Thursday, July 27, 2006
Nausea, darkness and twelve hundred steps
(TRIP PHOTOS UPLOADED HERE)
Last weekend was FUN!
Torn between nursing an upset stomach on a four hour bus journey (with no toilets, might I add), or staying at home and feeling sorry for myself, I took the risk and packed my bags for another weekend trip. When I finally met the others at the station (after I was mercilessly ripped off by tuk-tuk drivers), we had the choice of a dilapidated, cranky old bus or a two hour wait. And we weren't entirely sure that the two hours would not mysteriously become three: with neither warning, nor reason.
Onto the dilapidated bus we trooped.
Ittttttt shooooook andddddd itttttttt shoooook. Andddddddd therrrrrrre wereeeeeee waaaaaaars innnnnnnnnn myyyyyyyy stooomaaach.
Plagued with nausea (but fortunately nothing else), I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and held on tight. I snuck a peak at the bus clock; it showed seven thirty. (It was one in the afternoon. Another "welcome to Sri Lanka!" moment.)
One hour down. Two, three. THERE! I had survived.
In Dambulla, we saw monkeys and a giant golden Buddha statue. We climbed to the top of the Cave Temple, pausing only to munch on fresh mango and drink over-priced water. Beautiful views awaited us, along with mighty gusts of wind (see here!).
We later journeyed to Sigiriya, staying in a simple but clean hotel. (Having said that, I did find a tiny frog waiting for me on the toilet seat.) Dinner prices were expensive, so we ventured to a new Sri Lankan restaurant that was, according to the owner, "just down the road".
"Just down the road" turned out to be a twenty minute walk. Which would have been fine (I'm not quite that lazy), had there not been an absence of street lights. And not a slight absence: a complete absence.
The total darkness consumed us, arousing both nerves and excitement. A passing tuk-tuk driver told us not to walk in case the "wild elephants" got us. (I later found out that there were no wild elephants here - what a sales line, eh.) But we chose to walk, looking up in awe at the huge, bright stars that were scattered across the sky. The food was good, and I had lime mixed into my sweet lassi drink to calm my troubled tummy.
We rose at six on Sunday. From as early as nine, the Sri Lankan sun gushes relentless heat onto the island, so we started on Sigiriya Rock at seven-thirty.
Now, when the trainees told me about Sigiriya Rock, I thought we were going to look at it. What I failed to realise was that, as an ancient fortress, there is actually a blo*dy trail all the way to the blo*dy top.
A trail of twelve hundred steps.
It took us two hours to reach the summit. (Ok, it wasn't quite a summit, though it sure felt like one by the time we got there). But it truly was an incredible climb. With so many wonky staircases and open spaces, it was like an oversized playground for grown ups. (Actually, I'm not quite sure that I'm a grown up. A playground for 'big people' is perhaps a better phrase.)
We had a wonderful guide. He amused us with glorious tales of the fortress, but didn't always understand our English. Relaxing at the top, we asked him what his fastest climb time was.
-- "Four hours!" he smiled. We looked somewhat puzzled - four hours was too long.
-- "No, how many minutes ... from down [hand motions], to here [hand motions again]?"
-- "Ah. Four years!" Trying to suppress our giggles, we once more tried to rephrase the question. Again he answered us:
-- "AH! Ten minutes, it is!"
Ten minutes? Hmm. We still weren't sure if he fully understood. Well, if he did, he sure was a fast little man.
We started the descent. Guiding me down some steep steps, I grimaced. "Ohh, I'm going to die here, I know it!" I told him. Once more, he smiled.
-- "No problem, miss."
Last weekend was FUN!
Torn between nursing an upset stomach on a four hour bus journey (with no toilets, might I add), or staying at home and feeling sorry for myself, I took the risk and packed my bags for another weekend trip. When I finally met the others at the station (after I was mercilessly ripped off by tuk-tuk drivers), we had the choice of a dilapidated, cranky old bus or a two hour wait. And we weren't entirely sure that the two hours would not mysteriously become three: with neither warning, nor reason.
Onto the dilapidated bus we trooped.
Ittttttt shooooook andddddd itttttttt shoooook. Andddddddd therrrrrrre wereeeeeee waaaaaaars innnnnnnnnn myyyyyyyy stooomaaach.
Plagued with nausea (but fortunately nothing else), I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and held on tight. I snuck a peak at the bus clock; it showed seven thirty. (It was one in the afternoon. Another "welcome to Sri Lanka!" moment.)
One hour down. Two, three. THERE! I had survived.
In Dambulla, we saw monkeys and a giant golden Buddha statue. We climbed to the top of the Cave Temple, pausing only to munch on fresh mango and drink over-priced water. Beautiful views awaited us, along with mighty gusts of wind (see here!).
We later journeyed to Sigiriya, staying in a simple but clean hotel. (Having said that, I did find a tiny frog waiting for me on the toilet seat.) Dinner prices were expensive, so we ventured to a new Sri Lankan restaurant that was, according to the owner, "just down the road".
"Just down the road" turned out to be a twenty minute walk. Which would have been fine (I'm not quite that lazy), had there not been an absence of street lights. And not a slight absence: a complete absence.
The total darkness consumed us, arousing both nerves and excitement. A passing tuk-tuk driver told us not to walk in case the "wild elephants" got us. (I later found out that there were no wild elephants here - what a sales line, eh.) But we chose to walk, looking up in awe at the huge, bright stars that were scattered across the sky. The food was good, and I had lime mixed into my sweet lassi drink to calm my troubled tummy.
We rose at six on Sunday. From as early as nine, the Sri Lankan sun gushes relentless heat onto the island, so we started on Sigiriya Rock at seven-thirty.
Now, when the trainees told me about Sigiriya Rock, I thought we were going to look at it. What I failed to realise was that, as an ancient fortress, there is actually a blo*dy trail all the way to the blo*dy top.
A trail of twelve hundred steps.
It took us two hours to reach the summit. (Ok, it wasn't quite a summit, though it sure felt like one by the time we got there). But it truly was an incredible climb. With so many wonky staircases and open spaces, it was like an oversized playground for grown ups. (Actually, I'm not quite sure that I'm a grown up. A playground for 'big people' is perhaps a better phrase.)
We had a wonderful guide. He amused us with glorious tales of the fortress, but didn't always understand our English. Relaxing at the top, we asked him what his fastest climb time was.
-- "Four hours!" he smiled. We looked somewhat puzzled - four hours was too long.
-- "No, how many minutes ... from down [hand motions], to here [hand motions again]?"
-- "Ah. Four years!" Trying to suppress our giggles, we once more tried to rephrase the question. Again he answered us:
-- "AH! Ten minutes, it is!"
Ten minutes? Hmm. We still weren't sure if he fully understood. Well, if he did, he sure was a fast little man.
We started the descent. Guiding me down some steep steps, I grimaced. "Ohh, I'm going to die here, I know it!" I told him. Once more, he smiled.
-- "No problem, miss."
Monday, July 17, 2006
A train, some snorkelling, and a lot of sunburn
I got into full trainee mode last weekend and journeyed to Matara, down South. I was promised a beautiful beach and beautiful weather - which I got, but only after a four and a half hour train journey.
And what a funny journey it was! The trains here are comfortable - padded leather seats with a lot of space. The only issue I have is with their movement. Side to side, up and down, up and to the right, down and to the left. Up and down again. A fifteen minute stop at a station for no obvious reason. Forwards, then backwards, with mysterious revisits to places the train has already passed through. A sudden LURCH and you're on the move again (and awake from any kind of slumber). Then once more: side to side, up and down ... but no complaints from me. I paid just 78p for this journey.
It is the sellers that are the most amusing. They hop on the train when we stop, anxious to get rid of a few items before they must jump off again. So what's up for grabs? Magazines. Horns. Seafood. Peanuts. Apples. Singing concerts. Chicken. Flute playing. All in all, an amazing array of products and performances to add to the beautiful green scenery from the windows.
So what was there in Matara? A beach, first and foremost! I've never seen a shore with palm trees. Likewise, I've never jumped right into a sea without the shock of Britain's cold waters. We had so much time: to sunbathe, to buy ice creams, to just read and read and read.
On Sunday morning we went snorkelling. We saw coral reefs! Bright pinks and greens and yellows. Tropical fish. The sea was strong though - my poor instructor had to put his arm around me tightly, to stop me from being swept away. (He told me not to worry if this happened - the current would take me back to the shore. Comforting.)
I then spied some body boards at his restaurant. "Oooh!" I squealed - "Can we please go body boarding?" For those not in the know, body boarding is similar to surfing, except you catch the waves by lying on the board, not standing. I used to do it on family holidays and was thoroughly excited at the chance try it once more, and in such big waves.
Walking with the board under my arm, I felt like a real pro (yeah right). My arrogance was soon shattered when I reached the waves. So huge, and so powerful! I was rubbish at catching them. When I finally did, the men gave me a good shove to make sure I stayed at wave's front. Sooo fun, but sooo fast; I was frequently and repeatedly thrown from my board. And right into the sharp coral reefs.
My poor body is battered, scratched and bruised. And SUNBURNT. I must say that I look ridiculous. My legs are pasty white; my arms are a dark tan colour; my back is a deep and sore red; my arms are bruised; my legs are scratched and bitten; my hands are cut to shreds.
The joys of the Sri Lankan sea!
And what a funny journey it was! The trains here are comfortable - padded leather seats with a lot of space. The only issue I have is with their movement. Side to side, up and down, up and to the right, down and to the left. Up and down again. A fifteen minute stop at a station for no obvious reason. Forwards, then backwards, with mysterious revisits to places the train has already passed through. A sudden LURCH and you're on the move again (and awake from any kind of slumber). Then once more: side to side, up and down ... but no complaints from me. I paid just 78p for this journey.
It is the sellers that are the most amusing. They hop on the train when we stop, anxious to get rid of a few items before they must jump off again. So what's up for grabs? Magazines. Horns. Seafood. Peanuts. Apples. Singing concerts. Chicken. Flute playing. All in all, an amazing array of products and performances to add to the beautiful green scenery from the windows.
So what was there in Matara? A beach, first and foremost! I've never seen a shore with palm trees. Likewise, I've never jumped right into a sea without the shock of Britain's cold waters. We had so much time: to sunbathe, to buy ice creams, to just read and read and read.
On Sunday morning we went snorkelling. We saw coral reefs! Bright pinks and greens and yellows. Tropical fish. The sea was strong though - my poor instructor had to put his arm around me tightly, to stop me from being swept away. (He told me not to worry if this happened - the current would take me back to the shore. Comforting.)
I then spied some body boards at his restaurant. "Oooh!" I squealed - "Can we please go body boarding?" For those not in the know, body boarding is similar to surfing, except you catch the waves by lying on the board, not standing. I used to do it on family holidays and was thoroughly excited at the chance try it once more, and in such big waves.
Walking with the board under my arm, I felt like a real pro (yeah right). My arrogance was soon shattered when I reached the waves. So huge, and so powerful! I was rubbish at catching them. When I finally did, the men gave me a good shove to make sure I stayed at wave's front. Sooo fun, but sooo fast; I was frequently and repeatedly thrown from my board. And right into the sharp coral reefs.
My poor body is battered, scratched and bruised. And SUNBURNT. I must say that I look ridiculous. My legs are pasty white; my arms are a dark tan colour; my back is a deep and sore red; my arms are bruised; my legs are scratched and bitten; my hands are cut to shreds.
The joys of the Sri Lankan sea!
Friday, July 14, 2006
On a mission
India does marriages with marriage match websites. Sri Lanka does marriages by looking to the stars.
The date, time and place of a person's birth are enough to find a host of suitors. "It's more than the horoscope - you still have to observe the men", says Aunty (Muditha's Mum). "But the horoscopes can help."
What rubbish, I thought. But I then spoke to Marsh, another 'Burnetter'. He studied for five years in England, so could fully understand my horror at the Sri Lankan system. He wasn't fully sure on it either, but did tell me one story that certainly made me wonder.
One of his best friends was certain that he wanted no help in finding his future wife. His mother, concerned at this decision, went to "the horoscope man" anyway. She found a girl. So perfect was this girl for her son that, upon meeting, they were destined to fall instantly in love.
"Right, Marsh! If only it was so easy. So what happened?"
"The mother arranged a dinner where they could 'accidentally' meet each other."
"Yes, and then?"
"They fell instantly in love, then got engaged and married."
Hmm. Muditha - equally sceptic - has also told me such stories of the accuracy of the horoscope people.
Hmm again.
Armed with the following information:
Date of birth: 5th September 1985
Time of birth: 12:30am
Place of birth: Sutton, England
I approached Aunty.
"Find me a husband, Aunty." She collapsed into squeals of laughter and happily took the piece of paper from me.
Let's see, shall we?!
The date, time and place of a person's birth are enough to find a host of suitors. "It's more than the horoscope - you still have to observe the men", says Aunty (Muditha's Mum). "But the horoscopes can help."
What rubbish, I thought. But I then spoke to Marsh, another 'Burnetter'. He studied for five years in England, so could fully understand my horror at the Sri Lankan system. He wasn't fully sure on it either, but did tell me one story that certainly made me wonder.
One of his best friends was certain that he wanted no help in finding his future wife. His mother, concerned at this decision, went to "the horoscope man" anyway. She found a girl. So perfect was this girl for her son that, upon meeting, they were destined to fall instantly in love.
"Right, Marsh! If only it was so easy. So what happened?"
"The mother arranged a dinner where they could 'accidentally' meet each other."
"Yes, and then?"
"They fell instantly in love, then got engaged and married."
Hmm. Muditha - equally sceptic - has also told me such stories of the accuracy of the horoscope people.
Hmm again.
Armed with the following information:
Date of birth: 5th September 1985
Time of birth: 12:30am
Place of birth: Sutton, England
I approached Aunty.
"Find me a husband, Aunty." She collapsed into squeals of laughter and happily took the piece of paper from me.
Let's see, shall we?!
Monday, July 03, 2006
Size matters
The roads here are not quite as crazy as in Jaipur. (Emphasis there on the "not quite".) But there is still a code. The "code" is the body of rules that must be obeyed to survive a country's roads. The "code" for roads in England is largely determined by our driving tests.
In Sri Lanka, I am told that there are no driving tests.
The "code" is therefore crucial. Here it is an unwritten understanding; the Messiah looked up to by the mish mash of Sri Lanka's vehicles. It is largely unknown to foreigners ... but after a car journey with a colleague, I now have an insight.
Size matters.
The lorries always win. Next come pesky white vans, who like to think they rule. (Unless, of course, a lorry crosses their path. Then they'll give in.) Following the vans are cars, then tuk-tuks (see here), then motorbikes, then push bikes. Pedestrians, of course, make up the bottom.
A few sub-rules. The sex of the driver also influences size status. Nicola, my colleague, maintains that she is treated as a tuk-tuk driver because she is female. And then there are the makes: Ranil, the CEO, is elevated to van driver status because he owns a porsche.
The politics of automobiles: a complex matter.
In Sri Lanka, I am told that there are no driving tests.
The "code" is therefore crucial. Here it is an unwritten understanding; the Messiah looked up to by the mish mash of Sri Lanka's vehicles. It is largely unknown to foreigners ... but after a car journey with a colleague, I now have an insight.
Size matters.
The lorries always win. Next come pesky white vans, who like to think they rule. (Unless, of course, a lorry crosses their path. Then they'll give in.) Following the vans are cars, then tuk-tuks (see here), then motorbikes, then push bikes. Pedestrians, of course, make up the bottom.
A few sub-rules. The sex of the driver also influences size status. Nicola, my colleague, maintains that she is treated as a tuk-tuk driver because she is female. And then there are the makes: Ranil, the CEO, is elevated to van driver status because he owns a porsche.
The politics of automobiles: a complex matter.
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