The Tear of India
There are a lot of different challenges one faces when traveling. There are “unpredictabilities”: delays, spontaneous changes of plans due to unforeseen circumstances and environmental causes. I’ve experienced a fair few of them now, but heading off to Sri Lanka left me faced with a whole new situation. I was traveling side by side with a friend, a girlfriend, and her mother.
Some people might be gasping and exclaiming, some might be “pshaw-ing” and shrugging it off as nothing, but sitting somewhere right in the middle, I wasn’t sure what to expect. With details organized by the intrepid Ms. Neshali Weera and her native Sri Lankan “Aunt and Uncle” I set out with Camille and her mother, Pam, to get a whirlwind tour of the “Tear of India”.
Stepping out of the airport in Colombo was to be reminded of the thick, fragrant humidity of tropical air. Not wasting any time, the friendly driver that had been arranged for us was waiting and we sped off towards the town of Hickadua with only intermittent stops to procure gigantic coconuts to drink and to visit a turtle sanctuary. The friendly volunteers told us of the turtle population off of the coasts of Sri Lanka, and their dangers from natural predators and fishermen. We learned what we could and held tiny baby turtles that had been zooming around their tank, but with the knowledge that perhaps, if we were lucky, we could encounter giant sea turtles off the coast of Hickadua we piled back into the van and hit the road. I discovered a cramp in my neck from bowing to prolific amounts of Buddha statues along the way.
We arrived. We stared up at the clouds, promising tropical rain. We headed for the beach anyway. The girls lay near the surf, relaxing to the sounds under the fading sunlight. I waded out into the Ocean, felt the warm water splashing against me and watched the surf crash on the reef offshore. A large rock swam by. I squished my feet in the sand and… wait… a large rock? Swam?
In a series of panicked and perhaps comical hand gestures, I got the girls attention and they ran (clothes and all) into the surf as the swirling currents brought turtles, with shells a meter in diameter, gliding up next to us.
We spent the next two days on the coast, snorkeling around the reef in search of fish and octopi and surfing the current beside tranquil turtles, capturing loose kelp floating past and passing it to eager mouths, scrubbing algae from their shells and holding on to catch a ride on the tide. The town was interesting, the people friendly and unspoiled to tourists, the food delicious and company fantastic, but the experience of the turtles was something I’d wished for years.
We (regrettably) packed up the next day and jumped in the van to Colombo. Although Pam had shopped out most of Hickadua while we were on the beach, we spent some of the afternoon meandering around downtown while she searched through some stores. We checked out some monuments though, and I people-watched, and this lead us off to a tour of a prominent Buddhist temple and dinner with Neshali’s family. The temple was magnificent, showcasing a gathered collection of statues and monuments from all around the country and beyond… a peaceful place of meditation, welcome, and awe. I sat on the steps and watched as worshippers watered the ancient roots of the sacred Bo tree.
We were stopped at three security checkpoints on our way to dinner. The Tamil Tigers, targeting the Sri Lankan government and political centers in recent attacks, have caused a serious blow to tourism and the reputation of the small country, but not the steadfast welcoming demeanors of its citizens. There is caution, but there is also warmth to visitors, as acts of terrorism (rumored to be partially funded by Tamil populations in and around Toronto) are primarily directed toward natives, not foreigners.
After an amazing dinner (but also a terrifying one with Camille’s allergic reaction to nuts), something was missing. Literally. Something that was Neshali’s purse, containing her passport and identification. Something that had already been found, by police, in the aforementioned Buddhist temple.
Something that they thought was a bomb.
Speeding back to the temple through midnight checkpoints, we arrived to guards armed with automatic weapons and some confused translations. One of the monks was sleeping with the purse now that it had been identified as safe by the police bomb squad, and against normal regulations they agreed to wake him so she could obtain her passport and wallet for our planned flight home less than twenty four hours away.
We retired for a stiff drink and some rest, because we had already decided how we would not waste our final day.
Up early and speeding off out of the city into the central hill country, we headed around twisting turns of tropical trees and roadside huts and climbed our way towards Pinnawela.
Just in time, we reached the river where the Elephant Orphanage was based. Over one hundred elephants of all ages tromped down the riverbed in search of a refreshing splash of water. Although untamed, the elephants of the Pinnawela orphanage are calm, friendly (and hungry) elephants being protected from the wild, and are getting used to humans wandering around. From twenty paces, he turned - a large male, staring right at me. Or more appropriately, right at my bag where he could smell banana. Before I knew it I was being probed by trunks in search of tasty treats, others joining in. Suddenly, I realized that I was spending my day playing with elephants.
I celebrated by pretending to be one.
We left Pinnawela hastily with little time left before our flight, and drove a few hours straight to the airport. Sri Lanka, in such a short time, had clutched me with an unprecedented level of hospitality for such a low budget trip. It was a memorable flight home, but I’ll spare you the trivialities this time. It took so long in posting these details that I’ve not yet had the opportunity to write about my recent encounters with sociopaths and protective custody in Doha, and tonight I leave for a week in the exotic melting pot of Moroccan life. Next stop, Marrakech.
Some people might be gasping and exclaiming, some might be “pshaw-ing” and shrugging it off as nothing, but sitting somewhere right in the middle, I wasn’t sure what to expect. With details organized by the intrepid Ms. Neshali Weera and her native Sri Lankan “Aunt and Uncle” I set out with Camille and her mother, Pam, to get a whirlwind tour of the “Tear of India”.
Stepping out of the airport in Colombo was to be reminded of the thick, fragrant humidity of tropical air. Not wasting any time, the friendly driver that had been arranged for us was waiting and we sped off towards the town of Hickadua with only intermittent stops to procure gigantic coconuts to drink and to visit a turtle sanctuary. The friendly volunteers told us of the turtle population off of the coasts of Sri Lanka, and their dangers from natural predators and fishermen. We learned what we could and held tiny baby turtles that had been zooming around their tank, but with the knowledge that perhaps, if we were lucky, we could encounter giant sea turtles off the coast of Hickadua we piled back into the van and hit the road. I discovered a cramp in my neck from bowing to prolific amounts of Buddha statues along the way.
We arrived. We stared up at the clouds, promising tropical rain. We headed for the beach anyway. The girls lay near the surf, relaxing to the sounds under the fading sunlight. I waded out into the Ocean, felt the warm water splashing against me and watched the surf crash on the reef offshore. A large rock swam by. I squished my feet in the sand and… wait… a large rock? Swam?
In a series of panicked and perhaps comical hand gestures, I got the girls attention and they ran (clothes and all) into the surf as the swirling currents brought turtles, with shells a meter in diameter, gliding up next to us.
We spent the next two days on the coast, snorkeling around the reef in search of fish and octopi and surfing the current beside tranquil turtles, capturing loose kelp floating past and passing it to eager mouths, scrubbing algae from their shells and holding on to catch a ride on the tide. The town was interesting, the people friendly and unspoiled to tourists, the food delicious and company fantastic, but the experience of the turtles was something I’d wished for years.
We (regrettably) packed up the next day and jumped in the van to Colombo. Although Pam had shopped out most of Hickadua while we were on the beach, we spent some of the afternoon meandering around downtown while she searched through some stores. We checked out some monuments though, and I people-watched, and this lead us off to a tour of a prominent Buddhist temple and dinner with Neshali’s family. The temple was magnificent, showcasing a gathered collection of statues and monuments from all around the country and beyond… a peaceful place of meditation, welcome, and awe. I sat on the steps and watched as worshippers watered the ancient roots of the sacred Bo tree.
We were stopped at three security checkpoints on our way to dinner. The Tamil Tigers, targeting the Sri Lankan government and political centers in recent attacks, have caused a serious blow to tourism and the reputation of the small country, but not the steadfast welcoming demeanors of its citizens. There is caution, but there is also warmth to visitors, as acts of terrorism (rumored to be partially funded by Tamil populations in and around Toronto) are primarily directed toward natives, not foreigners.
After an amazing dinner (but also a terrifying one with Camille’s allergic reaction to nuts), something was missing. Literally. Something that was Neshali’s purse, containing her passport and identification. Something that had already been found, by police, in the aforementioned Buddhist temple.
Something that they thought was a bomb.
Speeding back to the temple through midnight checkpoints, we arrived to guards armed with automatic weapons and some confused translations. One of the monks was sleeping with the purse now that it had been identified as safe by the police bomb squad, and against normal regulations they agreed to wake him so she could obtain her passport and wallet for our planned flight home less than twenty four hours away.
We retired for a stiff drink and some rest, because we had already decided how we would not waste our final day.
Up early and speeding off out of the city into the central hill country, we headed around twisting turns of tropical trees and roadside huts and climbed our way towards Pinnawela.
Just in time, we reached the river where the Elephant Orphanage was based. Over one hundred elephants of all ages tromped down the riverbed in search of a refreshing splash of water. Although untamed, the elephants of the Pinnawela orphanage are calm, friendly (and hungry) elephants being protected from the wild, and are getting used to humans wandering around. From twenty paces, he turned - a large male, staring right at me. Or more appropriately, right at my bag where he could smell banana. Before I knew it I was being probed by trunks in search of tasty treats, others joining in. Suddenly, I realized that I was spending my day playing with elephants.
I celebrated by pretending to be one.
We left Pinnawela hastily with little time left before our flight, and drove a few hours straight to the airport. Sri Lanka, in such a short time, had clutched me with an unprecedented level of hospitality for such a low budget trip. It was a memorable flight home, but I’ll spare you the trivialities this time. It took so long in posting these details that I’ve not yet had the opportunity to write about my recent encounters with sociopaths and protective custody in Doha, and tonight I leave for a week in the exotic melting pot of Moroccan life. Next stop, Marrakech.