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[serendibity]

Have Some Kandy for Valentine's Day

It's February 14th, and I've been in the country for nine days.

I realise I've spent so much energy talking about the times people did me wrong that I haven't shared moments where I have been looked after.

It's tricky not letting a few rotten apples ruin the entire harvest. But changing this mindset is part of why I'm here in the first place.

In an attempt to do that, here's a collective thank you to the generous souls in Kandy who showed me kindness and turned my trip around after a challenging first week.

The proprietors at The Lake Round Guesthouse who coaxed the brown recluse imitation spider out of my bathroom (yeah, I know, I'd like to see you try to deal with it alone).

Sweet Bean Kandy Café that took pity on my lonesome self and served me, even though they were technically closed on account of a family member's funeral (I was clueless here and had no idea until I saw them turning other patrons away).

My taxi driver who told me he was excited to see his wife for Valentine's Day after being apart for two weeks due to work (I've never been more homesick than that minute).

As small as these events are, they have lifted the spirits of this sad soul tremendously.

[serendibity]

The Gardens of Peradeniya

If you do nothing else while in Kandy, please take a bus from the Clock Tower to Peradeniya (50 rupees or $0.50-ish one way) and visit the Royal Botanical Gardens.

I promise you, it'll be one of the highlights during your time in Sri Lanka.

You might even get to talk to the Kandy bus station administrator, who is so intrigued by your native-level English not matching what you look like that he asks, "Where is your face from?"

Geg.

[serendibity]

Puja Part 2

The Sri Dalada Maligawa is quite horny.

I mean that, literally. In front of me are several enormous pairs of elephant tusks that crown the doorway of a temple within the temple. Standing two storeys high, this small building is the oldest part of the whole thing and is only open during the daily puja ceremony hours. Cha-ching.

The word that goes through my mind when I first walk in is cavernous. So much catches your attention that you don't know where to start. So I let the tide decide for me and get swept upstairs into a traffic jam of folks waiting to see the tooth relic cabinet.

Unfortunately, security is tighter than in Fort Knox, so you'll have to imagine it like I did because you can't actually see the object that has defined Kandy's UNESCO World Heritage status. Oh well.

I then flow into the adjoining room, bursting to the brim with locals in white dress throwing flowers at a golden Buddha safely tucked behind bulletproof glass. I stop to take it all in. Almost immediately, a woman approaches me with a flower, which seems to be a friendly gesture. But I don't wait to find out - my scam feelers are on uber-high alert now. So, I start my descent back to the ground floor.

To my surprise, there's a second golden Buddha tucked away behind the scenes in a sprawling hall. This one, strangely, is devoid of people, and has beautiful illustrations detailing how the tooth relic made its long journey from the Buddha's cremated ashes in 543 BC to its eventual final destination in Kandy, nearly two millennia later.

It's a fantastic history lesson I thoroughly enjoy until I nearly step on someone deep in prayer. Upon further inspection, I noticed that the room is so large that I've completely overlooked the groups of people sitting in the back silently talking to their god. Feeling disrespectful, I leave faster than you can say ayubowan.

Timing has never been my strongest suit, so it amazes me when I reappear in front of the inner temple and the puja ceremony is about to start. Moreover, a prime viewing spot square in the middle has just been vacated. Is Buddha smiling upon me for once?

[serendibity]

Puja Part 1

My first full day in Kandy starts with a stroll into the town centre to see about a tooth.

According to historical lore, the Sri Dalada Maligawa in the Sacred City of Kandy is home to the top right canine of the Buddha. It was smuggled to Sri Lanka in the hair of a princess in the 4th century and came to rest in its current position in 1592.

Naturally, I'm curious. I can only imagine what the dental bills must be for the upkeep.

The temple complex is situated next to Lake Kandy and is the product of a rebuild completed in the aftermath of the 1998 bombing during the civil war. It's been impeccably done over and extends as far as the eye can see. It also boasts a separate entrance for men and women, and you have to undergo a security screening, all before setting foot onto the property.

Crikey, what's this?

I'm suddenly surrounded by a sea of locals dressed in white and carrying flowers. A quick check of the time reveals that I've miraculously arrived during one of the daily puja hours, which is both a good and bad thing.

Good - because I get to observe local worshippers and the ceremonies passed down through the generations. Bad - because ALL tour groups match their visit to coincide with it, so I'm in for one claustrophobic ride.

Better gird my loins. Here we go.

I linger outside to enjoy the scenery a little longer when I feel someone pull on my shoulder. After the antics in Sigiriya and being followed in Colombo, I'm tired of being manhandled. I'm also nowhere off the edge of a cliff. So I turn and stare directly with a raised eyebrow into the eyes of a local.

He starts by pretending to be helpful.

"You need to take your shoes off."

"I know," I reply while walking away. "I will do this before I go inside the temple."

He keeps in step with me. "No, you have to take your shoes off now."

"Why do they have theirs on then?" I gesture to the Sri Lankans around me, openly wearing what looks suspiciously like footwear.

"Oh. They will take them off soon. You also need to buy a ticket. I will take you."

Ah, the dreaded four words.

See, I had fallen for this scam just 18 hours earlier when I first got to Kandy. During my usual initial stroll in new environs, I walked past a shrine on the main street, which piqued my interest.

The man standing in front must have seen me from a mile away.

"Hello! Welcome to Kataragama Shrine. I will take you to buy your ticket, and you can put your shoes here."

"What? Er - right, OK. How much for a ticket?"

"200 rupees."

Only after I hand over the money and walk in do I see the donation box because shrines are always free - duh. I turn around, and your man is nowhere to be found.

An unfortunate mistake that ruins my exploration of the place. Despite it being incredibly beautiful, I leave shortly afterwards much to the surprise of the shoe attendant (who observed the entire prior exchange in silence), who calls out after me, "Madam, are you going already?"

Suffice it to say, this time at the temple complex, I say "NO" very loudly and saunter off. Thankfully, the poor bugger lets me be.

I take myself to the ticket counter, pay my dues, hold my breath, and walk in.

[serendibity]

Time

"Think of all the hours left between now and the time the sun goes down," she said, without looking at me. "True", I said. "Lots of hours."

⎼ from The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

Just some more musings from Sigiriya.

[serendibity]

Advantage Point

Sigiriya is a small village located in the northeastern part of the teardrop island. Its biggest draw is a UNESCO World Heritage Site known as Lion's Rock, a granite toadstool that soars 183 metres into the air thanks to volcanic activity from the 5th century.

The Lion King of Sigiriya, Kasyapa himself, transformed it into a fortress and palace in the middle of a landscaped water garden. Later, it became a pilgrimage site before falling to obscurity in the 12th century, to be rediscovered in the 1800s.

There's no two ways about it - from the ground, it is spectacular.

I pay my obligatory foreigner ticket of $36 (for reference, locals pay 36 cents), ignore the swarms of so-called "guides" that offer "tours" for varying degrees of payment, and start climbing.

After the first bit, I have to sit down.

No one said anything about this being the 9th circle of hell for someone with vertigo. Although to be fair, I should have known better.

But whatever - my acrophobia has never stopped me before (maybe it should have). Besides, the purpose of this trip was for me to tackle my fears. So, I ignore the copious warning signs my body is pumping out and tackle the next stage.

Suddenly, I feel like I'm going to fall off the monument. With my heart pounding and head spinning, I sit precariously on a rock-faced step, put my head in between my legs, and try not to pass out.

Several anxiety-stricken seconds go by.

All of a sudden, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Hello! Are you OK?"

I look up into the face of a friendly local who looks worried. I say yes and meekly wave him off, but he stays put. Strange, but not unusual - he's probably just a concerned citizen, one of many who visit this sacred place on their day off.

The nausea isn't passing, and as much as I hate to admit it, it's time to call this off. The bitterness starts coursing through my veins, and I'm furious with myself, least of all because I've failed on several fronts.

The next time I raise my eyes, I ask him where the exit is.

Quick as lightning, he starts guiding me down the path from whence I came. Shaking in my boots means I am grateful for his presence, and several times, he offers to hold my hand through a particularly vomit-inducing passage. I clearly am not in any position to get back by myself.

This wasn't one of my most extraordinary ideas, I have to say.

We're about 40 metres to ground level when he starts mentioning money.

At first, I brush him off and focus on where my feet are landing. But then the pestering becomes more frequent.

He starts directing me towards merchants stationed on every corner, selling anything from wooden frog souvenirs to supposed magic healing oil.

It finally hits me that I've been had. He's one of the guides I pushed through in the beginning.

I start walking faster now that we're on terra firma, but he lingers in my shadow and won't let me go. He tries to take my hand or arm, which I wrestle out of his reach. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm still incredibly light-headed, I'd be running.

Now I'm scared. He's getting more aggressive and in my face. "Euros. Dollars. Rupees. Anything."

I hand him a nominal amount in the latter denomination, which he refuses.

I step aside, and he blocks my way.

I give him more, and he shouts, "Not enough."

"Take it or leave it. I have nothing else."

Ain't that the truth. My anger is palpable. In a moment of physical and mental vulnerability, when I'm counting on the kindness of a stranger, I've been taken advantage of by someone who saw me as an easy target because I couldn't think straight.

Now, I take full responsibility for my naivety. But this encounter doesn't help my general view of the world that people are just no good.

He finally understands that I mean business, takes the bill, and slunks away, probably in search of his next unwitting victim.

But hey - this is the first time I've ever paid someone to eff off. So there's something worth commemorating.

Also, do me a favour - for anyone reading this, go to Pidurangala Rock instead.

[serendibity]

The Train

For someone who has survived the train system in Burma, I’m out of practice when it comes to lumbering steel boxes à la British colonialism. This one doesn’t look like it’s been updated since it was first commissioned in the early 1950s.

The train to Habarana departs Colombo at 6 AM and will take approximately six hours to reach my destination. I’m looking forward to finally getting some kip because, for the next quarter day, there’s not much else to do.

Until I wake up midway through the air, bouncing back in my seat with a vengeance. Completely startled and looking around in confusion, I see other passengers have just experienced the same rollercoaster I have, and nervous titters echo through the corridor. I glance at my phone to check the time, and it’s only been 15 minutes since we left.

I guess I won’t take a nap then.

In addition to rising and falling, the train shakes back and forth as it speeds down the track at 50 kph. I grab onto anything stable and pray that my backpack doesn’t fall on my head. A passing train in the opposite direction only makes the undulations worse. Thankfully, I’ve taken Dramamine beforehand.

Out of nowhere, three guys appear and silently move to the open car door. One by one, they gingerly stick their necks out, measure when the car door of the passing train will align, and then slip across like silk. It takes less than five seconds, and it’s so sudden and wildly dangerous that I feel like I’ve hallucinated the whole thing.

The following seven hours pass in a blur, mostly because I’m lolling about like a bobblehead doll the entire ride.

[serendibity]

Colombo Fort

One day in Colombo is enough for me. It’s time to get out of here.

By this point, I have been awake for almost 48 hours, surviving off fitful sleep due to a toxic combination of insomnia and extreme apprehension. My next quest: finding the way to the city’s train station in pitch blackness. I’m jumping headfirst into this for someone who’s afraid of the dark.

I leave my accommodation and am startled by a fellow solo female traveller who seems to be waiting for a taxi. We give each other nods of understanding that only those in our shoes would get before I cross the intersection. I silently wish her all the best.

Remarkably, my sojourn goes without a hitch, minus some tuk-tuk honks and unwanted catcalls, and the rambling structure of Colombo Fort looms on the horizon.

At five o’clock in the morning, the only sounds you hear are the murmurings of people waiting for trains or the snoring of folks sleeping on benches. There’s barely anywhere to sit, and I still have another hour until the Habarana train arrives.

Meandering down Platform 6 in search of somewhere suitable to plonk down leads me to a Sri Lankan woman who looks up at me with an enormous gap-toothed grin. She is in her late 50s and emanates a motherly warmth that I could really use right now.

“Please! Come sit!” she gestures beside her.

Gratefully, I put my backpack down and perch on the hard pew with a tentative smile. She asks me where I’m going and, in return, offers that she’s on her way to Matara along the south coast. I’ll get there eventually, but I’m heading inland for the first part of my trip.

As with all interactions in the middle of the night, it gets personal quite quickly, and she tells me her husband died and left her with a son. When she inquires where I come from, I perceive that she’s curious about my ethnicity, not my nationality, and I give her what she wants.

“My son always wanted to go there. Unfortunately, he has no money. I have no money either. What am I supposed to do? My husband died and left me with nothing.”

I am increasingly becoming uncomfortable with the glaringly obvious differences between us, as I’m clearly someone of some leisure who has the means to leave my country and travel to far-off lands, and she knows it. I slowly wind the exchange down on my end and merely nod at each additional comment about her lack of prospects, which seem endless.

A train pulls into Platform 4, and she suddenly pokes me hard. This convoy to Trincomalee technically also stops at Habarana, but my ticket and seat reservation are for the one heading to Batticaloa, which is coming in 20 minutes. That doesn’t seem to matter to her, and she keeps pulling my sleeve, encouraging me to get on, and not taking no for an answer.

I’m at my wit’s end, but it’s not her fault. Receiving her enthusiasm with the good intentions it is bestowed, I gather my things, say thank you, and start walking towards the stairs. She quickly disappears from view.

Along the way, I see other backpackers talking about heading to Sigiriya via Habarana, as I am. They are clustered along Platform 6.

So, I go back to my gut instincts and stay put.

[serendibity]

The Bus

I land bleary-eyed at Bandaranaike International Airport after almost 24 hours of travel. The local time is 5:30 AM.

Immediately, my senses are confronted with a milieu of humidity, incense, and something typically invisible that one usually associates with this part of the world. It is a frenetic energy compressed with the sense that time also stands still.

Except right now, it is very clear that I’m standing at the intersection of two opposing forces. Around me, a screaming shack of tuk-tuk drivers offers a trip into Colombo proper. Our bundle of recent arrivers divides into two camps: those who either fall under their spell and tumble into the back of what amounts to a glorified golf cart, or others who have pre-arranged pickups and let their drivers take them away from the chaos.

And then there’s me.

On a quest to find the mythical 30-minute express bus I’ve heard about, I leave the last remnants of my safety bubble that popped the second I got off the plane, and waddle down the sidewalk towards…I’m not sure exactly.

A quick chat with a friendly police officer with a rifle in full regalia reveals the bus to Colombo is “that way” (finger point).

Righto.

I keep walking. Streets pass, temperatures rise, and it’s only getting louder. Road vehicles beep to the tune of “Oh When The Saints Go Marching In”. With my day-old travel clothes and two backpacks, I stick out like a sore thumb. There isn’t another foreigner in sight. I’m starting to regret this decision.

With increasing desperation, I ask every third local I walk past for “Bus? Colombo?” with each one saying the same thing: “That way”. One woman helpfully tells me, “100 metres more”, which quickly turns into 500 metres and then some.

I walk for at least 25 minutes into the suburbs of Negombo. A wave of panic that I, unfortunately, recognise all too well starts to take over until, lo and behold, a dilapidated station that has seen better days comes into view.

Well done, you. The first hurdle is overcome.

Now, which of the 50 buses parked here is going in my direction?

After a quick congress with the loitering group of drivers waiting for their shifts to begin, I get put on a bus positioned to leave the lot. When precisely that might be is anyone’s guess, as I never got a response to the “Express?” part of my initial query, but I’m too tired to make a run for it. Plus, I’ve got no Plan B.

To my surprise, my driver gets on soon after that and starts descending the congested main road. Along the way, a wingman-esque conductor shouts the route out the door in Sinhalese and collects other passengers. My segment costs 300 LKR and I hand over a 500 bill.

I rapidly realise that I am not, in fact, on the express bus from the airport to town. Somehow, I have found myself on a normal bus for normal people because they’re normal (bonus points, dear reader, if you spot the reference). Forty Sri Lankans and I are participants in this party. As each new person gets on, they shoot a curious look at the pale, nervous-looking tourist sitting in the first row.

Two hours later, the conductor gestures that it’s my stop. Against the odds, I have made it to my final destination for the day. The journey there is not at all what I expected. But it is the wake-up call I need that this trip will be anything but ordinary.

I never did get change for my fare in the end.

[serendibity]

Serendib

Serendib is an Old Persian name for Sri Lanka.

It is also the etymological root of the word serendipity.

For my 37th birthday, I’ve given myself the gift of time. I’ve never done this before, and it is an immense privilege.

But if you’re anything like me, change is hard, and opening up is even harder.

There is still that person inside me who worries too much and prefers to remain static. She always cautions, “No, stay safe!” and the world counters, “Say yes, live!”

Doing this alone means trusting my instincts in a way I’ve never had before.

Wish me luck.

—

“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.” - Anthony Bourdain