A grand tour: part one

Our visiting guest blogger, James Willsher, reflects on a memorable journey through Sri Lanka.

Palm trees: everywhere. Out of the airport’s beige interiors, met by the Tsarina, into a waiting taxi. Now that’s what I call weather: valleys of sun-stained cloud roof Colombo’s gleaming broil. Banks, tuk-tuks, billboards, banks, shaded grocers and elephantine fruit, peeling Victorian megaliths, banks. Massive construction works: a China-financed motorway.

The sacred city of Kataragama

Arrive at the residence, for a resplendent cup of tea. Exactly an hour’s sleep on an overnight flight from Heathrow. Lord K returns from the office, and then a blast around central Colombo in The Beast. The driving intense, but the traffic forgiving: you elbow through with everyone else, fist-waving and language curiously absent.  Towering trees veil grand villas, then McDonald’s, Mango, skyscrapers, metal-and-glass.

To a charming Korean family for dinner, Scotch, and Sri Lanka’s Three Coins lager. A quick slink out to a nearby supermarket for a bottle. Back to the table, a glass, and there it is before me. Arrack: gold malarial; hours drift, oozing to a shudder. It is gorgeously drinkable. I bid you good night.

Next morning a whistle-stop tour of Colombo sights by tuk-tuk, driven commandingly by Dudley. Through rural-tinged suburbs to a grand temple, ancient dusky brown, where Buddha trod. He reclines inside, a shining giant amid infinite and fading illustrations. An enormous blinding white stupa adjacent, devotees march around the requisite banyan tree, brightly coloured strips of material tied to anything available. Then on over a railway line to a huge Hindu temple, comprised almost entirely of little painted statues, some men chip away on a smaller version behind, years of work ahead. Fort, Galle Face Green, lunch. Challenging: press curry and rice into a ball using only one’s right hand. I’m left handed, a slow process, and much ends up on the face.

A brief stroll to Vihara Mahadevi Park. Schoolchildren chatter, fruit bats repose in multitude, occasionally shriek or take a flutter unfurling that notorious wingspan. Saatchi & Saatchi beside a roundabout, a turn down a street of colonial residences, now offices. International PR titan Ogilvy announces itself on a plate outside one, the Iraqi embassy another. An iced tea and back home.

Up early next day, through mild traffic in The Beast and onto the newly-opened Southern Expressway, verdure either side. A turn-off to country main roads, where single-decker buses are overlords of the right of way. Demented minibuses and cranking lorries slow the progress, as do tuk-tuks – collective noun: an inconvenience – to the hill country. Roadside stall, king coconut hacked open, straw inserted: thambili, an immensely refreshing juice, a celebrity health fad waiting to happen.

The heat chills, the roads precipitous, tea plantations emerge, and the small hillside town of Haputale. The White Monkey Dias Rest House, little cottages with a million-dollar view. Dias is a splendid gentleman, very welcoming, with whom Lord K and the Tsarina have stayed previously. A half-hour walk into town, which quietly bustles with commerce. A Sri Lankan Lion lager in a bar, where I put the jumper back on for the first time since the aeroplane; a very English train station; and in a bakery some invigorating sweet spiced tea and a pastry containing hard-boiled egg. Tuk-tuk back to the rest house for dinner, thank heavens for cutlery, and an arrack sat in front of that view. We are at the same height as the weather.

Miles of unfinished road in The Beast on the way to Kataragama

Next morning a visit to a country mansion built by a plantation owner in 1931. With the cold, the light rain, raked leaves and picturesque gardens, it could be a National Trust jaunt on a grim Sunday in November. Back down into the heat, heading south. A three-foot monitor lizard struts between speeding cars, minus half its tail. A deleted scene from Jurassic Park 4. Detour to Kataragama, sacred town for Buddhists, Hindus and Muslims. The approach is a country lane, then a dirt track, then crawling along miles of unfinished highway. The potholes. Is your exhaust pipe, ahem, well hung, sir? The heat. We press on. Finally a main road, and Kataragama. The sites of worship in a park, thousands throng, monkeys conspire and from pilgrims pilfer fruit intended as offerings, leaving overflowing rubbish bins to roaming cows and goats. A turn around the stupa reveals elephants chained beside a car park. Marauding monkeys with the same faces as sour old men in East End boozers.

Back on the road, and in the absence of a radio station I instigate a truly appalling barbershop trio treatment of Frankly Mr Shankly. Which is swiftly matched by, er, Boom Boom Boom and Here Comes the Hotstepper. An evening of louche behaviour on the beach beckons.

A grand tour: part two

1: Temples and lizards, potholes and dust

Dagoba in Anuradhapura

We spent Christmas and New Year on the road. Our route criss-crossed the cultural triangle, an area north of the hill country where ancient kings once built sacred cities and irrigated the land with a network of elaborate tanks. We then went east to remote towns and national parks where white faces were still a thing of curiosity. Finally we travelled south, through the tea plantations of the eastern hill country, and to the idyllic beaches on the south coast. Over 1,700 kilometres in our little Maruti 800.

Trees line Kekirawa main street

Fish buns ready to bake

With the car we had bought our freedom and were able to explore remote cave temples and mountain shrines, and stop at towns and villages as we pleased. There is a certain charm about the small urban places one encounters when travelling between bigger commercial centres, in their crowded streets, dust, and tired concrete buildings. Often there is something unexpected about them which can give a place an identity not instantly apparent. Look closely and there may be an old colonial building immersed in the modern town, or beautiful trees that line main streets, lovingly kept and in contrast to the cracked tarmac they shade. There will likely be an elaborately sculpted Hindu kovil, a minaret that pierces the skyline clad in painted tiles, or lines of Buddhist prayer flags that leave a trail of fluttering shadows.

The towns, villages and roads provide a place for small business and innovative ventures, run by people who are always willing to tell their story. On the road from Kurunegela to Anuradhapura we stopped at a roadside café. The owner had set up a bakery behind for short eats and had expanded his business to include biscuits of unusual flavours and ingredients. He showed us the large stone oven that provided the only light in the dark rooms and we watched a worker make fish buns. His biscuits used only local ingredients, and included flavours such as garlic and rice, and water lily seeds.

Our going was slow to Anuradhapura, as all the surrounding roads were being resurfaced in preparation for the annual Independence Day celebrations held in February. The result was kilometres of rocks, vicious pot holes, mud, dust, and angry bus drivers.

Anuradhapura became capital of Sri Lanka in 380 BC and over the next several hundred years the great kings constructed magnificent monuments and irrigation systems. Today the sacred city is set in scorched forests just north of the new town. Majestic dagobas rise out of the trees, ancient monuments to ethereal times. Three are working shrines and places of pilgrimage today and are plastered brilliant white with a glittering golden spire on top. But the colossal Jetavanrama Dagoba is left in partial ruin, and foliage and monkeys cling to the gentle curves of the exposed brickwork that is the colour of baked clay.

A monitor lizard in Polonnaruwa

Humans and animals share these places. The ancient buildings provide a sanctuary for magnificent monitor lizards, exotic birds, monkeys, turtles, giant squirrels, flying foxes and semi-wild buffalo. The monuments themselves were often dedicated to mythical beasts. The weathered remains of five-headed cobras and the multi-species makara adorned bathing pools and palaces.

Surrounding the site are three reservoirs, known as tanks in Sinhalese. They date from the 4^th century BC and provide water for agriculture during the long, arid dry season. The largest, Nuwara Wesa, covers 1,200 hectares and is still used today as a place for bathing, washing and leisure. Nearby are the remains of a monastery where, so the tale goes, monks dressed in scraps of clothing taken from corpses lived on a diet of rice.

A curious giant squirrel in Mihintale

The new town was typically chaotic, noisy and full of the clamour of urban Sri Lanka. It was designed under the tutelage of eminent town planner Sir Patrick Abercrombie, and incorporated the most roundabouts in any Sri Lankan town as part of a baffling road system. Driving through modern Anuradhapura is an exercise in concentration and patience. Cows, potholes, bicycles, buses and crowds of people fill the dusty streets. And a network of roundabouts in a country that has no discernible right of way makes navigation all the more tricky.

We stayed in a small guest house run by an old school friend of my Director. He served great feasts of stringhoppers, milk rice, fish, dhal and potato curries, and poppadums. A generous man, and in keeping with the legendary Sri Lankan hospitality, he plied us with arrack. Together we polished off two bottles on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Small B roads took us east through rural villages surrounded by jungle, paddy fields, and ancient tanks. To the south, the peaks of the Knuckles mountain range shimmered in the intense heat.  Treacherous road surfaces made the going slow but this suited our frame of mind. Agriculture and employment in the public sector seemed to be the main industries, and we passed intriguing government departments such as the Coconut Research Institute and the Wild Elephant Control Unit.

Mountain shrine, Dimbulagala

Apart from the hill country, Sri Lanka’s topography is generally flat except for numerous rocky outcrops that sit like giant domes on the landscape, carpeted with trees. Dimbulagala’s peak, known as Gunner’s Quoin, rises over 500 metres from the eastern plains. At its top is a magnificent Buddhist shrine, presiding over the land like a giant white sentry.

The climb was a humid scramble up rocks and through dense jungle patrolled by troops of monkeys, eager to steal delicious treats, such as the freshly cooked corn on the cobs sold along the route by locals. We were met with breath taking views from the rocky summit. From the shrine, the resident monk pointed out, we could see the eastern forests which used to be the stronghold of the LTTE. The peak formed a border of sorts, as well as the administrative boundary of the north central and eastern provinces. Looking at the dense foliage that stretched to the horizon in all directions it became clear why Sri Lanka had only recently emerged from a bloody civil conflict lasting 25 years, the longest in recent Asian history. Guerrilla warfare in this terrain would test even the most powerful armies.

2: Hunters, tea leaves, and golden sand

PK

Meet The Beast

On the road

The Southern Expressway is a symbol of modern Sri Lanka's ambition, but it will take time for the country to adapt with it

The completion of Sri Lanka’s first expressway last month was a cause for celebration. Cricket games, a marathon, and even elephant races took place on the dual carriageway before the road was officially opened by the President.

The new road, which joins Colombo and Galle, is a symbol of Sri Lanka’s development ambition as it emerges from decades of conflict. There are other expressways on the drawing board and vast tourist complexes are taking shape along the country’s more remote coastline.

But it will take time for Sri Lanka to adapt. Coinciding with the Southern Expressway’s grand opening were awareness campaigns advising drivers how to drive on dual carriageways, and there are signs on all entrances to remind locals that three wheelers, bikes and hand tractors are prohibited.

I travelled the road for the first time this week. We started early and caught the sunrise and lingering patches of early morning mist. The road was empty and the route cut through mangrove forests and paddy fields. At regular intervals we had to slow for dogs that were sleeping on the warm tarmac. Some dogs hadn’t moved in time and their carcasses lay were they had been hit.

The journey was quick and comfortable, and the Southern Expressway will certainly open up the more remote beaches to the south-east. But it will take time for the country to adapt as it realises its development ambitions.

PK

Batticaloa

Fishermen near Batticaloa

The bus from Akkaraipattu followed the coast north for 50kms to the Tamil town of Batticaloa. To the west the flood plains were completely covered, merging eventually with the Batticaloa lagoon to give the impression our raised road was one giant causeway.

The town was a bustling centre with the air of a remote frontier. Herds of sleepy goats slumbered in groups next to the main street, lining which were small shops and a large covered market selling all manner of locally produced fruit, vegetables and dried fish.

The majority of locals travelled on rusty bicycles, and every now and then a large 4×4 sporting international aid slogans like UN, UNICEF, and Care International bumped along the tracks, avoiding the cows and dogs that often impeded their route. Just after the tsunami and during the conflict there were many more NGOs operating here, but, as in most areas of Sri Lanka, international aid organisations are ending operations and leaving the country, particularly since the nation achieved middle income status – a fact that belies the abject poverty still faced by many.

We borrowed a colleague’s scooter and followed the lagoon out of town, to the point where it joined the beach and then onwards along the coast. Very quickly the houses marking the edge of Batticaloa stopped, making way for vast flat sandy plains that spread out from the sea. The road – barely a single lane – followed the beach about 50 metres from the water, the golden sands of which stretched far into the distance.

The colourful canoe sized vessels of local fisherman sat on the shore, often next to their small huts made from palm fronds. Solitary fisherman could be seen with net in hand at the point where the waves broke on the beach. Sea eagles, hoping for a discarded fish or two, circled silently overhead.

The idyllic scene was broken as a group of perhaps two dozen huts, once a small fishing village but now just empty shells without windows or roofs, appeared as a monument to the tsunami. It ripped through this area nearly seven years ago devastating local industry and communities alike. It is said that once fish could be heard singing here, but since the waves struck they have made no sound. Whether that is true or not, various people have attributed the changing climatic patterns, particularly the unpredictability of the monsoon rains both in the east and the south, on the 2004 tsunami. The broken buildings up the coast from Batticaloa and those near Galle, over 400kms away on the south coast, are a visible testament to the scale of the disaster.

Deserted fishing village near Batticaloa. The pine trees behind have been planted since the tsunami

It never ceases to amaze me just how much communities that have suffered remain, on the face of things at least, so positive and good natured. It takes the deserted buildings, international aid logos on big cars, and the (albeit less frequent) groups of armed soldiers that still patrol the streets and man the checkpoints, to reveal the hardship that people have endured.

Despite all the events of the recent past and the levels of poverty that some still face, the overriding image of places like Batticaloa is one of happiness and friendship. And this makes it near impossible for any foreigner like me to wander into town without being greeted by men, women, and especially children, as they go about their business or continue on their way.

PK

In the hills

Until the mid Nineteenth Century the hill country was a separate kingdom

Back in Wales a favourite past time was to hike up windy, isolated paths whilst being pelted with sleet. So we jumped at the chance to visit Sri Lanka’s hill country during the inter-monsoon. Our destination was Haputale, a small Tamil town straddling the area’s southern-most ridge.

We arrived after a nail-biting bus journey of tight hairpin bends and steep climbs. Haputale, what charm! The bustling market town was full of life and character, perched above the clouds and tea plantations that blanketed the hills.

At nearly 1500 metres above sea level the weather would descend in the blink of an eye, constantly on the move and making sure no view was ever the same again. This, combined with a town-scape of dilapidated buildings on crumbling stilts and concrete Breese blocks, made a breath taking scene.

Our residence was a family run guest house just out of town. With Old Reserve arrack in hand we presided over an epic abyss and a view that stretched to the south coast. Eagles soared and patches of cloud plumed like white smoke below; night time was punctuated by the call of a million insects.

We took the observation car back to Colombo. The interior oozed tired colonial grandeur: clad in wood with brass trimmings, it was seen to by a well turned out gentleman in stunning white, polished shoes and gold embossed cap. The train snaked upwards along mountain ridges and through dense forest, high above the valley floor. It reached its summit at Pattipola, 1891 metres above the sea and the highest station in Sri Lanka, from where the slow descent began.

In times past the hill country kingdom held the status of myth; impenetrable, exotic, and unique. We emerged onto the flat plains of Kegalla as if from a Tolkienian fantasy.

Haputale in the rain

View from our cabin

Haputale with cloud

 

The train arrives into Haputale

Ten things I like about Colombo

1. Fruit bats at dusk
2. Bonkers tuk-tuk drivers
3. Fish curry and rice
4. Wide-eyed, waving children
5. Thambeli from a roadside stall
6. Inter-monsoon thunderstorms
7. Sleepy, feral dogs
8. Walking the backstreets of Rajagiriya
9. Maradana station
10. Aloof cows that hold up traffic

The crab that played with the camera

Crab on Kalpitiya Peninsula

Every now and then all the elements needed for a fantastic shot come together: the right light, the right settings, the right subject, and a huge slice of luck. This was one of those times. My thanks go to this splendid camera-friendly crab.

Having been in the capital for five weeks it was high time to get off the beaten track. We left Colombo for Puttalam, described by the Bradt Guide as a town with ‘the air of a forgotten frontier’. For four hours the train bumped and swayed its way over mangrove swamps, past rusting carcasses of old carriages, and through varying degrees of habitation from the lights of Negombo to palm-lined huts on windswept plains just south of Palavi.

We’d come to visit our friend Bill, fellow volunteer, and resident of the mighty Puttalam. He’d arranged for us to spend Saturday at a small resort on the Kalpitiya peninsula between the Indian Ocean and Puttalam Lagoon. A 20km tuk-tuk ride ended on thin sandy paths past fields of watermelon and green chillies.

As the sun set the beach became the setting for an elaborate display of crabs, scuttling to the water’s edge, back to their holes in the sand, and so forth. For the most part they seldom stopped still long enough for a photo, especially not when we approached. But, as the light turned dark pink in its final throes for the day, this one curious crab stopped just long enough to get this shot.

Three go mad in a tuk-tuk, Puttalam

Foreign perceptions

Colombo skyscrapers in the distance

From Fort Railway Station we wind our way between dilapidated shacks, concrete villas, over rivers and canals, before following the coast south. Powerful waves hit the shore to our right and Colombo unravels slowly to our left as the train clatters to Mount Lavinia. Here we alight and stroll back north along the beach.

Makeshift cricket games take place along the shore, often a piece of driftwood and a couple of water bottles discarded by the surf suffice for bat and stumps. Vessels sit on the horizon, distant silhouettes against the bright sea. We walk towards Dehiwela. Mount Lavinia’s beachside cafes and restaurants make way for ramshackle small houses and huts. Far away Colombo’s skyscrapers shimmer in the haze, a reminder of contrasting local fortunes.

It is hot today. Three westerners struggle against the heat and the sand underfoot, fending off occasional approaches from vendors and getting eyed up by skinny locals. The scene, familiar around the world, offers an opportunity to reflect on many differences, both visible and invisible; differences in attire, culture, stature, status. It’ll be interesting to reflect in two years’ time on whether foreign perceptions can be understood from either viewpoint – maybe, at the very least, they can be better  understood. Here’s a fun example: Mahatta means fat in Sinhala. It’s not rude to call or describe someone as fat; on the contrary, it’s a compliment and equates to wealth and affluence.

Just one example of many.