I understand Siberia has a lot of trees. A LOT.
Mongolians eat mutton. But they wouldn’t have gotten MY MOM’s SHEEP.
I am writing a book called “Up North.” Really. But more about that later. Today’s Up North is about next summer. Minnesota, Greenland, Lapland, Norway, Siberia. When I feel even a little disgruntled or worried or bored during the course of the day—I sneak a few minutes on a web site named “The Man in Seat Sixty-One,” the Trans-Siberian Railway section.
It is brilliant site. It is inspirational. It is the stuff of dreams. The whole site is about rail travel, all of which is pretty appealing but, my friends, the Trans-Siberian Train journey is special. It is long, surely exhausting, and probably only semi-comfortable and not the typical journey through kind-of familiar places.
And I am going next summer/fall. Really. Hopefully with my friend Beth. In some ways Beth is a more adventurous traveler than I am; in some ways I’m the more adventurous. She hikes and argues with her tour guide and subjects herself to a small group of people she doesn’t know on tours. I mostly ride and watch and do very little that tests my physical stamina. But I do it all myself which is both good and bad. Makes me feel that I’m okay out there in the world with just me; also makes me timid about things like hiking.
Wonder how we’ll do together. We both like to read, but she’s sociable and I’m not. I am with maybe one or even two people, but not strangers. I am obsessed with daily blog posts and she might want to experience evening on the train with interesting people. That could work really well or not. We are both big girls and can probably do our own thing without suffering from FOMA. (my granddaughter gave me FOMA—was so good to know that to experience the ‘fear of missing out’ is a timeless phenomena.)
When I say Trans-Siberian Railway I practically get goose bumps. Really.
Much more about this trip will be shared in the near and far future. Especially when it’s time to buy the ticket. But for now can I just say I am taking the Trans-Siberian Train from Moscow to Beijing next year. And before and after I will be in Greenland and then South Korea.
So between now and then I cannot spend any money frivolously, take any vacation days, do anything that is not health-enhancing. I must be disciplined.
Did I mention, next summer I’m taking the Trans-Siberian Railroad from Moscow to Beijing THROUGH MONGOLIA. Really.
But now it’s Tuesday. I’ve been off-speed for a couple of days. Slacking on the poetry and more than a few other things. How about a couple of hours of NCIS? There would be no way to read and engage with Gertrude Stein and NCIS in the same night anyway…right? Really?
I want to share a few pics of what I think Siberia and Mongolia will be like….
Siberia=TREES.
Hopefully it will rain a lot.
I think Northome, Minnesota looks like a Siberian village might?
SIBERIA right. Or maybe Minnesota?
I didn’t have any photos of Mongolia. But they only eat mutton. Here’s one of my mom’s sheep.
Part 2: Introversion
My life as an Introvert has been just fine. As a kid I lived in the forest with the wolves…no no, I mean with my Minnesota family, a mom and dad busy farming and lumberjacking and one younger brother. There was all the time in the world to become a lover of books and silence. I read books in bed, at the dinner table, sitting on a log in the woods; by lamplight, flashlight, sunlight and electric light. According to my dad I was a bookworm which made sense, but I didn’t have a clue that I might also be an introvert because none of us had ever heard of such a thing, and besides with whom would I have played anyway! We were deep in the woods at the end of a gravel road; the nearest human being my age was another introverted girl a mile and a half away.
Vocabulary.com says:
An Introvert generally prefers solitary activities to interacting with large groups of people. If you would rather work through your feelings in your diary than have a conversation, then you are an introvert—[and that] Introvert also describes a person who tends to turn inward mentally. Introverts sometimes avoid large groups of people, feeling more energized by time alone.
My shelves are full of diaries.
I spent high school on the fringes of the popular crowd, my first Minneapolis job feeling rural and inadequate, and my marriage to an Air Force guy not liking the noisy camaraderie of military life.
Somewhere in there I started college, a young/wife/mother/commuter at East Carolina University. I was instantly in love with school and totally comfortable for the first time in my life. I’ve wondered why. If I’m so introverted how did busy campus life suit so well. Well first of all it was all about books wasn’t it? Secondly, it was all about discussing the subjects in the books. Thirdly it was about having coffee at the sub with like-minded people and arguing about the point of the books.
All was well until arts and politics entered my life. Fortunately I discovered drinking about the same time so endless gatherings with cheap wine and wilted celery just flew by in a happy mix of chatter infused with gossip and enlivened with babble, and much proselytizing for the latest candidate or choreographer. Made me all sociable and friendly and, have you noticed, wine also gives one the ability to make very intelligent observations and suggestions.
That was then; this is now. I’m through with art (except at North Fourth) and politics (except for voting). Which is so fortunate since wine now causes insomnia unless I drink it before noon. And it’s just not that good in coffee.
What a huge relief to be guilt-free when turning down invitations to any form of socializing. It gets easier and easier in fact because eventually the invitations cease. In which case you must be careful not to succumb to FOMA (fear of missing out) with its own peculiar symptoms of which anxiety and self-pity are just two.
What does it mean? I am more comfortable being alone with my musings and my books; my memories and photographs; my classes (there is a professor but he lives in my computer and I’ve never been averse to professorial voices) and my culinary experiments. I don’t need the noise of the human world so much, whether from real people around me or TV or music. Strangely enough I enjoy non-human noise of all kinds: Traffic, wind, rain, birds, baby hippos, waves…all good. Loud music, loud voices…all bad. I suppose it means I am an introvert.
My goal here is for a happy-while-introverted-mid-old-age that falls somewhere between the life of a hermit and the life of the party. My lifestyle just needs a bit of fine-tuning and I’ll be there.
Some photos of my own private woods…you can see why I would prefer it to noise and people.
HOME.
Marsh, woods, creeks, lakes.
Another Introvert.
How great for a kid to roam in…
See how happy I look when I’m back in the woods.
Part 1: Peripherality
I am of an age…as I may have mentioned before. Let’s continue calling it ‘middle-old’ age. Mid-old. Actually the last couple of years have been a passage into this mid-old place and, now, at the tail end of the passage, it is time to create the happy-list that will make this phase of life ever so cheerful, joyful, ‘golden,’ rewarding…yeah, right.
First come to terms with whom and where you are in your life. Maybe you already have but, if not, it is definitely time to do so.
I, for example, am a Peripheral Introvert.
Peripheral is a place most of us experience from time to time but as we age we move there permanently—further and further to the edge of everything. It’s natural; we do less in the workplace, with the planning and fixing of things, with the cooking, the money-making, and the looking-good. At family gatherings we’re the sweet or cranky or confused shadowy figures on the edge of the action. While the boisterous ‘youngsters’ are …well, boisterous… and busy… and solicitous when they remember…we happily (I hope) sneak around the periphery.
Don’t fight it. Use the time previously taken up with gatherings and events and parties and performances, things that now largely bore you to tears, to write a book, paint a picture, take a class, become a faux-foodie.
Peripherality feels bad initially, until you realize you have reached an age where you can damn well do as you please—well, except for the basic stuff of life: work and getting your prescriptions renewed and going to the grocery store and vacuuming once in awhile and and and…
If you do show up occasionally for family holidays you can gracefully retreat from the festivities when you really want to finish that latest killer novel; you can only eat turkey stuffing and no one will complain; you really can just ease into apparitional status—in attendance-kind-of. If you think about it a minute it is the best of all realities in which to exist—especially if you are bored to death with the same old conversations and routines and tastes and smells and, let’s face it, people.
Let me hasten to say right here that I love my family, each and every one, but en masse they just meld together into a noisy blob called family, and the interesting individuality of each is lost to me. HOWEVER what better time to drink just a little too much wine, annoy everyone by taking endless photos of them with their mouths full and then go post to your blog about how you really feel about holidays. So please continue inviting me to holiday events…even if I don’t show up. Remember, a chosen one of you will inherit my books.
Synonyms for peripheral are outlying and outer. The state of peripherality will feel better to you if you’ve always been most comfortable on the outer edge, outer circle, outside of the center (except when emboldened with alcohol and cigarettes—ah, those were the days of sociability and togetherness weren’t they?). Sometimes I’ve liked that place, sometimes not, but now that I am permanently ‘outside of the center’, I embrace it. Mostly.
That about covers peripheral doesn’t it? Did I convince you it is a desired condition?
I’ll write Part 2 about Introversion as soon as I AM ALONE AND CAN THINK.
Minnesota is a prosperous, culturally and educationally advanced farming and business-friendly state. Up north on the PERIPHERY of all that is where I grew up. And on the PERIPHERY of the PERIPHERY, it was a little isolated, a little lonely but without pressure to be in the center of anything.
I’ve been lucky enough to know Helen my whole life. She is pretty special. I think she was only 91 when this was taken.
If I am in the middle of a passage from one age to the next, the question is how to pass through it gracefully. And what’s on the other side.
I have created my own age categories and this year I traveled from young-old (65-75) to middle-old (75-85) with old-old (85-death) far far in the future. If one has many years to work, many countries to travel, many blogs to occupy (and a book or two to write), many photos to take and many graduations and other ceremonial events to attend and great grandchildren to meet, then there has to be a more hopeful time line than just 65-death.
While my new age categories may seem like wishful thinking, the photo essay, Old Masters at the Top of Their Game, in last Sunday’s New York Times Magazine will disabuse you of that idea. The piece opens with this observation, “After 80, some people don’t retire. They reign.” Then Christopher Plummer (84), R.O. Blechman (84), Carl Reiner (92), Frank Gehry (85), Dianne Feinstein (81), Betty White (92), Carmen Herrera (99), Ginette Bedard (81) Tony Bennett (88), Ellsworth Kelly (91), Frederick Wiseman (84), T. Boon Pickens (86), Ruth Bader Ginsberg (81), Edward O. Wilson (85), and Roy Haynes (89) tell us how it is to be old and smart and successful and going strong. The names include actors, political leaders, artists, writers, and an architect and a captain of industry.
Of course we all have our personal heroes and, as I get older, they seem to be aging as well. My hero is Helen Week (92), a tough beautiful Northwoods lady, who is the funniest, wisest, kindest person I know. She lives in Funkley, Minnesota with her equally interesting, tough and beautiful daughter Barb, and bakes (is it too early to put in my request for next summer?) and mows the yard and feeds the dogs and visits with family and friends and laughs and mourns the ones she has lost. That’s the downside of living a long and loving and lively life—those people you love may disappear from your world as time passes. That reality aside, I want to be just like Helen when I grow up.
If you are someone who is of an age-where you are find yourself contemplating age-then please read this article about people in the throes of an old age that is nothing if not exciting. http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2014/10/23/magazine/old-masters-at-top-of-their-game.html
It was a little hard to put my wrinkled hand on display.
This blog has a new category that will receive more than its share of posts. It is called Coming of Age. Yeah yeah, I know. That phrase has always been used to describe the transition to adulthood—you know— debutante balls, legal drinking, voting, moving away from home…all that.
Coming of AN Age can describe the other end of the life spectrum as well. Line dancing at the senior center; drinking more than one glass of wine means you wake up in the middle of the night; what good has voting all these years done; and last but not least…you’re now moving INTO the ‘home.’
Remember Erik Erikson’s Stages of Life (www.intropsych.com), published in 1950, from Psych 101. And now here I am, years later, deep in #8.
All those years ago in that first psych class I thought I understood Erikson’s Stages but not until recently did that last stage make sense to me. According to Erikson the conflict in old age is integrity versus despair; the resolution is wisdom; and the result “Existential identity; a sense of integrity strong enough to withstand physical disintegration.”
Even though I disagree with the onset of old age being 65, the description of what that term represents is right on target. I can see where it will be harder and harder to keep it all together versus despairing about the ever-closer proximity to death, but that as this struggle continues both serenity and wisdom will be enhanced. As a practicing existentialist I believe that living each day as though what you do, share, accomplish is what matters—which makes it essential to overlook (as much as possible) how many aches, pains or wrinkles are accruing.
During the Big Trip of September and October, I had a ‘coming of age’ epiphany that represents a passage for me. Since nothing bad has happened in my life, I figure this is one of those life passages that Gail Sheehy described in her book, Passages (1976)—a pathway from one age to the next. I haven’t read that book in a long while but the main message I took from it is that life’s passages are more important than the plateaus between. So this fall’s changes give me much to ponder.
To Be Continued.
CNN’s special, San Francisco Shaken, is on. Reminds me… I had just moved to the San Francisco a couple of weeks earlier. Working at New Performance Gallery for Margy Jenkins and Brenda Way. A new apartment in the heart of the Mission. Life was exciting. A challenge. Every morning I woke up knowing I wasn’t in Kansas Anymore. Especially after the big one hit. Later I wrote a story.
The OLD New Performance Gallery on Shotwell in the Mission.
Shaky Ground
I can’t remember the exact time the fairly big one hit, but it was sometime mid-afternoon. One of those hot October days, summer finally reaching San Francisco months after the rest of the country. The third game of the World Series was about to begin so the Stadium was packed, the Oakland A’s versus the San Francisco Giants; the rest of the City was meeting, telephoning, typing, dealing, sipping, napping, practicing, walking—until it started shaking. That shudder, and the quivers and shivers of the next hours, produced a memory for inhabitants all right, a memory of that pretty peninsula that retains the clarity and immediacy of ‘When Kennedy was shot I was….’
On that October 17th, I was in a dance studio that rippled but held up on a street that cracked down the middle but stayed drivable.
The first shock over, we huddled in the heat, commiserating as we passed around someone’s bottle of Christmas Scotch, unopened until this worthy event. We tried to call families on dead phone lines, marveled at our very cracked street and put on our sunglasses to dim the sparkle of broken glass decorating our Mission grime.
Earthquake evening, we all return home through the unusually hot, shell-shocked streets to timidly peer into the minor damage of our own apartments. Then we gather at Annie’s to listen to the batteried radio and burn the odd bits of candle, to watch the glowing Goodyear blimp hover over the dark city and to imagine the tongues of red and rolls of smoke pushing the fog away from the tip of our precarious peninsula. We’re made more jittery by the bloody-egg-yolk moon just above where the lights of the Bay Bridge should be.
Annie, the building manager, is a huge good-hearted woman, descendant of old Irish San Francisco when it was all rough and ready dock workers and gold miners in from the hills and whores and other lively and interesting folk. All of the building occupants gather in her apartment. We share our cigarettes, maybe some beer, trying to get news.
Eventually Annie and I go out to cruise the dark streets for an open store. The radio has announced no one is to drive but we tell ourselves the building’s baby must have milk. Really everyone needs a junk food fix, and we want to see what it’s like out there. No civilizing stop or street lights tonight, only the flickers and blinks of cigarette tips, match flares, and flashlights, like lost lightning bugs in the broken city. It’s just too other-worldly to make ordinary with car lights so, like the few other cars on the street, we’ve turned them off to creep forward in the mysterious moonlight, watching knots of people on the street break up, reform—the ebb and flow of corner shadows. The dark bulk of Annie behind the wheel seems the embodiment of this town that shakily enfolds the oddest assortment of humans into a warm, taken-advantage-of bosom of acceptance. Fig Newton’s, Doritos, milk, soft drinks, they’re out of candles, back to the apartment.
San Francisco and Leaving my Heart to be continued.
Limited Entry was San Francisco’s story for awhile.
The Mission was a special place before Silicon Valley took over.
I lived here.
I think some of these books have probably traveled back to Albuquerque with me.
Best anti-war march.
Steven and Michele came to visit. Bob came to visit. And I left my heart….
Last safari of the trip. Elephants from the Barefoot Art Gallery & Shop in Colombo.
The way home was hard. Thirty-one hours. Too long. It was the last hassle—with “US Airways 3583 operated by SKYWEST AIRLINES AS AMERICAN EAGLE” where instead of checking in at US Airways in Terminal 3 you must actually walk back to Terminal 4 and check in at American Airlines—that was the final icing on the cake of exhaustion. And of course every single person you must interact with is borderline rude because they’ve had a long day too and their lives suck and they hate their jobs…whatever. First airline problems of the whole Big Trip. Well, except for when I booked us into the wrong Johannesburg airport but that’s another story.
But hey, here I am…on my couch…getting ready to watch the last three episodes of “Orange is the New Black” (which I am now so over) and eat a baked potato that for some reason seems like the most delicious meal I can imagine.
I came down with a sore throat literally at the first airport on the way home, finally getting to use some of the emergency meds I had carted around with me for the whole trip. Had to kill any inkling of illness in the bud because if you indicate you are not feeling well and that you’ve been to Africa people will run screaming from you in terror. When, as Scott just pointed out, we are closer to the Ebola-infected areas here in New Mexico (Dallas, Texas hospital!) than we ever were in our African travels. But as far as most Americans are concerned Africa is one country, all alike, and all scary. Our lack of geographic knowledge would just be pitiful if it didn’t have the potential to get us in so much trouble.
In any case.
I am very happy to be home.
This trip was the “coming of age” experience as I projected which will be the topic of a future post.
It was a privilege to spend five whole weeks with my terrifically interesting and sweet grandson, more about him later as well.
AND, I am happy to say my travel obsession is not at all over but it is in the process of being beaten into submission…from which it will emerge in a slightly more realistic form than ‘every country in the world.’
Arabic Design with all of the geometric patterns is truly beautiful. This is from an outdoor space at the Grand Mosque of Kuwait.
It’s 5:15pm Tuesday the 14th, Kuwait Time. Or 8:15am Albuquerque, New Mexico Time. When I started writing at 4 this morning I first referred to Kuwait as AmericaLand because all of our stuff is so prominently on display at the airport: Starbucks, Cinnabon, McDonalds, Hilton and so forth. The one rather startling difference was the friendliness of the officials at passport control. That’s not usual anywhere in the world from what I can tell. Our hotel was a little off-putting initially because we’ve become attached to our mostly character-rich-with-small-inconveniences brand of lodging. This is a rather character-less highrise but I appreciate the basics it offers so efficiently right now.
We leave the hotel at 1am the 15th for the airport (4pm the 14th Albuquerque time). I should be HOME in MY place by 11pm (Abq. Time) on the 15th or 31 hours later. Already I’m tired. Maybe I’m getting a cold so I am swilling Emergen-C.
Kuwait City. What an absolutely pleasant revelation for both Steven and me to find out we like it here. We expected it to feel like Dubai which wasn’t so impressive in our eyes—instead it feels like a real place with quite a few architecturally interesting buildings scattered here and there among enough markets and busy streets and people out and about to give one the sense of an urban space that can offer unique nooks and crannies, foodie-fun and maybe even some interesting cultural activities. In all fairness we did not explore Dubai at all except for the obligatory visit to the two giant malls and the tall(est) tower, none of which we need to revisit. We set out determined to do a little better by Kuwait. And we did.
We started our morning at the Grand Mosque, the 8th largest mosque in the world. I have visited mosques off and on over the years and been especially awed by a very beautiful one in Damascus and of course the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. The Kuwait Grand Mosque is, in my eyes, not quite as warm in its magnificence as those two, but it is indeed—grand and gorgeous and splendid—almost too much so. The best thing was the informative tour conducted by an articulate and friendly young woman. She guided us about for almost two hours through the central prayer/gathering space and several adjoining rooms. She was easy to ask questions of and I learned new things which always makes me happy.
While I have little to no respect for religion—any religion—I do respect some of the good people who believe, and when visiting mosques or cathedrals or temples, I strive to put the evil believers of all faiths out of my mind for a little while. Every religion has a set of principles or values or morals that would be very uplifting if unaccompanied by so much death and destruction. But, truth is, we none-believing existentialists also have excellent values and tend not to kill those who differ. But I digress.
After the mosque visit, we walked about a shopping area that was halfway between a souk and strip mall. Pleasant enough. Took a taxi to a large bookstore in a non-descript high-rise kind of mall and I managed to leave with only one book. Then another taxi to Mais Alghanim, a lovely Lebanese restaurant at the seaside. Steven had a kebab plate that he describes as perfectly seasoned chicken, lamb and beef and possibly the best kebabs he has ever had; I had crispy-on-the-outside, rich-and-spicy-on-the-inside falafels. AND best of all, a dessert I’ve only had one time before, years and years ago in Cairo, called Umm Ali, which most recipes call Egyptian bread pudding. Today’s was just bubbling from the oven with sweet hot pudding full of pistachios and sticky pastry. It can also have raisins and other nuts. Anyway the perfect last dessert of the Big Trip—unless Cinnabon is open when we get to the airport.
Back in touch from couch at 13th Street.
Abu Dhabi Airport.
Checking into our hotel.
In general the Kuwait City skyline is not so impressive but then interesting buildings pop up all over, seems much more eclectic than Dubai.
Grand Mosque of Kuwait.
Proper attire is required for tour. When in Rome…
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- BUT THEN, UNFORTUNATELY OR NOT, THERE’S THE REAL ME.
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- YEAH…WELL….
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- WE ALL HAVE “GOOD BOOKS” DON’T WE?
Steven’s last dinner blow-out before heading home to his veggies.
Next stop Hotel, Airport, Dubai, LAX… and for me the additional pleasures of that last flight into Albuquerque.
Renuka City Hotel, Colombo, Sri Lanka, October 13th, Monday, 12:45AM: Showered, teeth brushed, pajamas packed. So very tired. Not tired. WEARY. As I prepare for what I consider another grueling passage to the next place, I think of all the people of the world sailing, trekking, riding horses and camels or hot packed trains or creaky buses great distances, sometimes with their babies and belonging in tow. Then I feel silly talking this ‘weary’ shit.
Steven’s alarm is set for 1:15AM. He’s already packed and showered, can spring awake and away very quickly. I am slightly less springy.
1:30AM: Taxi is waiting. 3100 rupees to the airport, about $25. I never account for all of the money transportation will cost—tours, drivers, taxis. Planning airfare, hotels, food is pretty easy after all of this time. But the transportation, admissions, tips and so forth can add up to a lot, probably half again as much if you’re seeing and doing a lot. Remember that. Sort of the same principle as packing—pack everything you must have along, and then cut that in half. The transportation principle could be—make up your whole budget and then add half again as much for all in-town/in-country travel costs.
Bandaranaike International Airport Colombo, Sri Lanka, 2:30AM: At the airport. In one of the passport control/customs/security check lines to be maneuvered before take-off. The reason for this 15 hour black-time-hole is to make our way from Colombo to Kuwait City. Hours lost from real life. Line is moving slowly. Airport is busy. A whole lot of mostly youngish Sri Lankans are on their way to their work in the Gulf States. They’re the housemaids and construction workers who keep these places running, booming. Since the Gulf Arabs are rich rich rich and do not do this menial stuff themselves.
5:00AM: Flight took off a little late but now we’re winging our way over the Indian Ocean and being served a very bad omelet, a bright yellow dusty-dry wedge of something. We sleep a little on this four and one-half hour flight. And arrive at 7:30AM UAE time.
Abu Dhabi, International Airport, 8:00AM: Breakfasting at O’Leary’s Bar and Pub in high and dry Muslim territory. Airports are a never never land. Pico Iyer’s book, The Global Soul: Jet Lag, Shopping Malls, and the Search for Home is such a good look at the sense one has of airports as worlds onto themselves, not ‘of’ any one culture but rather a kind of timeless, history-less, no-man’s land without politics, morals, crime or love. Does Clooney’s Up in the Air visit this land? I think so.
Well anyway by 8:30AM I was eating pancakes that weren’t quite as good as IHOPs and Steven was sustaining life with a very ordinary burger.
10:30AM: We have walked around a bit and found relatively comfortable seats overlooking much distant construction and busses bringing the lost souls from the next flight in to airport land. Several parked Etihad and Jet Airways planes are parked in front of us for our scenic viewing pleasure. Airport population mostly Asian and Arab naturally. Every mode of Arab dress for men and women present from the most oppressive to the most elegant. Add that to all of the Indian costuming and it’s only us westerners in our jeans and sweatshirts who look rather slovenly…like we just got out of bed and couldn’t find any clean clothes to put on.
About halfway through the lost 15. See you later…from that famous tourist destination, Kuwait City.
Do I seem a bit faded next to the brightness of Burberry’s. The jacket I want is only $2000 plus. Maybe I should wait until my rent check clears.
Steven’s reading Malcolm Gladwell’s “David and Goliath.” He’s been reading econ books the whole trip. Trying to convert him to crime fiction with no luck so far.
Our hotel is almost on the shore of the Indian Ocean.
How to give Sri Lanka its due given that we have been rather lackadaisical travelers to this storied land. Two days hanging out, one big around-the-country day and two more days hanging out. Too much hanging out—should have planned this better. We could have done the three-day trip to the famous sites but by now money is a consideration and our hotel here is all paid.
Steven’s talking to his girlfriend Ashley via Skype. Talking about getting started with a retirement plan. Who is this kid? And where was he 50-60 years ago to advise me that I should be starting mine?
You know about the first two days here. Time at the Temple and lunch at the Hilton. Then came the 14-hour trip which was very grueling but so very worthwhile according to Steven. I agree actually…but instead of the two hikes I had the perfect international experience of a novel written by a Scot about a crime in Paris while drinking Sri Lankan Three Coins beer.
The day went like this. Leave hotel at 7am with a driver we liked very much, just the right amount of talkative, a decent knowledge of Sri Lankan history (for a 23-year-old), and some political opinions about government in general. Apparently the President is turning into something of a “Big Man” in Asia. Just had the constitution altered to allow him to have his fifth or so term in office and fills government posts with relatives. Ah, yes…the Big Man syndrome is all over isn’t it? Next it’ll be Canada. Just kidding.
There is voting it seems but as we Americans know that’s not a panacea for the ills of the Corpocracy. Sri Lankan Pres is still riding the coattails of ending the war between the Sinhalese and the Tamils (Tamil Tigers) in 2009. And apparently has spent the time since doing little but accumulating power. Although the economy is booming we are told so he must be doing something? According to Wikipedia about 70% of the people are Buddhist (the Sinhalese), and about 13% Hindu (Tamils) and 10% Muslim. Since the war between the Sinhalese and the Tamils was pretty brutal on both sides, there goes any theory that Buddhists are all about peace and acceptance. The only little shred of respect for a major religion/philosophy to which I have clung is gone.
Back to the day trip day: Long drive through picturesque countryside which looks and sounds just like a place 3° from the equator should look and sound. Huge palms, banana trees, lush green fields, misty mountains, multitudes of shacks selling fruits and sundries, beautiful brown people and traffic jams with enough blaring horns to drown out any vestige of animal/bird sounds or even human discourse.
So while I was drinking Three Coins Steven was exploring.
Steven Klotzback reporting from the field. Our excursion out into the heart of Sri Lanka consisted of a Buddhist temple carved into the side of a hill, a 200 meter high ancient stone fortress, and a drive grueling enough to make us question our decision to leave the comfort of our hotel. We embarked on this journey at 7 in the morning with a three to four hour drive out to Dambulla. This first site was where we found the Buddhists cave temple, and my first experience being caught out in the open during the random downpours that I have frequently observed from the safety of our hotel room. After walking up about 250 steps and becoming thoroughly soaked, the guide and I reached the cave temple. The temple contained 5 different caves, varying in age, with an assortment of Buddhist statues in each. The exterior of the caves looked as if buildings were just constructed along the rocky wall of the hill, but upon entering each one a huge cavern carved into the hill side was revealed. The main difference between each cave was in the time at which they were made. The guide and I waited for the rain to settle down before heading back to the car for a quick lunch and then straight to Sigiriya.
Steven’s climb to the top.
Sigiriya is a massive rock fortress with some very modern functions considering it was built 477 AD. The trip to the top of the fortress started off with an 800 meter walk through the various gardens, swimming pools, and irrigation systems located at the ground level of the fortress. There were a total of 5 swimming pools before we made it to the first flight of steps, 4 of which were made primarily for the 500 women that the King kept around as “wives”. There were many places containing frescos of various nude women all around the walk up to the top of the fortress. Most of these sites were weathered away, with only one actual spot with paintings still intact. The final ascent to the top of the rock had an area with giant lion paws. Before erosion occurred, this was the spot with a giant lion head with the staircase going up through its throat. On top of Sigiriya was yet another swimming pool as well as areas to hold the drinking water funneled from the lake below by a windmill system. Throughout the whole complex was a natural air conditioning system that would trickle water slowly down to meeting areas to keep those inside cool. Overall the fortress was an amazing sight to behold and will stand out as one of the most unique things I have seen on this trip.
My Drinking Buddies.
We got back to our hotel around 9pm, exhausted and sticky and stiff but very happy.
Yesterday: We spent a pleasant couple of hours at an attractive little shopping place called Barefoot. A series of shops focusing on textiles and good quality souvenirs plus a bookstore with a fine assortment of books (fiction, narrative non-fiction, biography, history, coffee table) about Sri Lanka and by Sri Lankan writers. So of course…. But I also purchased a colorful and well-made bag to carry my extras…. Lunch of falafels, quiche. A lovely excursion but it did leave a bit too much of the day for life on-line in the comfort of our air-conditioned room. We are getting increasingly lazy as the trip winds down. With which, fortunately, Steven and I seem equally comfortable.
A perfect travel buddy.
TODAY: Maybe back to Barefoot for lunch and some the wildly colorful table linens—on the off-chance I go through another fall spurt of inviting friends over to eat. Probably not. But sometime I might. (Went back for lunch which wasn’t as good as yesterday but I did get date/lime chutney–sounds luscious doesn’t it?)
Then over to the Old Dutch Hospital area which is the pretty and historic part of town (where they also have another bookstore—now that I have a new bag…) and maybe one final small meal at the Hilton so Steven can finish up this trip with his new favorite food—Kothu Rotti. (We didn’t do this, maybe this evening when the sun goes down. We are tired).
Hey Steve and Scott… memories… Baskin Robbins and Pralines and Cream on paydays. Steven and I had some last night. Tastes the same these 30 years later!
We leave for the airport at 2am tomorrow morning so this is the sign-out post for Sri Lanka. Back to you from the Abu Dhabi Airport or Kuwait.