ljm22

Cher, me, Vic, MK, and Alex leave for London and Scotland Sunday, July 10th. I can’t wait to see Helen, her girls (Lucy, Susanna, and Georgina), and Maggie, Peter, and Margaret! 

   

Sacto

I received a congratulatory email blog response from WordPress: “Congratulations! You’ve completed your 50th blog!”

Wow, that happened fast and a very appropriate place to say the end. So until a future trip comes my way, and I’m thinking of walking the Highlands of Scotland next summer, but we’ll see. I trust I didn’t bore the socks off too many people. Anyway, signing off until next adventure. Ciao!

checked out the capital with Arjuna Parakrama

The first shots are of the Dutch Hospital; the Dutch colonized Ceylon years ago. This building originally dates back to 1785, but it has been tastefully renovated and now houses cool shops and upscale restaurants. The next shots  are of St. Anthony’s Cathedral. And then, the grounds and sale and eventual demolition of Arjuna’s distant relative and our effervescent and outgoing, bright and beautiful friend, Manique Gunesekera. Lastly, the age old coloniel Galle Face Hotel. It’s under a face lift though still a classic and exceptional building.  

I hit the travel wall today. Tomorrow is the final day of this odyssey. I plan to write, read, sleep and eat something before my long homeward journey. It sadden me deep in my chest to say goodbye to Arjuna. As I told him, 30 years have gone by since I saw him last and it could have been a weekend ago. I have never, nor do I ever, expect to meet anyone like him. He is truly one of a kind; brilliant, hilarious, wise, thoughtful, generous, compassionate and I am absolutely delighted to call him my friend. I wish he would take better care of himself. His schedule is completely off the hook, and he takes responsibility for so many others. Rajes, his man Friday and his new driver, Nihal, are like dumb and dumber, yet he pulls them up and responsibly cares for them.

 
                                            

Walking once more….Up country Tea Estates & Horton Plains

 I tagged along with Arjuna as he attended a meeting in Nuwara Elyia. Up island, “up country” as they call it here. The British were quite fond of Nuwara Elyia, for the climate is much milder. The elevation is right around 5,000 feet, so the temperatures are much nicer. The fog rolls in and out of the basin area, which includes a very picturesque lake in the centre of town. The names of most hotels, cafes, restaurants still bare English names; “The Grand” is the largest and best known hotel/restaurant in town though there are a host of them. 

One of the greatest parts of the journey was the rented van the tea industry provided Arjuna for the trek. An air conditioned Toyota van. The lap of luxury in these parts, especially the winding uphill trek. He helps organize and support the pickers and tea workers on these giant tea plantations. After dropping him at his meeting in Nuwara Elyia, I continued on for forty minutes or so to Horton Plains, where I had traveled with Arjuna and Larry 31 years ago. It was simply brilliant. Wide open grass plateau with jungle on both sides and a river running cutting straight through the heart of it. 

Hopefully the pictures do it justice, because the tea is grown down the face of cliffs and pretty much hangs in the air at points, draping over the most unlikely geography. We passed two water falls reminiscent of ones in Yosemite Valley. Our first stop, a local tea cafe that prepared incredible roti with dahl and a spicy onion curry. This cafe hangs on a cliff overlooking a gorgeous valley with these two waterfalls visible and a lake further down the valley.

Horton Plains featured a 14 km hike in a circuitous shape. The trail meanders through a grass plain with a river cutting down the middle. One soon comes in and out of jungle. Saw two purple faced monkeys but was too slow with my iPad camera. All sorts of birds. Over 200 species make their homes here or pass through. “World’s End” had a dense cloud cover, so we could not see the 770? M cliff, drop off. Impressive. At Little “World’s End” the cloud cover lifted for a few minutes and one could see straight down. They used this setting for one of the Indiana Jones’. They also filmed The Bridge Over Que here.On the way back to the van we viewed a heard of their Elk. Although these creatures are much less threatening and apparently not dangerous.

  

                                                                 

University of Peridenyia,  

Patricia, JP, awesome string hoppers with three curries to die for. Arjuna, holding court in his office with the deptment Chairman of Fine Arts. Another wonderful fellow. A guest house on the University of Peridenyia built in 1938, so a relatively modern structure. The outside amphitheater from the university. A really cool old banyan tree and Arjuna’s English Department and offices. Then I visited two Temples:  the first is a perfect example of Hindu design and structure blended with Buddhist (14th/15th c). It is equally rare because it was built with wood pillars,( mahogany) with incredible carvings.  The next is Rajamaha Viharaya, again a blend of Buddhist and Hindu  design. It also is represented on the 500rupee note. It also goes to illustrate that at least in terms of architecture the two religions coexist in perfect harmony.

The darker grey pictures are descriptions of this vary temple first written in Sinhala in 14 th century and below in Tamil. I had a very full day. I revisited a Benedictine Monastery that I stayed in 30 years ago that have, what they claim is one of three replicas of the shroud of Tourin. No pictures allowed , but I must say it looked quite dubious. The last photo are of Nihal and his wife Shyanthi, friends of Arjuna’s who put me up in their wonderful home and made me feel as one of their family.

Tomorrow- Horton Place a wildlife hike while Arjuna takes a couple of meetings. Then on to Nuwara Elyia for the evening.

   

                                        

  

 

trains, planes & automobiles 

Actually, just buses and tri shaws. Rose at 5:15 to catch 6:00am bus from Batti to Polunarawa. Kumar was outside waiting ; I love that guy. We almost missed the bus. In fact, we passed it and Kumar chased it down. It was awesome he corralled it, cut it off and waved the driver down. I said a hasty goodbye, slipped 500 rupees in his pocket and hopped up he stairs to the already packed bus.

He has reported to my friend Rajes that I pay him way too much. How’s that for a twist. 500 Rupees is basically $3.45, or something. For driving me 3/4 miles he would charge 200 rupees or less than 3 US bucks. The difference between 500 and 200 is monumental to them. 

                                       

        

 

a whirl wind day of visits, flashbacks, and memories

Some of the pictures I’ve included on the previous day: a couple of my old residences, the old college I taught at and Batti town in general. Plus, some faces from my past: Rajes Kandiah, a mentor teacher of legendary proportions in these parts and a dear friend. Father Miller, also known to Tamils as ” the White Tiger” in his connection with the young Tamil Tiger Radical group that waged war on the corrupt, bigoted, mainstay government institution. Fr. Miller is from the New Orleans Province, but has spent the better part of his 92 years, 77, on the island and in Batticaloa working with the poor and marginalized. And Fr. Joe Carol, a young Jesuit, who was a student in university when I was here last.

Rajes took me on a tri shaw, or as she called it a tuck,tuck tour. My driver in Colombo was “Kumara”. Her driver here was Kumar. Both incredible hard working, honest, honorable guys with personalities. They also are worth their weight in gold for cutting through much of the laborious, bureaucratic, red tape that any errand can become here. I should have learned this thirty years ago, though I chose to swim upstream and fight their age old baksheesh system.

My first task this morning was to get a SIM card, so Arjuna could reach me about further plans. Kumar found a kiosk that did sim and no easy feat on a Sunday here. The operator had never seen a phone like mine and clearly jimmy rigged the card to fit my cell. He said give it 30 minutes and it will kick in. I forgot about but Kumar asked to see it when Rajes and I got out to visit a Hindu temple. It didn’t work. Rajes and I went to have lunch and Kumar’s eyes lit up to fix my cell. “Don’t fear Memsahib, I fix.”  Sure as Shiva at 1:30 he returned with phone and I called Arjuna seconds later. Ask him how he got it fixed? I asked Rajes. She did and he wobbled his head in island fashion and told her “Not important Madam.”

My main objective was to clarify one thing through a conversation with Fr. Miller; and I had a rare privilege of meeting him again, because he is not well. Parkinson’s and some kind of muscle deterioration in his legs, but in cheerful spirits none the less. The one thing he remembered about me was my involvement with the open team I played and coached for that won the island championship 1985. He called it the “War within the War”. Our Tamil Open League Team traveled by bus across the island to face the National Police Team. We received one call the entire first half even though it was knock down basketball; I yelled, screamed, cursed at the officials in every language I knew, and the officials simply ignored me. Ravi, our best player and center at 6’5″, got sucker punched at the tipoff and lost two teeth. No call. It went on and on like that. We trailed by three at half and won by one. I had a very good game, but mainly because I did not receive the brutal physicality that my teammates did for I was white and these Sinhalese want to appear “”upright & fair” to the Brits, and I was considered for their purposes a Brit. Our bus ride out of the parking lot was a rock and bottle throwing contest as the all Sinhala Police crowd threw everything they could at us. We lay on the floor of the bus. 

I came to meet Father with one question in mind: “How did Father Herbert die?” They had gone through the seminary together and come to the island the same year: Fr. Herbert originally to Trincomalee and Miller to Batti. Herbert joined Miller two years later in Batti. Fr. Herbert Coached the under 18 boys basketball team, ran a technical school for youth, was an outstanding spiritual role model, one of the best no nonsense pragmatic priests I’ve known, a mentor and a friend. 

I showed up at a few practices. He asked my background, let me scrimmage with the guys and then asked me to be as he said in his southern Louisianan accent: “player/coach, Bill Russell -like” with the open team. He would help but he didn’t have time for two teams with all  his other commitments. I did and it stands as a highlight of my life.

“Father, have you had any further discoveries in Fr. Herbert’s death?” “Yes, and no. Wrong place, right time. I was actually asked by the Bishop to make the trip he did. I was out of contact and missed Him and the incident by a half hour. Of course no one told me there had been a gun battle and we simply never saw Father again. The Hindu radical Tigers’ were on a mission to kill all the Police, who had done major violence to youth in their village the day before, and they were on a rampage. 

The Moslems locked up their shops and went home. This is in Eravur, a town 10 km down the road. Fr. Herbert was sent to say mass locally, knew the guys involved and tried to quell a growing scene between the Moslem shop owners, the Tigers and the newly arrived Police and Army. Fr. H in his often headstrong, confident way, thought he could quell the riot. He either got caught in crossfire, or worse yet he became the target.

 A year later my secretary and sometime driver went to the police station in Eravur to pay a traffic ticket and he noticed this motorcycle that looked familiar in the police parking compound. He wrote down the numbers: all the numbers, serial numbers, engine numbers, etc… You see Fr. Herbert had just been gifted a new motorcycle weeks before the incident because he had increased travel duties for masses, to hear elderly confessions, etc.  And low and behold these numbers matched Fr. Herbert’s cycle. What to do? “

            

                    

Walking is easier and more fun than 9 hours from Colombo to Batticaloa By train

Arjuna, my old colleague, tutor, now published author, professor and friend, took me to a new restaurant in Colombo. Can’t remember the name but it was in a completely reconstructed part of town.

Oh, I remember you well! [JP, Patricia] Some things don’t necessarily change over time and that can certainly be said for the Sri Lanka rail connection across island from west to east. Nine utterly painfully slow, lacking motion hours. Methinks it stopped at every tree, rock and village. My day began at 5:30 am when my wake up call came. Met Kumara, my new found friend and Colombo tri shaw driver outside and away we went.

I should explain that yesterday I tri shawed to Fort Train Station to book a ticket to Batti. The line, which is really a misnomer because it spreads itself sideways as people come in exited the door. Kumara, my driver, in sneaky true Sri Lankan style, managed to go around and behind and in some side door; “I knows someone master.” He tells me. We became friends after that. I may still be waiting in that line.

I booked a seat but still Arjuna warned me to get their early. I was on my platform at 6:15 for the 7:15 departure. 

   

        

                       

                      

Wandering, running travel errands(tickets,plans…)

I am completely blown away! Not remotely the same place. It cost me $20.00 to cab to the hotel Cinnamon Red, as opposed to the Cinnamon Lakeside, or the Cinnamon Grand. It is a long way, really but like most things, life is still cheap here. Great deal on the ride because I’ve heard personally how people have been ripped off, mislead and generally left in the lurch. 

That followed the memory reenactment of an ugly, chaotic scene at the airport. Lines and lines and locals just cut and push people out of their way. An unpleasant cultural nuance. There were two immigration lines that went nowhere extremely slowly. One to basically say where from and who you are and the other to pay $35.00 to enter. They took my first form of where from and who I was at the pay station, which they weren’t suppose to do and then when I went to the final immigration kiosk, the guy would not sign off and stamp my passport. I said they took the other form. He said “No, they did not?” And I said “Yes they did!” And I went over and asked the lady at the pay station, she said “No, I didn’t take that form!” And the woman next to her reached over and found it on the stack of a mess of other forms and handed it to me. No explanation. No apology. Beauracry is and always has been bedlam here.

When the doors open and one emerges from the airport proper the fun begins. Chaos is too organized a word. The developing world makes Mexico, and places like Cabo San Lucas look a congressional subcommittee hearing. Hawkers yelling to sell anything and everything:  rides, trips, vacation plans, chicklits, fruit, paintings, blankets..etc… Then the heat and humidity hit one in the face like a heavy, wet towel and the tropical dust flies up in your face.

The car wasn’t air conditioned as promised and I remembered  the roads: bikes, tri shaws, motor cycles, cars, trucks, oxen carts, and if there is a pattern, I never really witnessed one when I lived here for three years. The lines mean virtually nothing and honking is a way of notifying the world that “I am alive! therefore I honk! The cosmic dance that is the traffic pattern amazes the western eye. Mere misses are constant and casual. Accidents often occur though. It’s a gigantic leap of faith.

It took 35 minutes that seemed like 60. The Cinnamon Red is a 26 floor high rise with an infinity pool on the roof with a cafe/bar and a terrific panoramic 360 view of the burgeoning downtown. Cranes and building machinery scattered all over the growing city. 

                        

wandered around Madrid

What else? I walked the city today and even double- decker tour bused it, disembarking in Plaza Major. Under construction, remodeling, but vast. Wandered aimlessly, stopping for a bocadillo and cafe and later a beer. Plenty of cool plazas and outdoor cafe’s all over. The difference is the heat. 90+ with humidity. The better cafe’s have umbrellas and minsters, which keep one pretty cool.

Great Skype with Ry, Cher two days ago.

Attended a Flamingo show. (I’m writing this from Doha, on the marathon flight to Sri Lanka.) Random favorite pics so far: