Tiny Flippers

All along Sri Lanka’s southern coast, evidence of the 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami is prevalent. In between tourist towns, ruined walls and remains of gutted, faceless homes have been left to crumble. With no tourist income in the area, there is little reason or financial means to bother tearing them down or building them back up. In some places, shops spring up like weeds within the collapsing buildings. And on each of our bus rides, I was overwhelmed by the number of roadside graveyards, wondering if they were tsunami victims.

Among the devastation, Sri Lanka’s turtle hatcheries took a particularly hard hit. Many of them, though they had been in business for decades, are run complete off donations and volunteer work. So, I figured that we should surely go put our money to good use, donating to the rebuilding turtle hatcheries in the area. Kosgoda holds the highest concentration of turtle hatcheries; it is the only place where, of the five species of sea turtle that lay eggs on Sri Lanka, all five come to nest.

Since Sri Lankans consider sea turtle eggs to be a delicacy, and the hatcheries have a hard enough time with natural predators, the hatcheries pay a higher-than-market price to all local fishermen who bring in turtle eggs. They then put them in a “natural incubator” (sand box) until they are ready to hatch. Since turtles hatch at night, using the reflection of the moon as a guide back to the sea, the hatcheries rig a system wherein an artificial light lures the hatchlings into a box instead.

Baby turtles, already susceptible to birds and other predators, are especially vulnerable when they are first born. Not only are their eyes not yet open fully, but their bellybuttons aren’t closed; it’s like ringing a dinner bell for all nearby predators. The hatcheries keep the new turtles in tanks of seawater for three days, by which point their eyes are open, their bellybuttons sealed, and they are ready to go. On the night of the third day, the hatchery workers, along with any volunteers lucky enough to be there, release the baby sea turtles under the cover of darkness.

In addition to giving baby turtles a helping hand on their way to survival, the hatcheries take in wounded sea turtles. Injured turtles can be nursed to health and then released back into the ocean; turtles that have lost limbs and would typically die in the wild remain at the hatcheries, helping to educate local school children (and us tourists). Rare albino turtles, massive and majestic, don’t end up in the wild at all, their luminescence making them immediate prey.

There are obviously many people who are opposed to the turtle hatcheries’ interference with nature. But you have to figure, with sea turtle numbers dwindling, even one more turtle that survives is a small difference. 

Coasting

With only a few short days left in our Sri Lanka adventure, we started to wander up the coast. The goal was a leisurely journey, as we were no more than three hours from Colombo.

First, we went to Bentota. Unfortunately for us budget-conscious travelers, sometime between the printing of our mysterious bootleg Lonely Planet and our arrival on the island, Bentota decided that it was some sort of luxury resort town. We told a tuk-tuk driver than we were looking for something cheap. He repeatedly took us to places that wanted $25 a night or higher, insisting the whole time that many tourists come, pay 5,000 rupees, 10,000 rupees a night ($50-100), beautiful on beach. He couldn’t understand that it wasn’t a personal insult to Bentota or his family, just a budget issue.

Eventually, we got back on a bus heading toward Galle and hopped off in the town of Amblanagoda, where a tuk-tuk driver immediately took us to a big, rambling guesthouse overlooking the ocean. We took the first room they showed us, huge with a oceanview balcony and a roomy mosquito net, only 1,800 rupees per night. Downstairs, a wedding reception was winding down, so we were invited to have a free buffet lunch (we’re pretty sure they were just hoping we would burst into flames because of the spice) and hop into family portraits.

Amblanagoda is famous for its carved masks, both theatrical and for folk medicine, so we made the rounds of the mask museums in town. The masks ranged from simple affairs in vibrant colors, representing various ailments, to massive carved garudas and cobras meant for blessings and luck, to even bigger, more elaborate king masks. Hand carved from balsa wood, and then delicately painted, the construction process was done assembly-line style, each artisan with a niche.

The beach at Amblanagoda was lovely to stroll, but hazardous (okay, probably fatal) if you were looking to swim. Even at low tide, the sand was a narrow strip, frequently interrupted by natural rock walls and fallen palm trees. Not surprisingly, the beach saw very few visitors, making it less-than-ideal if you were looking to open a resort. However, the seclusion and solitude caused us to spend the rest of our Sri Lanka days lounging in Amblanagoda. 

Old World Splendor

The old city of Galle, located on the southern coast and the final World Heritage Site on our itinerary, is a neighborhood surrounded by massive fortress walls. Elsewhere along Sri Lanka's southern coast, the vacant shells of former homes, piles of cinderblock rubble, stand ghostly tribute to the havoc wreaked by the tsunami. But, in Galle’s old quarter, colonial-style buildings, all shutters, archways, and balconeys covered with flowering vines, flank the streets.The fortification, serving little modern protective purpose, actually saved the old quarter from damage during the devastating 2004 tsunami.

A meandering gridwork of cafes, guesthouses, and giftshops, Galle is also graced with walk-able fortress walls. We walked the majority of the walls, perched high above the crashing waves, taking to the streets whenever construction prevented passage. A beautiful vantage point for watching the sunset over the ocean, the fortress walls seemed popular with tourists and locals alike.

Wandering through the local Antiques Museum, we witnessed local men hand carving gems, something done by machine these days. But Galle strives to keep alive traditional handicrafts. We were lucky enough to see an elderly woman making lace by hand, sun-wrinkled fingers flicking bobbins over and under each other, a craft that is quickly fading away as the older generation disappears in Galle.

Full of textiles, antiques, tea houses and beautiful ocean views, Galle was a lovely place to waste several days roaming, looking for local knickknacks or napping the day away.

Rainforest Expedition

Among the numerous forests and national reserves, the Sinharaja Rainforest Reserve stood out to us, after all how often do you get to visit a rainforest? We opted to book our rainforest trek through our guesthouse, which turned out to be excellent foresight. The tuk-tuk ride to the entrance of the national park took nearly an hour, bumping over flood-damaged roads, massive chunks of pavement torn up and left unrepaired.

Our guide was a local 21-year-old who had been working as a registered Unesco guide since the age of 16. He obviously loved his job, and who wouldn’t? His sole purpose was to walk around a rainforest with tourists pointing out birds, trees, plants and wildlife; his positivity and absolute awe spilled over, sometimes to the point that his English started to jumble, and made for a lively, enjoyable walk. From wild coffee, cinnamon, and lime leaves to massive palms, enormous spiral trunks, and tiny plants that would close their leaves when you brushed against them, he reveled in the greenery all about.

To safe guard against leeches, we stuffed our pants into our socks and covered our shoes with salt. Luckily it wasn’t a rainy day, so the leeches were fewer in number. I come from a world in which leeched are big nasty black blobs, roughly the size of your thumb. So I wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about, I mean, it’s not like you can’t see them.

Apparently, this is not true of all the leeches in the world. After taking a picture of what I thought was just a cute inch worm trying to resemble a stick, I was told that, nope, that would be a Sri Lankan leech! And, they were busy using the stillness of my photo op as a chance to climb up and into my shoes. Hiding between leaves, sticking to the soles of my shoes, and even trying to shimmy in through the mesh along the sides of my sneakers (thanks, ventilated running shoes), even on a dry day the leeches were bad.

After de-leeching, our path led us to a river. We removed our shoes and crossed through waist deep waters, following the path farther along to a lovely waterfall. Our guide and Win went for a dip, but having not thought to wear a bathing suit I skipped it, choosing instead to lounge on the riverside boulders.

In his tracking of animals, birds, and reptiles, our guide was relentless. He wandered in front of us, eyes always alert and roaming the foliage. We watched giant squirrels, the national animal of Sri Lanka, leap through the trees, the biggest reaching three or four feet, nose to bushy tail.

We tried to sneak up on kangaroo lizards and hump-nose lizards. He told us about cicadas and giant snails, introduced us to some crabs living inside a tree trunk, and pointed out all manner of creatures. We even spotted several kingfishers, flitting past, beautiful in bright blue, a rare sight I am told.

Since there aren’t many big animals in the Sinharaja Reserve, he made sure to point out the local monkey population, but saved the reptiles for his grand finale. He spotted a green vine snake, which we picked up immediately upon learning that it isn’t poisonous. Vibrant lime green, the small snake twisted and spiraled, coiling around our fingers. He also found a pit viper, but since it is “medium poisonous” (“two minutes, go to sleep”), we left it alone.

It wasn’t the safari experience that many people aim for. There might not have been leopards or elephants, and I’m not really sure why it is called Sinharaja (Sinhalese for “lion king” when there certainly weren't lions), but our rainforest walk was just what we were looking for: low-key, intimate, and relaxed.

Exploring Ella

Surrounded by tea plantations, waterfalls, and mountainous countryside, the quaint town of Ella is a quiet place to spend a couple of days. We took the train from Hatton to Ella, climbing over and under mountains, clacking our way between tea plantations. Mountains layered in various shades of green-blue, it was picturesque as a postcard.

After overexerting myself at Adam’s Peak, I knew I had shot a hole in the plan to walk around Ella. Walking in stiff, awkward limps, the first day I did little more than get an Ayurvedic massage and read a book. The massage helped less than I had hoped, but the steam bath and herbal sauna helped warm the perpetual misty Hill Country chill from my bones.

Win was doing better than I was, so on the second day I pushed myself and we climbed what has been dubbed as Little Adam’s Peak. We passed through several small villages full of life and energy, cheering and rallying as they watched their local teens play sports.

Where the trail split from the main road, a local artisan was selling jewelry made by his wife. Instead of stones, beads, or gems, the necklaces and bracelets were made from the seeds of the trees in the area. He claimed that the seeds were also ground into powder to make medicines. Lovely in blue-grays to slate white and ashy black, the seeds had been strung together as simple string necklaces. He was even kind enough to tell us the best way to get to the top, which involved taking a path instead of the stairs (hallelujah!).

Four or five kilometers roundtrip, it didn’t kill me. The view from the top was all the more impressive for the fact that there wasn’t anyone else around. We stopped on our way back to purchase some seed jewelry and watch the volleyball game in progress. We arrived back just as the evening rain and fog was rolling in, just in time to rescue our dry laundry.

Curd & Honey

Resident dish of the Hill Country, Curd and Honey is light and delicious. The curd, made from fresh buffalo milk, has a tart-creamy flavor, not unlike Greek yoghurt. The honey, with its rich, smoky taste, isn’t honey at all. It is treacle: a sweet syrup made from boiling the sap of the kitgul palm. Often mixed with fresh fruit, muesli, roti, or pancakes, Curd and Honey is delectable as part of an ensemble or on its own.

Now, it might just be because Greek yoghurt ranks high on my list of Western foods I miss, but Curd and Honey is also my official favorite Sri Lankan food. 

It's Hard to be a Pilgrim

Adam’s Peak, also known as “butterfly mountain”, is Sri Lanka’s holiest mountain and most famous pilgrimage site. Near the summit, a 6-foot rock formation resembling a footprint, called Sri Pada, is said by Buddhists to belong to the Buddha, by Hindus to belong to Shiva, and local Christians and Muslims believe that it is the place where Adam first set foot on earth after being cast out of Eden. Important to all local religions, it has become a must for Lankans to complete the pilgrimage at least once in their lifetime.

To reach the summit of Adam’s Peak, pilgrims climb 5200 increasingly steep steps, ideally reaching the peak just before dawn. During pilgrimage season, which lasts for about six months out of the year, the path and steps are illuminated by rigged overhead lights, and tea and snack shops stay open throughout the night, refreshing pilgrims on their trek.

Unfortunately, we weren’t in Sri Lanka during pilgrimage season. This meant that in getting from Anuradahpura to Delhousie at the base of Adam’s Peak required not two buses, as it would during pilgrimage season, but four. Unfortunately for us, overland travel in Sri Lanka takes a surprisingly long time, considering how small the island is as a whole. The bus crawled over mountain roads, hardly one lane wide, that curved up, around and back, snaking its way through tea plantations toward Hatton. Houses were carved into the mountainsides, made up of many narrow stories stacked around the mountain’s natural shape, sometimes only the top floor at street level, with many stories built downward instead.

By the time we reached Hatton, dusk had settled over the town and the last bus of the day had already left. This left only one option: tuk-tuks. For 1000 rupees (roughly $10) we hired a tuk-tuk to drive us all the way to Delhousie, about an hour away. Under normal circumstances, an hour in a tuk-tuk would be unpleasant; on narrow mountain roads, in the dark of night and driving rain, it was terrifying. And, since he had promised to make it in under an hour, our little tuk-tuk was bouncing and jostling down dirt roads at incredibly high speeds, all while he called various guesthouses to get a commission when we arrived.

After a massive pile of noodles, we turned in for a couple hours of sleep. In order to make it to the top by dawn, a departure time of 2am is required. We suited up: sneakers, long pants, Win’s sweatshirts, and a flashlight borrowed from the guesthouse. And we were glad we did; Sri Lanka’s Hill Country, especially when you’re in the forest at night, is downright cold. Heavy mist hung about the mountains, giving the silence mass, density.

The path started out mostly flat, easing through the hillside tea plantaions, with some gradual incline and occasional steps. A stray dog, limping its way along, seemed to be keeping pace with us, disappearing and reappearing at random. After passing a donation tent where string was tied to our wrists with a blessing (and we signed a guestbook in the event we lost our way and wandered around in tea plantations until found), we found ourselves rising a bit more.

The only other people on the path were clusters of foreigner tourists, each brandishing his or her own flashlight. As cold gave way to perspiration, we stuffed our sweatshirts in the backpack, and water breaks became more frequent. Time became meaningless, minutes held no concrete substance, there were only stairs, stairs, stairs. At some point it started raining; mist, rain, and stagnant sweat clung to my arms, my face. Sweatshirts were re-donned. Some three hours in and it was just vertical stairs and handrail.

Somehow we reached the summit. I might have cried a little, I felt like I was going to throw up, my legs like jelly, my pulse pounding out an erratic beat in my head, and the limping stray dog made it to the top before us, but I made it. A tea shop at the top warmed new arrivals, as they waited for the summit temple to open at 6am. The hot tea brought feeling back to my fingertips.

After watching the sun rise, a layer of clouds spilling out below us like a vast cottony sea, we were the first to venture onto the summit temple. Removing our shoes and socks, we rushed across the marble floor, through puddles of freezing nighttime water, and rang the bells, two notes vibrating across the cloudscape, full of blessings.

And then we had to clomp our way back down the mountain, back down all those stairs, back through the mist and rain, back to our guesthouse where we could collapse into exhausted slumber, losing a full day to sleep.

Ancient Cities: Anuradahpura

From Trinco, we took the long bus ride to Anuradahpura. The road no more a single lane wide at any time, rust-colored dirt spilling onto the street from the shoulder, we bumped and lurched over varying degrees of pavement. The country was flat and dry, the sun stifling in the cramped bus full of tangled bodies. On either side of the road, crops and sparse groupings of trees slipped past our windows.

The last of the ancient cities on our list, Anuradahpura was billed as not only the largest grouping of the Unesco-backed ruins, but also the most historically significant for Buddhism in Sri Lanka. With history dating back to the 4^th century BC, ancient Anuradahpura was Sri Lanka’s first big capital city (although the palace ruins turned out to be an unimpressive pile of bricks) and the original landing place of the Buddha’s teachings on the island. We thought we might even need more than a full day to see all of the ruins.

Anuradahpura’s biggest religious draw is the Sri Bodhi, its holy bodhi tree. A branch from the bodhi tree, under which the Buddha achieved Enlightenment, was brought from India to be planted in Sri Lanka, a deathbed request from the Buddha himself (or so the story goes). Not only is the tree of religious significance and a major pilgrimage site, it is also the oldest historically verified tree on earth. Many other trees have been planted in the same area, all direct descendants of the famed Sri Bodhi, which reaches and stretches, supported by poles and cordoned-off from the public. Lankans trampled through hot sand and gravel, prayer flags fluttered, and stray dogs dozed in the shade.

In addition to the Sri Bodhi and its accompanying temple, an assortment of dagobas dot the old city, spread out at random. At each dagoba we removed our shoes to circumambulate the bulbous structures painted such a blinding white they reflect the blue of the sky. We watched the religious make their offerings of flowers and incense, offered lotus flowers ourselves at the busiest of dagobas. Variations on a theme, the dagobas ranged in height and shrine style, but little else.

We did not need more than a day; we did not need more than a morning. Aside from the hushed reverence that surrounds Buddhist temples and provides a nice break from honking buses and shouting tuk-tuk drivers, Anuradahpura was lacking in the experience department. The sun was scorching, the air dry and dust-filled, a thin layer sticking to our sweaty flesh. The dagobas very much in the same style as those we see in Thailand, we were templed-out. Even a snake charmer turned out to be a dud, more grabbing than charming it, the snake de-poisoned anyhow. We were ready to abandon central Sri Lanka’s temple ruins and head to the cooler, greener Hill Country.

After Trauma, Tranquility

For nearly thirty years prior to 2009, Sri Lanka was knee-deep in civil war. In the north and northeast of the tiny island, the militant Tamil Tigers fought for an independent state to call their own. Curious to see post-war recovery, but lacking the time or fortitude necessary for a bus to Jaffna way up north (overland travel in Sri Lanka, given its relatively small size, is inanely slow), we settled on Trincomalee. As a northeastern coastal town, Trinco experienced its share of the fighting.

Our guiding light on our journey was a $4 photocopy version  of the Sri Lanka Lonely Planet purchased in Vietnam, with no discernable publishing date (the handwritten 2012 on the back wasn’t very convincing) and a glossary/index that didn’t always match up to correct page numbers. However, making reference to the end of the war in 2009, we knew it couldn’t be too outdated, its information only moderately inaccurate. In it, Trinco was described as “Baghdad on the sea,” a place where the businesses were all shuttered unless you banged on the clang-down garage doors, where there were few to no guesthouses, and where frequent military checkpoints at bus and train stations and armed roadblocks made travel tedious.

What we found couldn’t have been more different.

Yes, there were some roadblocks, but they were barely manned and everyone just drove around the gates and barbed wire. A number of police officers and military men were stationed throughout the town, but they simply smiled and said hello as we walked past. The town was open and friendly, businesses lining every street, and people constantly wanted to talk to us (and not just to sell us crap).

Curled around a sparkling blue bay, Trinco seemed a city at ease. Residents cruised past, more on bicycles than in cars. The bustling market was stuffed with all manner of fruits, veggies and fish, and was home to a small herd of sambar barking deer. Dilapidated buildings, sun-bleached, paint peeling and flecking away, cement chipped and broken, flanked the streets, but no more than in other parts of the developing, third-world island. 

Trinco’s beach, if not for the garbage that invariably litters all third-world beaches, was borderline postcard-perfect. Crabs sideways-skittered and dipped into the sand. Local women dug for clams, using the headscarves as makeshift clam bags, and Lanka families swam and frolicked in the surf, fully clothed for modesty’s sake.

Perched high upon a cliff, at the very tip of the bay, sits Trinco’s famed Hindu temple. After passing through a military fort, which seemed to double as reservation land for the swarms of sambar deer, and trekking uphill among Hindu worshippers, we came to the temple. Hindu temples are elaborate to the extreme; intricate representations of deities cover the surface, climbing skyward, arms and legs akimbo. Incense wafts, prayers are muttered, foreheads dabbed. Beyond the ceremony, sea and sky stretched endlessly. 

To see this seaside community blossoming, full of life and positive energy, after many long years of devastation was incredibly uplifting. Not only was it far from being the shadowy, militarized post-war experience we were expecting, it turned out to be a lovely couple of days lounging by the beach and exploring the town.