Month: January 2012

Sid looks back and asks if I’m OK. I nod even though I’m not really OK. I got too much sun on the safari yesterday, not thinking to bring my hat. I got too little sleep, and I think the buffalo curd from last night is curdling in my stomach. But I’m trying to power through the nausea. We are weaving our way higher and higher into the mountains toward tea country along the A2, which has turned into a relentless winding road. The second time he asks if I’m OK, I’m ready to barf, literally. My hand is over my mouth. Sid sees my distress and tells Pradeep to pull over. Seconds after the van door is open, I’m hurling onto a dirt mound on the side of the road.  Sometimes the travel gods don’t smile and decide to play a few tricks on you instead. Once rid of the contents of my stomach, I feel immensely better, but we go on a hunt for ginger beer to keep my stomach calm just in case. I start to realize that I may have a problem with traveling in high altitudes. I remember feeling similarly queasy on a bus ride through the Atlas Mountains in Morocco a few years ago.

  All was well a few miles back, when were standing in front of the Rawana Ella waterfall, a picturesque flow of water that seems to spring from some secret place within the mountainside and rush under the road we are traveling. It’s the first place that I see monkeys scampering about. One has incurred the ire of one of the vendors along the road, having stolen something from his stand. As we head back to the van, we are followed by a couple of local men offering crystalized rocks as souvenirs. I tried to refuse them, but they placed the rocks firmly in my hands and we were obliged to give them a few rupees. Sid says they get the rocks from the falls to sell to tourists. We are in Ella, a stunning mountain village, and a drastic change in scenery from the southern beaches we drove along just yesterday. We continue our ascent through the verdant hills and make another stop at the Grand Ella Motel, which has the best vantage point for lush landscape viewing. A patchwork quilt of farms and tea plantations unfold below us and green peaks and valleys stretch as far as the eye can see. The motel itself is lovely with a landscaped terrace that takes advantage of its breath-taking location.

Back on the road, we are on our way to Nuwara Eliya, known as “Little England” and the “tea capital” of Sri Lanka. The Brits settled here in the 1800s and found that they could successfully grow their favorite fruits and vegetables as well as tea. One of the Brits was named Lipton and he made his fortune in Sri Lanka, known as Ceylon at the time, explaining why we still see the name Ceylon associated with tea, too. And, another bit of history reveals that the Brits brought the Tamils from southern India with them to Sri Lanka as laborers, which may have been the beginnings of the conflict farther north in Jaffna between the Tamils and Sinhalese. Before we make it to Nuwara Eliya, a series of small ornate structures appear along side the road. The Seetha Amman Temple looks out of place here, but it is a beautiful contrast to the deep green trees and hills just beyond it. As South Asian myth would have it, this Hindu temple marks the place where the evil demon king Ravana imprisoned Seetha, the wife of Lord Rama, in Sri Lanka. Lord Rama would bring a massive army to rescue his wife, defeating his rival and taking her back to India. The golds, reds, blues and greens of the painted temple are vibrant in the sun and its small posed statues seem to smile in the face of it.

 We take a longer rest in Nuwara Eliya to stretch our legs and for me to continue recovering from any altitude sickness. The “tea capital” seems relatively small and quaint for a place that was a British center of agriculture. But there is commerce going on in this place neatly nestled in the mountains with a small market selling touristy trinkets and t-shirts. A short distance away, tourists can fly into Nuwara Eliya by a sea plane that lands on a river lined by homes and maybe guest houses with red, blue and orange tiled roofs.

Now, it’s time to see how all the tea we’ve seen bursting from the hillside is cultivated and produced. I’ve had a cup of tea almost every morning that I’ve been in Sri Lanka and it is good with a bit of sugar or without, especially if you are a fan of strong black teas like English Breakfast. We are deep in tea country as we approach the Mackwoods Labookellie Tea Estate, passing terraced tea bushes as far as the eye can see and a few of the women who pick the best of the leaves from them for a living. Mackwoods is a tourist destination. When we pull up, we see groups of Germans and Brits departing with gift bags of tea and trinkets. Inside the restaurant and gift shop, I have a cup of the famous black tea with chocolate cake before a guided tour of the factory. Here are a few tea facts that I picked up: The factory employs 650 women who hand pick the top leaves from tea bushes on 15 tea estates. The women will go out to pick from bushes 50 times a year. (Sid and Pradeep tell me that many of these women don’t get paid very much, maybe $2 or $3 for a day’s work.) The very top and smallest leaves yield the finest and darkest tea, while lower leaves, or fannings, yield a lighter, milder tea. It takes 5 kilograms (11 pounds) of picked tea leaves to make one kilogram (2 pounds) of dried tea. Overall, it seems like a pretty tedious process with many steps from further sorting and withering, where leaves are turned by hand every 5 hours in a process that takes 14 hours in total, through rolling by machine, natural oxidation on tile floors, then drying and any plucking of remaining stems by machine. I leave Mackwoods like the British and German tourists who left before me– with boxes of pure Ceylon tea.

 

 

 

 Before heading to our final destination of the day, Kandy, we make a quick stop at another one of Sri Lanka’s waterfalls, Ramboda, which we view from inside the Ramboda Falls Hotel. Again, we try to pinpoint the source of the rushing waters down a rock face that seems higher than the one we saw at Rawana Ella. We are still driving north on A2 when we reach Kandy, the capital of the last Sinhalese kingdom before Sri Lanka fell under British rule in 1815. The people here seem to be proud of their royal and cultural roots, and after we’ve deposited our bags at the absolutely adorable Riverside Holiday Home there, Sid and I take in some of this traditional Sinhalese culture in a showcase of dances at the Kandyan Cultural Center Hall. The place is packed and it’s the first time that I’ve been with such a large number of tourists on my trip. More tourists stream into the modest hall and more chairs appear to accommodate them. Finally, the show starts with the blowing of a conch shell and men appear in white turban-like headdresses and sarongs, rhythmically beating drums and women with Dr. Seussian shaped horns sing a high-pitched tune. The show gets more elaborate with Pooja dancers wearing golden ear coverings as they pay homage to the gods, men in vests made of beads spin, twirl and somersault with an instrument similar to a tambourine, then a there’s a mask dance where a mythic bird kills a snake to drive away evil spirits. In the Ves dance, the dancers wear a traditional outfit made of 64 ornaments, including a long tassle that they flip and whirl from the top of a heavy headdress. For the finale, the audience starts to shift with groups of people sitting on stage and focusing their attention on wooden planks on the floor in between the stage and the audience. There’s another conch shell call and two bare-chested men emerge with fire torches that the proceed to rub across their bodies and lick with their tongues. The audience is rapt. The fire play ends with the men walking effortlessly over burning coals to seek blessing from one of the gods. Thoroughly entertained, I am reminded of a mix of cultures after watching the show, Chinese mask dancing, African drumming and Polynesian fire play.

 

As the show ends we follow the flow of tourists along a shimmering Kandy Lake towards the city’s real draw–theTemple of the Sacred Tooth Relic, also known as the Sri Dalada Maligawa. The temple, a former palace complete with moat, houses the canine tooth of Buddha. As we approach, we go through a security check point where they don’t seem to check much, but is probably a precaution given that in 1998 Tamil Tigers drove a truck bomb up to the temple causing heavy damage that has since been repaired. The check may also be to make sure that we are dressed appropriately. All visitors are to wear clothes that cover the legs and shoulders  and remove their shoes before entering the temple. True Buddhist pilgrims to the temple wear all white. Sid tells me that a trip here is a very big deal for older Sri Lankans as it is an important place to visit once in your life, if you are Buddhist. The palace is aglow with golden lights and its roof gleams the most as it is actually made of gold donated by the Japanese. We, along with everyone else, are here for the 6:30 ritual that takes place every evening. Inside, the entry corridor the ceiling is painted with a procession of people and elephants and Sid says this is a depiction of the celebration held every 4 years when the tooth is taken out of the temple and featured in a parade of 500 elephants so that people who can’t go to the temple can see the tooth, too. Another painted corridor to the temple interior is stunning, a pattern of oranges, reds and yellows. The drumming inside is getting louder and we see two men beat the traditional Sri Lankan drum called the pancha thurya. Sid says the drumming must continue non-stop through the service. We continue to follow the crowd up stone stairs and into a line to see the tooth. Outside the line are worshippers in white with palms pressed together saying chants; some are quiet in the presence of the tooth. The line moves fairly quickly and before I know it, I am in front of a wooden window looking at a small gold-and-jewel encrusted cone or dagoba, the tooth hidden inside. I want to take a picture here, but monks in maroon robes keep the line moving so that everyone who has come can get a glimpse of the gold container, too. Just beyond the altar, you can take a photo from afar, making the tooth even more of a mystery. The story is that when Buddha died different parts of him were taken and made relics at temples around the world. His tooth was smuggled into Sri Lanka in the 4th century and moved round and hidden in conflicts over the years. The story of Buddha’s life, from manhood to Enlightenment, is told in a series of paintings in a long white marbled hall in the temple and a large seated Buddha surveys all who’ve come to the hall. I really wish I could be here with fewer people to take my time and see each Buddha statue and painted panel, but we follow the flow of people out and into the night, drums still beating. But something is gnawing at me and I ask Sid, “Is the tooth really in there?” He says resoundingly, “Yes, there really is a tooth in there.” I’m satisfied with his answer and know the people still inside feel just as strongly.

 Back at our quaint rest house, the Riverside Holiday Home, we watch a little TV and catch up on world news in the living room and it feels like we really are at home. Sid points out a shield and spears that are typical decoration in Sri Lankan homes. The daughter of the family-run establishment comes upstairs to tell us that dinner is ready and we go down to a delicious family-style dinner. The table is off the kitchen where you can see mother and daughter preparing tea and it makes it feel even more like home. We are joined by a French couple at dinner who arrived in Sri Lanka with no real plan. They picked up a driver at the airport and each day they decide where to go next. It sounds like a pretty adventurous way to travel to me and I look forward to more of my own adventures with Sid and Pradeep tomorrow.

Baby sea turtles are slippery, squirmy and one of the cutest things I’ve ever had the pleasure of holding. Our guide at the Bentota Turtle Research Project simply hands them to me as he talks and I fall in love, instantly, stroking the smooth back of a green sea turtle hatchling and the bumpy one of a loggerhead. We’ve already seen the fenced-in nesting area at the small conservation facility where little mounds of sand containing sea turtle eggs are marked by type of turtle. When the babies hatch in about 2 months time, the staff and volunteers will help usher the hatchlings safely into the ocean. On their own, the endangered creatures, practically blind at birth could succumb to predators, or worse, poachers could steal the eggs before they even hatch for a culinary delicacy.

 

 I’m with Sid and Pradeep and this is the first stop on our four-day road trip along the southern coast of Sri Lanka, through its mountains and back west for my departure back to the US. Bentota is another beach town a few miles south of Beruwela and Moragalla and the Turtle Research Project is one of its most-mentioned attractions. When we arrive in the early morning, we are its only guests except for a cat that seems to like to curl itself around visitors feet. We visit with the residents of the project–sea turtles that have been hatched there from eggs purchased from fisherman who’ve found them, turtles that have been found, rescued and rehabilitated like one missing its two flipper-like legs. We are introduced to days-old babies and adolescent loggerhead, hawksbill and green turtles, all native to Sri Lanka’s southern shores and threatened by fishing, sale of their skin and shells, pollution and beach development. And one of the residents, extremely rare, closes out our tour–an albino green turtle, aptly named Michael Jackson. He’s beautiful. We also survey the damage that the hatchery suffered during the tsunami, seeing cracked cement tanks and bent trees. You can tell that recovery is slow here and I hope my small contribution in the form of about a $5 entrance fee and $8 sea turtle magnet help some.  I leave recalling my recent trip to Barbados where I swam a fingertips-length away from sea turtles there, sensing their gentleness.

 The rest of our journey takes us farther south along route A2, which is a continuation of the same two-lane thoroughfare from Colombo to Beruwela with cars, bikes, tuk-tuks, buses and trucks zig-zagging in and out of on coming traffic. As we drive, Pradeep takes on his role as expert driver and guide, telling me that the beach between Bentota and Kosgoda is protected for sea turtles. Kosgoda is another place with several conservation projects and hatcheries. Just past Kosgoda we pull off the road long side a small obelisk and bronze relief. Pradeep says this is a memorial to 2004 tsunami victims. We are in Peraliya where some 1,500 people died on trains at the train station in town and I learn Pradeep’s own tsunami tale. He’d gone for a swim that morning when saw the massive waves. He took off running for in land, helping people up into coconut trees along the way. In total, over 30,000 people in Sri Lanka would die as a result of the natural disaster. The small memorial to them faces the roadway, seeming to turning its back on the ocean that betrayed the small town of Peraliya. The bronze relief behind the stone obelisk depicts the chaotic scene that day with toppled train cars, despairing and escaping victims, along with the dead. It is graphic in its retelling and compelling. Crumpled concrete structures dot the landscape around us, continuing the story, and just across the street is an amazing and glorious gift from the Japanese, another memorial in the shape of a massive standing Buddha, the Tsunami Honganji Vihara. The statue is said to be a replica of a Buddha that once stood in Afghanistan and was destroyed by the Taliban. The Buddha stands serene with one hand raised as if it is quieting the ocean it faces.

 We move on to see a spot that miraculously withstood the angry Indian Ocean that fateful day in 2004. Again, we’ve pulled off A2 where there is a golden gate marking the entrance of Seenigama Temple. Locals have come to offer their blessings to the god Vishnu at the small roadside temple where colorful images of the god are surrounded by twinkling lights and Sid and I enter and kneel briefly, too. But it is the temple sitting on a rocky outcrop in the middle of the ocean that is the miracle. It somehow remained intact despite its precarious location. Maybe it has something to do with the deity for which it is dedicated, “Devoldevi,” one that accepts wishes of punishment from worshipers seeking revenge on people who’ve done them wrong. It is also one that local fishermen respect greatly, believing that it keeps them out of harms way.

 Back in our white mini van, we pass though one of Sri Lanka’s well-known beach towns–Hikkaduwa, a surfers destination spot where Sid once played with his band at the Why Not Hotel. And then, we are our way to Galle, which looks pretty modern for an old colonial town founded by the Portuguese in the 1500s. It’s bus station is massive and brand new; the old one destroyed by the tsunami. It’s streets are crowded with traffic and there is a different, more urban energy to the place. Our specific destination here is the old Galle Fort, initially a small bastion created by the Portuguese and then significantly expanded by the Dutch who settled here in the 1600s to protect the valuable goods coming in and out of its port. We first walk through a small gate onto a flat grassy expanse surrounded by stone walls. A group of men are enjoying the open space, stretching on mats. When we look beyond the walls, we have a perfect view of the modern Galle from the old Galle, seeing the cricket stadium and busy bus station below. Gun towers along the wall are a reminder of the original purpose of the place. On the other side of a huge clock tower is a stunning view of the ocean and you can see just how impressive this fort must look if you are a boat approaching. It’s craggy walls seem to spring up from the rocks below. Sid and Pradeep are eager to point out the prison in the fort, a deep and narrow walled space, impossible for 17th century baddies to escape, unless you were Spiderman. The fort walls stretch for miles and when we leave, I see that it really is a small city unto itself and I can see why it is a UNESCO World Heritage site. Hotels and shops line the narrow streets within the fort walls for folks that want to sleep in or shop for a piece of history.

 

We are now headed to our ultimate destination, Yala National Park, where we’ll go on a safari. We are to meet our guide at 2 pm in Tissamaharama, a town just outside the park. In the meantime, we pass through more beach towns, Unawatuna, a hippie beach paradise where beach houses and cafes sit right at the waters edge and backpackers roam its sandy streets, and Weligama, where we see Sri Lankan fishing boats at rest on the beach and a small roadside fish market. Just past Weligama, we make another quick stop. This time we’ve stopped to see if we can see the stilt fishermen usually perched atop sticks with rods made of coconut trees stationed just off shore in the area, but the ocean is a bit rough today. Sid and I scramble over some rocks at the edge of the beach to see two lone fishermen in the distance, too far for a good photo. So, we hop back in the van and continue on through Matara, the hometown of Sri Lanka’s current president and site of another huge Buddha, just outside the city, then Dikwella, which means long beach in Sinhalese. At this point the drive turns more rural. The houses are set farther apart and Sid and Pradeep start to giggle at the names of the small towns we pass, Godauda, which sounds like “Gooda-Ooda” and Tangalle, which I don’t get until they explain that Tangalle also means “Titty” in Sinhalese. Then we are on open road passing rice and salt farms, when the road starts to looks brand new and Pradeep says we are in Hambantota where they are building a new port. Shortly thereafter, we make a stop at a roadside motel and diner of sorts to pick up lunch. There are a surprising number of diners in the place which seems to spring out of no where. We also need to take a bathroom break and I see toilets that I recognize from my travels in China, a hole in the floor surrounded by porcelain footholds. I have to remember how to artfully squat and I’m thankful that I’ve brought my Purel. Sid is excited about the spread at the place with fried lake fish and a vegetable dish that doesn’t translate into english, but he says is good and good for your eyes. Then a mile or so down the road, Pradeep says we have to stop for curd and honey, specifically buffalo curd and honey. He explains that there are many varieties of honey in Sri Lanka and they are all delicious. The honey is poured over the curd, and greek yogurt with honey comes to mind. He says that’s exactly what it’s like and now I’m looking forward to trying it. The woman at the stand outside her home wraps the curd neatly in newspaper with twine and gives us a bottle of honey for the road.

 

 Finally, we are in Tissamaharama, Tissa for short. The town is named for an ancient ruler who Sid and Pradeep say built the lovely man-made lake and stunning spherical temple (dagoba)in the center of town. We pick up our guide Susantha on the way to our hotel, the appropriately named Lake Wind Hotel, which backs Lake Tissamaharama. Floor to ceiling windows showcase the hotels prime placement and it is a perfect setting except that the hotel is under a small renovation. We break for a quick lunch and I do enjoy the untranslatable green veggie that looks like parsley. Then we are in Susantha’s giant jeep on our way to Yala. Pradeep says he’s gotten us the best guide and that Susantha has been doing these tours since a very young age. Susantha so far is a man of few words, dressed in polo shirt and sarong, focused on getting us to the park. When we arrive, we pay the entrance fee, $14 for me, $1.50 for Sid and Pradeep as Sri Lankan citizens, and walk around the small museum telling us of the park’s early history as a British game park in the 1800s when hundreds of elephants were slaughtered. In 1938, Yala became a national park and is now home to hundreds of species of birds, over 300 elephants and the largest concentration of leopards in the world, numbering 35 or so, which sadly, doesn’t seem like like a lot.

So, Yala is very bumpy. The roads are a dusty, pitted red, orange and between dodging massive potholes and mini lakes in the road we set about the business of spotting animals. Here, Susantha is in his element. He’s some how able to expertly navigate the terrible road conditions and stop to point out some hard-to-see critter. The first is a small green bird, barely noticeable to the naked eye against its leafy green backdrop. I believe this was an orange-breasted green pigeon. We have no trouble spotting the peacocks and peahens than seem to rule here. The other animals seem to be hiding on this day, possibly spooked by the high volume of jeeps full of leering tourists. Our hope was that arriving around dusk would be the best time for wildlife spotting as the animals come out when the sun sets to visit the park’s watering holes. The animals had other thoughts. We were lucky enough to spot a young elephant bathing in the distance and we hoped for an Animal Planet “Untamed and Uncut” moment when we saw a bathing water buffalo apparently being stalked by a crocodile. But the croc seemed to be taking its sweet time making its move. The talk of the park, though, was the leopard sighting. As we passed other guides, they shared the location of the big cat and we bounced our way in its direction only to find a traffic jam of jeeps trying to sneak a peek at the the same cat. This is where Susantha swings into action, finding some untraveled route and putting us right in front of the clearing where the leopard was lazing. He cut off another jeep in line so that we could get an even closer look and a photo. I was able to get one fairly good photo of the reclining cat, mainly of its spotted belly. Even with all the hullaballoo around, it couldn’t be bothered to raise a paw. The sunset at Yala was beautiful and we manage to glimpse more animals as we leave with a parting glance at an elephant near the park’s entrance.

  We return to the hotel to shower off the red dust of Yala and rest for a bit before heading back out to visit the Tissamaharama Dagoba. The glowing 160-ft half sphere was said to once have housed one of Buddha’s teeth and his forehead bone, now there are a series of small Buddhas to receive blessings. We step out of our shoes and make the full circle around the dagoba as other have come to do, reciting their prayers. It is extremely peaceful here. Back at the hotel, it is peaceful as well. We are sitting by the lake having drinks with Susantha and trying to secure a hotel in Kandy for the next night and in Sigiriya the following night. We are kind of flying by the seat of our pants and decided staying in Kandy would be better than staying overnight in Nuwra Eliya as planned previously. But all the hotels in Kandy appear to be booked. Susantha and Pradeep are working their connections, mobile phones pressed to their ears. It turns out that Susantha maybe the Emil of Tissa. He knows everyone including Sid’s brother, Nihal and Uncle Emil himself. It seems that its a small world in Sri Lanka, too. And it’s Susantha who comes through with a friend’s guest house in Kandy. Over the course of my trip, I’ve learned that it’s good to be connected in Sri Lanka and traveling with Sri Lankans if you aren’t one.  You get the Sri Lankan price like $52 for a room at the Lake Wind Hotel, which may cost a tourist $100 or more.

After a good meal of chicken curry, sambal and a pumpkin curry dish along with our dessert of curd and honey, which tasted a lot like a thick yogurt, I feel dizzy with all the day’s amazing sights and activities, probably my the longest day in Sri Lanka so far. I say my goodnights and leave Sid and Pradeep to watch a cricket match on the hotel lobby TV.

 

 

 

If the Coconut Bar was an American television show, it’d be “Cheers.” It is a place where people come to take a break from all their worries, a place to get away. Everyone may not know your name, but they recognize you and make you feel welcome. Of course, Uncle Emil is at the center of the happy vibes at the place. Regulars at the Coconut Bar greet him like an old friend as they pass or stop in for a drink. Uncle Emil entreats people walking along the beach to come into the bar, attractive women mostly. He’s a good host who wants happy guests. But it is the other men of the Coconut Bar that keep the place running like a well-oiled machine and have their own interesting stories to tell. They are all multi-talented. Sid’s cousins Mahesh and Pradeep are the mixmasters, creating the bar’s popular pina coladas, caipirhinas and coconut cocktails. They also double as chefs and fixers, finding the right people to fix a boat or a jet-ski or organizing sightseeing tours. One day, Mahesh has to call some guys to go rescue his boss, Uncle Emil, when the battery fails on the speed boat. Pradeep will be our tour guide on a four-day drive along Sri Lanka’s southern coast and through the mountains. He knows almost every inch of the country. I’d later learn that he’s a favorite among the ladies on Beruwela Beach, but he’s probably the farthest thing from a playboy you can get, a quiet and friendly soul. Nihal, tall and lanky, is the picture of efficiency. Before you can ask for something Nihal is there with a ready smile. He appears to speak flawless German with the German guests and he can put out and put away beach chairs and umbrellas in the blink of an eye. Nihal also has a bit of a comedic streak. A man pedaling fragrances stops at the bar one day and I am his initial target. He rubs a little vanilla oil on my hand, some jasmine. But I’m not in the market for a new fragrance. Nihal’s interest is peeked though and he comes over to sample some scents for his wife, he says. The man presents a scent called “Cobra” and Nihal jumps backwards waving his hands wildly, saying, “Noo,” as if the small bottle were a cobra itself. But when the man understands what Nihal may be seeking, he offers a scent called “Pure Love.” Nihal grabs it immediately, rubbing it on his wrist and smiling. The packaging looks a little erotic, like something you’d find in a sex shop and we have some thoughts about what he has in mind for his wife later. Then there is Ramsan, the most subdued of the bunch. He appears for work everyday in a uniform of sorts, wearing blue slacks, a blue stripped shirt and a shy smile. He manages Uncle Emil’s jewelry shop and helped me pick a silver and peridot ring for myself. On a quiet day at the bar, he tells me that he lives with his wife and children a short distance away from the bar and in the next breath says that he has no family. I’m puzzled for a moment and he tells me that he lost all his closest relatives in the tsunami. A few days ago, Uncle Emil told me the story of how all of Ramsan’s family had boarded a train to go to a wedding when the tsunami swept the train into the ocean. I tell Ramsan that I am sorry and that he has a new family now with his wife and children. He smiles and nods, but I can tell that this doesn’t close the wound. No words will. But Ramsan and the rest of the guys there have formed their own little family and they seem to enjoy working together everyday, trading jokes beachside.

The rest of the Coconut Bar’s cast is the people who frequent it. A man selling roasted and spiced cashews on a bike stops by every day. Ladies selling sarongs stroll by with their colorful fabrics fluttering in the wind, followed by a group “beach boys”, looking to take tourists on boat rides and tours and act as general guides to the island. Some are to be trusted, others not so much.  One day a man appears with a small basket containing a snake. (See the video below.) A German family comes frequently with their baby that plays naked in the sand. There’s a young man from Sweden with locs as tangled as Uncle Emil’s and a ring through his nose. I met an Austrian woman named Lisa who has been vacationing in Sri Lanka for years and has come alone on this trip while her husband, an Austrian world champion archer trains for the Olympics. Then there is Victoria from the Ukraine, one of the women that Uncle Emil has personally invited to hang out at the bar. She’s a tall brunette in a two-piece who has trouble understanding Uncle Emil’s flirtatious banter, but forms a fast friendship with me, taking me down the beach to meet her friend Monica, a Brit who married a Sri Lankan and lives on the island 3-6 months out of the year. It turns out that Monica lives in Oxford during the rest of the year and we talk about our favorite pubs, The Perch and the Trout. Victoria is a hairdresser back in the Ukraine and has been coming to Sri Lanka to vacation for 6 years. She spends most of her time on the beach and she likes it here because its warm, understandably escaping frigid winters in the Ukraine. She says speaking English with me is easy and she wants to be sure to stay in touch.

The music at the Coconut bar contributes to the personality of the place as much as the people. There’s an R&B mix on repeat featuring Jennifer Hudson’s “Spotlight,” Usher’s “Here I Stand and the Pussycat Dolls’ “When I Grow Up.” Then there are the reggae tracks, Bob Marley’s “Get Up, Stand Up” and Peter Tosh’s “African.” The lyrics of that one are still in my head, “Don’t care where you come from, as long as you are a black man, you are an African. No mind your nationality, you have got the identity of an African.” Uncle Emil even produced his own reggae song performed by a local band that he blasts from time to time. It doesn’t have a name but its about fighting pollution of the beaches. The music is a bit part of the the attraction to the bar and makes one linger and order another drink.

Before catching my last sunset at the Coconut Bar (Sid, Pradeep and I will take our road trip the next day), I walk along the beach taking parting shots. Guys play volleyball. There is a Sri Lankan family going for a late afternoon swim. Many Sri Lankans seem to like to visit the beach as the sun is setting and the women prefer to take dips fully clothed. I spot Bony chatting with locals under a coconut tree, sharing some arrack and roasted chicken. I am already trying to remember the smell in the air, the sound of the ocean and the warm feel of it enveloping my body.

 When we return to Sid’s house to pack, his Uncle Sucil is waiting. He wants to have a farewell drink with me. He’s already got the arrack and cola waiting and he smiles as he tells me to sit. I can feel that he wants to tell me something important and he starts by telling me that he has heart and that I have heart and his heart is with me. Sid isn’t there to help translate, but it’s pretty clear that he’s trying to tell me that he likes me and it is really sweet. He then very clearly says, “I like black women. No like white women.” Then begins hiking up his shorts to show more of his leg. By this time Sid is back and says that his Uncle doesn’t like seeing European tourists who walk around half naked in the streets where children can see them. Apparently, he was impressed by my modest dress at the De Silva party the night before, sealing his respect. I feel proud to have nailed the Sri Lankan etiquette and left a good impression. Then Uncle Sucil rises, gives a soldiers salute and walks into the darkness.

 

 

 

 

When Bobbi starts dancing she won’t stop. I’ve taken a little break when she’s grabbing my hand to pull me back up, saying “Wanna dance?” Bobbi is married to Sid’s brother Lanka and they have the cutest little girl named Kiara, who is decked out for tonight’s festivities in a fluffy mango-colored dress. The De Silvas are in full party mode. If they aren’t spinning around on the lawn, they’ve taken to the small tented stage in the yard to play an instrument or sing a Sri Lankan baila song in top voice. They are celebrating Sid’s cousin Samil’s transition to womanhood. A few days ago, he explained that wasn’t happy with the old tradition, even in its modern form. Way back when, families went door to door to announce when their daughters became women and threw a big party for the entire village. It was a way of letting potential suitors know that their daughters were ready for courtship and marriage. These days it’s really just an excuse to throw a big party and this one is just for family only. I think Sid is also uncomfortable knowing that his little cousin is growing up.

Earlier in the day, I watched the party preparations begin from the front porch of the guest house. Tables with umbrellas appeared, the tent rose and the caterer arrived to prepare a meal for 150 people. I spot Sid’s father on the roof of the main house at one point adding lights. I begin to suspect that this is going to be a big event. There’s a little down time once everything is all set and this is when I finally get to spend some time with the De Silva women. We sit in the yard and smile politely at one another for a while, when someone asks about my hair. That’s always a good conversation starter. They want to know if it is all my hair and I admit that it isn’t. I show them how my hair has been braided to meet extensions that form the bun at the top. They marvel and exclaim, “Pretty!” I chat a bit with Sid’s cousin Hashi, who is considering college in the US or the UK. She has to take one last grueling test before she completes her schooling and can apply. We talk about dancing and I promise to dance with her and her sisters Himashi and Tarushi at the party. But it’s my camera that really breaks the ice with Sid’s little niece, Adarra. She likes to have her photo taken and she likes taking photos, too. She looks at photos on my camera and shows me photos on her aunt Iresha’s iPhone. Then it’s time for everyone to get ready and change into their party clothes.

As night falls, a stream of guests start to arrive. The men and the women self-segregate with men taking to tables with bottles of arrack, the local coconut liquor that tastes like cognac, and women taking to chairs along side the house. Little appetizers of warm chickpeas, fish and chicken are served until the buffet opens. I’ve been chatting with another of Sid’s uncles and his German friend who’s been traveling to Sri Lanka for over 20 years. Then I meet another one of Sid’s childhood chums, Sanjeewa, who lives in Finland with his wife and daughter and works at a camping facility. He’s one of many far-flung Sri Lankans. Sid had a younger sister living in Australia. His brother once lived in Switzerland and he has cousins living France. Sanjeewa and Sid used to be in a popular Sri Lankan band together, singing baila and pop music covers in beach town hotels and clubs as teens. It’s the two of them that kick off the party with a little musical reunion and Sid’s sisters and cousins immediately jump to their feet. They sing a song about how they may not be in Sri Lanka, but their hearts will always be in Sri Lanka. His family loves it. The party kicks into high gear when bottles of Lion Lager and champagne are passed around among the dancers. The once segregated men and women are now dancing together, swirling around each other to drum and electric keyboard heavy songs. Baila seems to be a mix of African drumbeats and Portuguese folk tunes. I like it a lot and I manage to dance with many of Sid’s relatives, Iresha, Hashi, Bobbi and the guest of honor, Samil. I’m thrilled when they tell me that I dance nice. One of Sid’s cousins has incorporated some hip hop moves into his dancing and we end up doing something that looks like the snake together. I’d learn later that the Grammy-nominated hip-hop artist MIA is Sri Lankan and it all makes sense. It seems that every De Silva has some sort of talent. Sid’s father sings a sentimental Sri Lankan tune and Sid, Hashi and Iresha perform a traditional song together. (Check out the video clip at the bottom of this post.) Even Uncle Emil gets in on the act, playing a little guitar with the band. They seem to truly enjoy each other, singing and dancing without a care.

Sadly, the evening comes to an end with a fight. A couple of cousins who’ve had a bit too much to drink get a little rough with one another over who knows what. Sid breaks it up and kicks them out. He says Sri Lankan parties always end with a fight. Some would say that’s the sign of a good party. I think it happens no matter the nationality. I’ve seen my share of fights break out at parties with black folks and white folks and alcohol is usually the instigator. The musicians pack up and some go for their last plate of food before heading home for the evening. It’s definitely a party that I won’t soon forget.

 

There’s a pounding at the door. It sounds distant and far away. I am sure that I’m dreaming and I continue to lay very still, eyes closed. Soon there is more knocking. This time closer. “Robin? Do you want to go to the fish harbor?” I open my eyes to see Sid’s head peeking through my door. Groggily, I muster an enthusiastic, “Sure!” The sun has barely risen in the sky and I find myself in the car with Sid and Uncle Emil on the way to Beruwela’s fish harbor. I never expected Uncle Emil to be up bright and early at 6 am on a Saturday morning, but here we are driving past tuk-tuks, motorbikes and buses that seem to have their own plans this morning. After passing a row of tuk-tuk drivers and a woman offering early morning blessings to a street-corner Buddha, we reach an entryway with police officers on either side where we are waived through. Sid says that there is a fee to get in to the market of about $20, but the fee is waived for us because Uncle Emil has a VIP sticker on his car. Beyond the entryway, the road is packed with tuk-tuks and motorbikes which seem to be the only things that can fit the narrow roadway. When we’ve parked and we are out, Sid says to stay close because it will be crowded. I’m expecting to smell that fishy smell that comes with many fish markets and harbors, but not here. Just loud voices of fishermen selling their super fresh catch, just in overnight from the Indian Ocean and even farther, according to Uncle Emil. I can’t name the fish laying at our feet, but I take pictures and the local fishermen are eager to show me what they’ve brought. Sid tells me that that they are all talking about my hair and I suddenly realize that I’m the only woman among the men; some in sarongs and all in bare feet. But it is OK. I smile. They smile back and pose with their fish. The fish is unceremoniously laid out on the ground for the picking by fish salesmen, who will load what they can into blue-lidded bins on the back of their motorbikes and make door-to-door deliveries, not unlike the milkmen of older days.

 Uncle Emil says he only gets sardines for his dogs at this place. He prefers even fresher fish from just around Beruwela and we drive a bit farther down the coast, first meandering down the harbor inlet where Sri Lankan men jog, walk with weights and do morning calisthenics in view of multicolored fishing boats at rest in the rising sun. As we continue our drive, I spot a woman in a Berka and I ask, if there are many Muslims here. Uncle Emil says yes and I start to see men with kufi hats on their heads and sarongs covering their legs. He also points out a mosque on a hill, which I’d later learn is, Kechimalai Mosque, one of the oldest mosques in Sri Lanka. This area was once where Moors and early Arab traders settled and their descendants are still here. We stop a short distance from the mosque where smaller boats are docked, like the canoes we saw on the river. Standing with some Muslim boys, I watch a fisherman expertly scale a large fish, while Uncle Emil selects the Coconut Bar’s catch of the day.

 Over the next day or so, I’d see a bit more of Beruwela beyond the beach, walking along the main busy thoroughfare in Aluthgama that crosses the train tracks that carry people north to Colombo and south the Galle and beyond. Crossing the street is daunting. I want to stop and look both ways as I’ve been taught here in the US, but Sid says to keep walking. Stop and you’ll get hit. We stop in the town grocery store to say hello to one of Sid’s high school friends who owns the store. He says that it is the only place around where you can get Western foods and sundries. I notice things like jars of mayonnaise and bug spray. His friend owns the Nebula Garden Restaurant next door, too. We stopped there my first evening in Sri Lanka hoping to have dinner, but we ended up at the Fresh Restaurant. I remember a lovely open space overlooking what I’d learn was the Black River. Just beyond the restaurant is Aluthgama’s open air market, which Sid says is packed wall-to-wall with vendors on Mondays. We see a few ladies presenting their vegetables and continue walking to see the local butcher at work.

 Out on another drive with Uncle Emil, I think I am starting to recognize the main streets, but I am startled when I see a huge Buddha statue peeking out at us over treetops and buildings. Further research tells me that this is the Buddha at the Kande Vihare Temple, which sits at just over 160 feet, the tallest Buddha in Sri Lanka. Uncle Emil says that many came to the temple to escape the Tsunami. We continue driving out of the city, where I see my first rice field and Uncle Emil points out rubber trees that actually look bendy and rubbery to me. We crawl up a red dirt road to a red-tiled cement home with a plantation porch surrounding it. We’ve arrived at Uncle Emil’s country home, just purchased from his sister Chuti. He’s already at work making it his own, having planted some 300 tea bushes on the property. It’s quiet here and cool on the warmest day in Sri Lanka so far. For Uncle Emil, it is a respite from the beach and there’s not a tuk-tuk in sight.

Author’s Note: My trip to Sri Lanka was a worldwind of amazing experiences. Sadly, I couldn’t recount them in real time, so I’ll be sharing postscripts over the next week or so. There is so much to tell, from a rockin’ Da Silva party to Buddha spotting across the countryside, so stay with me, if you can. The following is a compilation of events having to do with the healing properties of Sri Lanka.

 When I walk into Uncle Emil’s private spa one day, Narangela is preparing something in a pestle. She’s combining those magical herbal leaves with garlic and coriander for my thermal massage later. Dr. Princy arrives with her collection of oil bottles along with an assortment of jars containing savory-smelling powders. She points out dried flowers and a root good for healing arthritis, again she doesn’t know the exact words for these things in English. When she starts with my facial mask, I can guess one ingredient, honey. It’s sticky and cool on my face. She says the mixture also includes herbal powder, which contains some 60 herbs and spices, including pepper, turmeric and ginger. The concoction is left on my face for several minutes along with cucumbers over the eyes–there’s another familiar ingredient from previous spa treatments. My facial is then followed by a foot soak with the same flat herbal leaves from my steam baths. I wiggle my toes in the hot water filled with flowers and seeds to soothe the hundreds of nerve endings in my feet, which in turn affect the health of my brain and the rest of my nervous system, I’m told. I have to say all feels right with my body, especially as I sip a delicious herbal tea. The next treatment goes straight to my head as I lay over a steaming pot of herbal leaves and I know garlic is one of the ingredients because I kind of want to taste what’s in the pot. The doctor tells me to inhale through my nose and mouth, again, for the health of my brain, along with the sinuses and ears. I should be one clear thinking person after all of this. Then it is time for the syncopated massage again, doctor and therapist applying liberal amounts of oil to my limbs and torso and working it in rhythmically. Instead of ending with the steam bath, the pair then pound my feet, legs, back and arms with warm, cloth packs of herbs, the same ones I saw Narangela preparing earlier. The process of patting and pounding up and down my body is called thermal massage and has a similar effect as the steam bath. It’s meant to draw bacteria out of the muscles. Dr. Princy says that the treatment has been effective in helping AIDS patients and she shares more about the principles of ayurveda, which is basically about achieving balance. Essentially, various parts of our bodies correspond with natural elements like earth, air and fire. For instance, Dr. Princy says, fire is associated with the stomach. If there is an imbalance there, she seeks the proper herbs and methods to treat that imbalance. The ultimate goal is to achieve a natural harmony throughout the body.

It seems a lot of people come to Sri Lanka seeking balance. Ayurveda is big here and it appears to be a selling point for hotels and guest houses all over the island. Uncle Emil says he sees a lot of people who are sick. He points out one German man in Speedos who’s been standing in the ocean for a good 15 minutes stark still, staring. There is another man who comes to the Coconut Bar everyday with a white kerchief covering his head. He says little. He finds a chair and waits for the sun to set. I see others walking up and down the beach with the same kerchiefs and wonder what that is about. I find out when I meet Helga at the Coconut Bar one day. She’s a German doctor of Chinese traditional medicine who vacations in Sri Lanka for ayurvedic treatments. She’s  also a guest at the Barberyn Resort next door and she raves about the experience, so much so that I ask her for a tour. She’s thrilled to oblige. When we met a few days ago, she and a fellow resort guest were watching the clock as they had to get back for their evening medicine at 6pm, timed with the setting of the sun. I was curious about all the rituals of the place. As we walk the immaculate grounds, Helga tells me about the daily treatments that sound very similar to the ones I’d been receiving at Uncle Emil’s. She explains that the resort’s doctors consult with guests to learn about specific problems and they add treatments and natural medicines accordingly. Helga is getting an additional treatment at 3 pm everyday to address pain in her legs. After all the toxins have been cleared from the body and it is time to achieve maximum balance, warm oil is poured on the forehead and over the head, then the head is covered with a cloth, or kerchief, to keep the oil in place over 3 days. Helga says you aren’t to leave the resort during these days and in this time she had very intense dreams and things around her became more vivid. And, they make the resort a place that you wouldn’t want to leave with babbling water features, open airy spaces and lounge chairs facing the beach in a walled garden. The rooms look spacious with mosquito netting draped romantically over bedposts. Helga tells me that she is nearing the end of her stay. She isn’t looking forward to leaving and is already thinking about when she can return.

 

 

 

Sid and Uncle Emil aren’t impressed with Barberyn, as I may have mentioned. They can’t understand how anyone could come to a country as beautiful as theirs and spend all their time indoors. Uncle Emil is convinced that the resort is polluting the area, complaining of stagnant water behind the place. I wonder if they are really ready for the tourism that is sure to come to their shores soon. I’d learn later that a popular hotel chain called Chaaya is building a luxury resort steps away from the Coconut Bar and is said to include some 300 rooms. I’m sure ayurvedic spa treatments will be included, too.

There is more than ayurveda being practiced in Sri Lanka. The country has its own licensed traditional medicine that is passed down from generation to generation. One of Sid’s childhood friends, Suranga, is a doctor of this traditional medicine as was his father and grandfather before him. It is hard to imagine that the reserved, lanky man with a puff of grey-streaked hair was a DJ with Sid in his teens. Now, people with grave illnesses who’ve tested the bounds of Western medicine come to him seeking a cure. We are on our way back to Sid’s guest house when I meet Dr. Suranga on the path between the Coconut Bar and Uncle Emil’s place. Night has fallen, so I can’t see him well but I sense his height and feel his presence. He definitely has presence. You can tell that he knows and understands things that many of us could never understand. The grounds of his private hospital look like an enchanted forest and his outdoor lounge is in the center of a tangle branches and low-growing king coconut trees. He tells us of a patient that came to be cured of AIDS, but when he examines the patient he find no signs of AIDS and tells him so. But the patient insists that he has the illness and it becomes Dr. Suranga’s job to cure the patient mentally through meditation. He says he helped cure a young patient of a rare liver ailment through a personalized mixture of Sri Lankan herbs and meditation. He’s received some referrals from Barberyn, but most have just found him through word of mouth. He likes it this way. It feels like the work of the universe and that he’s meant to help the people who find him. I leave Dr. Suranga’s enchanted hospital with Sid feeling somewhat enlightened, especially now knowing the Sri Lankan name of the flat leaf used in my ayurvedic treatments–eredu.

 

For the last couple of days, Sid and Uncle Emil have been asking me if I want to go on a ride in the speed boat. I’d say, “Sure!” They’d swim out undock the boat and gas it up. Sid would ask, “Are you ready?” I’d say, “Yes. Let’s go.” Then Uncle Emil would suggest a test drive first. After giving the boat a few smokey starts and moving slowly back and forth along the reef, they’d realize there was a problem with the engine or a part needed replacing. Uncle Emil would make a call and it would take a day or so for the appropriate fixes to take place. Today, after a watching Sid and Uncle Emil successfully skim along the waves of the Indian Ocean, I finally get to go on that ride.

 Sid positions himself in the front of the boat and I take the seat next to Uncle Emil. Sid crouches in the front shouting directions to help Uncle Emil navigate past hidden rocks along the reef and then watches to help avoid rough waves pushing toward the boat. When a large wave approaches we have to circle back towards the shoreline and and try to beat the next big wave to make our way to calmer waters. It takes a couple of attempts and butt-bouncing bumps across choppy surf before we make it. Once we make it past a rocky outcrop that seems to form the opening between the reef, the beach and the sea, we are on the Black River. We cruise past other boats with tourists aboard and river-facing resorts touting their ayurvedic treatments. We make foamy trails through the flat dark water as leafy green trees seem to part before us. I imagine this place is like the Florida Everglades even though, I’ve never been. Sid and Uncle Emil talk of the crocodiles that inhabit the place and they point out the wooden tips of fishing traps with birds resting atop them, along with reeds jutting out of the water that Uncle Emil says is cork. We continue down the river, passing fishermen in small canoes and under a busy underpass carrying cars back and forth through Aluthgama, the sister town to Beruwela and Moragalla. We stop at a batik and leather goods shop on the river and wave at another one of Sid’s relatives who owns the place. As we go farther down the river, the trees start to drip and droop towards us and we have to duck entangling vines. The engine sputters and we pause to figure out the problem, floating in the quite mangroves. With more gas added and a few switches flipped we continue a bit farther and then start the return trip. Back out on the open river, Uncle Emil turns the wheel over to me and I’m thrilled. I’m tentative at first, gripping the wheel tightly and bearing straight ahead. There’s no pressing of the gas or breaking, just steering. Uncle Emil and Sid help me navigate the natural curves of the river. I start to enjoy weaving back and forth and the power of holding the wheel. I have to relinquish the wheel as we approach the place where the mouth of the river and the ocean meet, so that we can tackle the fast-crashing waves on our way back to the Coconut Bar. Sid is crouching again, looking like a horse jockey, shouting to watch out for the waves. It is much harder reentering the reef this time. The waves seem to be relentless, coming faster, rhythmically. We approach, then we are turned back by the foaming, pushy waves. The boat skips and makes hard bounces with each attempt to pass. We finally make it back safely to our lazy reef on about the fourth attempt.

We leave the Coconut Bar boat to rest on the sand as we take to our cane chairs to share a drink and rest in the sun. Besides providing a little adventure, the boat is a part of another service that the Coconut Bar provides, lifesaving. The words Beruwela Bay Watch are tattooed on the side of the boat. No Pamela Andersons or David Hasselhoffs in this lifesaving club, only lifeguards that double as bartenders. Uncle Emil felt the service was necessary after watching one too many tourists get into trouble out on the ocean. He tells me that he wants to connect with other real bay watchers to let them know that there is a lifesaving team in Sri Lanka, too.

Uncle Emil gathers a few friends for lunch after our river journey. We are joined by his friend Susanna, a German woman who imports his gems and jewelry designs to Europe along with his best friend Bony and his wife who live in Switzerland. I learn that this is a big reunion for Bony and Emil who had a falling out sometime ago, over what, who knows. Bony says they are both very stubborn which kept them apart longer than it should have. You get the sense that these men have been through a lot together and they seem to fall back into an easy friendship with one another. Lunch is quite an international gathering, folks are moving easily from Sinhalese to German and English and we are having fresh crabs and prawns again. Bony has bought his own homegrown spirit for us to taste a mixture of banana, pineapple, mango and coconut wine and it’s got kick. It’s the color of dishwater and reminds me of the “jungle juice” that some guys in my freshman dorm made in a trash can. Having said that, I kind of like it. Bony tells me that he grew up together in nearby neighborhoods, one poor and one well off, but they were friends. Today, they both wear locs and prescribe to Rasta culture and tenets. They are real brothers. Bony asks if we can talk politics. He wants to know about President Obama. He told me that he felt that his election was good for brown people everywhere. He wondered why people in the US didn’t seem to be supporting him. I explain that there are a lot of people that want to defeat him in the next election. He hopes that Obama wins.

I end up spending more time with Bony, Uncle Emil, Sid, his cousin Mahesh, who also works at the Coconut Bar, and his Uncle Sucil. Sid and I wanted to have dinner with his sisters and nieces, but he let them know too late and then they felt they weren’t prepared to entertain. Sid says Sri Lankan women are very shy around strangers, so I hang with the guys. We are at Sid’s guest house, Uncle Emil has bought wine and food from Chuti and we add this to a few dishes that Iresha has prepared for us to make our dinner. It’s the first time that I dine Sri Lankan style, using my right hand to scoop and make small balls of food to pop in my mouth. Sid cranks the reggae, Bob Marley, Afro Blondie and others. I listen to them joke and tease one another in Sinhalese while Sid attempts to translate. I’m not sure that I’m getting the full translation, I’m sure the conversation is more laced with curses and other profanities that they’d like to keep from my ears. It’s cool being in the midst of their camaraderie, even though I don’t understand everything that they are saying. I am most intrigued by the stories of his Uncle Sucil. He’s ex-military and was on the front lines of fighting in Sri Lanka’s recent Civil War between the government and the Tamil Tigers. The Tamils, a minority group in the North of the country, wanted to cede from country and create their own country. Some have said that they are the originators of modern terrorism, employing suicide bombers and other surprise attacks. Sid himself just barely escaped an attack while he was a young student in Colombo. He was riding his bike when less than a mile ahead of him he saw a massive explosion. It turned out to be one of the worst suicide bombings during the war, killing over 300 people. He skidded from his bike and ran from the scene. It’s something he says he’ll never forget. But his uncle bears bullet scars from the country’s troubled past. As the story goes, he saw many members of his troop killed by Tamils and found himself sounded by Tamils along his remaining fellow soldiers. Sid’s uncle decides that he’s had enough and shoots his way out of the entrapment, getting shot himself in the process of escaping. The small man that I see sitting in from of me has the most immaculate manners that I’ve ever encountered in a person, saying excuse me directly to me when he leaves the table, and it is hard to imagine him fighting his way out of a northern Sri Lankan jungle. Uncle Emil says he fought his way out like he was Jean Claude Van Damme.

While Sri Lanka has survived a Civil War that ended in 2009, it still suffers from other small tragedies as we’d learn that evening. Sid’s cousin Mahesh received a call that one of his friends was horribly injured in a bus accident. Sid and I had already discussed how dangerous some of the buses can be. Drivers pack buses that don’t have doors and passengers hang outside in the line of reckless drivers. In this case, Mahesh’s friend was hit by a truck colliding with the bus. Mahesh was visibly shaken upon learning that his friend would loose his legs. The men come together to console Mahesh as best they can. Sid and Uncle Emil are angered that something like this can happen. It’s a sad way to end the day, but a reminder that Sri Lanka still has some growing to do.

A girl could get used to this Sri Lankan hospitality thing. Sid’s uncle Emil has arranged 6 ayurvedic massage sessions for me during my stay. Folks who know me know I love a good massage. I have a tradition of visiting a spa on New Year’s Day to start the year refreshed and relaxed, so this is exactly what the doctor has ordered. The ayurvedic and traditional Sri Lankan medicine doctor in specific.

In Uncle Emil’s garden paradise sits a small tiled-roofed house that he’s dedicated to private spa treatments. There are two large wooden treatment tables that Sid says are from a special Sri Lankan wood and a wooden steam table. I watch as the doctor and her therapist carry large bottles filled with oils, dark brown and caramel in color. I hear all kinds of mixing and preparations taking place and it makes me anticipate this experience all the more. When I enter, the doctor, Princy and her assistant therapist, Narangela, are all smiles and dressed in traditional saris. They explain that I will have a head massage and face massage followed by a foot massage and a full body massage. I will end the treatment on a bed of herbal leaves on the steam table. When I ask about the ingredients instrumental in my massage, I get one response, herbal leaves. This is when I wish I had an interpreter in the spa with me. It seems that it’s hard to translate some of the herbs being used in my treatment from Sinhalese to English, but the doctor does a better job of explaining what the treatments do. The oils in combination with the steam bath will sweay away bacteria and toxins in the body and generally make me more healthy. I’m up for that.

 Narangela is tentative with my head massage at first. She isn’t sure how to navigate my hairstyle, but she gets into a good rhythm moving from head to neck and shoulders. The face massage includes a grainy scrub followed by something that feels like a waxy salve. The doctor handles my foot massage. As I’d learn later from Dr. Princy, the feet are very important in ayurvedic medicine. Pressing various points along the feet, toes, the fleshy parts and heel, influence the health of other parts of the body right up to the head. Both doctor and therapist go to work on me for the full body massage. I’ve never had two people give me a massage before, but I can see the benefits. It felt a bit like a symphony. The doctor was the conductor, she’d start the movement on one side, a vigorous stroke up and down left leg, the therapist followed until they were both in synch. This continued up to midriff, arms and back. When I am throughly dressed and drenched in herbal oils, it’s time for my steaming. Princy lifts the hood of the steam bed to reveal neatly arranged flat green leaves on a grid of wood and I feel the instant release of heat. She instructs me to lay on the leaves, leaving room for my head to jut out of my steamy enclosure. I imagine what a roast chicken must feel like. Then, she puts a towel between my neck and the opening of the steam bed and asks, “Is warm OK?” I nod, adjusting my legs inside to avoid extreme steaming. Princy and I chat for a bit and I learn that she has been a doctor of ayurvedic and traditional medicine for six years. She does treatments at the ayurvedic resort, Barberyn, next to the Coconut Bar, and works with private clients. She tells me that she worked with  Japanese ex-boxer who could no longer turn his head or walk without a cane and after several days of treatment she improved his range of motion. She said there are no side effects with all natural medicine and I feel  all of the holiday food fixins drip from my body and onto the hot stones below me. I look forward to several more days of this as I wave good-bye to my natural healers.

I return to the Coconut Bar for a post-spa refreshment, coconut water straight from the coconut, followed by a breakfast of Sri Lankan breads, including a crocodile bun sprinkled with brown sugar, strawberry jelly filled pastries and mini banana muffins. More Indian Ocean bathing and lounging ensues. A stream of Coconut Bar fans flow through the bar for a drink, meet friends or just say hello to the proprietor. I meet a German woman who splits her time between Germany and Sri Lanka, embarking upon a new career as an ayurvedic therapist. A trip to Sri Lanka years ago inspired her new profession and she studied at the Barberyn resort next door, known for its ayurvedic programs and institute. It sits on property that Sid and Emil’s grandfather used to own. I’ll continue that story in a bit. I also meet Sonya from Scandinavia and I tell her that I traveled in Denmark this summer. She grew up in Denmark, but lives in Sweden now. She’s made Sri Lanka her new winter vacation spot after she soured on winters in Spain. She said after the she’d been robbed three times by roving Russian gypsies, she’d had enough. I told her I’d seen them at work in Barcelona myself. After a pleasant conversation, I fondly remember the hospitality of my Scandinavian friend Aneliese this summer. As the sun begins to set the cane chairs at the Coconut Bar begin to fill. Uncle Emil boasts that his place is the best place to watch the sunset. His guys are busy getting a drink in every hand as Germans, Brits, Swiss, Scandanivians, Sri Lankans and an American settle in to watch the sun’s slow decline. Uncle Emil, Sid and I take a tour of the construction atop the bar which will become an extension of his guest house, featuring three floors of apartments with stunning views of the Sri Lankan sunset. Uncle Emil and Sid point out the sprawling Barberyn estate next door and tell me that their grandfather used to own the land and sold it for nothing, which they say was for about $1,000 years before Sid was born. They are angered that someone else owns the land they still see as theirs, but it seems to solidify Uncle Emil’s determination to make the Coconut Bar compound into a feel-good destination. He often says, “I just want to be happy and I want to make other people happy.” I want the same for him as we all stand on the top floor of his dream and look out at the ocean.

Earlier in the day, we told Uncle Emil that we wanted crab for dinner. They were caught just up the beach, delivered to us straight away and dropped into a boiling pot in the back. By the end of the day, they had been sufficiently cooked and it was decided that they would be taken to Uncle Emil’s sister Chuti for their final preparations. Stories of Sid’s Aunt Chuti border on legendary. She’s also a hotelier, owner of theBavarian Guest House with her husband Denis. Back in the day, she ran a discotheque at the guest house and Sid at the ripe age of 15 was the DJ. Apparently, Chuti has quite a temper, but I later learn that this is only if you cut up and act a fool. Not unlike a strong African-American aunt, and it seems Sid and his uncle have been on the wrong side of her temper more than once. When we arrive at the Bavarian Guest House there’s a nativity scene still ablaze at its entrance and a Christmas tree twinkles in its lobby. Uncle Emil takes me to meet his sister in the kitchen where she’s hard at work amidst cooking pots, preparing dinner for her paying guests. She greets me kindly, but seems to have a few choice words for her brother who has dropped in at the most inopportune time. We sit at a table in the hotel’s courtyard and have a Lion, a Sri Lankan beer, and I hear more stories of how Aunt Chuti can so nice and so mean at the same time. We notice that Sonya from Sweden happens to be staying at the hotel and she is celebrating her birthday. She told me on the beach earlier that she was celebrating her 71st. I go over to say hello and take a birthday photo for her. She seemed ecstatic and living life as a “pensioner” or retiree to the fullest.

 Soonafter, Chuti delivers a feast of potato salad, mixed salad, chips and the most flavorful crab ever. She said that she essentially stir fried the boiled crab in soy sauce, leeks, garlic and ginger. The sauce was a perfect compliment to the sweet crab meat and we sit in silence for a bit, aside from the sound of cracking crab legs and the sucking of succulent meat from its shell. Finally, I was able to get Chuti’s side of the fabled tales about her. She explains that when Sid and Uncle Emil show up they’ve already had a bit to drink and can get rather loud, which is when she has to put them out. It turns out that Uncle Emil may be a poor influence on her husband, too. When the two of them went out one night they returned without the front bumper of the car. Everyone has their limits and tomfoolery is Aunt Chuti’s. She and I hit it off famously though and  she tells Sid to bring me back for a traditional Sinhalese breakfast. I can’t wait.