Ten miles away by bicycle there is the incredible Sirigaya rock (with a fortress on top) thrusting out of the hot and dusty plain. So, a purposeful climb at sunrise to the 5th century ruins atop, avoiding a nasty wasp colony,
stopping half way up to admire some painted frescoes of overly buxom ladies, and then on to the top, to dream in the wind of ancient kingdoms won and lost. The 360 degree view is as breath-taking as the feat of these ancient people in building such a city on top of such a large rock.Another 30 miles on are the ruins of the Polanurwarra, which I toured by bicycle in tropical dust. I was annoyed to witness some thoughtless rich tourists tipping a local the value of about 4 meals for little reason. Yet I was thankful for a new companion who cycled with me, telling me proudly of his country's history and wanting to buy me refreshments - and his salary was about $20 a month. He certainly earned his money. Pedalling home to my mud hut accommodation before the tropical dark descended, deftly dodging monkeys, falling coconuts, and memorising imposing silhouettes of ancient ruins and giant temple stupas of the 12th century against the red sky and the bright evening star.
Kalkudah beach - home of the so-called backpacking "hippy" - a swelling local issue that annoys me, because really, there are no hippies here. And I don’t want to be considered as one. A long, wide, white, sweeping beach, with a sunrise through the palms, reminded me of silk and pale roses. Fishermen, lean and black, sing their work songs while hauling in their huge net from the shore. Crows substitute for seagulls but the colours are wrong. Aragan Bay, haunt of Australian surfers who pay 20 cents a night for primitive shelter and surf all day. Are these the hippies? Is this what the Government is getting upset about with visa requirements? The locals are certainly happy with the various forms of income from them. I stayed in a wall-less bungalow sleeping well in the tropical night cool, interrupted every now and then by the scary thwwudd of a falling coconut.Out of the dusty monsoon-starved plains we climb slowly the 4000 feet through picturesque rubber trees with their speckled shade, and then the first sight of the imposing tea plantations with higher stands of pine and eucalyptus. The peasant women tea-pluckers with rattan baskets on their backs working in groups of 30, standing waist deep against the hedges, seem almost insignificant in the sea of dark green about them. What price sweat for a pound of tea? I sleep in my own converted arak bar with enclosed beer garden of a delightful ramshackle hotel for 50 cents a night. Next day, I joined a throng of local day-trippers to a pleasant waterfall - but sari'd ladies clambering over rocks and sweating in their synthetics, and youths with blaring cassettes of senseless Singhalese songs, detract from nature somewhat. I ate a banana at the bottom of the falls, staring into the wild flumes, trying to ignore the gathering crowd trying to examine my digital watch ... trying ! So I try not to wear it. Why do I need it anyway?
A tame, free monkey has a pup as its best friend and they romp together (although the passing schoolkids enjoy stoning it. I have found kindness to animals is virtually unknown in Asia.) But I was annoyed later and stated looking around for a stone when the same monkey stole my washing – I found my shirt on the roof and bits and pieces of clothes scattered all over this town - Haputale, where the crisp air and beautiful valley views seem like Switzerland. You might have caught me splashing joyfully naked in the mountain sunshine in a hidden pool under the world's sixth highest waterfall.
Finding out about how tea is manufactured - the most flavoursome tea is picked in the dry 'low' season which is bought by the world's merchants as the flavour base for blending with the lower quality, high yield batches. Helped a tea-taster to his task - couldn't discern any difference, my taste buds no doubt blatted out by too many local cheap cigarettes.
An expedition! Early breakfast of eggs, toast and tea, buy some fruit and buns at the local market for lunch, a Dane, a Spaniard, a German couple and I buy third class rail tickets and smuggle ourselves into the 2nd class compartments, to experience 10 miles of spectacular scenery as we climb another 1000 feet or so
(the endless tea hedges seem like moss over the twisted mountains), then pass through a series of tiny tunnels, walk up the rail track a mile, and then head upwards on a well-marked jungle track, witnessing beautiful, strange, delicate wildflowers, with monkeys unseen crashing around; this is the home of the leopard; the mist from the weird plateau above flows down upon us like dry ice fumes, enveloping us; to eventually lift and reveal the stark Horton Plains, like Scottish moors, perhaps. Walk faster now to keep warm; meandering trout streams; and then to our amazed delight, a quaint, solitary English hotel, with trim, formal gardens, a welcome hot cup of tea for an outrageous price, then three further miles along the track to the famous World's End - 7000 feet above sea-level, with a 6000 feet drop below - absolutely staggering, as we gazed without words, munching our lunch. The return was via a long winding road, through beautiful eucalyptus forests (expecting to hear kookaburras - my companions thought me mad) and waiting for the now invariably late train back to Haputale, when I hear, incongruously, J. S. Bach, on the crackling radio in the station's teashop.
Nuwara Elya (say that fast !) is the highest town at 6200 feet and predictably is COLD - the cheap hotel I chose has no blankets (a mythical man comes around hiring them for 1 rupee each, but not this night), the power wasn't on, and the rats by my penlight were bigger than I've known for many a cheap hotel. I also got my cash wallet stolen, luckily only a few dollars. But it is really is a beautiful place with lux old colonial hotels, wet cypress hedges, delightful public park with hothouse crammed with azaleas, crisp cyclamens, stunning lilies and rare orchids; fertile vegetable gardens built on impossible slopes, cut flowers for sale at every turn and a shop specialising in delicious hot chocolate. (I've now developed hives). The bus trip to Kandy must really be one of the most spectacular trips in the world - the narrow winding road, snaking through the tea bushes, past many waterfalls and vegetable gardens, suddenly to burst over another ridge to reveal yet another gaping valley of emerald green.Now I am back with my friends in Kandy - the Tamil community present a Culture Evening at the neighbouring Trinity college, fascinating dance forms, originating in Southern India - the men leaping with bells on their feet, graceful lithe hands holding lamps, intoxicating drums, the young dancing such intricate steps with delicate fist and finger movements - such would be scorned in Australian equivalent schools a weak or effeminate. The Tamils are a discriminated minority here still, despite the newly promulgated constitution. [This was 1979 and over 20 years later, when typing this, I know my Tamil friends would have had to flee this part of their war-torn country].
A Sunday choral service in the beautiful, wall-less, high-roofed chapel, somehow seemed to brighten the colours of the surrounding brilliant coloured tropical garden. The next night, the Sinhalese community of the school had a drama competition - superb quality - the characterisation transcending cultures - mime, dance and harmonious singing - such quality I have never seen in Australian schools. There is not another foreigner in the audience, and I knew that I was witnessing something very special about this stunning country.
Now it is time to get ready to leave Sri Lanka - on 24th September 1978, I am booked to fly to Southern India, then head towards Darjeeling and Nepal where the monsoons should be abating. News of terrible floods in Northern India.
But before leaving this delightful country, I taught a new friend (who claimed to be part of the representative Sri Lankan cricket team having played a tour of UK) how to swim. The local pools were closed due to a bout of conjunctivitis, so we travelled to a hotel mountain resort complete with a beautiful lake and waterfall, set in a tea plantation and rolling hills of clove and pepper bushes. A cup of tea costs about 30 times the normal price, but as there were fortunately no guests that day, we sat in the sun on the balcony majestically overlooking the sweeping valley, and pretending to be frightfully rich.
I find myself the guest of the "only computer consultant in Sri Lanka", and met his aristocratic mother and hotel keeper brother. This once wealthy lady has now such a reduced income that she experiences anguish in the problems of reduced standard of living in her old age - from owning 85 houses, she now only owns two, by government decree. Later, being driven around the wealthier attractive suburbs of Colombo in an air-conditioned Mercedes, and feeling strangely relieved to get out at the bus stop and rejoining the rabble and humidity.
Economising yet again by opting for public transport to the distant airport, having to hike the last 3km in the tropical heat, while cursing the weight of my bag. The taxis and tourist buses whoosh past. Then a few fascinating air conditioned hours drinking Ceylonese tea watching all the people pursuing their varied lives. The mandatory purchase of Johnny Walker and 200 3-5's for "unloading" in India, and off on the short flight across to Trivandrum, Kerala State, Southern India. How preferable to the uncivilised crush of the ferry coming the other way only 6 weeks before.
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