You know those moments when you think to yourself "wow, I really know absolutely nothing about the world?"
I feel like that every day here.
I came to Sri Lanka mostly because it was the cheapest plane ticket I could find and I had a month (now two months) with nothing to do before hitting up India. I knew next to nothing about the country - it was close to India and there was some sort of war there that had recently ended. The End.
Umm...yeah there's a bit more to it than that.
First lesson on Sri Lankan history I recieved via a tourist brochure: Portugese colony, then Dutch colony in the sixteen hundreds, then Britlish colony until independence in 1948.
Lovely. They're a newly independent nation. That's sweet.
Second lesson on Sri Lankan history was given on the train from Colombo to Akurala by my newly aquired friend Ishok. As we cruised down the raliway tracks, waves crashing on my right, endless jungle on my left, I started to notice lots of ruins of homes. And lots of graves.
"What happened to these houses?" I asked.
"Tsunami".
Remember that tsunami that hit Thailand at Christmas time? Turns out it hit a lot more than Thailand, and Sri Lanka got rocked. 33000 people dead. Everyone knows someone who died (for most it's a close relative), all the young guys on the beach helped dig mass graves and rebuild homes. 250 villages destroyed, one train derailed killing more than 1200 people.
Not so cheerful.
Third lesson on Sri Lankan history aquired in bits and pieces through conversations with shop owners and friends. The war here was to do with Tamils seeking an independent state for themselves in the north. Ethnic cleansing, child soldiers and civilian human shields were all products of the civil strife that lasted 30 years. Aka half of this country's independent life.
Again, everyone here has a story about the war: friends killed, family members fighting...you know how at home we have videos on our cell phones of people smiling and laughing? Here, people show you cell phone videos of bullet ridden bodies strewen in the streets. I'm not kidding, that's what someone showed me the other day.
Heavvvy.
And then today, I learned my fourth lesson on Sri Lanka. Sitting outside the house with my housemate Rikas, the sky bright blue overhead and palm trees swaying in the breeze, he told me about the 1983 communist riots, incited as a result of the Tamil Tigers killing 13 Sri Lankan army soldiers. Taking to the streets under red banners, homes were looted, police and army members and their families killed. Rikas talked about walking down the street and seeing dead bodies stuffed inside burning rubber tires.
"And not just one or two. Hundreds". He said.
"Not just in one village. Everywhere"
Intense.
So while this country is a paradise, a teardrop jewel in the Indian Ocean, and while the people are incredible and the culture fascinating, that doesn't stop it from sometimes feeling like the most tragic place I have ever visited.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Melancholy Mood
Since my arrival in Sri Lanka, I have been living with three guys in this amazing house in a beach town called Hikkaduwa.
Comfort Villa. Home away from home.
The guesthouse in and of itself is rad, but what has made the experience here incredible has been the company.
-There's Rikas, the guy who helps run the place. 26-years old, out to have a good time, living 'for today' (as he puts it), and determined to make sure we love Sri Lanka. He's doing a good job.
-There's Siemen. Dutch, a social worker in Amsterdam and the most honest and wonderful human being.
-There's Greg. American, backpacker, world explorer and lover of life.
And there's me. We rock it, we're a team, we support each other and let each other be ourselves with no judgements and total appreciation.
---
Yesterday, Greg left for Austria, and today Siemen went back to Holland.
--------
This is the part of travelling that I hate.
Meeting amazing people and developing relationships with them, learning and exploring and having adventures and just LIVING. And then they leave, or you leave.
Sometimes you might see them again. But most of the time, when you give a last hug as the train pulls out of the station, you know deep in your heart of hearts that those moments you shared were just that.
Moments.
And now they're over. Nothing but a memory remains of those people you loved and laughed with.
Beautiful Goodbyes.
I'm getting really sick of them.
Comfort Villa. Home away from home.
The guesthouse in and of itself is rad, but what has made the experience here incredible has been the company.
-There's Rikas, the guy who helps run the place. 26-years old, out to have a good time, living 'for today' (as he puts it), and determined to make sure we love Sri Lanka. He's doing a good job.
-There's Siemen. Dutch, a social worker in Amsterdam and the most honest and wonderful human being.
-There's Greg. American, backpacker, world explorer and lover of life.
And there's me. We rock it, we're a team, we support each other and let each other be ourselves with no judgements and total appreciation.
---
Yesterday, Greg left for Austria, and today Siemen went back to Holland.
--------
This is the part of travelling that I hate.
Meeting amazing people and developing relationships with them, learning and exploring and having adventures and just LIVING. And then they leave, or you leave.
Sometimes you might see them again. But most of the time, when you give a last hug as the train pulls out of the station, you know deep in your heart of hearts that those moments you shared were just that.
Moments.
And now they're over. Nothing but a memory remains of those people you loved and laughed with.
Beautiful Goodbyes.
I'm getting really sick of them.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Black Magic Woman
It all began at around 8 o'clock on a Tuesday night. After spending the day on the beach, we were looking for something to do that evening (it's low season, so entertainment options are fairly limited), when Chandana came into our beach side cabana.
"Last day of festival in Ounamatouna tonight. We go?" he asked.
"We go."
Armed with flip flops and bus fare, we boarded a rickety old vehicle heading eastbound on Galle Road (the one road that spans the entire coastline of Sri Lanka. Makes getting around really easy when there's only a single street!).
I had no idea what to expect at this 'festival', but was anticipating that we would likely sit somewhere and have some drinks, maybe go see a parade and then dance (the one piece of information I had been given by my Sri Lankan homeboys is that there would be dancing). Easy, predictable, quiet Tuesday night party, right?
Wrong.
I was so far from prepared for what I witnessed that evening.
Black magic or Buddhism, I don't know, but either way it was intense.
We began by visiting the temple to make offerings. Ditching our shoes at the entrance, we bought sticks of incense and climbed a winding staircase, surrounded by hundreds of locals dressed in the colours of their country and religion: the yellows, reds and whites that define Sri Lanak's Buddhists.
There is nothing quite like going to a solemn religious function with a bunch of beach boys who spend their days carving waves and playing in the surf. Watching my friends shed their lifestyle for ten minutes of solemn worship was quite a trip.
And then, the real festival began.
We walked through narrow winding streets overflowing with thousands of men, women and children and all the paraphenalia that makes a festival - toy vendors, food stands, lights, and prayers being chanted on loud speaker - to arrive finally at a large open fire.
About thirty or fourty people dressed in yellow and red were dancing around the flames to the beating of drums. Their bodies flailed and gyrated, arms waving in the air, eyes closed and faces lifted to the skies as they moved in a trance-like state around the fire. Occassionally, one of the group would collapse in a heap or go tearing wildly into the crowd.
"Sometime they go crazy. Is normal. Then we give coconut and go to temple and is fine" Nalinda explained to me.
"Do you really think they go crazy?" I asked.
"Of course!" he replied, his voice rising, incredulous that I might be doubting the power of God over these people.
Coming from a rasta-surfer-playboy, it was a surprising response. But not as suprising as what he told me next.
"I do also" he said with pride.
Turns out a similar Devil festival is held in towns all over the country at this time of year, and Nalina participated in one a few weeks ago, dancing around the fire, running over burning hot coals and making a blood offering (I'll get to that part of the night in a minute). He had the scars on his arms to prove he wasn't making it up.
It's just what people do here.
"it is our culture", Nalinda explained.
The rest of the festival was as intense as the introductory dancing (a far cry from the kind of 'dancing' I had expected; not exactly a bar room dancefloor situation).
We wandered back to the temple in time to see a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in white robes and a red sash, walk into a small room and close the door behind him. He was carrying a sword.
A few moments later, he emerged from the room with his arms lifted high above his head, eyes rolled back in his head, face lifted to the sky. Blood ran down his arms and stained his robes, and the crowd parted to let him through. As he exited the temple gates people surged back together and poured down the street in pursuit of the man. eE joined the crowd streaming down the road towards the fire pit, where I watched in open-mouthed astonishment as this 'possessed' man (for lack of a better term) and dozens of others ran bare-foot over burning hot coals.
Drums beating, prayers screaming over the loudspeakers, women wailing and men singing, small children staring wide-eyed at the sights around them, fire and blood, incense and the sweat of a thousand bodies crushed together.
Festival.
We ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto.
"Last day of festival in Ounamatouna tonight. We go?" he asked.
"We go."
Armed with flip flops and bus fare, we boarded a rickety old vehicle heading eastbound on Galle Road (the one road that spans the entire coastline of Sri Lanka. Makes getting around really easy when there's only a single street!).
I had no idea what to expect at this 'festival', but was anticipating that we would likely sit somewhere and have some drinks, maybe go see a parade and then dance (the one piece of information I had been given by my Sri Lankan homeboys is that there would be dancing). Easy, predictable, quiet Tuesday night party, right?
Wrong.
I was so far from prepared for what I witnessed that evening.
Black magic or Buddhism, I don't know, but either way it was intense.
We began by visiting the temple to make offerings. Ditching our shoes at the entrance, we bought sticks of incense and climbed a winding staircase, surrounded by hundreds of locals dressed in the colours of their country and religion: the yellows, reds and whites that define Sri Lanak's Buddhists.
There is nothing quite like going to a solemn religious function with a bunch of beach boys who spend their days carving waves and playing in the surf. Watching my friends shed their lifestyle for ten minutes of solemn worship was quite a trip.
And then, the real festival began.
We walked through narrow winding streets overflowing with thousands of men, women and children and all the paraphenalia that makes a festival - toy vendors, food stands, lights, and prayers being chanted on loud speaker - to arrive finally at a large open fire.
About thirty or fourty people dressed in yellow and red were dancing around the flames to the beating of drums. Their bodies flailed and gyrated, arms waving in the air, eyes closed and faces lifted to the skies as they moved in a trance-like state around the fire. Occassionally, one of the group would collapse in a heap or go tearing wildly into the crowd.
"Sometime they go crazy. Is normal. Then we give coconut and go to temple and is fine" Nalinda explained to me.
"Do you really think they go crazy?" I asked.
"Of course!" he replied, his voice rising, incredulous that I might be doubting the power of God over these people.
Coming from a rasta-surfer-playboy, it was a surprising response. But not as suprising as what he told me next.
"I do also" he said with pride.
Turns out a similar Devil festival is held in towns all over the country at this time of year, and Nalina participated in one a few weeks ago, dancing around the fire, running over burning hot coals and making a blood offering (I'll get to that part of the night in a minute). He had the scars on his arms to prove he wasn't making it up.
It's just what people do here.
"it is our culture", Nalinda explained.
The rest of the festival was as intense as the introductory dancing (a far cry from the kind of 'dancing' I had expected; not exactly a bar room dancefloor situation).
We wandered back to the temple in time to see a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in white robes and a red sash, walk into a small room and close the door behind him. He was carrying a sword.
A few moments later, he emerged from the room with his arms lifted high above his head, eyes rolled back in his head, face lifted to the sky. Blood ran down his arms and stained his robes, and the crowd parted to let him through. As he exited the temple gates people surged back together and poured down the street in pursuit of the man. eE joined the crowd streaming down the road towards the fire pit, where I watched in open-mouthed astonishment as this 'possessed' man (for lack of a better term) and dozens of others ran bare-foot over burning hot coals.
Drums beating, prayers screaming over the loudspeakers, women wailing and men singing, small children staring wide-eyed at the sights around them, fire and blood, incense and the sweat of a thousand bodies crushed together.
Festival.
We ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Sri Lankan Dayz
There are days when you forget why you're on the road. When you are dirty and dusty and tired and frustrated by language barriers, and all you can think of is home and your own bed and the comforts of familiarity.
And then there are the other days.
Like today.
Today, I woke up with the sunlight filtering through my curtains onto my pillow. As I lay in the rays, I debated whether to have a balcony coffee before, or after, my run on the beach. Tough decisions.
A peek out the door onto my private balcony revealed a view dominated by clusters of palm trees and a wide, deep blue sky. Red flowers filled the bushes, and you could smell the salt in the breeze off the ocean.
Grabbing my running shoes, I headed down the lane to the beach, crossing over a set of rusted railway tracks past homes built in the style of the Dutch colonizers of years past.
I passed clusters of men in saraongs, their deep brown skin glistening in the morning sun. Three wheelers and local buses, decaled and colourful and perfectly tropical cruised by me on the road, honking a simultaneous greeting and warning to each other.
The sand was soft under my feet as I kicked off my shoes to run barefoot along the beach, ocean spray wetting my legs as the waves crashed and tumbled beside me. Early morning fishermen walked the shoreline and the mist off the dunes gave the entire place a wild and untamed feel.
A swim in the surf to rinse the sweat way, then home to shower. A cup of coffee on the balcony as I watched my neighbours begin their daily rituals - girls in white school uniforms walking to school, mothers with small children in tuk tuks, the paper boy cruising by on his bicycle.
As ten a.m. rolled around, another tough decision to face: suntanning, or another swim?
This is why we travel.
And then there are the other days.
Like today.
Today, I woke up with the sunlight filtering through my curtains onto my pillow. As I lay in the rays, I debated whether to have a balcony coffee before, or after, my run on the beach. Tough decisions.
A peek out the door onto my private balcony revealed a view dominated by clusters of palm trees and a wide, deep blue sky. Red flowers filled the bushes, and you could smell the salt in the breeze off the ocean.
Grabbing my running shoes, I headed down the lane to the beach, crossing over a set of rusted railway tracks past homes built in the style of the Dutch colonizers of years past.
I passed clusters of men in saraongs, their deep brown skin glistening in the morning sun. Three wheelers and local buses, decaled and colourful and perfectly tropical cruised by me on the road, honking a simultaneous greeting and warning to each other.
The sand was soft under my feet as I kicked off my shoes to run barefoot along the beach, ocean spray wetting my legs as the waves crashed and tumbled beside me. Early morning fishermen walked the shoreline and the mist off the dunes gave the entire place a wild and untamed feel.
A swim in the surf to rinse the sweat way, then home to shower. A cup of coffee on the balcony as I watched my neighbours begin their daily rituals - girls in white school uniforms walking to school, mothers with small children in tuk tuks, the paper boy cruising by on his bicycle.
As ten a.m. rolled around, another tough decision to face: suntanning, or another swim?
This is why we travel.
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