Ruins Among the Ranches

After the manicured lawns, stay-on-the-path attitude, and intrusive presence of handicraft vendors at the ruins of Palenque, not to mention the influx of dreaded, beaded new age hippies from the nearby Rainbow Gathering, Toniná’s ruins were a surprising, but welcome, change.

A hoof-beaten path carried us to the ruins, a high Mexican sun beating down on our shoulders. Perched high atop a hill overlooking ranches and farms, Toniná boasts neither the jungle setting nor the vast throngs of tourists of many neighboring Mayan sites. Had it not been a Sunday, I suspect we would have had the place to ourselves, as the only other tourists present were Mexican. 

Stacked, tier by tier, terrace on top of terrace, the ruins climb up rather than spreading out into multiple buildings and clusters. So upward we went, sometimes on steps jagged, narrow, and uneven. Higher and higher, steep and slow. 

Between the ruins and its museum, a large number of surprisingly intact sculptures and friezes were on display, a great many showing the war-hungry inhabitants decapitating their enemies. It is amazing to see the detail that can remain after so many centuries, stories told in stone, cut and chiseled remnants of an entire culture. 

Hiking in Hindsight

Thailand might have spoiled us a bit, but Costa Rica is not a budget-friendly country (at least not when your budget is backpacker-small). Knowing that much cheaper, less-touristed Nicaraguan awaited us just over the border, we kept our stay in Costa Rica short.

To get the most bang for our buck, we headed to the tourist Mecca of Monetverde and Santa Elena. Not only was the area chockfull of activities, but we had hopes that competition might keep prices low.  

Surprisingly cold, windy, and rainy, Monteverde was, less surprisingly, also fairly expensive. Overflowing with eco-tourism gimmicks (ziplining, canopy suspension bridges, bungee jumping, night hikes, day hikes, and so on and so on), everyone claimed to have the best deal, the best view, the best wildlife. There were butterfly gardens and orchid gardens, frog exhibits and snake exhibits, a bat jungle. When we arrived at the hotel, each attraction was pricier than listed online. And when you went to buy tickets the price jumped again. Admission to the cloud forest reserves in the area was $19 per person, double that if you wanted a guide.  The greed was exhausting.

So we found the one free thing to do in town.

The trail, really more of a muddy road, left from the far edge of town and wound its way up to the local television channels’ towers. It wasn’t in the rainforest reserves, but on a cloudless day the view from the top was supposed to be excellent.

Fortunately, we had a single clear day during our time in Monteverde. After leaving town and making all the appropriate lefts and rights, we found ourselves at the trailhead, joined by a determined little dog. Tail wagging and heads held high, we started off.

Almost immediately, the trail started switchbacking its way skyward, heading up at a near impossible angle. Fortunately fueled by a hostel-made breakfast, we made our way slowly higher. And higher. And higher.

Despite the harsh incline and the muddy conditions, we were in one helluva beautiful situation. All around us, critters flitted, crawled, and soared. Numerous blue morpho butterflies, iridescent azul wingspan bigger than an outstretched hand, floated past us, refusing to pause even momentarily for photographs. A large, brown agouti trotted across our path, only to be promptly chased off by our eager canine friend.

Three kilometers later, we managed to reach the summit, but only with the help of a trick we learned during our coffee tour in Colombia: walking backward. We did probably 60 percent of our hike walking uphill while facing downhill. Given a fairly level surface and even incline (because humans cannot turn their heads around like owls), it is infinitely easier to walk backward when going uphill.

What should have been a climactic moment gazing out across Costa Rica, catching a view of the nearby(ish) volcano, turned out to be shrouded in cloud cover and dappled with rainfall. But the hike, free and solitary, was an adventure in itself. Journey, not destination, right?

Free Toes, Fluttering Wings

As the jeep bounced along, overflowing with tourists and Colombians, I felt a tad underdressed. The other white folk had donned hiking boots, rubber galoshes, and carried plastic ponchos in preparation for the day’s trek. I was sporting my usual flipflops and yoga-inspired clothes (read: comfortable), my only actual shoes, in fact a pair of much-underused running shoes, waiting patiently, still packed away in my backpack in Ocaña. So, as the jeep jerked to a halt, there I sat, flipflop-clad but ready to hike.

A rutted dirt road led us down into Cocora Valley, past a trout hatchery and weaving between cow-specked farmlands. Towering wax palms dotted the hillside, stretching up surreally from otherwise treeless fields and hills, reaching as though they could brush the azure of the bright morning sky. The road, a mere track only passable for humans and their equine friends, carried us onward, graciously dipping into patches of shade as it headed toward a lush cloud forest.

The landscape changed abruptly and dramatically as the trail dumped us, reeling, from the illuminated fields into the dense, shadowy tree cover. Ancient trees, some laden with leaves the size of your face, tangled overhead, offering respite from the nearly-midday sun. With the shade came the trail’s inability to recover from the previous day’s rain. The mud, mixed with ever-present horse droppings, forced me to spring from rock to rock, searching out dry spots for my exposed feet, where others could simply tromp along the trail how they pleased.

Back and forth, up and over, the trail wound through the dense vegetation. Here and there we crisscrossed a river as it tumbled toward the valley behind us, swaying precariously on one person suspension bridges. Waiting as, one-by-one we bottlenecked behind another gringo cluster, a butterfly alighted on my bare toes. He even stuck with me for several steps.

Disclaimer: Though I felt blessed at the time, as I always feel when a butterfly chooses me as a temporary resting place, these butterflies would turn out to be a bizarrely friendly variety.

Following our hummingbird hangout at Acaime Natural Reserve, we stopped for a cheese-and-crackers lunch on the return hike. Perched along the river bank, we happened upon a massive kaleidoscope of butterflies. (I thank science for this bit of beauty, as ‘kaleidoscope’ is actually a proper name for a group of butterflies.)

Clustered about muddy pools collecting in the rocks alongside the river, their sheer numbers made the ground look as though it were ready to take off all at once with the whisper of so many delicate wings. Not only did the butterflies flutter about my toes, but they seemed genuinely to lack typical butterfly skittishness. Perhaps drawn by the salt of crackers and sweat, they climbed onto our outstretched hands, flitted about our hair, and even ventured an exploratory journey onto our noses.

Though, as infatuated as they were with us, and we with them, the spell was broken with the muddy, stomping intrusion of a stray dog looking to share our lunch. The dog quickly took up the role of new friend, joining us for the remainder of the hike back through the cloud forest. He trotted along ahead, fur shining in as he tromped through patches of sunlight, stopping every so often to glance back and make sure we silly humans were still following the path he bravely laid out for us.

Though he too parted ways with us, leaving us as the cloud forest trickled out and gave way to the rolling hills and wax palms of the valley, we were left with the sweet afterglow of a day spent in the embrace of nature. Even if that embrace left my feet a bit filthy.

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.

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: Sigirya

 The ruins of Sigirya, claimed by locals to be the remains of an ancient palace but archeologically verified as a former Buddhist monastery, are almost assuredly the highest of all Sri Lanka’s ancient cities. The climb to the top involves over one thousand stairs.

At the ground level, there is a moat, as well as various supposed terraces, gardens and ponds, most of which amount to little more than shallow remnants of brick walls. Among outcroppings of trees at the mesa’s base, we began the laborious ascent. Brick stairs gave way to steps carved directly into the stone as we rose steadily (or in my case, sweating and taking frequent breaks) above the land.

A spiral stairwell, nearly rusted-through in places and shuddering in the strong winds, led us to Sigirya’s famous frescoes (read: a cave full of paintings of topless ladies). And another series of stone steps dumped us onto a high plateau on the left side of the mesa and an incredible view across the Lankan countryside.

Since it was still morning, we had spent the entire climb shaded by the gargantuan mesa. Before us, yet more stairs, framed by an enormous pair of stone lion paws, gave way to even more rickety iron stairs, all of which had to be climbed in the blazing sun before we reached the top.

If I haven’t said it before, let me state now, for the record, I hate climbing stairs. Give me a difficult hike and I’ll tough it out, but the repetitive nature of climbing endless steps is abysmal, daunting, and just flat-out, the worst. And to top it all off, there were signs everywhere warning that loud noise would awake swarms of wasps, and several families had screaming children.

I reached the top, sweaty, thirsty, and terrified of a wasp attack, but triumphant. The ruins themselves amounted to little more than tiered squares of foot-high brick walls, but the view was stunning and the breeze refreshing. 

Erawan: Seven Waterfalls in One

Erawan Falls is a seven-tier waterfall, and a very popular tourist destination, even among Thais.  Located about two hours outside of Kanchanaburi, Erawan Falls is well worth the trip, even in a rickety local bus, plunging up, down and around winding mountain roads. You have to go early, as around four o’clock the park starts closing up and the last bus pulls out of the parking lot to make its way back to Kanchanaburi. But, even in Thailand, one can get up early every now and then.

It is about a two-hour hike to get to the top, allowing time for stopping frequently to let people pass in the opposite direction on the narrow trail. The trail follows relatively confusing signs from tier to tier, leading you on over rocks, up wooden staircases, and trudging through water.

The farther up the falls you go, the more the crowd thins out, leaving the small and elderly toward the lower levels. It is hot, sweaty, and at times slippery work to get all the way to tier seven, but a lovely pool awaits you. Monkeys relax, lazy in the trees, waiting for munching tourists to let their guard down and allow the snatching of snacks. Fish swim, languid in the shadows.

At each of the tiers you can stop to swim in the clear blue pools, as tiny fish nibble at your heels. A free fish massage. Climbing up the various falls is easier in many places than one would believe, thanks to the mineral buildup, giving the rock faces their off-white hue and an almost sandpapery finish.

The trek back to the lower levels takes less time, but we were thankful for the various snack and drink stands that precede the parking lot. Hiking, swimming and climbing, when combined into a full-day activity will leave you parched and starving. Not to mention, ready for a beer and one helluva nap when you finally make it back to the guesthouse.