A few excerpts from my notebooks:
I was surprised when my call to the coffee plantation was answered by a thick Australian drawl. Les was the last person I expected to meet up there - short brown hair and pale blue eyes, a little off-kilter. He sat and smoked beedies on the porch in a sloppy old sweater vest. He'd lived up the valley on and off for years, in a dirt-floored shack on a farm. One story involved a run-in with the Indian Army in Kashmir. Another involved pulling a knife on some rickshaw drivers, sending them scattering. . .
---
The hours hiking between the estate and the main track up Mt Tadiannamol were pure and peaceful, and I'd fallen into a walking meditation. Walking the high ridge and crossing above a waterfall, long views of mountains to the south and nothing but the sere crackle of dry grass in the wind. Far below, thick native forest filled the valleys. And not a soul in sight.
Upon reaching the main track up the peak, my mood soured and I fought a disappointing frustration: Indian tourists. Cigarette butts, trash and bits of plastic littered the trail, and ridiculous, repetitive yelling echoed from every high point. I fought the feeling and cursed under my breath. So much for peace and quiet. . . but it's their country, I told myself, their way of doing things. I kept climbing and was pleased to have the summit to myself, relaxing for a few minutes up top with a view stretching all the way into Kerala.
Picking my way down the rough trail, I heard loud voices and ran into a group of software engineers from Bangalore. We chatted for a minute and they begged me to have lunch with them. Come on, they said, we've got plenty of food. We want to talk to you. I thanked them but explained I had a long way back before sundown. Those huge Indian smiles and their big-hearted generosity made me laugh in spite of myself, and I barely noticed the trailside trash and needless noise on the big path.
It's all about perspective. I imagined spending my whole life in a cramped city, pressed upon day and night by a million bodies, rarely alone, always compressed. Wouldn't I open my mouth and scream with pleasure to be in the mountains, under the blue sky and far away from the gritty dust and diesel smoke? My American notion of individual rights had led me to curse my loss of peace, while they had gained a chance to be free of the crowd, and fill their lungs with fresh grass-scented air. . .
---
I followed one cow path, then another, stumbling through thick undergrowth and looking to the sun for direction. I was on the wrong side of the ridge, I knew, but hoping a forested bowl would lead me up and out again. I entered a small clearing in the trees, a seasonal waterhole dried down to a small mud patch. Elephant tracks the size of serving platters were pressed into the dry, cracked earth. I saw no tiger tracks, but looked around reflexively. From the sunlit clearing, the forest was a silent, dark wall. What was watching me?
---
The day before I flew to Sri Lanka, I told the gang at Honey Valley how much I looked forward to a day of airports. A chance to swap dusty concrete chai stalls for glass and steel, just for a day. A clean seat, a good cup of coffee and a newspaper. In anticipation of joining the privileged classes for a day, I dressed in jeans and carefully selected a clean t-shirt when I dressed at 6:00am. In clean clothes, in the cool of the morning, I felt fresh and ready.
An hour and a half later, surrounded by suits and briefcases in the check-in line, I stared down in disbelief. A thick, dirty smear ran from left to right, just above the hem across the front of my shirt. What? How? It took a moment until I realized: the seat belt in the taxi! In the entire life of that filthy machine, I was probably the only person to ever use it. It had hung there next to the open window for years, building grimy layers of diesel fumes, dust and trash smoke. I almost laughed out loud. Habit had gotten the better of me, and again India had taught me a lesson.
---
I sat with Eloo in the back garden of my guesthouse in Kandy. He worked at the hotel as one of those jack-of-all-trades indispensable to the hospitality industry in India and Sri Lanka. Cooking, cleaning, fetching the boss cigarettes, on duty for seven days at a stretch. He had a wife and two young children in a village two hours away. The oldest had just started school. He missed them, but had to work. I'd had this same conversation so many times, and never knew what to say. He finished, and we sat for a few minutes, not saying anything. A green and blue bird flitted past and a house gecko chirped. Eloo looked down at his hands, then leaned forward to speak.
"So, what about Mike Tyson?"
---
I filled the doorway of Nilushi's Saloon and the old men lifted their eyes to the stranger. The busy barber paused mid-shave and gestured to a bench with his straight razor. One of his feet was bare, the other wore a dirty blue sock. Haircutting, sir? Yes, and a shave. In this 10x10 plywood shack at the edge of the bus stand, there was no fussing and no pretension. Just sharp steel and fast hands. He placed a thick palm on my forehead and pushed my head back, forcing my gaze up to a fixture universal to wherever men congregate: a calendar bearing the name of an auto parts store and a picture of a half-naked woman astride a motorbike. Shaving, sir?
He draped a striped cotton cloth across my chest with a matador's flair and reached for his tools. I barely had time to close my eyes before my face was soaked, slapped, sudsed and scraped. The closest shave I've ever had and a damn fine haircut to boot. The sting of witch hazel was softened by a free neck crack and a 30-second head massage. I thanked him, and as I stood I caught a glimpse of the endless, rolling hills of tea that surround the holy Buddhist peak of Sri Pada. The green leaves reflected the sunlight as clouds swirled around the mountaintop temple. And I'd be marching to God with a clean face.
We shook hands. How much? Two dollars! Sir.
---
At Achinika in Dalhousie, the crafty owner used his knowledge of geography to generate business. He also asked every single foreigner where they were from. A passing couple reluctantly offered their nationality as they strolled by his shopfront, where he lay waiting like a spider. "Ah, England!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. "Lancashire, Birmingham, Bristol, London, Manchester, Queensland -" "No, no, that one's in Australia," said the man. Laughing at this performance, the couple lingered long enough to buy two bars of chocolate.
Smiling with satisfaction, the owner stuffed the notes in his pocket and resumed his place in the plastic chair. He lit a cigarette and hummed a happy tune.
---
After driving my rented scooter into the chaos of Galle, where I spent half an hour searching for a bookstore that turned out to have nothing in English and honking my horn 152 times, I felt like a swim.
I took a book and a towel and rode over to half-hidden Jungle Beach, and parked in the shade under the watchful gaze of a grinning old-timer. I knew with absolute certainty he'd get some money out of me, but anyone capable of sitting motionless on a boulder for days on end deserves either spiritual enlightenment or a 75-cent parking fee.
---
In Matara, I saw a young guy at the bus stand wearing a t-shirt stating "BROKE IS THE NEW BLACK." Undoubtedly a popular sentiment in a country with many poor people.
---
I sped by the woman on the corner, then turned right around and got off the scooter. She was sitting in the shade of her shopfront with a few coconuts and bananas for sale, and such a radiant smile that I had to pay a visit. She hacked the top off a coconut and I sat down to drink the tasty water. We stared up at the green hillside across the street and watching some dark clouds building up in the East. She told me that business was bad, all the tourists went right to the beach, not stopping at the small businesses along the path. I asked if the bananas were good and she gave me a taste. Her daughter came out front, a fifth-grader just starting to study English. I wanted to do everything I could, so I bought another coconut and a bunch of tiny, sweet, thin-skinned bananas.
OK, she yelled as I drove off, Goodbye my friend!
I was surprised when my call to the coffee plantation was answered by a thick Australian drawl. Les was the last person I expected to meet up there - short brown hair and pale blue eyes, a little off-kilter. He sat and smoked beedies on the porch in a sloppy old sweater vest. He'd lived up the valley on and off for years, in a dirt-floored shack on a farm. One story involved a run-in with the Indian Army in Kashmir. Another involved pulling a knife on some rickshaw drivers, sending them scattering. . .
---
The hours hiking between the estate and the main track up Mt Tadiannamol were pure and peaceful, and I'd fallen into a walking meditation. Walking the high ridge and crossing above a waterfall, long views of mountains to the south and nothing but the sere crackle of dry grass in the wind. Far below, thick native forest filled the valleys. And not a soul in sight.
Upon reaching the main track up the peak, my mood soured and I fought a disappointing frustration: Indian tourists. Cigarette butts, trash and bits of plastic littered the trail, and ridiculous, repetitive yelling echoed from every high point. I fought the feeling and cursed under my breath. So much for peace and quiet. . . but it's their country, I told myself, their way of doing things. I kept climbing and was pleased to have the summit to myself, relaxing for a few minutes up top with a view stretching all the way into Kerala.
Picking my way down the rough trail, I heard loud voices and ran into a group of software engineers from Bangalore. We chatted for a minute and they begged me to have lunch with them. Come on, they said, we've got plenty of food. We want to talk to you. I thanked them but explained I had a long way back before sundown. Those huge Indian smiles and their big-hearted generosity made me laugh in spite of myself, and I barely noticed the trailside trash and needless noise on the big path.
It's all about perspective. I imagined spending my whole life in a cramped city, pressed upon day and night by a million bodies, rarely alone, always compressed. Wouldn't I open my mouth and scream with pleasure to be in the mountains, under the blue sky and far away from the gritty dust and diesel smoke? My American notion of individual rights had led me to curse my loss of peace, while they had gained a chance to be free of the crowd, and fill their lungs with fresh grass-scented air. . .
---
I followed one cow path, then another, stumbling through thick undergrowth and looking to the sun for direction. I was on the wrong side of the ridge, I knew, but hoping a forested bowl would lead me up and out again. I entered a small clearing in the trees, a seasonal waterhole dried down to a small mud patch. Elephant tracks the size of serving platters were pressed into the dry, cracked earth. I saw no tiger tracks, but looked around reflexively. From the sunlit clearing, the forest was a silent, dark wall. What was watching me?
---
The day before I flew to Sri Lanka, I told the gang at Honey Valley how much I looked forward to a day of airports. A chance to swap dusty concrete chai stalls for glass and steel, just for a day. A clean seat, a good cup of coffee and a newspaper. In anticipation of joining the privileged classes for a day, I dressed in jeans and carefully selected a clean t-shirt when I dressed at 6:00am. In clean clothes, in the cool of the morning, I felt fresh and ready.
An hour and a half later, surrounded by suits and briefcases in the check-in line, I stared down in disbelief. A thick, dirty smear ran from left to right, just above the hem across the front of my shirt. What? How? It took a moment until I realized: the seat belt in the taxi! In the entire life of that filthy machine, I was probably the only person to ever use it. It had hung there next to the open window for years, building grimy layers of diesel fumes, dust and trash smoke. I almost laughed out loud. Habit had gotten the better of me, and again India had taught me a lesson.
---
I sat with Eloo in the back garden of my guesthouse in Kandy. He worked at the hotel as one of those jack-of-all-trades indispensable to the hospitality industry in India and Sri Lanka. Cooking, cleaning, fetching the boss cigarettes, on duty for seven days at a stretch. He had a wife and two young children in a village two hours away. The oldest had just started school. He missed them, but had to work. I'd had this same conversation so many times, and never knew what to say. He finished, and we sat for a few minutes, not saying anything. A green and blue bird flitted past and a house gecko chirped. Eloo looked down at his hands, then leaned forward to speak.
"So, what about Mike Tyson?"
---
I filled the doorway of Nilushi's Saloon and the old men lifted their eyes to the stranger. The busy barber paused mid-shave and gestured to a bench with his straight razor. One of his feet was bare, the other wore a dirty blue sock. Haircutting, sir? Yes, and a shave. In this 10x10 plywood shack at the edge of the bus stand, there was no fussing and no pretension. Just sharp steel and fast hands. He placed a thick palm on my forehead and pushed my head back, forcing my gaze up to a fixture universal to wherever men congregate: a calendar bearing the name of an auto parts store and a picture of a half-naked woman astride a motorbike. Shaving, sir?
He draped a striped cotton cloth across my chest with a matador's flair and reached for his tools. I barely had time to close my eyes before my face was soaked, slapped, sudsed and scraped. The closest shave I've ever had and a damn fine haircut to boot. The sting of witch hazel was softened by a free neck crack and a 30-second head massage. I thanked him, and as I stood I caught a glimpse of the endless, rolling hills of tea that surround the holy Buddhist peak of Sri Pada. The green leaves reflected the sunlight as clouds swirled around the mountaintop temple. And I'd be marching to God with a clean face.
We shook hands. How much? Two dollars! Sir.
---
At Achinika in Dalhousie, the crafty owner used his knowledge of geography to generate business. He also asked every single foreigner where they were from. A passing couple reluctantly offered their nationality as they strolled by his shopfront, where he lay waiting like a spider. "Ah, England!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. "Lancashire, Birmingham, Bristol, London, Manchester, Queensland -" "No, no, that one's in Australia," said the man. Laughing at this performance, the couple lingered long enough to buy two bars of chocolate.
Smiling with satisfaction, the owner stuffed the notes in his pocket and resumed his place in the plastic chair. He lit a cigarette and hummed a happy tune.
---
After driving my rented scooter into the chaos of Galle, where I spent half an hour searching for a bookstore that turned out to have nothing in English and honking my horn 152 times, I felt like a swim.
I took a book and a towel and rode over to half-hidden Jungle Beach, and parked in the shade under the watchful gaze of a grinning old-timer. I knew with absolute certainty he'd get some money out of me, but anyone capable of sitting motionless on a boulder for days on end deserves either spiritual enlightenment or a 75-cent parking fee.
---
In Matara, I saw a young guy at the bus stand wearing a t-shirt stating "BROKE IS THE NEW BLACK." Undoubtedly a popular sentiment in a country with many poor people.
---
I sped by the woman on the corner, then turned right around and got off the scooter. She was sitting in the shade of her shopfront with a few coconuts and bananas for sale, and such a radiant smile that I had to pay a visit. She hacked the top off a coconut and I sat down to drink the tasty water. We stared up at the green hillside across the street and watching some dark clouds building up in the East. She told me that business was bad, all the tourists went right to the beach, not stopping at the small businesses along the path. I asked if the bananas were good and she gave me a taste. Her daughter came out front, a fifth-grader just starting to study English. I wanted to do everything I could, so I bought another coconut and a bunch of tiny, sweet, thin-skinned bananas.
OK, she yelled as I drove off, Goodbye my friend!
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