didn’t leave from the clocktower stop until half-passed the hour, having only covered a distance of minutes. I guess LP is trying to save you the wait, the squash, and the sweat. Because it was all of those things both times we took it, and quite uncomfortable in the end. Maybe worth tuk-tuk-ing the last leg?
6. Sirigiya to Dambulla (day trip); difficulty level: so easy.
Buses leave Dambulla and Sigiriya every half hour in each direction, so the only thing to consider is the comfort level on the return journey (as above). A bus stop was right outside our guesthoue; I imagine you could probably wave it down wherever you are, or just check for the nearest wait spot.
7. Sigiriya to Polonnaruwa; difficulty level: so easy.
We’re basically local bus pros by this point, so taking a bus to a random junction to then wave down a second one sounds like a sinch. You simply grab the Dambulla bus to Inamaluwa Junction (just give it your best shot; he’ll know where you mean), then walk up to the bus stop (a couple of minutes away, and easily visible) and wait for the bus.
I thought we might have to try to quickly read the bus destination sign and wave the right one down, but the reality was the first one that came along was going who knows where, but the man leaned out, asked us where we were going, and told us to (quickly) jump on board. As easy as that, and we were in Polonnaruwa just after midday, after leaving about 10am
8. Batticoloa to Jaffna; difficulty level: easy, just uncomfortable.
There’s no other way to do this trip, unfortunately, although I’m not entirely convinced there’s any point in going to Batticoloa in the first place, really. Not right now, anyway. However, if you must, it’s fairly easily achieved.
The only buses making this ludicrous trip are the state ones; no private blue buses. The main bus stand has a full timetable painted on its side, which told us that the only logical option departed at 11am (the others were early, early morning, or late afternoon, which meant a middle of the night arrival; I’ll save that craziness for India).
I don’t know if the fact that it was a Saturday and/or the day before a puja holiday, but it was pretty packed, the whole time. The bus starts in Akkaraipattu, 50-odd kilometres south, so was already quite full by the time it arrived (and that’s why the waiting passengers all stormed the bus!). There’s an opening in the middle of the long bus stand, where buses can presumably U-turn, presmably to avoid having to go right the way around (remember: go go go!). This is where the bus pulls in and stops.
We had to stand for the first two hours, literally all the way back to where we’d come from (the bus goes inland back to Polonnaruwa, onto Anuradhapura, and then up from there). Thankfully, seats opened up there – the ticket man had helpfully told us to stay standing beside them – and we sat the rest of the way. As I say, it waxed and waned across the day, but was pretty consistently full. Just one of these things you have to do to get where you’re going right? A long day.
9. Colombo to Negombo; difficulty level: slightly more complicated.
But really only marginally. We caught the train back from Anuradhapura, and were continuing straight on without stopping. We wandered along from Fort station, and you are confronted two bus stands: the private and the public. The fast aircon buses you want leave from the CTB bus stand, and you’re looking for route 240. Hopefully this will save you from walking around, packs on back, in the steaming afternoon heat like we did!
Of course I would start here! Welcome to my four-part attempt to sum up our month in Sri Lanka, providing information and anecdotes across four themes: food, buses, trains, and a general tips and tricks conclusion. It’s my attempt to put out there, into the internet ether, some practical – hopefully entertaining – information for people who may be considering a visit (and you really, really should).
For those who know me, or follow my Instagram, it’ll be no surprise that food would be topic numero uno. Eating and food is not a prime motivation of travel, it is the prime motivation! Maybe that is overstating it just a bit, but, for me, one of the biggest attractions of starting in Sri Lanka and working our way back across to Singapore/Hong Kong was the knowledge of how many glorious cuisines that path would cover.
Additionally, the ‘things to see’ – the monuments, landscapes, historical features, and so on – are all written down in guides, explained in detail; sniffing out that most basic of human needs – sustenance – is one of the great unknown joys (mostly joys) of every day on the road. For me, anyway.
In saying this, I’ve mulled over this post for quite a while. I’m a Sri Lankan cuisine convert for sure, and definitely not someone who sees it as some island offshoot of the complex motherland. Of course there are similarities to India, but a cuisine is also about how food is enacted, how it functions and the role it plays in daily patterns and social life. And here, Sri Lankan cuisine had me sold.
I could rhapsodise on and on, but, I feel, I would only be rhapsodising endlessly about what are variations on common themes. So, instead of some kind of blow-by-blow account – I’ll leave that to moments of personal remembering (there’ll be many) – I offer instead reflections on what I consider the key culinary components I picked up from this most wondrous adventure.
Eating in vs. eating out
Lonely Planet makes the observation that, completely at-odds to other Asian nations, there is not (yet) a great culture of eating out in Sri Lanka. Therefore, eating in at your guesthouse is often your best bet.
I don’t know that this observation holds as true as it implies. It is true that we found more limited options right across the country, but we never had any trouble finding local eateries serving locals eating. True, they did seem to close early – one stark difference between Sri Lanka and India is the calm quiet of most places post-about-9pm – but we’re not Argentinians or fancy Europeans who eat at 10pm. Ain’t nobody got time for that!
However, in saying this, I’m all for eating in, especially when this means being served ‘mother’s cooking’, and mother’s cooking is always best (we all know that). Some of our best meals were unquestionably in-house.
Ahh, the most important meal of the day!
We swung between self-catering oats with milk and bananas (sometimes you need a kind of reassuring familiarity and routine), and eating local breakfasts in-house.
Sri Lankan breakfasts, with similarities to their South Indian counterparts, are culinary marvels. Our sugar-ladden cereal fixation needs a serious overhaul! Simple, yet endlessly varied (each cook has their own recipes, remember), it consists of dal, coconut (pol) sambal, and some kind of rice and/or coconut-based bread to mop it all up (roti, dosa, idly, etc.).
Served with tea, sometimes coffee, and often fruit (pineapple, banana and watermelon being most common), it’s a delicious set up, and always saw us through to lunch. Even better was when it came with pani pol, a pancake stuffed with coconut and jaggery (a darkly delicious unrefined sugar). My heart always slightly sank when we were served an omelette and toast-based Western breakfast, however nice it may have been.
The one great unique component is the hopper, a rice & coconut-based pancake but cooked in hopper pans to make them like little cups of heaven. They come in egg version, with a joyous golden egg at its centre, and also the string hopper, less cup like, but a round mound of squidgy noodles. However they come, they’re a perfect addition.
Tea is phenomenal, of course. Drink it white, drink it black, sweetened and not; drink pots and pots of it. I’ve been a tea + milk drinker my whole life, but I came to really enjoy black tea.
Coffee was a bit of a different story. We didn’t find a single worthy café-style coffee anywhere in the country although, admittedly, I barely bothered looking and just adapted to local options, to avoid inevitable disappointment.
I almost gave up on Ceylon coffee too, after my own aborted attempt at making a cuppa in Sigiriya. However, our last two places served us pots of the stuff, and it was magic; lusciously dark, with a deep flavour all of its own, and made just that bit more wonderful with milk and sugar.
We didn’t drink a lot of alcohol, but the local Lion beer really hit the spot when served chilled in a chilled glass. The local spirit arrak, with notes of whisky smokiness, is also worth trying and rather cheap from alcohol stores (about NZD16 bucks a bottle).
Soda water was available everywhere and became our go to over sugary or chemically-enhanced soda. In saying that, the local Elephant House ginger beer, so much more gingery than our stuff (same goes for the gingernuts; get into them), was enjoyed quite a few times.
Otherwise juices and lassis are the way to go. Mango, pineapple, watermelon, lime, even carrot and lime, were all wonderfully alive. The pick of the bunch for me was definitely woodapple. I described it elsewhere as apple with a tart, tamarind edge. A second, fresh, glass, had me thinking it was almost sherry/port-like. How fancy. The fresh experience I described here.
Bakeries and ‘short eats’
These are the heart of Sri Lankan snacking. These people know how to snack.
We didn’t consume a lot of baked goods, partly because same-same-but-different, but also, I have to confess, partly because of snobbery about the quality of baking from countries without a rich bounty of a available dairy. In fairness to me, this is also based on a lot of disappointment on previous travels (and see my point above about coffee).
However bakeries are everywhere and doing a roaring trade. What we tried was carbrageously yummy. There’s evidently a strong baking tradition on the island. Colonial period? I did particularly enjoy a couple of lump cakes. I couldn’t find anything about them online, but I suspect they came from a drop cake-like recipe flavoured with jaggery, given the vaguely coconut-sweet flavour (and the colour!)
But short eats is where it’s at for me. A delicious, delectable range of small fried snacks, often centred around vege curry contained in some kind of moorish wrapping. From egg and potato curry samosas, with a heavenly crumbed coating, to vege curry roti parcels, savoury doughnuts and fried lentil discs (vadai), these glorious morsels are available literally everywhere. We mostly ate these in and around our transport journeys and at some historical sites, and they were uniformly delicious and comforting, even cold and clearly the end-of-day stragglers.
One thing though: if you are served a plate of short eats, don’t panic, and don’t assume it’s a challenge. You’ll pay for only what you consume. Apparently it’s common practice in some parts/places. It happened to us once, and we overate; not that we regretted it, not one little bit! But don’t feel obliged to be so greedily grateful.
Kottu and Lamprais: the indigenous masterpieces
Kottu I’d seen on TV; lamprais I read about just before we came. Kottu is ubiquitous; lamprais is sadly far less common.
Kottu is genius. Roti or string-hopper, chopped and turned into ribbons of carblisciousness, cooked on the hotplate with your choice(s) of meat/vege/egg/cheese, and served with a curry gravy for you to do the dousing. It’s street food mixed with comfort food mixed with a use-everything imperative.
It’s utterly delicious, and I rarely failed to inhale the entire plateful, even when I thought I couldn’t possibly indulge the pile put before me. That familiar clack-clack-clack sound, of knife on hotplate, which followed us across the land, has now entered the banks of sounds that makes me feel instantly hungry.
If I were to try and hazard an intelligent guess, I would say that the rice and curry ‘packets’, served up across the land as takeaway lunch on-the-go for busy types, may well have their origin in a dish like lamprais.
Foolishly (colonially, even) thinking that it was simply a reverse Anglicisation of its English name, lump rice, lamprais actually evolved during the Dutch colonial period and takes its name from lomprijst (“packet of food”). In its original form, it featured a three-meat curry, ash plantain curry, eggplant curry, a frikkadel (meatball), fish paste, maybe a fried whole-boiled egg, and specially prepared rice, baked and served encased in banana leaf. Sublime.
Evidently, at least the threetimes we tried it, lamprais has undergone some evolution, although there is evidently still some kudos to be gained from maintaining some allegiance to the original. I was happy, more than happy, to have it any way it was coming to me. I just wish I could have had it more often. There are some similarities, in its evolved form, to the truly ubiquitous rice and curry, but nothing beats an all-in-one meal cooked in banana leaf. The gentle flavour imparted by the encasing is utterly unique, as any tropical islanders or cultures with similar dishes would attest.
Curry and rice/rice and curry
And that brings us to the truly national dish, the bland-sounding but infinitely surprising rice and curry. I was a little bit skeptical at first, if I’m honest, but I was quickly won over. Now I could be said to be evangelical!
The genius of rice and curry is that you just order it. There is no thinking and barely any decisions required. It would either arrive, a collection of whatever the day’s curries were, or, if a so-called buffet, you needed to choose which rice, meat (if you were having), and then vege curries you wanted; a bit like those awful Chinese fill-your-own takeaways of yesteryear, which is an awful comparison, but you get the idea.
And what you get is always a surprise and anything other than generic. Firstly, of course, every cook has their own recipes, their own masalas and spice mixtures. No two chicken curries, or bean curries, or even dals for that matter, were ever the same.
Most of all, it felt that, with each curry & rice I ate, I added more new tastes, more new vegetables and dishes to my palate; curries that I probably wouldn’t have ordered on their own. I’m talking about vegetables like loofah, banana flower, jackfruit, leek/spring onion, amberella, cabbage, winged bean, bitter gourd, plantain banana, and baby aubergine, as well as ones more familiar, like cassava, potato, pumpkin and beans.
I was never any less that completely satisfied with rice and curry. It provided endless variety and tastes and, to me, builds in an inspired flexibility that responds to, well, whatever there is to hand, whatever is in season; and that is the real essence of an ingenious cook.
Just finally, there are a few things I picked up that I would describe as key differences between Sri Lanka and India (although, rightfully, India’s cuisine is really cuisines). Firstly, the curries are singular and ubiquitous, similar to curries in Fiji. We did come across dishes like Jaffna-style, and I’m sure there are regional differences, but it was essentially chicken curry, or pork curry, or fish curry, etc. There weren’t kormas and vindaloos and so on.
A lot of coconuts are used throughout the cuisine, similar to what we saw in South India, but seemingly more so. Coconut in dal is a dream. We also found a lot of dishes had a pronounced use of pepper, which was a lovely surprise, and unexpected.
Completely unsurprisingly, there is a lot of seafood here. What was more surprising was the use of dried fish. It appeared as a background (or more pronounced) note in curries, and is a key ingredient in the utterly addictive lunu miris, a chilli condiment with a base of roasted chilli, dried fish, fried onion, salt and lime juice pounded into the most gorgeous dry paste.
I’m sure there’s much more to Sri Lankan food and cuisine, but this hopefully gives you enough of an idea to realise Sri Lankan cuisine can certainly be considered distinct and unique. I look forward to learning, cooking and eating more when we return home.
It’s the closing days of our month-long trek around Sri Lanka, and in this time, we’ve concluded our visits to the ancient capitals, completed the Jaffna to Colombo train journey, and come slightly north, to Negombo, to hang out in a kind of waiting room for our flight to Chennai this afternoon (Sunday).
The last couple of stops have essentially been ‘winding things up’ stops, where the intensity of pace slows down a little, and you start to say your metaphorical goodbyes; who knows when we may come back this way? You inevitably start to reflect.
While on the road, I’ve also been compiling some interesting observations and stories, and have turned them into some hopefully entertaining yet informative posts for potential visitors (and you should all fall into this category!). These ideas have spun out into a four-parter – eating, buses, trains, and general tips and hints – so, although this will be the last post from Sri Lanka, stay tuned for more stories to come; of food, of negotiating public transport, and some observations about tourists and their behaviours.
First though, Anuradhapura. The city holds a special place in Sri Lanka’s history, as the country’s first true capital, from 380BC. It changed hands multiple times over the centuries, as invading Cholas from South India made repeated attacks, and this led to the capital finally being moved further south, to Polonnaruwa, in the early 11th century (a place we visited a week or so ago). Monks lived here for another couple hundred years, or so.
Lonely Planet describes the vast ruins of Anuradhapura as “one of South Asia’s most evocative sights”; elsewhere I saw it referred to as Sri Lanka’s Angkor Wat. Both comments are a bit of an overreach, to be frank, and it does both places a disservice. As I’ve mentioned about the other historic sites here, the nature of the ruins means you have to think and imagine a little more to bring them to life; they’re not going to whack you in the face with Angkor Wat-like ambience. Helpfully, plaques have been placed in front of anything worthy of being noted, and these provide all the material you need to be able to imagine what once was.
Besides, although the ruins are vast – we spent a loooong day, 8.30am-after 6pm, cycling (happily) around its vastness – it’s the dagobas (stupas) that are the real jewels here.
We started at the northern reaches, in the massive Abhayagiri Monastery, which dates back over 2,000 years and housed 5,000 monks at its peak. The ruins are scattered over a large area, so perfect for cycling about. Wonderfully, because it was early, there was hardly anyone around (in contrast to Polonnaruwa).
We started out by taking in a twin set of bathing pools (makes our luxe rain-shower boxes look pretty pale by comparison!), and a very important if a little unremarkable Buddha statue (the only one of four remaining intact, placed facing cardinal directions and looking out from a boddhi tree under which a relic from Buddha was apparently buried).
Our day’s first dagoba was hugely impressive, and we were completely dwarfed by its towering size. At the time, it was one of the largest monuments in the world. Fascinatingly, we were also there as the maintenance crews were weeding. Crikes.
Beyond that, the rest of the site was really just a lot more ruins, of halls and residences and so on and so forth, really lovely to wander about and appreciate, but individually not particularly remarkable. What was remarkable was the huge elephant pool, not a pool for bathing elephants, as we discovered, but an impressive ancient water storage facility.
South of the monastery area is the citadel, dating far later than either of the main sites, but now almost completely reabsorbed by the forest. Lonely Planet says it’s a pertinent lesson in the Buddhist philosophy of impermanence. Yup. We passed through reasonably quickly, although finding a massive trough, used for placing alms (or rice) as offerings/gifts to monks, was pretty cool.
The other key area is Jetavanarama, dominated its gigantic dagoba and surrounded again by a whole bunch of ruins, giving hints about its once town-like livelihood. Even larger than the first, it was the third-largest monument in the world, behind only the two great pyramids of Egypt. Again we were extremely fortunate to be there when it was almost empty, in calming silence, and able to take time to appreciate and take in the scale of the place. The only real soundtrack came from locals coming to make offerings, chant and pray. That part was definitely evocative.
You’d think two huge dagobas would be enough, but no. We spent the remaining few hours before dusk, exploring the final area, east of Jetavanarama, and around the massive water tanks (lakes) built by ancient kings. More important dagobas are here, so we rinsed and repeated the previous experiences, and they were all just as enjoyable; such calm, quiet, and reflectful places. The only bung-note, but not really, was our drive-by of the massive new stupa being built (off-and-on, since 2010) by the government. It’s essentially a monument to the victory of armed forces in the civil war, and, well, you can imagine that not everyone thinks this is an ideal use of a Buddhist monument. Hmmm…
We finished the day visiting what is believed to be the oldest authenticated tree in the world, the sacred Boddhi tree. It was grown from a cutting taken from Buddha’s birthplace, brought here by Princess Sangamitta, sister of the man who introduced Buddhism to Sri Lanka). Sunset was indeed a lovely time to visit, and even though there appears to be significant work being undertaken to secure longevity of the tree, which included noisey saws, it was still a lovely way to end the day, watching the many people coming to make offerings, pray and chant.
Rather wonderfully, we had allocated two days to explore Anuradhapura, but after one very long, very enjoyable, immensely pleasant day, we were done. This gave us our first rest day of the entire trip. Bliss.
Onto Negombo. We’re staying bang in the middle of the city, only really because it was close to our transport in and on to the airport. It’s a reasonably generic town, with some colonial influences still visible and some beautiful churches but, as I say, pace slowing, winding up, so I wasn’t expecting much. However, it’s surprisingly been quite pleasant and gave us some quite unexpected memories to end our month with. The first was the fish market, which includes a fish drying operation that really had to be seen to be believed; so much fish, all sorted and graded, gutted and opened out, preserving themselves in the hot hot sun and ready to be sent to a market near you!
Yesterday, we took a pleasant stroll up the canal (so long as you didn’t look too closely or sniff too deeply; but boy, the Dutch love(d) their canals). We were making our way to the Negombo where the majority of the tourists go: the beach. The scale of it was quite unexpected; I hadn’t realised there would be so much. It was easily the place that felt the most like an internationalised tourist zone, and least like Sri Lanka, in our time here, with a long, long main street lined with hotels and guesthouses, cafes and bars, shops and pizzerias. It was bustling and actually quite pleasant. The beach itself is not quite south coast standard, but made for fine afternoon of strolling and sanding. I can see the attraction of planting yourself here for a bit. It also gave us a phenomenal (and very gratefully eaten) final feast of rice and curry.
But the really unexpected surprise was still to come.
On our walk there, we had come across yet another pretty amazing looking church: the church of St. Sebastian, a Roman Catholic church modelled on the Reims Cathedral. Like the ones we had seen the day before, it was also being dressed up for something; must be a wedding we thought. But, as we were leaving, we noted that the scale of the dressing up seemed to be far more elaborate and we wondered if, perhaps, there was some kind of church festival or feast day happening. We thought no more about it.
On the (long) walk(ing off the curry walk) home, towards the southern stretch of the main road, the street suddenly became draped in lights, creating an archway tunnel effect. How cool, we thought. And then it didn’t end, but went on, and on, and on, and on. And then another street, also festooned, merged into ours, as it continued ever southwards. And then there were speakers chanting Sinhalese something-or-other. OK. And then I was pretty sure I kept hearing the word Sebastian.
And as we got closer to where we had found the church earlier, and the lights continued to twinkle, the penny started to drop. We had found ourselves slap bang in the middle of the massive annual St. Sebastian festival, which takes place around this time of year in many places around the world. Furthermore, St. Sebastian is the patron saint of the city of Negombo, so durr…
It was certainly a sight to behold, and I’ve definitely never seen something Christian on this scale before (and this brightly and colourfully lit). It turns out that similar (and similarly vibrant) St. Sebastian festivals are held across Kerala, South India, so I assume there is a connection here. But the fact that our earlier stumble across the church, as we’d left the canal, and our stumbling back across it later on, were such moments of serendipitous cool, made for a great final memory. It’s something we would never have experienced, if it weren’t for a series of unconnected random decisions, about what to do, where to walk, what to eat, and what to stop and look at; it’s such a nice affirmation of our ambling method of discovery.
And that’s that. I’m now sitting here, packed, ready to go, and trying to comprehend that, in mere hours, we are going to be back in India (I’m also trying to prepare for the inevitable sensory explosion that’s about to hit). I feel a bit anxious; that’s probably not a bad thing. Time to activate the hawk-like defences that we’ll need on the daily.
And I think that’s been probably the biggest surprise about Sri Lanka. We came here expecting mini-India, in some ways, but pretty quickly learnt that India-level defences are not needed here. People are actually genuinely, without-agenda, friendly and helpful. No scammage. No dramas. It’s been an incredibly easy country to travel in (my forthcoming posts will detail all the ways how). And this then leaves far more mental space and energy to relax a bit, ease into island time, appreciate all the many little things that have the last month a dream start to personal sabbatical 2.0.
There is much history here, both historic and more recent, obvious rich culture, gastronomic orgasms galore, and and the kind of variety that people often attribute to the joys of travelling New Zealand. You can do glorious tropical beaches, you can explore its towns and lively bazaars, there’s ancient sites, colonial-era sites, religious sites, hiking and hill country wandering, pilgrimages, and so much more. I’ve loved it all, immensely, and so much more than I thought I would. So my only advice, if you were thinking about visiting, is get here, and quick.
It’s funny. When we were making plans to come to Sri Lanka, the fact that parts of the country were, as recently as a decade ago, effectively civil war-ravaged no-go zones, never really crossed my mind. Perhaps no-go zones is overstating the reality a touch, but I was certainly guilty of being somewhat ignorant, of thinking that the civil war was something that happened further back in the past. Wrong.
The civil war, which officially ended in 2009, is the North’s currently untold story. Everywhere we went in Jaffna the war remains ever present, yet is a silent presence (or, for now, has been silenced). The guides warn against talking about the war, or trying to get locals to engage in a discussion about the war, lest you find yourself in trouble with authorities. And in our month in Sri Lanka, only one local talked to us about it; a guesthouse owner, who raised the topic unprovoked. His words were insightful and telling. Sri Lankans are looking forward now.
What I mean by silent presence is that, everywhere we went, and we covered some ground, there were abandoned and/or dilapidated houses and buildings. In front of some, there were signs advising that the property belonged to a certain someone, or was reserved for some department of the state. I assumed – hopefully correctly – that this relates to a process still ongoing, and not without controversy and conflict, of people dispossessed or who fled during the war, returning to claim their property. In some places, such as the fort, evidence of armed conflict was apparent (pock holes and so forth).
Inside the fort a pile of rubble sits where there used to be a church; the information board, with its colour photos, indicate that it existed until at least as late as the 1970/80s, as the conflict began. We’re left to assume its fate. Silent presence.
On our second day, we hired bikes and cycled out of town, eager to touch the northern tip of the country. We chose the road to Kankasanturai, stopping along the way to cycle through rice paddies and track down a possibly/probably pre-historic Buddhist stupa site; around 50 monuments to monks who died there. It appears to be the job of three military personnel to guard the site, which sits in amongst what is essentially a small village of lanes and was utterly deserted. But, unfortunately, it is also part of the ‘who was here first?’ debate, which caused so many problems here in the first place, so obviously the triumphant state sees the protection of these kinds of sites as very important. Silently noted.
Further north, as you enter KKS, as it’s known, you pass through a not-grand, but what still amounts to a gate; a gate with observation structures where (no doubt armed) guards keep watch. Beyond that, for a few kilometres, the only buildings and homes that line the road are state, police, and military.
Then you get to KKS, arguably the tiniest village we visited in the country. I’m not even sure it is a village, just a name on a map now and a role in the war games that belies its size. Don’t try to get close to the lighthouse. There’s a resort there, though; it’s owned and operated by the military. We grabbed packets of curry and rice and sat on the beach close to its fence, alongside locals doing the same.
The military still controls much land around these parts, and some consider it stolen. This occupation prevents you, for example, from cycling west along the coast, to the famed Keeramalai Springs. Whatever is in that area, you can’t not notice the pretty flash new buildings and roads leading in and out of there, as you cycle around it, at a distance of course. Silent barriers.
So there is much that was strange, a little eerie, about our short time in the North. But then there was so much else besides.
The North is different. I’d read that; now I appreciate it. I wasn’t paying huge amounts of attention as we made our way there from Batti, so I don’t know when exactly the change happens. But once I looked up from my reverie (i.e my phone; I was writing), taking in the gorgeous late-afternoon almost-dusk, the differences were quite stark.
The north is extremely flat and quite sparse, both in terms of geography and flora, and in terms of population. I’d read that the government are systematically removing graveyards of the war dead, which were created in obvious discord to Hindu norms, but were created as, I guess, political symbols, martyrdom memorials. They are replacing them with different types of war memorials, and we passed at least a couple of those too. So from the outset, it definitely adds a different air to the place; it feels like you are entering somewhere else, somewhere different from where you’ve been.
The other really immediate difference is the absence of Buddhism, the huge presence of Hindu temples and shrines, and, somewhat surprisingly, or at least unexpectedly, a huge presence of Jesus. Churches and Christian shrines are dotted about the place, crosses and ‘Jesus saves’ emblazoned on the odd tuk-tuk or three.
On our first full day, we explored the city on foot, taking all of this in and falling under the spell of its gorgeous architecture and easy-feeling vibe. I loved that there were lots of people cycling; multiple forms of transport all sharing the space with casual ease.
Jaffna is a really fascinating place, and I am sure it will change a lot in coming years. Second to Colombo, it is the place where we have seen the most signs of change and construction. There are hotels and buildings being built, a new (modest) mall has opened right in the centre, and you get the real sense that people are both ready for this and egging it on, eager to move passed the troubled few decades of civil strife.
On the war, it is no doubt still far too raw a memory for people, and there is undoubtedly a lot of unresolved tensions to be worked through, especially to do with people claiming ownership of lands they may have fled from, or been moved off.
It will take time, but hopefully, one day, Jaffna will be able to tell its story; in writing, in oral histories, in museums, and so on. It feels like Sri Lanka really is about to boom, tourism-wise, and the North is in prime position to capitalise on this and use the cash for its own development. I am sure a lot of people would be interested in coming here to learn/see more.
Furthermore, in my humble eater’s opinion, Jaffna should also be promoting itself as Sri Lanka’s culinary tourism capital, as the food here was mesmerisingly outstanding (and I speak from having tread a path already filled with Lankan gastronomic highlights!).
In short, there is much here to celebrate and share. I could easily have spent another couple of days here (if not longer), exploring more of its countryside: Point Pedro, the west coast of the peninsula, and south-west of the city, over the causeway and into the countryside. It really is a fascinating place, and I hope the change that is coming keeps what is unique about the place, and simply enhances it. As with anywhere that courts and then comes under the intense and sometimes destructive gaze of the tourist, it risks losing its casual, easy nature and replacing it with something a little more harsh, unfriendly, jaded. And the North has had too much of this already in its recent past. It’s time for something different.
When we did ‘the big trip’ of 2013, rarely, but it did occasionally happen, you’d decide to go somewhere, arrive, and from the first moment, something was just not quite right. Sihanoukville in Cambodia, Vientiane in Laos, and Madurai, India, in spite of its temple magnificence, spring to mind. It’s hard to put into words, but it’s like something about the aura, the energy of the place, it’s just a little off, out of sync. Batticaloa, on Sri Lanka’s east coast, can now join that list.
I had anticipated Batti, as it’s called, to be a restful two-night stopover on our way to the far north; a chance to recharge the batteries with coastal air. Our train out there, a most leisurely ride in a breezy, almost empty third-class carriage, seemed to be setting us up for this. Everything I’d read about the place screamed ‘mellow vibes’.
When this disconnect happens, it does seem to happen from the moment you arrive; first impressions and all. And sure enough, as soon as we exited the train station, I remember thinking that this is not quite what I was anticipating. Now of course expectations are no-one but my own’s to manage; the problem, I’ve come to think, is that there was just no vibe at all. In spite of the not insignificant amount of coverage Batti gets in the travel guides, it appears we arrived in a town that is just not set up for and does not seem to receive visitors; non-Sri Lankan visitors, at least.
We had a slight moment of confusion finding our accommodation – never great when carrying your temporary life on your back, in the hot midday sun – and when we arrived, I’d not exactly call the reception welcoming. Nonetheless we got settled and thought great, the most highly-rated cafe on TripAdvisor is only a few hundred metres away. Except that, when we got there, it was closed; well, the gate was open but it was deserted. All we found was a dog gnashing its teeth at us down the street.
So we walked into the new town to find lunch. Look out for bike rentals on the way, I said. We’ll want to hire bikes tomorrow so we can explore the coast. What’d we see? Nada. Nothing. Bizarre.
After finding lunch – biryani, perfect – the rest of the afternoon was actually fine. We wandered south, across a bridge into old town, which is actually a small island, and explored the small Dutch fort, the bazaar, and wandered around its interesting suburban streets – there are lanes and alleyways all over the place – finding many of its pretty churches. It is quite pretty, surrounded by a lagoon, and I really loved a lot of the architecture, both religious and more domestically functional. Certainly, it felt pretty chilled, even if people were staring as if to say, ‘what on earth are you doing here?’.
Tomorrow will be fine, I said: beach day, and then we’ll find the tourists.
Except we didn’t, and it really only got more bizarre. I had imagined finding a beach, not crowded for sure, but with people beaching, and being able to lounge somewhere for lunch, and hiring bikes to explore the sandy peninsula.
We found the beach easy enough. Over the 1924-built bridge east from the new town, and a bit further east from there, and you find a glorious, long, wide expanse of golden sand, stretching up and down as far as you can see. And there was no one there; no cafes, no bike rentals. The only place we came across was padlock-closed.
In New Zealand, finding yourself on a deserted stretch of beach is not completely unusual, and in fact it’s rather lovely. But what made this eerie was that it’s set up for beachgoers: a long boardwalk, street lights, and chairs and pagodas. Deserted.
And then you see a reminder of that Boxing Day in 2004, when the wave came ashore. And then you start to realise that you’ve been walking passed the evidence all along. Empty sections are dotted about the place, and all the houses are new, and if they’re old, they were lucky at the time, now most definitely unlucky looking.
And then you see the memorials.
And then you see the temple now sitting like the Leaning Temple of Batti; except no-one’s visiting.
And then it started to feel like it made sense, and we wondered whether we had arrived at a party already over, or way too early for one that’s yet to begin, in this country now atop the ranks of must-see nations.
So we returned to our inhospitable hospitality provider with many questions. Was Batti once on the holidaymakers’ radar, and has never recovered from that day? One of the memorials seemed to have a lot if nonlocal looking names among those so unlucky on that fateful day. Or is it yet to be put on the map, but lacking the resources – both natural and financial – to compete with its long popular southern coast cousins?
It appears to be both, neither. It’s true that tourists were among those killed on that day in 2004, but I couldn’t find anything to suggest that Batti was ever a tourist Mecca of thousands, suddenly wiped from the map and struggling to recover. In fact, Batticoloa – and all up the Eastern coast – were quite heavily impacted by the ongoing Civil War (I had thought it more concentrated in the North). This kept tourists away and primarily concentrated in the South, and the region was therefore dealt a double blow when the wave hit as well. Batticoloa was actually the worst affected district, with well over half its population impacted in some way, and over 10% of the lives lost in the country were lost here (3,500 out of 35K).
So it is what it is, and what it is I’m still not sure. Perhaps Batti is more of a domestic holiday spot, coming alive during Sri Lanka’s New Year holidays in April?
I certainly don’t regret coming here. There was enough to make it interesting, and it was a timely reminder of the destructive power of our watery origins and an event that is – rightfully so – most often framed in terms of its impact in Indonesia.
If our stay in Kandy marked the end of our jaunt through Sri Lanka’s hill country, then it was also a narratively-handy segue into the country’s fascinating ancient heart, given its special role as keeper of so much history and culture. In quick succession, the four nights after we left saw us visit three more very important historic sites: the awe-inspiring palace/monastery on a rock at Sigiriya, the serene caves of Dambulla, and the vast ruins of a former capital city, Polonnaruwa.
Fortunately for us – in that we’ll avoid ‘temple fatigue’ – we will return to see the jewel in the crown, Anuradhapura, after a couple of coastal stops; one in the East and the other at the very northern tip of the island.
SIGIRIYA is one of Sri Lanka’s world-famous, must-see attractions. A sprawling 1.6 hectare complex sitting atop a giant rock, towering over the forested plains beneath, it screams historical heavyweight.
By all accounts, it was constructed as a fortress palace for King Kasyapa, who assassinated his father and was obviously concerned that folks unimpressed with his act of parricide might try to enact revenge. Thus he wanted somewhere unassailable, and he couldn’t have chosen much better to be honest. This was late-400s AD. Possibly/probably it was used, after his reign, as a monastery, before being finally abandoned in the 1400s.
We arrived in the early afternoon and, with a luscious intro to local curry & rice out the way, we set out to bike around the local area and climb another rock to see the sunset over the main attraction. It was a glorious sight, and it reminded me of the episode of An Idiot Abroad (I think), where, taking in a marvel of architecture in the ancient Jordanian city of Petra, it was remarked that the best place to live is opposite the best place, because then that’s your view!
We were up and at ’em early the next day, determined to make it to the summit before both the marauding tour groups and the heat arrived. We won on the first count, as there were definitely more people arriving than we had to share the space with, as we were coming down. We needn’t had worried on the second count, as the day was overcast and cool the entire time; no hats or even sunscreen required!
The ascent was certainly nothing compared to our Adam’s Peak escapades, but was a physical challenge nonetheless. Helpfully, the climb is not incessant.
You can say that you climb a third, including a fairly stomach-churning spiral staircase, and arrive at the wall of frescoes, so incredibly well preserved (and how did they climb up there to paint them, whoever they were?). Also there is the ‘mirror wall’, so-called because in certain conditions it apparently gave/gives a mirror-like reflection. Centuries and centuries and centuries ago, it was also a site for graffiti, and it helped linguists to chart the development of the Sinhalese language and script.
Back down a spiral staircase and along and up some more, you arrive at the Lion’s Paw (Sigiriya means Lion Rock) where, as well as the excavated giant paws there apparently once sat a large sculpture of a lion.
Walking up through the paws, the final cliff-hugging ascent begins.
Once on top, monkey welcome complete, Sigiriya reveals itself, and the scale is spectacularly impressive. They must have had a wild ancient pulley system to haul all the materials up to such a height, surely.
Lonely Planet says that the summit is not that visually impressive as is mostly foundations; I’m not too sure I agree. Sure, it’s not intact to the degree of other places, with the famed Machu Picchu being the most obvious comparison. But all this means is that’s it’s not as obvious, and you do have to imagine what it might have been like. It’s not hard.
There are palace complexes, audience halls, water storage facilities, and the most amazing cliff top plunge pool not for hire! We spent ages strolling around and soaking up its bewildering atmosphere, and I was especially drawn to its abundance of staircases and angular features, which reminded me somewhat of M.C. Escher’s famous ‘Relativity’ lithograph; you know one, with all the stairs that go nowhere…
On way down, we spent equally as long exploring the extensive terraced gardens, royal gardens, and huge complex of pools/storage tanks/irrigation systems (probably all three). They spread out from the rock’s lower slopes and around its base. Again, they were full of staircases, symmetry and angles; the designers would have won a Home and Garden award, hands down. It was a brilliant day, and our second installment of curry & rice was well earned!
The next day we took a local bus to the nearby dusty town of DAMBULLA, notable for two things: its ancient caves and the country’s largest wholesale produce market.
We started with the caves.
The five caves are situated alongside one another, in an easily meanderable royal rock complex located on the lower slope of a hill (New Zealanders)/mountain (others) south of Dambulla town. The first Buddha sculptures were carved here over two-thousand years ago, and subsequent kings added successive waves of additions. As a result, the caves are full of Buddha figures, stupas, and sculptures of other deities (showing the influence of Hinduism), and the roofs and walls are completely covered in colourful stencils and depictions too.
Cave number two is by far the largest and walking into it is a breathtaking moment, like walking into the most wonderful Buddhist grotto. We were surrounded by sculptures and stencils en masse. It’s the kind of place that seems to demand reverential silence, yet also, like the myth of Santa’s grotto, makes you want to squeal with childlike wonder and delight.
The wonderful thing about our Dambulla experience, is that we had little prior knowledge about what we were going to see; only that it was something to see. This lack of expectation only served to make its eventual impact all the more pronounced.
It was a quietly sublime experience; serene even. Not a big, brash fort or hilltop palace, but some quite unassuming caves filled with artistic splendour.
A limitation to visiting a stream of must-see historical sites in a row, is that the extensive nature of some of them can sometimes overwhelm, and result in what we might call tourism (or touring) fatigue. Fortunately, here, the caves are perfectly formed for a compact yet comprehensive experience; we left feeling neither underwhelmed nor overstimulated. Just right.
The produce market was equally gob-smacking, although obviously in terms of scale and delicious possibilities, as opposed to ecclesiastical significance. A number of giant sheds lined with wholesalers and fronted with massive mounds of everything that, as I evocatively read somewhere, will be on Colombo dinner tables the next night.
Honking, beeping, yelling and selling, it was your standard market experience writ so very large, and helped to stoke our appetite for a final helping of curry and rice back in Sigiriya.
Our final stop in the historic trifecta was the ancient capital of POLONNARUWA, now in ruins. We hired bikes to explore the extensive evidence of its former royal glory, which lasted a few hundred years from the early 1000s.
It was first made a capital by an invading South Indian Chola dynasty, who moved the capital here from Anuradhapura, which had ruled over the island for 1,400 years and which will be our last stop. The Cholas ruled from here for 53 years, until control of the country was retaken by King Vijayabahu I in 1070; he decided to keep the capital here.
Most of the ruins relate to the reign of the third king, ‘Parakramabahu the great’ (1153-1186), under whose rule the development of the city reached its zenith; however we saw remnants of the first three reigns as well as the Chola empire (and no doubt subsequent kings too).
However it was definitely Parakramabahu who enhanced, expanded and enlarged the city, with much of it having been destroyed by previous wars, and today you can see clearly evidence of the original citadel, the larger walled city with its bazaar-lined main road, and a number of monasteries and temples beyond the city walls (including one that covered an astonishing 35 hectares).
The rather lovely ‘lake’ that sits beside Polonnaruwa, around part of which we took pleasant rides on both nights we were in town, is actually an amalgamation of three ancient tanks, used for water supply and irrigation (and it still seems to function in this way, with canals and sluices controlling the flow, and people also bath and wash in it, too). The lake may incorporate the huge 25-sq/km water tank that Parakramabahu constructed.
A long day’s exploring took us on a journey through palaces, audience halls and meeting rooms, pools, monasteries, shrines, temples and dagobas. Some were large, some were small; some were exquisitely detailed, others more ruinous. Quite a few displayed the influence of Hinduism. In fact, in the ancient city, there are a number of Hindu temples, something that is attributed to a degree of religious tolerance practiced by the Buddhist rulers.
Global trade also made it here, and evidence of trade and exchange with places as far away as Rome and Arabia has been found in coinage, ceramics and a particular type of teapot used only in royal ceremonies, indicating an important delegation from China had once visited.
Apart from ohhing and ahhing at some of the more magnificent remains, one of the more memorable moments of the day came at a Hindu temple that dates back to the Chola empire.
By pure happenstance, we were there as a Tamil family were making an offering to the deity by pouring milk on the idols; it was something I’ve never seen before so was interesting to observe (as was the nearby monkeys, who quickly lept on them to lick the milk before the family had a chance to finish the prayer by cleaning the idols).
One other observation I enjoyed mulling over was that Polonnaruwa is such a vast complex, over which now sits a lot of growth and the modern village. It’s incredible to think about what might still be sitting underneath the surface, waiting to be found and understood. That there appeared to be evidence of ongoing work only added to this archaeology-in-process aura.
Before we came to Sri Lanka, I read about people complaining about the cost of some of these sites; Sigiriya is USD$30 per adult, for example, Polonnaruwa USD$25. Given there are a number of these sites to visit, you are indeed forking out a fair whack of USD to take them all in.
However, the sites are immaculately maintained, and, it appears, there is still a lot of excavation and restoration work to do, to really uncover this country’s rich history. Admission fees go directly to the CCF, the Central Cultural Fund, so my take is that if the money is paying for more archeologists, more archeological research, providing jobs in site maintenance and upkeep and so on and so forth, then I’m all for it.
Pay up or stay home and reflect on the privilege that allows you to complain about paying to see historical sites on holiday! We’ve had an incredible last week, and seen and learnt about things that far exceed the value of some USD!
A final food note
Our attention has certainly been concentrated on the sites in recent days, however one must always eat. Well.
In Sigiriya, we were treated to amazing curry & rice three days in a row, mostly right next door to our guesthouse. New curry flavours were in abundance: winged bean, supersized white bean, banana flower, loofah, and pea eggplant, as well as notable okra, pumpkin and cabbage delights (among others). In order to get around liquor licensing issues, at one place we were curiously served beer in a teapot. As you do.
In Polonnaruwa, vege curries were multiple in our ring a ring a rosy dinner, but this was completely overshadowed by our guesthouse feast the next night: exquisite chicken, okra, potato, eggplant, and a new addiction…amberella.
Yes, it’s been a deliciously eventful few days for the MC-Dyers…
Sri Lanka’s Hill Country is defined, really, by one thing: tea. It’s the crop that the British famously brought to Ceylon in the nineteenth century, when the country’s coffee crop failed, and it is probably the thing for which Sri Lanka remains most known for internationally today.
Hill Country’s cooler climate and rolling, rolling hills made it a perfect spot to introduce this non-native crop, and great swathes of the countryside were cleared in order to feed Britain’s insatiable appetite. I knew Sri Lanka had tea, but I guess I did not appreciate quite how extensively the distinctive plants carpet this part of the nation. Tea is everywhere; it dominates and defines the rhythm of local communities and economies. And it is achingly pretty, like a form of topiary on the grandest scale possible.
We made three stops in Hill Country, at places with quite distinct and different profiles: a backpacker favourite, a British colonial outpost, and the last place to fall under colonial rule, and thus a natural centre for pre-colonial Sri Lankan culture.
There are, in fact, loads of other spots that seem to be eminently stoppable. On our trips through the countryside, we saw lots of tourists who seemed to be DIY exploring all over the place, basing themselves wherever a town with accommodation and food options was available.
It is gorgeous countryside, and a really appealing thought to be able to wander amongst it fairly freely (probably sticking close-ish to the train tracks; there’s no real risk of being hit by a train and certainly no one is going to stop you).
Our first stop was backpacker vibes-ville, Ella, which looks at risk of jumping the shark into overdevelopment, but for now sits on the side of charming. Just. A fellow traveller we met in Nuwara Eliya, with Sri Lankan ancestry, laughed when she told us that locals have started going to Ella because they assume there’s something there they’ve missed, since so many foreigners are going there. There isn’t especially; it’s just got a nice feel with a few points of interest in the surrounds. The small town is hemmed in by hills at all angles so it can’t really not be visually appealing.
After resting on the first afternoon, it meant we only had one full day to explore these surrounds. We spent it doing a loop walk that took us through/beside tea plantations, up to Little Adam’s Peak (or peaks), down to the famous Nine Arches Bridge, and finishing with a pleasant stroll along the train tracks back to the very pretty Ella train station.
That’s essentially what Ella is for: strolling (or tuk-tuk-ing, if you must) out from town, into the hills to explore. Undeniably the place charmed us: its relaxed pace, its beauty, its mountain climate respite (we were wearing light jerseys by around 4pm, and it felt great!).
It will also always be the place where my mission to savour Sri Lanka’s culinary masterpiece, lamprais, began.
Our next stop was Nuwara Eliya, most well known as a colonial hill station. To its credit, this reasonably cute wee town has not gone down the road of turning itself into a patiche of Britishness, now that the Empire has well and truly left. I had feared that we might walk into a sea of Union Jacks and cucumber sandwiches.
What this does mean though, is that you need to look a little beyond the obvious symbols, like the old Post Office and other colonial era buildings, for signs of its history as a summer retreat for fancy people. This is very much a functioning town, as opposed to Ella, which centres solely on the tourist economy. So, here, tourists and locals alike are sharing the same space while going about their mutual activities.
On our first afternoon, for example, we strolled out from our guesthouse, turned into what we had been told was some kind of Sunday market fair, still going strong, which then merged into one of the more bustly markets we’ve been to so far. And how I love me a produce market: the piles of resplendent vege, the spices and grains, the noise, the smells, the wax and wane. This then led us out to what is/was obviously the old local part of town, possibly a Muslim quarter, where we found a Cargill’s grocery dating to the mid-1800s.
Wandering back down into the main town is where we collided with tourists, taking in the more picturesque aspects, like the Post Office, Victoria Park gardens and Lake Gregory. Inside the park there is also a little museum, containing a small but fascinating collection of mostly colonial era photographs (me being a huge photography fan, especially historical, I lapped it up).
Because NE acted as the base for our epic adventure up the real Adam’s Peak, and the recovery from, we didn’t do a whole lot else; again just enjoying the hilly ambience. Similar to elsewhere, it is the surrounding hills where points of interest lie (treks, waterfalls, etc.).
We had a couple of great in-house dinners, chatting with fellow travellers from UK, Australia and Germany. We feel much more versed in matters of the EU and Brexit as a result, and are really glad we’re living on the opposite side of the planet. Shit sounds messed up!
For those of you commenting about the absence of food, our second dinner was a fireside feast and one to be savoured: chicken, okra/lady finger, potato, soy meat, and watergrass curries + dal (watergrass is a quite dense leafy green).
Also, immediately before and after the epic climb, we had delectable off-menu curry + rice at a place called Milano Restaurant, which wasn’t so well reviewed online. Thank God we took the waiter’s suggestion – no idea why it was ‘off-menu’ – because it was phenomenal and included, among other dishes, a nicely firey chicken curry, green bean curry (cooked with some kind of oily fish paste) and…..cassava curry. Oh yes. It was like coconut-based dal pureed into a completely smooth curry and then simmered forever with chunks of my beloved thick starchy carb. Heavenly.
Our final stop was the city of Kandy, an ancient kingdom centre that managed to stave off both the Portuguese and Dutch, but that finally fell to the Brits at the start of the 1800s. It’s still in Hill Country, but is definitely en route back to sea level. Much hotter, although still pretty pleasant at night, the landscape nonetheless noticeably moves away from tea plantations and back to more tropical-looking flora.
It was probably our favourite stop of the three, combining pretty – another lakeside location hemmed in by hills – with a bustling and cosmopolitan feel and some must-see attractions.
We eased our way into this, starting off with a couple of meditative temples, a 175-year old Anglican church, and a stroll up to a giant seated Buddha who oversees the city. Hey gurrl.
We also strolled around the lake, which turned out to be manmade by order of the last Lankan king, and the immaculately maintained British garrison cemetery.
The young gardener showed us around, telling us all sorts of interesting stories about the people buried there: the woman who died of a broken heart, the man trampled by an elephant, the man who died when the roof of the restaurant he was eating in collapsed, the man who died when a cricket ball hit him in the head, the important people buried there – the members of the Cargill empire, the decorated army man who fought in Waterloo – and lots and lots of young people and babies/children. It paints a picture of pretty brutal, short lives in early colonial era Kandy.
On our final day, we hit the big guns. First up, the temple complex containing Buddha’s sacred tooth, which makes this the most venerated spot for Buddhists in the country (and a top pilgrimage spot for all Buddhists). We attended the morning puja (prayer), joining the throngs of locals and tourists.
By virtue of absent-minded line joining, we ended up in the queue to go into the actual shrine where the tooth is kept inside a Russian doll-like series of caskets (of course). By the time we made it to the front, the sheer number of devotees and the curious meant there was no way everyone was going to get inside. Instead, it appears a decision was made to allow everyone to just file passed the open golden door, taking in a glimpse and perhaps making a quick offering to the infamous shrine.
So we ended up spending a lot of time in the temple, but it was fascinating to watch the people coming to make offerings and chant. It was both serene and chaotic at the same time: a heaving mass yet so intensely personal, and very memorable.
Afterwards we explored the rest of the complex: other shrines, an interesting museum, an open-sidded audience hall, a three-level octagon rotunda the last king built to store religious texts and watch parades and processions, and the world’s only taxidermied elephant. Yup. The whole morning was a trip highlight for sure.
In the evening we went to a show of ‘traditional’ music and dance. There was acrobatics, fire walking, plate spinning, rice cultivation dances, and dragons. I suspect some of its content may well be a little more recently invented, rather than historically accurate, but it’s certainly made me interested in learning more, and it was very entertaining.
Foodwise, Kandy was a treat. At the Muslim Hotel, we took in kottu and these wondrous things called kabool, beef and veges freshly stir-fried with egg, fresh and hot and contained within a light as air pastry triangle.
Day two I reacquainted myself with that South Indian wonder, dosa, and we went air-conditioned, white table cloths for a pork curry and rice feast.
On our final day, we tracked down lamprais recommended and fondly recalled by a Kiwi-Kandyan, and for dinner, I finally broke the Western drought, and lapped up a giant, fluffy sandwich stuffed with egg, cheese and wonderfully spicy onion sambal. We had spied them the day before, stopping in at the Empire Cafe for a chai; I’m glad we returned.
And that’s our Hill Country in a (yes, okay, long-winded) nutshell: a super enjoyable week-long meander through gorgeous surrounds and historic highs. Now onto the Ancient Centre…
It was as we were hurtling along a ludicrously winding, unlit metal road, in the middle of nowhere, in a 1960s-era bus, original condition, that I realised just how bizarre our pilgrimage had already become. We were essentially rally driving in a bus, watching the left hand side swing wildly to the right, and back and forth; trees, houses and small temples flashing passed, in and out of darkness. Beep, oncoming tuk-tuk; beep and veer, oncoming van; beep, veer and slow down, oncoming bus.
On paper, it had always seemed like a pretty crazy proposition: catch a bus, maybe two, to what sounded like the back of beyond, to wait for the middle of the night, to climb a mountain, using a festoon-lit path of 6,000 steps, to see a sun rise.
Sri Pada, or Adam’s Peak, is perhaps Sri Lanka’s most preeminent religious site. Every year, from full moon in December until full moon in May, untold numbers of pilgrims come to ascend its peak and see what is believed to be the footprint of Buddha as he ascended to paradise.
If your beliefs are elsewhere, it is the place where Adam (of Adam and Eve fame) first came to earth after being turfed out of heaven, or, further still it’s the footprint of St. Thomas, the early apostle of India, or even Lord Shiva himself. Essentially, what this means is that the site is rather holy for a whole lot of people, and January is right in season!
Cleverly, actually more just dumb luck of timing, the night chosen for us to make our ascent was neither a weekend nor a puja night (full moon). On these nights, the reported crowds add hours to the climb, as the masses descend on the area to heave themselves up the lit path to devotion. Of course, there is a certain appeal to timing the experience to coincide with this.
Our night was far quieter. The carnivalesque scenes I’d read about, and quietly hoped for, even just a little, transpired as sitting in a brightly-neon restaurant waiting out the ticking clock, listening to what sounded like a local equivalent of love songs to midnight on the local FM station…groovy!
Thankfully our bus ride included an unscheduled local cultural experience, added in for free.
We thought we’d struck it lucky: a direct 4pm bus from Nuwara Eliya (I still can’t give a pronunciation guide), where we were staying, to Dalhousie (as it looks), at the foot of the mountain.
Then the bus filled up. Then it filled up some more, and for the next 90 minutes, we were squashed into the back seat with three adults and a child. No mind, it was lovely ride through gorgeous tea country; the estates and plantations holding our attention the whole way.
We arrived at Hatton, a major interchange, half an hour earlier than expected, so thought we were #winning. The conductor said that we’d break for about ten minutes. We’d already worked this out, the ‘local bus pros’ we are now, that the bus in front of us would leave once full, then we’d take its place, filling up while inching forward until we breached the traffic current and either moved off or got tooted into oblivion.
The road out of Hatton slowly becomes more rural, windy and narrow, and, as the last light disappeared from the day, the rally driver was awoken. The bumper car part of the ride began, and it looked like we were going to make excellent time. I had read that the road can become log-jammed in season, so I wondered if that’s what the driver knew lay ahead.
However, as we got closer and closer, no scenes of mass pilgrimage appeared, nothing but chilly darkness. That sinking feeling that we were going to arrive into a ghost town with hours to burn added to the rally-induced knots already performing acrobatics in my stomach.
Until suddenly we stopped.
There, in front of us, around a sharp bend, a bus had broken down. The road was too narrow for anything larger than a small van to pass by, so it soon became pretty clear that, until the other bus moved, we were going nowhere. Ignition off.
The first hour passed by easily enough. After ten minutes or so a local man, who works for the local education office, got on the bus and started chatting to us about all manner of subjects: education, jobs, NZ (of course), Sri Lanka (of course), cricket, and how easy it might be for his sons to migrate.
After an hour, I lay awkwardly across half the back seat, head resting on bag, and dozed as the kids became ever restless and fellow passangers’ conversations louder. Our new friend moved on to practicing his English on a Russian woman who got on. The whole atmosphere was fortunately pretty jovial; an acceptance that sh*t happens.
Suddenly, at 9.17pm, the bus roared back into life, and the traffic jam slowly cleared. Where I’d thought that the bus driver might think, “well, f*ck it, we’re already two hours late, might as well just cruise in”, he instead seemed even more determined to test the limits of his bus’ suspension. And so it was we found ourselves hurtling down the road, me considering my life’s choices. That we made it safe with internals albeit shaken is a testament to both the driver’s skill and obvious muscle memory; he knew these roads, every corner and bend.
And so we found ourselves in Dalhousie, in a restaurant, drinking tea and diving into a bag of fried ‘short eats’ deliciousness.
It’s 11.07pm, and I’m now so wired from the afternoon’s ‘adventure’, I’ve started writing this post on my phone. A large group of young local teenagers left a little while back to begin their ascent. Another group wandered passed a few minutes ago, and now three young local guys have wandered in, in search of pre-climb sustenance. When we arrived there were a couple of groups of tourists at the bus stand; I assume they started the climb early too. Otherwise it’s fairly quiet.
There’s loads of stalls lining the streets around us, but 90-95% of them are closed. I imagine they’ll spring to life closer to the 2.30am start time recommended to get to the top by sunrise. I assume that’s when people will emerge from their hotel cocoons.
I won’t be trite and call the climb a religious experience, as I’m not (yet) religious. No it was a physical endurance test through which I was able to experience and appreciate more the concept of religious pilgrimage. It was sublime, a once-in-a-lifetime that will no doubt be recalled for years to come.
It starts out slightly otherworldly: you’re walking between rows of stalls selling everything you could imagine one may possibly need on pilgrimage, like food and drink, religious material and stuff with which to make offerings. But there is also much more stuff that you could never imagine anyone needing: a plastic cricket set, anyone; giant cuddly toys? This is hardly Bruce Forsyth’s The Generation Game.
The stalls slowly start to wane, but are a fairly constant companion most of the way up. Again, mostly closed however. Where they were open, at least at first, the strangeness of two foreigners walking through in the dead of night meant that there was always at least an acknowledgement communicated with eyes: yup, we are all bonkers! Other than that it was just us and the occasional person or people returning from having done an earlier evening climb.
However, from about half way up, we started seeing more people: groups of young people, couples, families including grandparents, the occasional tourists. Not many, but enough to make the experience not solitary.
The grandparents-included family were particularly memorable as they were walking accompanied by a soundtrack of recorded chants, adding a fitting soundtrack to a still might. The way up was accompanied by a lot of music and lights, in fact. There was a monk leading a group of presumably his students, chanting the entire way and becoming increasingly animated with each repetition, and groups of teenage boys and many stalls with boomboxes; Sri Lankan and Bollywood pop the order of the day.
In addition to the street lamps, there were many illuminated and hyper-coloured religious displays and stalls on the way up too.
We barnstormed our way to the top. By 3am we were approaching the summit but sunrise wasn’t until six. Bugger. So we stopped at a rest stop and had a couple of rounds of tea, marvelling at how they manage to cart food and drink supplies all the way up a mountain.
The top is actually quite a large complex, with showers, toilets, shops, a kitchen, waiting rooms, and, of course, the temple. This was a welcome site as the very steep narrow stairs leading there, combined with visual confirmation that the sides of the mountain were rapidly encroaching, and view the backwards, which, even in dark night was spectacularly expansive and exposed, had my vertigo in a very overactive state!
By 4.30am we had found a possie, and rugged up: jerseys, jackets, hats, trouser extensions, double socks, and scarves. We were sitting close to the bell that you can ring, once for every time you have completed the ascent. The number of repeat visitors ringing out to the heavens, combined with annoying tourists taking their instagram selfies, soon extinguished what was left of my over-tired patience, so we moved around to the Eastern side, conveniently, of course, where the sun would soon breach the dark sky.
I took a moment to go into the temple to look at Buddha et al.’s footprint, which you really can’t see, as it’s covered and surrounded by a lot of stuff indicating its significance. But certainly, my fellow line companions, making offerings and kneeling to tap their heads against the rock, were taking it very seriously, as was the policeman making sure everyone behaved.
Not long after 5am, it was becoming increasingly busy (although it was never packed) and was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and cold lying-sitting on cold concrete anyway, so we got into position for a reasonable view, and waited.
Dawn actually broke not too long after, around 5.30am, and suddenly you could see just how far up we had come, as hills and mountains emerged from the cloak of night all around us. And slowly and surely, excruciatingly almost, the sky went from charcoal to blue and green hues with an every-brightening fierce orange glow at the centre; temple musicians playing along, willing the sun to break over the horizon.
And then the pay-off: the kind of feeling and elation that comes from watching a sunrise in a significantly sacred and stunning location, and the satisfaction that comes from knowing the endurance and effort expended to get there.
There was a lols-worthy elderly British gent sarcastically laughing at us all and saying, when you get to my age, all sunrises are the same. And, although he is correct, he is also wrong, for what precedes the sunrises that humans experience in waking hours is not the same, and some are just more special than others.
It was all over relatively quickly. Most tourists buggered off as soon as they had their new Facebook cover photo; they didn’t stay to witness the Monks make their daily offerings and listen to the daily prayers of the faithful. Despite my lack of religion, it was still sublime to witness. It appears they also didn’t know that, shortly after sunrise, if you go over to the Western corner of the complex, you can see a magnificent shadow of the mountain cast onto the landscape below. Luckily, a former colleague, who completed the climb in the 1970s, had told me about it, and we got to experience that final piece of the experience trifecta, while prayers were still going on, more or less alone.
We descended rather more quickly than we ascended, although the pain we are now feeling is definitely the result of the latter. It also allowed us to take in the views that were now before us in clear light and to really make sense of just what a feat we had achieved: our crazy pursuit to climb a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. Yup, definitely one for the long-term memory banks, this one!
I’m going to start with our experience of the Udawalawe (ew-dah-lah-wahway, kinda), so I can end with superlatives when describing luscious dreamy tropical beach landscapes!
Udawalawe, oh Udawalawe: you were supposed to be so much; instead I left slightly conflicted and a bit underwhelmed.
We arrived in the small one main street town of Udawalawe after an epic three bus connections adventure (I’ll write about this in another post). We were pretty knackered after five days in Sri Lanka and pretty much hitting the ground running on each of them, so we didn’t explore the town and just stayed in, enjoying the rather lovely family-run guesthouse we were staying at down a long, long drive; it felt like (and sounded like) being in the bush.
Soon enough, a young Spanish couple travelling with a third friend/family member and their young son turned up, and we spent an enjoyable evening chatting, learning about the small town they’re from (Alcorisa), their mining history, olive oil production, and strange Easter festivities!
A dull thud at 4.40am, like a muffled hammer to the head, woke us. It was hot; the fan really only recirculating heavy air around our interior bedroom. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m not a morning person anyway – never have been and clearly never will be – so this was never going to be an ideal wake up call!
By 5am, we’re in the truck and speeding off in the dark, joining a rapidly multiplying caravan of converted 4x4s along the road outside the main entrance to the national park. This was the first of a few stops actually, and we didn’t get into the park proper until just after 7am. This is just the way it is: all the trucks line up, and then, slowly, you inch forward, as they let in more and more small groups of trucks. I just wish I’d known; I would have taken a book or podcast to listen to, and the time passing would have mattered little.
Once inside, what the experience was going to entail became clear: a lot of trucks circling around and zeroing in when something notable was ‘found’. I did remark at one point, it was like herds of 4x4s chasing herds of elephants! Who’s doing the safari-ing, them or us? This did, though, became slowly less intense as the experience continued and, I guess, trucks were able to spread out as we reached further into the what is a huge park.
However, to be clear, there were no moments when it was just us, alone, driving about, spotting this and that. This is no David Attenborough spying on the great wilds experience!We’d drive around, find something (or find other trucks and swarm behind/around them), stop for a bit and move on usually when other trucks arrived and wanted their share, and we’d had ours.
What we did see was: elephants, alone, solo or couples with baby elephants, or in small packs; lots of buffalo, a few crocodiles, coyotes, and plenty of bird-life (including peacocks who all refused to peacock, those prima-donna bishes!
At the halfway point, we stopped for a break beside the huge Udawalawe reservoir (a lake, really), which offered some stunning vistas and a chance to get out and spread the legs. Some of the fancier safaris brought out tables and chairs for a lakeside nosh. Ow, flash gurrls! We may have stopped for a little longer than needed; in the end we were standing under one of the few shady spots (actual shade from a tree, not just us throwing shade), waiting to get going.
For me, the one moment that demonstrates the slightly unsettling feeling I left with, came when we stumbled across a solo elephant grazing by the roadside. It quickly came out and strolled amongst the trucks, all and sundry agog at the up-close-and-personal moment. Of course it was wow-ing; I won’t say it wasn’t.
But, for me, it was also hard to read: was this elephant so docile and domesticated that it was truly comfortable strolling among humans (which is, in itself, not necessarily a good thing)? It seemed to be reaching into trucks looking for, or expecting, food. Is that its party trick, or was it starving?
I couldn’t tell; I don’t know: what do those eyes tell you? Because the sad reality of safaris and protected zones, is that they have resulted in an unintended consequence: people feed the elephants – they’re not supposed to – and the elephants have learnt how much easier this is. Also, the electric fences, which are supposed to keep poachers/people out, also keep them in, and they are therefore forgetting how to properly forage and graze, to search for food.
In short, it’s complicated. We did see elephants in the wild, which was a pretty special experience. But, for these few moments, it was a lot of hours of otherness, and in the end didn’t feel too far removed from just visiting a zoo. The possibility that our presence there may be creating adverse impacts, especially on the part of the elephants, is unsettling.
Would I do it again? Doubtful, not a safari that uses this current model, anyway. Would I have not done it in the first place, knowing what I know now? It’s hard to say.
Funnily enough, one of the best moments came on the drive back, once we had left the park and were driving along the road beside the reservoir but on the other side of it, far away from where the trucks explore. There, on the other side of the fence, I spotted an elephant, on its own, just grazing on a tree and plonking about in the shallows. A magical few seconds.
Now, onto the two days beforehand, in the wondrous Galle. Galle is an old Dutch fort town, but the fort is very large and is extremely well preserved; by far the best we’ve seen in our travels throughout other former European colonies. You can wander practically right around the whole thing, along its walls, and, inside, exists a preserved little town, full of paved streets, a lot of colonial architecture (houses, guesthouses, boutique accommodation, museums, churches, and a bucket-load of shops, cafes, and restaurants), and some real charm; it really is like a living museum.
Our guesthouse host, in Galle town proper, explained that, pre-2004 tsunami, the fort wasn’t anywhere near as populated or anything like it is today. People who were in the fort at the time didn’t even know a tsunami had hit, that’s how protected it was. Afterwards, as you can imagine, the fort became hot property, as people poured in.
The result is, yes, admittedly, a lot of gentrification, (re)creating that particular kind of generic-ness that pervades popular tourist spots of this type: galleries and boutiques, cafes and accommodation, all serving up a kind of localised Western-ness. At it’s best, it’s fusion, at its worst, it’s a place where people can say they’ve been (tick) and not really experienced anything that much different than their local gentrified neighbourhoods.
However, in saying this, we found the place more charming than not. The whole old town has not been renovated, yet, so there are still some places that are awaiting their facelifts, and many places that just look original (even if they have no doubt been maintained). Moreover, many of the renovations have been really quite tastefully done, and it was lovely to look at some great architectural and design work. In short, we really loved strolling about its streets, and soaking up the atmosphere. Watching the sun set while wandering across its walls was a particular highlight.
Sri Lanka’s south coast is populated in what seems like one endless stream of villages and towns. We jumped a local bus to nearby Unawatuna beach for a day trip, and, combined with our bus ride right around the coast the next day (onto our next destination), it gave the impressions that the pace here is quite casual, with both locals and tourists hopping on and off buses, or riding tuk-tuks and motorcycles, all along the coast for all sorts of purposes; business, tourism, the everyday. It felt like quite a fluid approach to movement and life, something that’s extremely appealing.
Unawatuna itself is stunning: golden sand, a beautiful bay, palm trees for ever, and warm, warm water. Glorious, as indeed many of the beaches we passed are here. Coming from our Pacific backyards, full of beaches, this is really saying something I feel: we’re normally a little hesitant when people tell us about beautiful beaches. Yeah right, goes the Tui ad!
But truly, ‘tis was a magical few hours lying in paradise. It wasn’t even too packed. Had we had longer, I could have happily spent a few more days here, jumping buses and exploring many of its nooks and crannies. And I’m not even really a beachy person, such was its intoxicating impact. Oh well, will have to leave this for another time…we had Hill Country to get to!
A common reaction, when people learnt our first stop was Sri Lanka’s capital of Colombo, was ‘why are you bothering?’: concrete jungle, traffic-choked, nothing to see…it’s not the real Sri Lanka, the Sri Lanka you’re coming to see. Well, of course, it is real, and much like Auckland was once the city you flew into and then quickly moved on, because you had to, you get the sense that Colombo is undergoing an equally, if not more, profound transformation.
Yes, it is choked by traffic, tick; yes, its urban form is dotted (blotted, perhaps) with a dizzying degree of dusty construction activity, tick. But, we still found much charm; you just have to dig a little beyond its sometimes bewildering facades.
For three nights, we stayed at the Grand Oriental Hotel in the old Fort district. It’s Colombo’s oldest hotel (1835) and it was a treat to start the trip; not a treat in terms of quality, more in terms of cost; it’s not on the backpacker budget list. It’s a real colonial gem, but a faded one at that. Lonely Planet recommended staying there before someone pours in the money it needs and turns it into something 5-star.
This will no doubt happen, and it will no doubt be lovely, but it will undoubtedly result in its losing some of its charm: rooms that are over-generously large; a dark almost gloomy lobby still with original travel, exchange and business counters; lifts whose wooden panelling look like doors into parallel colonial universes; strange wood-panelled meeting rooms used for who knows what and that just don’t quite seem of this time. I loved it.
Walking through original passages with small unsympathetic updates, you get a real sense of history, of all of its history and layers, rising and falling with changing time and taste.
Of the city itself, three days was enough for our generous time constraints, or lack thereof, although we left much unexplored. Once checked in from the airport, we ventured out and quickly canvassed the Fort area and its historic buildings. It became our neighbourhood, more familiar with each day, and we’d doff a good morning to the old Cargill’s building, for example, the old Dutch hospital complex, the secretariat and old town hall, as we’d pass by.
Also quickly found was the rather lovely – and refreshingly breezy – Galle Face Green, the local waterfront well utilised by locals. Waterfront promenades are the same the world over it feels, a reflection of humans’ irresistible connection to the borders between land and water, and are always lovely; great for people watching. I could have spent many an hour wandering up and down, round and round, just enjoying the being in space.
The initial bursts of sensory stimulation, from flying in to the end of day one, rushed forward feelings of the familiar. Much – the luscious greens and hazy sky, the birds, traffic, beeping, smells, people, buildings and other urban features – recalls the south of India. But if it did, there was also something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, something a little queer (in the old sense of the word).
We came to think that this might be because we arrived on a Saturday, and Fort and where we wandered south, Kollupitiya, appear to more alive on weekdays (as we’d find out two days later). So, although it was familiar, it lacked just a little of that unique urban energy of its always-frenetic neighbour.
If day one was just a little ‘odd’, then day two we really hit our stride. This time we wandered east, into Pettah district, and suddenly all the smashing and clashing of people, commerce and motorised transport, came rushing right back.
Pettah is the old heart of local commerce, so of course it makes sense: no bazaar-like energy was ever the daily in colonially-controlled quarters! So we strolled around its streets and markets for a couple of hours, crashing around through its sonicly-clattering, hue-heavy landscape, before heading south to the quite diametrically-opposed affluent suburbs around and just south of Slave Island; not an actual island, but yes, where the Dutch did house slaves.
In doing so, we passed by the magnificent although still-to-be-completed Lotus Tower, a green and purple marvel rising up out of the landscape and visible from all over central Colombo, again like a friendly presence, and a few inland lakes and waterways (Beira, Gangarama, which snakes its way all the way up to and behind Galle Face Green, and a repurposed old industrial canal at Pettah). Such monuments and urban waterways always provide nice backdrops for leisurely ambles.
Ambling is a good word for our kind of tourism. Although, of course, every place we visit has a reason, and is generally accompanied by a tick-list of things you want to see or experience, and sometimes, for me anyway, food you want to try, everything in between is largely about ambling.
We join the dots by hitting the pavement, a million times saying no to offers of tuk-tuks, and leaving it up to pure luck and moments of serendipity to fill our days. (Sometimes, too, we’ll make a decision to go somewhere completely different, not previously considered, and if we have to negotiate public transport to get there, always an experience in itself, then even better!)
Random ambling helps us to, I think anyway, get a better feel for a place, its people and rhythms. It helped us to be better able to contextualise Pettah and Slave Island and surrounds, for example; to see how neighbourhoods look, feel, and are peopled differently, and therefore make more sense of a city’s human and urban landscapes and how they change over time. Moreover, and where we recognise our immense privilege, the ‘go slow’ approach allows for repetition over days, which amplifies the experience: the first time you see; the second time you feel.
Another way to, usually, get a good feel for a place, is through museums and art galleries. I say usually because, if there is one thing that museum-ing your head off teaches you, it’s that there really is a special set of skills required in curation (so, sidenote, stop using the verb ‘-to curate’ to talk about your social media posting; you’re posting, not curating. If you want to curate, go learn to be a curator!).
We visited the ‘National Museum’ on our third day, which is in the same vicinity as the lovely Viharamahadevi Park (it’s funny how parks are always located in the nicer neighbourhoods, we mused), and the old town hall and Colombo hospital, both from Victorian-era glamour squads. The museum was, well, certainly unique. Built in 1877, by the British governor of the time, the building is pretty impressive.
The same can’t quite be said for its fifteen (and counting) galleries, which suffer from being exhibitions from a very different age of curatorial practice (i.e. old school object-with-(not-always)-informative-accompanying-text style, all discombobulated and detached). Nonetheless, it does provide visitors with a thorough overview of the pearl isle’s history, people, and cultures + a decent level of oddity (for obvious reasons, I especially liked the ritual masks used in musical performances, and lord I love me a diorama, whatever its quality; there are a few choice ones here).
The Museum of Natural History, which comes with the combo ticket you’re upsold (an extra 200lkr; chump change), is where we started to lose the will to live though, especially as the ever so helpful staff made sure they pointed us to all the galleries so we didn’t miss anything. Thanks happy helper people! Despite this, even it contained enough ‘what the…?’ moments, as well as skeletons of an elephant and blue whale, to make it worth a quick amble through.
Dumb luck of timing had us in Colombo for New Year’s Eve (of the Western, Judeo-Christian kind), and although I’m not much of a New Year’s person, celebrating the passing of totally abstract moments in time, really?, I do enjoy seeing how other places and people do. For this, Galle Face Green was the place to be. It was the site for a free New Year’s concert, and families, groups of young people, and couples were out in great numbers.
There’s nothing quite like attending a concert where you can’t understand the language and have no idea who the hugely popular acts are. Watching throngs of people derive great joy from pop music that is completely unknown to you is an interesting position to be in.
You can appreciate the music – and indeed it was super cool; Sinhalese pop sounds like a good radio show for 2019 – but you cannot, will never, quite understand its cultural context. It’s not yours; not your pop culture. So, it was another interesting New Year’s to add to the list, and a nice way to spend our final eve; Colombo was out to wish us well.
There are other places of interest too, places we didn’t get to though, so I can’t vouch for them. But reading about them gives me holiday envy. These include Pettah’s temples, as well as other temples and churches dotted about, and the historic neighbourhoods north-east of Pettah, and south of Cinnamon Gardens. The point being that, if more rapid point-to-point travel is your style, one gets the sense that there’s plenty enough to occupy a three-night stay.
And that’s to say nothing of the Dubai-scale ‘Port City’ that is literally emerging from the sea just north of Galle Face Green, something that is bound to attract tourists of the future keen to marvel at either its stunning success, or possibly its colossal failure!
Yes, it certainly does feel like Colombo is a city on the move. In a decade, one feels, it is, one way or another, going to be a quite different place to experience!