Farewell, Sri Lanka

Photo by one who deemed us not axe murderers.

Within the breakfast nook of our guesthouse, we were swept aboard a sailboat plying the tropical waters thanks to a lovely Canadian couple who weaved tales of the high seas over toast. The enchantment was broken when we realized we had a train to catch and farewells had to be quick. We were bound for Negombo, our last day in Sri Lanka.

Once again, we found ourselves on a train of a long ago age, chugging our way along the coast. While it was not the jaw-dropping scenery of our jaunt from Kandy to Ella, it was fascinating to see the ramshackle alongside the elite resorts. The clothes draped on the unused railroad ties beside men who stood with a rope in hand that levered the railroad crossing barrier. Of course, the ocean breezes wafting through the cars was bliss.

The Colombo station was mayhem. Unlike every other station in the country, Colombo did not have signs posted, nothing was announced and it took us multiple inquiries to find out if it was actually where we needed to disembark to board another one for the final leg. An Australian we met on the platform said the station was a good representation for laid beyond. We were glad to have not spent time in Colombo.

We reached our guesthouse late afternoon. Our arrival created a flurry of activity which equated to the opening scene of Home Alone where the police-dressed bandit keeps asking where is the Mr. McAlister that actually lives in the house. Our version was a search for the missing manager. We were shown to our room (which had a bathtub that was not hooked up to water) and told that the manager would be there at six.

Then it was seven.

By eight, we were hungry and walking out the door when an English speaking man asked what we were doing. No, he was not the manager but would gladly have some food prepared for us.

At nine, the manager was still missing and our Home Alone-esque situation had meshed with Peter Pan's Lost Boys. It was a home with no leader, yet boys of every age running amok throughout .the dwelling.

We were informed the manager would arrive at ten, to which we responded that we would be asleep but needed a 4:45am airport drop off. The English speaking stranger confirmed the time and we went to bed.

Seven hours later, we stood in the foyer of the guesthouse yelling hello. No one was awake. We knocked on the door of the room we had seen beds in the previous evening. We shouted. Eventually, Zach used the desk phone to call the number that was listed on one of the vans outside. No answer. A few minutes after hanging up, it started ringing. Zach answered.

"We scheduled a 4:45am airport drop off and no one is here."

Pause.

"Seriously, no one is awake or here."

Another pause.

"Ok, we will still be standing here."

Within seconds of hanging up, a cacophony of cell phones started blaring from behind the closed door. There were terse words, scuffling and a pile of boys fell out of the door, rubbing eyes, shaking their heads, and running hands through some wild bed hair. Not one of them spoke English and none of them had been in the house the night before.

We made it to the airport. Over a warm beverage in the terminal, we joked about our slew of guesthouse strangeness and wondered whether it would be the trend of the trip.

As the sun rose over Sri Lanka, we were airborne, bound for our next destination - Bangkok. 

Galle: Inside a Fort

"Why do you keep looking at the map and telling me to go to the fort!?" exclaimed a bewildered Zach Banker.

We stood on the curb outside the Galle bus station, having completed a six hour/two bus trek along the southern coast. While sitting on a bus should not make one weary and loopy, it does. Thus the sidewalk squabble.

"Our guesthouse is on the side so we have to go around the fort," declared Zach.

"No, our hotel is through the main gate and then to the left," I replied.

We start walking in an effort to evade tuk tuk touts.

"Why are you so set on going inside the fort?"

"Because our hotel is inside the fort, Zach!"

He stopped walking, turned to face me and said, "Our hotel is INSIDE the fort?"

"Yes, the main part of Galle is inside the fort walls. We have a guesthouse by the old hospital which is near the lighthouse," I tersely stated.

"Really, we get to stay in a fort?" asked my stunned husband.

"Yes."

"Well, you did not tell me that!"

Thus I started relaying a brief history and outline of the fort that we were going to be spending a day and a half strolling around.

"You do not have to patronize me," said Zach.

Somehow within five minutes I had withheld information and bestowed too much information. Communication is a fine line.

A stroll through the Galle tunnel entrance is akin to Platform 9 3/4, each side is uniquely different than the other. Outside the wall is the Sri Lankan bustle and noise, whereas inside is where calm takes her stage among cobblestone streets lined with European architecture. It was culture shock without leaving the borders of a country.

Our day and a half within the fort walls was pleasant. We enjoyed meandering through art galleries, acting like sentries along the battlements, treading the multiple religious institutes, and spending time swimming in the Indian Ocean (all while trying to stay away from creepy local men who were way too excited to help any girl who came near the water.)

We enjoyed a few culinary delights while in Galle. Chatting with our guesthouse host about breakfast, I commented that locals boasts about their amazing breakfasts yet, when provided at guesthouses, the foreigners get eggs and practically a loaf of bread for toast. The next morning, she surprised us with the local fare and it was delicious.

Our first evening in Galle, we enjoyed a recommended restaurant which boasted of a ten curry meal that was enough to feed two. We loved our choice; I was quite enamored with the pineapple curry. The extra treat of the night was Zach inquiring about buying a stash of their coffee beans. The owner's son came to our table and wove an enticing tale of utmost clandestineness. In the right season, they scour the tea plantations to locate wayward coffee plants which have surprisingly sprung forth or are the leftovers from a bygone crop rotation. The coffee hoard is meager, the roasting done on site and the stash rationed until the next round of secret picking can commence. Though sad to not barter for beans, Zach was thrilled with such a tale behind his cup of coffee.

The next evening, we splurged and enjoyed a seaside restaurant complete with western food. The ambiance was fantastic, the food delightful and the name a riot - A Minute By Tuk Tuk.

Until Galle, all the foreigners we had come across had been French, except for the two Belgians who were on our safari. Inside the fort walls, the traveling world expanded in a wild, it-is-a-small-world type of manner. Within an hour of waking our first morning, we had been informed by two Vacouver-ites that we were not axe murderers and invited to stay with them during the Women's World Cup and we had met a rare American traveler who happened to be from Kentucky and was a college friend of Zach's best friend. Needless to say, it was a very entertaining morning and a great addition to our travel memories.

Tissa Bonus - A Wedding!

While we were quite thrilled with our guesthouse, we soon learned that it was to be a bipolar haven. Though our initial day was solitude and silence, upon our return from the safari we found the yard and eating area filled with people of varying ages. The driver commented that it was a wedding, but we could not spot a bride nor groom in the group. We shrugged our shoulders and walked to our room for an afternoon siesta.

An hour and a half later we were rudely awakened by the speaker outside our window blaring bad Sri Lankan techno. Shrugging shoulders were exchanged for shaking fists with impolite expressions. Our afternoon of rest was not to be and the team building activity (we finally asked) did not finish until nearly six.

While sitting with the other guests awaiting dinner a few hours later, we noticed some new decorations around the area. While serving, the manager informed us that a wedding would be taking place the next day. Though Zach and I were set to leave for Galle the following morning, she remarked that she hoped we would get to see a part of the ceremony before our departure. We agreed.

At 5am, we were awoken with scooting tables and chairs, TVs, sound tests, and chatty workers who were in the midst of a massive set up. Our excitement at seeing an actual Sri Lankan wedding was marred by our lack of sleep. By eight, we finally admitted defeat and rose to face what laid on the other side of our door.

It was quite the event layout for there were to be 400 (or more) attendees. As we were finishing breakfast, the bride showed up along with her family. After showering and packing, we watched the groom be ushered to the prom settee by four traditional dancers.

The beginning moments of a much larger production that we got to see were fascinating and fun. It was definitely an unexpected treat to have a glimpse into an actual event rather than something put on for the sake of tourism. However, as we drove away in a tuk tuk towards the bus station, we verbally expressed our thanks that we were not spending another night. The wedding was slated to go until four (which means at least six in Asian times), thus leaving all guests basically stranded for the day.

Here There Be Elephants

We were famous by the time we stepped across the threshold of our Tissa guesthouse.

Our jaunt had taken far less hours than projected by those in Ella; instead of six it took three. Shocked yet thrilled at the diminished travel time, we jumped off the bus as soon as we saw a billboard advertising our guesthouse. The few kilometers previous had been rather uncomfortable because safari touts had crowded the bus and were leeches towards anyone who had a non-Sri Lankan face. I had read that it was a vicious tout crowd once hitting the town, but I expected after stepping on the bus not before. Therefore, when we saw the sign, we escaped and did a happy dance. Of course, the hawkers did not stop, yet everyone of them was shocked at our declarations that we were going to walk two kilometers. Their goal of selling us a safari quickly turned into wonder that two foreigners would actually walk. Along the way, we even had kids stopping their bikes asking if we knew what we were doing. At another point, one of the touts from the bus showed up in a tuk tuk and claimed that he gave free rides to our guesthouse. We laughed and said that our two legs were definitely free and would get us there as well. He drove away bewildered.

The walk was delightful along Tissa Lake and underneath trees housing hundreds of snoozing fruit bats. When we turned into the drive of our guesthouse, we did another happy dance. For the solitude we had sought in Ella looked to be found in Tissa – hammocks dotted the front yard which won our instant adoration. The manager met us at the steps and laughed while saying, “Ah, so you are the walkers.” Apparently, many of those bewildered by the walking foreigners had stopped by to say that they were suspicious of us and that she should be wary. We had a good laugh together and when we explained that strangers continually harping and hawking is not a way to earn our trust. Sadly, too many are not genuine and see foreigners as a way to make a buck. She agreed and completely understood for many had told her that previously. 

Nonetheless, we did seem to be the first to walk to her door.

Our initial plans for Sri Lanka did not include a safari. However, as days passed and our interactions with wildlife was a daily occurrence, the desire to see more grew. Plus, I thought I could suppress my desire to see wild elephants but found that my ‘wanter’ was consuming all arguments against. Cost was the biggest factor, but in the end, we both admitted that the temptation was too great. We decided the splurge.

We chatted with the manager about arranging a safari and she laughed even harder. The tout we had dismissed multiple times was actually the safari guide that worked with the hotel. When we met with him later to discuss options, we chuckled at the turn of the events. The even greater turn of events was that the safari ended up costing half of what we had anticipated. The explosion of safari tours had made the competition fierce and we benefited!

We spent the remainder of the day lounging in a hammock, reading. We were disrupted every so often by the wandering exotic wildlife that seemed to be as in love with eating mangoes as I am. Once darkness fell, we ate one of the most delicious Sri Lankan dinners then turned in early.

The alarm sounded at 4am; our safari wagon arrived at 4:30. Cold shower and anticipation for what was to come ensured we were awake. The manager bid us farewell with packed breakfasts and well wishes for seeing a leopard. I had told the guide the previous day that I was not so set on seeing a leopard as elephants were my sole love. Again, he was shocked at this unusual foreigner and replied that in his nine years of guiding, he had seen at least one elephant every day.

Yala National Park is labeled as the famous wildlife reserve in Sri Lanka having been established as a protective area in 1900. However, in my meager readings about the place, I did notice a sly clause that noted that its actual establishment was for gentlemen of the day to have a hunt. Perhaps that is why there is approximately 40 leopards in the entire park rather than 400. Nonetheless, times have changed so instead of gentlemen hunters the park now faces poachers (who in another time would probably labeled gentlemen hunters.)

After a stop for tickets, we queued at the gate just as subtle oranges tinted the horizon. In the darkness we chatted with our fellow safarians – two girls from Belgium and a couple from France. We were shocked at meeting the Belgiums for everyone we had met in the preceding week and half had been from France. We had joked with a few that next year we should go to France for it seems the country is empty in January. The couple in our jeep agreed that it was rather impressive how many French had made their way to Sri Lanka. The Belgiums had spent a month in China recently, so they shared with us their observations and thoughts of our adopted country. At one point, somewhere in the darkness of another jeep, there were hacks, coughs and spitting and the Belgiums exclaimed, “Ah, must be Chinese.”

The sky turned a bit more orange, the gates opened and we were off. Quickly I understood why avid birders eagerly visit the island. The variety and multitude of winged creatures is staggering. Against a lightning sky, we caught silhouettes of peacocks, horn bills, storks and so many others that I cannot name. It was a wild game of spotting as our driver/guide navigated washed out dirt roads. At one time we pointed out a peacock in a tree; he chided us for making him stop as there are hundreds in the park and that spotting a leopard was most likely within the first thirty minutes. Zach and I had feared that in the quest for a leopard other wildlife would be sacrificed. It seemed our fear was not so far-fetched. After a time of wild careening to this patch and that patch, I commented to Zach that the leopards would be long gone by the time we arrived due to the racket the jeeps made.

The completely unexpected aspect to this safari was the shrubbery. While our trek through Lake Nakuru in Kenya had some shrubbery and low lift trees, for the most part it was completely open with hundreds of animals about. Yala was the complete opposite with very few open plains and shrubs dominating the landscape. In all honestly, we could have passed all forty leopards in our tour and never saw them for all the bushes.

After a few hours, I started to get anxious. While I am fully aware that animals are not at beck and call and was prepared for possibility, I was nervous that I would not see an elephant. However, my internal angst was laid to rest when some chomping in the bush was heard and we stopped. Again, we could have already passed a dozen or more elephants due to the dense foliage, but this one had graciously let itself be seen with a flick of a trunk.

Farther down the road, an elephant butt blocked part of the path. Unlike the lone male in the shrubbery, we had stumbled across a herd of females protecting a wee one. Oh, the excitement of sitting and watching, completely enamored with pachyderms happily munching. Granted the mother turned a time or two with an exaggerated fling of her trunk to remind us that she had a baby and would protect it. 

The remainder of our time was spent enjoying smaller wildlife around the park. We did see one lone elephant at a great distance, but another herd was never spotted nor was the elusive leopard. We greatly enjoyed the antics of the hundreds of peacocks that pranced about the bush. I especially loved these prissy creatures as it reminded me so much of the peacocks we used to have on the farm. To this day, I still say that should I have a piece of land at some point in my life, I will have chickens and peacocks. However, I seem to lean more towards a chunk of land that would be most hospitable to a herd of elephants as well.

Train, Tea, and a Typical Guesthouse Mishap

Our aversion to trains is great. We have collected a few doozy train tales in our time of travel, so when the mode of transportation is between a mule and a train, we opt for the mule. Due to this deep-seeded distaste, we were highly skeptical of the many voices telling us to take the train in Sri Lanka.

"It's breathtaking!"

"It's a glimpse into a bygone era!"

"It's so relaxing!"

All transition traffic from northern to southern Sri Lanka is routed through Kandy. So after another night in our gem of a guesthouse, we stood on the train platform at 10:30am. The station did feel as though it had weathered the tides of modernization and stood firm within its bygone era. Nonetheless, we stood staring at the bare tracks with a hint of uneasiness. Zach snapped a photo and titled it "The Gates of Hell."

The train arrived, we boarded and within ten minutes we were off. Of course our assigned seats were facing backwards to the train's movement, so I spent most of the start on my knees in the seat in an attempt to ward off motion sickness. However, with each clickety-clack of the track our unease turned into bliss. This train ride was unlike any before - windows open, a slow but steady pace weaving and winding through picturesque tea plantations and villages into the clouds at 1,868 meters.

Most passengers vacated the cars at Hatton, for they were to make the pilgrimage up Adam's Peak. While we were willing to attempt the train, we were definitely not budging on our no-mountain-no-steps-during-holiday policy. We waved farewell to our seatmates, wished them luck and later, when in Ella, sighed in contentment at our decision. Everyone we met was hobbling and remarking that their pains were due to the climb. One woman was even walking backwards because her thighs ached so much.

As for our six hour journey riding the rails, we were delighted with our choice. It was one of the most relaxing legs of travel we have ever done and the life we saw along the tracks was fascinating. The smiles and waves from those on the ground were infectious and made the trip truly seem like a holiday.

We rolled into Ella late afternoon. Upon departing the station, we learned that tuk tuk rates were at the rate of a first born child. For two kilometers, they wanted to charge more than our train ticket had been from Kandy to Ella. They did not appreciate our laughter at their price, nor did they like that we chose to walk instead of succumb to their scam.

"It's uphill," they pleaded.

"I'm sure we will not die," I responded.

Naturally, we were given wrong directions by another local and ended up going up the wrong hill initially.

Even with two hills, we did not die.

Finding our guesthouse was a quest even though we knew from the reviews that it had amazing views and was near a monastery. As the call to prayer melodiously made its way across the valley, I stood on a dirt path with our bags as Zach scouted ahead. His return just as twilight was settling in, which emitted enough light for me to notice his facial expression was not one of glee.

To my expectant gaze, he said, "Oh just wait."

When we chose a stop in Ella it was to enjoy a little rest after a bit of travel running. We had chosen this guesthouse with the intention of sitting in cozy chairs, overlooking a beautiful gap in the mountains, reading and sipping tea. These dreams were quickly dashed as we descended into a disaster zone of construction and a guesthouse that was not beside a monastery but was the monastery. The manager was missing, as were all the amenities checked on Agoda. While the room was spacious, it was the complete opposite of what was expected. I cried.

There was nothing around and thankfully the monks took mercy on us to at least show us that a kitchen was available. The rotting fruit and unwashed counter tops were not helpful, but at least we could toast some bread we had with us and slather it was peanut butter for our evening fare. As we laid down to sleep, Zach commented, "Well, at least it is only for two nights."

At six o'clock in the morning, the train blared its whistle as it passed directly beside our room. In the darkness of the previous night, we had not noticed that in the gully before the monastery laid the tracks. At 6:30am, the kazoos, drums and chanting began at the stupa beside our room. Peace and harmony were not in our thoughts that morning.

Since our plans to sit and relax were dashed, we did a quick survey of what could be done in Ella. While enjoying the view (not from our room, but rather in front of the monk dormitory), we realized that the train tracks were not only for trains but acted as the main footpath for locals and tourists. We quickly joined them in our trek to find the Nine Arch Bridge.

While riding the rails was delightful, walking the tracks was even moreso. In the past few months, Sri Lanka was hampered with extreme rain after a lengthy drought. Nearly every Sri Lankan we chatted with mentioned this odd weather situation; we noticed its effects frequently with the massive amounts of mudslides. The rail between Ella and Badulla seemed to be extremely prone to slides. In our 10 kilometer trek to and from the bridge, we passed no less than four areas being fixed.

During our stroll we chatted about how perspective is so crucial to ideas. While to Sri Lankans the tracks are another route to be walked, in America we are constantly barraged with how dangerous train tracks are. The danger is no less or no more in either country, but the perspective taken changes the attitude.

As we passed locals and shared greetings, many were kind enough to inform us that the next train would be at 2:30pm (some said 3:30) and to kindly step off the tracks at that time. Granted this was after we had heard the whistle and vacated the tracks for the not-forewarned noon train.

After our return, we walked a bit through the valley, enjoyed a late lunch and made our way back to the guesthouse. For dinner, we went further up the hill to another guesthouse and crashed their restaurant. Overall, it was a pleasant day.

The next morning, a monk met us in the kitchen with our breakfast. The manager was missing again. A couple hours later as we made our departure, he was not to be found. We waved and declared our vacating intentions to two monks who were using a bamboo pole in an attempt to get a jackfruit. They paused in their mission, waved back, and resumed their pinata-esque stances.

We returned to the main street via the train tracks. Within ten minutes, we were clutching onto meager handholds, squashed between too many bodies on a bus that was careening down hairpin turns on our way to Tissa.

Dambulla Caves: Where Paint and Rocks Create Masterpieces

We quickly learned in Sri Lanka that when a local spoke of a kilometer, it usually meant two closer to three. Our trek from the Dambulla bus stop to our guesthouse was fraught with many a "it's just a kilometer that way." I can walk a long distance, but when toting a pack and tromping into the unknown, my patience wears thin and disgruntlement emerges. We eventually caved and jumped in a tuk tuk, only to be delivered to our guest house door a mere kilometer down a dusty side road.

For the second time, we were met with a startled manager. He was bewildered by our early afternoon appearance even though we had made a note in the Agoda box about our plans. He regretfully informed us that rooms were not ready, to which we replied that it was OK for we only wanted to drop our bags and go to the rock caves. He was happy with this development and we went on our way.

In true Asian form, the painted caves were to be found at the end of a thousand stairs. We took a break midway to enjoy M&Ms while overlooking the Dambulla region. One French guy had the audacity to chide that we were cheating by taking a stair-climbing break. I retorted that he would stop too if he had some M&Ms and was jealous of our chocolate loot. Laughter ensued from all parties.  

At the top, we discovered that the rock caves are on the list of holy Buddha statues, so shoes and hats came off while my sarong was slung around my waist. Shoes are not allowed, yet a couple of guys charge for taking care of them. They were miffed when we had the nerve to put our flops in our backpack.

Zach rarely researches the sites we choose to visit, so I was shocked when he announced that according to something he read we should start in the furthermost cave and work backwards, saving the grandest for last. This announcement was quickly followed by flowery and not-so-holy expressions about the heat of the rock beneath our bare feet.

No matter how long or how far I travel, the depth of artistry that can be found in this world always inspires me. These caves were no different. Each had staple elements, yet individual styles could be seen. The caves did become more grand the closer we got to the entrance, but I was more enthralled with the varying styles and paint tones. One used pastel tones, while another was filled with vibrant reds and golds. Some statutes were similar, yet a miniature stupa or a reclining Buddha can be found in another. 

Realizing that we would never fully see every detail of the painted caverns and satisfied with what we had seen, we decided to make our way down the rock towards our guesthouse. Getting to the gate was another round of unholy comments concerning scorching rocks marring dainty soles and a stumble across a bizarre animal kingdom gathering.

We opted to sit and watch while a cat and monkey formed an odd allegiance in hopes of gaining entry into a dog's lair. While the dog was never seen, he was definitely heard as the motley pair made several advances into his territory. The monkey was definitely after the food while the cat created the coy diversion. Sadly, the partnership crumbled as the cat changed sides and the monkey was left to ponder what had gone wrong four steps down.

We returned to our guesthouse for laundry duties and a little relaxation. In was an quiet afternoon which turned into an interesting evening. For the most part, guesthouses in Sri Lanka are really extra rooms let out from a family's residence. This was no different, as the owner's adorable daughter bumbled around us in her frilly dress-up clothes and giggled at our questions. Friends stopped by every so often to chat. When the wife came home from teaching all day, we quickly noticed that the husband actually did not do much around the place. While we read on our porch, she cleaned the other rooms, stopping to chat every so often. In these moments we learned that she got up at 3am every day to prepare for the day - food, lessons, cleaning, etc. When we agreed to eat dinner, we did not realize it would be the wife cooking not the husband. By the time our dinner was served, she looked completely beat and we really felt bad about the extra burden of our meal.

However, the ugliest part of the night was when the husband made the decision that getting drunk was a great plan. Prior to dinner, we had heard loud yells, a few sounds that sounded like slaps, crying child, quiet murmurings. We did not pay much attention for we were in a different section and unsure as to where the sounds actually came from. During dinner, the wife stopped to ask about Agoda. Unbeknownst to us, we were their first Agoda booking and she was unsure as to what the protocol was in payment (and it explained why the husband was so confused about our sudden appearance.) In the midst of our conversation, the husband joined and quickly became irate and hateful in his speech. The wife quickly ushered him out, leaving Zach and I to look at each other in bewilderment with a twinge of fear. The situation had escalated and we realized that we were in the home that was no stranger to domestic abuse. Our hearts broke.

We quietly slipped back to our room, whispering that sounds and actions were what we had initially thought. He was a lowlife husband. The wife and daughter bore the brunt of his angry outbursts. His wife worked a full time teaching job and ran the guest house to compensate for his alcoholic binges. It was heartwrenching to say the least.

Come morning, we ate our yummy Sri Lankan breakfast, knowing the wife had prepared it in the wee hours of the morning. We were grateful. Bleary eyed, the man emerged from a front room after we loudly commented to an empty entrance that we were leaving.

We have contacted Agoda asking what we should do about leaving a review because potential guests should be warned of what could be. Nonetheless, what we love about travel is getting to know people and getting a glimpse into their worlds. Sadly, sometimes those glimpses are distressing and remind us that so much hurt and anger does exist where it should not be.

To the Ruins

There are times when I imagine that a level of purgatory is an Asian bus station. Even though hundreds of buses are there with gobs of people milling about, the quest to actually step onto a bus is futile. Our golden rule of asking three people for directions or help proved quite ineffective in the Kandy bus station. We were bounced from curb to curb, down the street a little farther, only to be directed to the metal shack behind the first six rows of bus stalls. Then, upon finding the general vicinity for buses bound for Polonnaruwa, it became the task of finding the bus that actually wanted to take foreigners on its journey. White bus, blue bus, white bus with disco balls, green bus, to the red bus that would be our chariot for six hours.

The winding road eventually led us away from the mayhem of Kandy traffic. While Chinese buses look nicer, Sri Lankan buses win for several reasons. First, everything is open - windows and doors never close. Second, instead of hacking coughs and nasty, smoking bus drivers, Sri Lankan passengers, driver and conductor are clean, quiet and non-smokers. Third, instead of being glued to gadgets, passengers will quietly talk with fellow passengers or remain silent while enjoying the scenery. Those around us had a good laugh when an overhead bag fell on Zach's head at one curve. While it hurt a touch, it was fun to joke with those around us about the bus trying to take out the foreigner.

Hills and vibrant green rice fields morphed into a dustier, Kenya-esque landscape the farther north we traveled. To my glee, I kept spotting the elephant corridor signs, yet was disappointment that a tottering elephant (or four) did not see fit to journey towards to the pavement that day. We rolled into Polonnaruwa mid-afternoon, escaped the clutches of haggling touts and meandered our way to our guesthouse. So begins our trail of quirky guesthouse visits.   

After walking through the gate and looking about to find someone, the manager did appear. "No rooms," he said.

Zach held up his phone and responded with, "We booked on Agoda."

Manager shook his head. "No rooms. I put you with my friend."

"Well, this is a first," I whispered to Zach as the manager started making a bee-line for the gate.

Zach followed while I sat with the bags pondering how every door and window were open in the guesthouse, yet it was fully occupied. A few minutes later, Zach and manager reappeared. Zach shrugged his shoulders and said, "It will work."

"Breakfast here tomorrow. 6:30am," said manager.

"Um, no 6:30. How about 9am?" replied Zach.

"Ok, seven."

"No, that is too early, 9am."

"Ok, 7:30."

"How about nine?" responded Zach, as I stood behind him chuckling.

"Ok."

We trundled next door to the Manel Guesthouse. Our friend, Roger (who is the unofficial-offical Sri Lanka ambassador and the catalyst for our journey to paradise island) had recommended this guesthouse after his visit to Polonnaruwa. We had tried to book it but was denied due to no rooms being available, yet we found ourselves walking over its threshold for a night. The staff were not so forthcoming in their welcome to the displaced, accented by the moldy room they gave us for the evening.

"Eh, we have had worse," I commented.

We spent our evening strolling around the lake and enjoying the oh-so-delicious Sri Lankan food at one of the street restaurants.

The next morning, we returned to our reserved guesthouse a few minutes to nine. The manager was mopping rooms and seemed rather startled when we appeared. Apparently our appointed breakfast time had slipped his mind. Toast and eggs appeared soon after he gathered his wits.

After breakfast, we inquired about bikes for the day. He gave us the price and walked out the gate. Perplexed, Zach and I looked at each other wondering if our request was noted. Five minutes later, two lads from the Manel Guesthouse swerved into the yard on bikes. At this point, we were starting to wonder who was actually running Channel Guesthouse and whether our manager was a puppet in a much larger guesthouse scheme.

Our day of peddling through the Polonnaruwa ruins was wonderful, though it took us at least half an hour to recover from the entrance fee sticker shock and disgruntlement of tickets being sold not at the gate but rather down the road at the museum. While the ruins are not to the scale of Egyptian pyramids or Angkor Wat, there were some unique gems. The true entertainment came from two avenues. First, walking among the ruins became a bingo type of scenario in trying to figure out which Buddha statues are considered holier than others, meaning which ones did we have to take shoes and hats off and make sure knees are covered. It really is an arbitrary thing at the whim of lackadaisical guards. Also, I have learned in my travels that no matter how long or short my trousers are, they are never long enough. These ruins were no different, so while I was slinging my sarong around my waist, a girl stepped in wearing a short skirt with no issue. Another had the sarong around her shoulders with daisy dukes on; shoulders trump legs. Nonetheless, blonde hair is a beacon for ruin harassment.

The second source of entertainment was from the wildlife. The girl that had ridden with us to Kandy repeatedly remarked that her time in Sri Lanka was made so much better thanks to the wildlife. After a day among the ruins, I was agreeing with her. Monkeys abounded. Their antics were hypnotizing and watching their leaps and bounds across mossy rubble made me want to reread the Jungle Book.

We ended our bike adventure with a ride along the lake shore. It was along this path that we started to experience the quiet kindness of Sri Lankans. As the sun sets and the boats return to shore, families pile onto the rocky shore for their evening baths and laundry duties. Wrapped in sarongs, sudsy women, men and children would yell greetings or even stop for a moment to chat. One woman, finished with her evening dip, stopped me to show off her beautiful granddaughter while the mother and siblings giggled in the lake behind them.

As for our guesthouse saga, we did not see our manager for the rest of the day. We left a note by our door requesting breakfast at 8am, hoping that in one of his rare appearances it might be seen. It was. However, when it came time to depart, our polite attempts at hide and seek were quickly discarded for the brash act of ringing a bell to get his attention. We boarded the bus bound for Dambulla chuckling at our quirky, little guesthouse and its elusive man in charge.

Finding Our Travel Mojo in Kandy

The beginning of travel is similar to putting on a swimsuit after the pool has been closed for winter. It looks good in some areas but pudgy in others. It is uncomfortable as if a sausage is being shoved into a tiny casing. It is a frumpy situation.

Approximately every eighteen weeks, Zach and I have to figure out our travel mojo. It is a bizarre process that to an outsider may look like two chickens running in two separate circles while trying to taunt and joust each other. It is painful, uncomfortable and maddeningly frustration. Yet, after a couple days of talking in circles, trying to figure out budget and keep in mind the currency we are dealing with (this is me more than Zach), or remembering that I cannot speak Chinese to everyone who does not speak English, something clicks.

Kandy was the start of this arduous process. Amid the petrol-soaked wafts of air, the never ending traffic jams and the continuous catcalls of "hello" or "where are you from," we wrestled with our first touches of Sri Lanka. It was a hard couple of days. While I was unsure as to what my expectations of this island were, I definitely knew Kandy was not it. Zach kept asking what was the root of my melancholy, to which I had no concrete answer, which would irritate the analytical thinker that is my husband. However, with every step of exploration, with every agreement on a food choice or to not pay an exuberant entrance fee, we began to settle into our travel rhythm.

Though thoughts of death via carbon monoxide poisoning or a rogue tuk tuk emerged from time to time, the charm of Kandy did start to show itself. We quickly decided that while the Temple of the Tooth is Kandy's main attraction, the cost of entrance was too high for our liking. We chose instead to stroll the perimeter of the temple, which allowed us to traipse through a cemetery bearing the bodies of foreigners who came to work the coffee and tea plantations. We affectionately called it the under-35 club for only one grave we saw had etched on its tombstone an age beyond that. A few meters beyond the cemetery is where we saw our first Asian elephant outside a zoo. We were giddily taking pictures when a man approached us with betel stained teeth and a machete strapped to his waist. We were unsure of his intentions and did not wait around to find them out.

The majority of our time in Kandy was spent walking and looking. When we had our fill, we retreated to our gem of a guesthouse a mere half a kilometer from the city center. On the right was a mosque, behind was a Buddhist shrine, to the left a Hindu complex, and in front an array of local eateries dispersed between pharmacies, eye clinics and a plethora of other medical needs. We spent many an hour nestled on its rooftop balcony watching the world go chaotically by.

Zhanjiang - Guangzhou - Bangkok - Colombo

In 48 hours we have boarded four airplanes, meandered our way through five security checkpoints, plopped into three countries, have lived in three separate time zones, and have eaten Chinese, Thai, American and Sri Lankan food.

Zhanjiang airport has figured out its counter to security issue.

Guangzhou still wins the award for one of the world's worst airports.

The Bangkok humidity welcomed us into her sweaty embrace and our skin was thrilled. A couple hours by the pool, an evening stroll through a local market for food, and a night's slumber continually disrupted by the thumping nightclub not mentioned in the hotel reviews. Ah, Asia and your mandatory hotel-by-nightclub stance.

Of course, our plan of taking the free shuttle to the bus station upon arrival in Colombo was dashed when the free shuttle service seems to be discontinued, the information desk lady is clueless, and stepping outside the terminal to get your bearings means that you are stranded outside for a fee is charged to re-enter.

Plans thoroughly thwarted, we resorted to haggling for taxi service to Kandy. Eventually a girl joined our discussion and within thirty minutes we were off in a non-airport-sanctioned taxi. Tension was high with visions of being stranded on the side of the road or a detour to the back of a lone building only to be met with a knife in the gut or the third passenger being a 'plant' who happens to have a bag filled with drugs (especially after she informed us that she had spent the last two months working illegally in California cultivating weed.)

The first few days of travel are the worst. Everything becomes discombobulated. Zach and I have to figure out our travel mojo with decision making and communication with each other. I speak Chinese out of habit and chide myself for it. Though not fluent, there is a comfort is having some language skills and being reminded that I do not know all languages becomes frustrating to me. In a weird turn of events, we feel weary at the start of our journey. The semester-of-mayhem hangover still lingers.

When we arrived in Kandy late this afternoon (with all belongings, no sly stopovers and a bonus of some fun conversation along the way), we checked in, laid on the bed to make plans for our stay in Kandy and promptly fell asleep.

We woke up as the sun was setting. We went outside to find dinner, only to shorten our walk when we realized that the chaos of rush hour was wrecking havoc with still-sleepy senses. We opted for a hole-in-the-wall stall near the hotel and enjoyed local fare under the watchful gaze of the old proprietor. He was thrilled we stopped by before we returned to the sanctuary of our hotel's balcony. 

A sign of true travel daze is that I only have one picture of Sri Lanka so far - fruit bats hanging from a tree.

Ah, tomorrow is a new day.

Glimpses of Christmas

The longer we live the China, the later our Christmas celebrations take place. We seem to embrace the January 7 date moreso than the traditional December 25, mainly because we are in the throes of finals and paperwork. This year, our Christmas was ragged as Zach spent the most part of the day trying to fix internet issues thanks to a system "upgrade" that rendered all internet practically useless. When he was not flitting from apartment to apartment, he was in the classroom. As was I. It was a rough day.

In our extended observance of my beloved holiday, here is a glance into what the 2014 Christmas season held for us.

The Sunday before Christmas we hosted a dinner for our fellow teachers. While we are sad that Ryan and Candace left prematurely, we have reveled in having an empty apartment beside us. It has become a fantastic place to host gatherings for friends and students. Food was plentiful, laughter was loud and it was a great night to relax and regal each other with tales from our varied pasts.

In a stroke of irony, I am considered the baker in the China. Zach heartily laughs at the praise I receive for my baking, for he knows what normally occurs. However, Christmas in China is a magical time for my baking. Cookies look like cookies. Cakes look like cakes. It is a Christmas miracle.

I declare frequently that I give China five years until Christmas it is a full-fledged holiday. After this year, I may have to shorten my estimate as Zhanjiang bedecked itself in tinsel and lights. Shopping malls were begging for foreigners to come sit as Santa Claus (and paying handsomely for the white face.)

While there is obviously no connection to the religious side, the consumerism side of Christmas is just what China wants. The younger generation wants to spend money and lots of it. They love the lights. They love the look of the decorations. They love that they can receive presents and actually keep the gifts.

Even in our meager time here, Zach and I have noticed the incremental shift of excitement surrounding the Chinese New Year. Our first year here, the students were abounding with enthusiasm. Last year, we returned and many told us to leave for there was nothing to do. This year, there are more shrugging shoulders and prattle about how it is the traditional holiday, time with family, good food, etc. Family elders are stressed because of the amount of hongbao that must be given (and petty theft has increased drastically around the holiday to meet the monetary demands.) Many students lament that as soon as they get their red money pouch from extended family they have to turn around and give it to their parents. The holiday is really the same as any other day, so Christmas is being welcomed as that foreign holiday which provides a day from traditional expectations.

Of course, this is making many in the higher echelons of power nervous. News reports covered schools in Xian who forced students to watch propaganda films instead of enjoying Christmas Eve festivities planned around the city. Another city fined any kindergarten that put up a Christmas tree. The official line is that the government does not want western ideals promoted at the cost of traditional Chinese ideals, yet as I discussed with some students, Spring Festival and its traditions can be explained in a five minute conversation whereas it could take a month to teach all the layers of Christmas. They laughed and agreed.

Even with government crackdown, I do not foresee a stall in Christmas expansion in the Middle Kingdom. Christmas trees are cheap, twinkly lights are too pretty and a generation that has loads of disposable income has tapped into the consumerist side of the holiday all too well.

Russian food is absolutely delicious. Not only can our Ukrainian family make a piano sing its finest tune, they are amazing cooks. Therefore, an invitation to their house is never turned down. On New Year's Eve, we descended two floors and entered one of the greatest Christmas celebrations I have ever joined.

Not only was it an evening of culinary delight, yet a beautiful exchange of culture. In Russian culture, New Year's Eve is when Santa visits the house. He knocks on the window and asks to be let in the door about fifteen minutes before midnight. He dances. He sings. Yes, he even drinks vodka and toasts with the family. He is a jolly old man.

He chides the family for not having the Christmas tree lights on when he arrives. After three chants of the family yelling "turn on the lights," the lights turn on and celebratory cheers ring throughout the house. Santa then proceeds to hand out little goodies from his sack and even will help sort the gifts from under the tree.

The other family that was with us are from Uzbekistan; Arthur and Anna teach English at another campus and they have two children. While Arte was thrilled with Santa and his antics, Sophia was realizing that Santa was actually someone she knew. Alex is the designated Santa for the Russian expats and Sophia started having suspicions last year, only to confirm her suspicions this year. She spent the better part of the evening sobbing.

It was heartbreaking to watch the death of an ideal, yet funny to watch the dichotomy between the two children. Masha, Zach and I actually had a great discussion dissecting the length of belief between American and Russian kids. We realized that belief in Santa is actually longer in America because Santa is the mythical figure that arrives in the middle of the night. Plus, Santas visited during the season are always strangers. Whereas, in Russia, the family members play the part so it is easy for kids to figure out when one family member is suspiciously absent for the festivities, just as Sophia did.

However, a few days later as we laughed and chatted about the evening with Masha, she commented that after the gifts were given, Arte told "Santa" to go change, whereas Sophia told him he had the same shoes as Alex. Gatherings such as this are a collective of spoken Russian, English and even some Chinese, so things get missed - especially by our non-Russian ears. When Masha conveyed their Russian sentiments, we laughed so hard. Apparently, Arte played along because he was desperate to get his hands on that green package. 

The other piece we learned of Russian culture is that cultural and religious aspects of the holiday are celebrated seperately. New Year's Eve and New Year's Day are the cultural with Santa and gifts, whereas January 6 and 7 are the religious for everyone goes to church and celebrates in a calmer manner. (No dessert at 3:30am this day!)

By the time January 7 rolled around, our days were much calmer. Everything was graded. The psychotic computer system was doing its normal end of term mayhem. There were no more classes (except for Zach's final postgrad class in the afternoon.) The days between January 1 and January 7 were the calmest of the semester. In the evenings, we would brew a pot of tea, grab a sweet treat, carry our lawn chairs to the front of our building and sit marveling at the lights while laughing and talking. During the days, we caught up on chores neglected in the latter weeks of the semester, especially in the cleaning-the-hutong area.

While our holidays look completely different than they did five years ago, I am thankful for the shift and the new experiences we have encountered along the way.