Sri Lankan Journal #7

Hill Country... and the End of the World

World's End, Horton's Plains, Sri Lanka

Once, in Cornwall, England, I trekked to Land’s End. In Horton’s Plains, Sri Lanka, I hiked to the End of the World.

Sri Lanka’s highlands—sometimes referred to as the “hill country”—conjure a stunning contrast to its coasts, yet both hold the kind of beauty capable of taking your breath away. Craggy peaks plunge dramatically towards narrow valleys, steeply cut and lushly green with a tangle of tropical vegetation or else terraces of immaculately manicured tea plantations. Morning and evening mists and clouds further evoke the mystical aura of a world mostly lost except in books and imagination.

Traveling the roads in the hill country requires skills, guts, and perseverance. Most “highways” are merely two lanes with occasional lapses into a single one—depending on one’s route—and they wind endlessly up a “hill,” over a “hill,” and down a “hill” in a continuing pattern of repetitions that extends a 100km journey into multiple hours. Fortunately, the view is always dazzling and often includes fascinating details of the human experience in an environment so startling and different than other places we spend our lives.

The Walk to the End of the World

Belive it or not, frost iced the grass and leaves when we commenced this jaunt about 7:45am. Elevation counts even at the equator!

Me, on the final run to the top... Jennell, just a bit below... and then together at World's End.

First, we took the arrow to the left to World's End; then we continued with a jaunt to Baker's Falls. (Waterfalls motivate Jennell to hike like nothing else.) Here is Jennell at the completion of both routes, about three hours after we first began.

A tea plantation near Nuwara Eliya.

Sri Lankan Journal #6

Elephants




Jennell and I visited the Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage on our travel day from Kandy—in Sri Lanka’s highlands—back to Colombo. First set up in 1975 to look after seven orphaned baby elephants, it now houses the world’s largest collection of elephants in captivity, around 75 at this point, ranging in age from first year to approximately 65. Many of the elephants were orphaned, abandoned, or injured in the wild; however, the orphanage averages about one new arrival born in captivity each year.

We arrived while the elephants were still indulging in their leisurely morning bath activities (about two hours worth) in the Ma Oya, the river running beside the village. Then, around noon, the mahouts drove the elephants back through a village street and across the main highway to their feeding and living area. We had fun watching all of antics during every act comprising a normal day in the life of an elephant at Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage!



Jennell watching the bath time scenario



A mahout showers one of his charges.




The beginning of the exodus of the elephants from the river to the feeding and living area. The "bad boys"--the ones hobbled with chains--were moved first.

Driving the elephants up from the river through a village street

Here elephants are crossing the main highway...which isn't so much of a highway in our envisioning of such a term, by the way.




A truckload of "elephant food" headed into the living and feeding grounds.

Jennell sipping on the liquid of a king coconut while watching... I, on the other hand, nibbled fresh mango slices.

Elephants lunching after the morning bath time

Lost in LOST

Lost in Lost, season 3






At a dinner party I attended a little over a week ago (three married couples and me), the conversation briefly alighted on the TV show Lost. Two of the guys are serious Lost fans, and they momentarily launched an intense discussion about something currently developing in season 5. Two vigilant wives immediately hushed them because AFN (Armed Forces Network) has yet to broadcast any of season 5 and what if this discussion became a spoiler for other followers of Lost at this party. Next, of course, we each had to confess our TV viewing habits, particularly with regard to our affiliation with Lost. Everyone admitted to following Lost except for Angela, who is Australian, by the way, and who thinks Lost is just too weird. Since I don’t have a working satellite—and haven’t had for three years now—I don’t really follow any TV show in real time; I just watch an entire season at a time on DVD.

I watched season 1 of Lost almost three years ago—courtesy of my friend Molly, who funneled the box of DVDs my way before returning them to the person she had borrowed them from—and I was hooked! As soon as season 2 made it to DVD, I added it to my Netflix queue and viewed it about six months after the season 1 experience. Maybe because I became a little impatient with some of the story lines in season 2, I never moved season 3 to the top of my Netflix queue, so it has languished behind two seasons of House, one season of American Dreams, and a goodly number of movies. (Something else you should understand about my perusing habits, though, is that the home viewing scenario tends to be feast or famine with a fair amount of famine; I can go a month at a time without watching any of my stash of Netflix movies.) In spite of all this, I have remained committed fan of Lost.

No sooner did people learn I had only watched through season 2, then—thanks to Nathan and Lindi, who hosted the party—I had a box of Lost, season 2, placed in my hands. At home I promptly dumped Lost, season 3, from my Netflix queue, but, remembering my viewing pattern established while watching seasons 1 and 2 of Lost, I refrained from actually starting season 3 for almost a week until I had a few other things in my life tidied up…one of my rarer moments of wisdom, I must say. You see, I don’t seem capable of merely watching one episode of Lost at a time. I am not allowed to start watching an episode of Lost until everything that has to be done for the night is done or, the truth is, it will not be done. I may tell myself come 7:30 or 8:00 in the evening, okay, you can watch an episode or two before bed, but there on the couch in front of the TV I remain at 10:45, still raptly entangled in the story lines of these bizarrely convoluted lives. (Realize, please, I’m in bed most school nights by 9:30 because my day starts early: The alarm sounds at 5:00am and I’m on the road to school by 5:35. Stretches of 11:00 bedtimes on school nights take their toll!)

So, the photos embedded with this blog…well, that’s where I currently reside most nights and will likely continue to while away too much of the dark hours there until I complete season 3. Grade papers? (Not even carrying them home right now.) Read books? (They’re neatly stacked on my nightstand, awaiting a more propitious timeframe.) Exercise? (Only if accomplished before I sprawl on the couch with a blanket and remote!) Blog? (I’m typing this at school because I know it will never be done if I go home first!)

NOTE: Nathan has promised me the box of DVDs for Lost, season 4, as soon as I want them.

Sri Lankan Journal #5

"The Troubles"

The bunkers—complete with guys in camouflage holding automatic weapons—positioned sporadically along the runway at Bandaranaike International Airport, stunned me when I landed in Sri Lanka for the first time in December, 2004. I looked for them this time as soon as we touched down, and they were still there. On this visit to Sri Lanka, though, I definitely noticed a much more visible military presence throughout the country than I did back in 2004. I had heard that the troubles between the Tamil Tigers (LTTE*)and the government had intensified several different times since my last visit, to include some suicide bombings in Colombo and, in March 2007, an attack by the LTTE on the Sri Lanka Air Force Base situated right beside the international airport.

New Year’s Day—a day which ended up marking another bombing in Colombo, by the way—Jennell and I departed Sri Lanka on a 7:00am flight. In the wee dark hours of the morning we experienced firsthand the security procedures the government/military had instituted at the international airport: All potential passengers are deposited at a bus stop beyond the terminal area, and any good-byes to people remaining in Sri Lanka must be said there. Tickets (maybe passports, too, in some cases, but no one was interested in seeing ours once they saw our faces) are then viewed and marked before individuals are allowed to board an airport bus to the terminal. Once at the terminal, all the security measures typically run at an airport begin.

During the time we traveled in Sri Lanka, we passed checkpoints along every road. Most of the checkpoints had police and/or military people present. Our driver always slowed at these checkpoints, and, as soon as the men glimpsed Jennell and me in the back seat, they motioned us on. In fact, no one ever signaled us to stop until we arrived in Colombo; there we were stopped at every checkpoint! Our vehicle had a license plate indicating a Galle registration (southern Sri Lanka), not a Colombo one. The soldiers would motion us into “stop queue,” speak Sinhala to our driver while reviewing his paperwork, look at Jennell and me, ask us where we were from, and then smile and wave—as in hello—when we said “America.” In Colombo we stayed at the Ceylon Continental, located in the financial/diplomatic district along with the Hilton, etc., and there were checkpoints everywhere for road traffic and for pedestrians. I had to pass through one when I walked across the street from our hotel to go to an ATM in a building just down the block. They waved me through the curtained cubicle with smiles, didn’t ask for identification or anything, but it all felt a bit eerie!

No Sri Lankan was anything but gracious to us. People we met all along our way mentioned how “the troubles” receiving so much press in the world had really frightened away many potential tourists, causing financial stress and hardship for many employed in enterprises supported by tourists. The Christmas/New Year time frame is Sri Lanka’s peak tourist season. This one, though, did not usher in any crowds. For Jennell and me the deficiency in tourist numbers certainly had advantages; sadly, for many Sri Lankans, it meant profoundly tougher economic times.

These photos were taken from the window of our room in the Ceylon Continental in Colombo.

* The LTTE holds the dubious distinction of being the originator of the suicide bombing strategy.

On Flowers . . .

Today, my birthday, I received flowers...twice. And now I have flowers at home and in my classroom.

Much of my social circle here in Yokosuka whirls around about ten female teacher friends with an age range spanning four decades, 34 to 64. About a month ago seven of us had dinner together, and the conversation included a discussion about giving and receiving flowers. All except me declared that cut flowers are over-rated and that they did not really care to receive flowers any more because flowers never last that long anyway. Such practicality still eludes me. I love flowers and I so stated. On the street I slow my pace when passing a flower stand to better inhale the cocktail of aroma. When I can, I wander through a flower shop to bask in the ambiance of sight and scent. Okay, I even buy fresh flowers at the commissary, the NEX, and the Autoport, for goodness sake!

Well, the friends listened, and I have flowers on my birthday. They seduce my glance from any angle in the room, and I can smell a flower garden after the rain . . . almost!

A Continuance of the Temporary Break

Ski Apparel



Exhibt A: Evelyn

Exhibit B: Jennell

Black is my color on the slopes. Although I have dabbled with some other colors on jackets and headgear over the years, I’ve settled on black. I like black; I am comfortable wearing black; I enjoy the ease of replacing black ski pants with black ski pants, a black coat with a black coat, black gloves with black gloves. My ski hat actually includes gray and white snowflake designs on the band, but I had to upgrade to a helmet when I began skiing with Mishel. (See Appendix below.) Of course, I invested in a black one! However, I did purchase the sea green neck warmer last winter because Mishel was so totally convinced I’d buy the gray one!

Through the years my ski buddies have grumbled about my black attire, which makes me virtually indistinguishable from a myriad of other skiers on the slopes. And, I’ll confess, I’m grateful that my ski buddies prefer color in their ski apparel; their flamboyance eases my search to locate them at the best of times, and especially at the worst of times! Both Mishel and Jennell do the black ski pants thing, but to their credit, Mishel wears a jacket the color of an apple flavored Jolly Rancher and Jennell wears pink! (Exhibit B) When she wanted to find me, Mishel said she looked for a figure in black with red ski boots (the boots I rent from Outdoor Rec. on base have always been red) because the green neck warmer disappeared inside all my black. Jennell has informed me, though, that the red boots don’t really show up that much, and she would like to adorn the top of my helmet with hot pink ribbon streamers.

Appendix:

I began skiing with Mishel my first winter in Japan. Always a thrill seeker, Mishel adores skiing in powder, in trees, and off-piste. Mishel wears a helmet. Two years ago, the first time I skied with her on the island of Hokkaido at Niseko—a resort with this amazing snow that lures all these Australians to come for three-week ski vacations—we rode up on the gondola with two Australians who offered to take us on this way cool track into the powder and the trees and totally off-piste. Mishel was ecstatic and I was nervous. Sure enough, we skied right through a gate on top of a groomed run and into the powder. As the trees loomed into position requiring me to maneuver between them, in addition to managing powder and slope, it dawned on me that I was the only one of the four of us without a helmet. I ordered one from REI immediately upon returning home!

[Mishel transferred to Naples last summer, so this winter I have not engaged in the same types of dare-devil skiing that Mishel had the inclination to initiate!]

A Temporary Break from the Sri Lankan Journal

Ski Weekend


The evolution of my ski experiences—and me as a skier—includes an array of ski buddies, who appear only for a piece of that history due to the nomadic nature of our lives: Either I move or they move. . . Jim, Carolee, Phil, Janice, Robert, Linda, Mishel, . . .

For the MLK weekend, Jennell and I drove five hours to Nagano Prefecture for our first ski adventure together at Norikura Kogen. Jennell is a beginner; this trip marked her fifth time to the slopes. I seem to have become an eternal intermediate with more than a score of winters recording maybe two to five ski days apiece interspersed across days not in school. Jennell wants her slopes signed with green marking; I prefer red slope signs with a smattering of black. However, Jennell has a penchant for speed, which bodes well for a developing ski buddy relationship. By the end of our first ski day, she could “point and shoot” pretty much any “green” run. I talked her into experimenting with a “red” slope on sporadic occasions, but usually I skied the red paths—and a couple black ones dressed in really good snow conditions--on my own, and we’d meet up at the bottom of designated lifts at designated times.

Here is one of my "red" runs. At the bottom of the photo is midway to the bottom of the resort. I felt like I had skied into forever by the time I reached bottom with thighs on fire!

Here is my other favorite red run. Really the very top is black--steepness of incline and moguls. When I wasn't feeling on top of my game, I would ski on the red run behind this slope and emerge midway, from the left on the photo. The snow and slope of the bottom skied like a blessing!

Tucked away from more mainstream Nagano resorts, Norikura has virtually no lift lines—I rarely waited even a minute in line—despite excellent snow quality and some fabulous runs. As “gaigin” (“foreign devils,” but now graciously interpreted as “foreigners”), we stood out. The first day we skied, Jennell and I were the only gaigin at the resort. In fact, one of the lift guys started greeting me in English every time I slid into the “starting line” of his lift. Some other gaigin—all affiliated with Jennell’s school and the original planners of this trip—joined us our second day on the slopes. (Jennell and I had headed to the slopes a day earlier than the others.)

Although seemingly mired eternally at the intermediate level, I rated quite a bit higher in slope skills than any of the other eight gaigin on the trip, and I apparently acquired a reputation for my abilities that I probably don’t fully deserve. This elementary school teacher group of skiers/snow boarders subsequently included me on an invitation for another ski trip over Presidents’ Day weekend. As the itinerary began taking shape, I learned that two of the teachers planned to bring their high school-age children (four boys, all snow boarders), and Valerie, the “mastermind” of the trip,” suggested that maybe I’d like to ski with them! Once possible resorts were selected, Valerie sent me an e-mail that included this:

I went to Outdoor gear and talked to an experienced Japanese tour guide. He called Hakkoda and set up a back country trip for the boys. The guide will have some English skills and Collin has some Japanese speaking skills so things should be fine.

0800 is the show time. They will rent all the back country gear for 3000 yen and pay 4000 for the guide. (Cash) They will ride the gondola up in the morning and ski back country down and have lunch at the “warming house”. In the afternoon they will once again ride the gondola up and make their way down again at 1600.

Evelyn – if you want to join the boys, they are happy to have you. Let me know and I will call and get your reservation. It will be the same price – 7000 yen for rental of backpack, snowshoes, poles, shovel, beacon etc. and the guide. You will then buy two gondola passes at 1500 each.

You can Google Hakkoda and find out all kinds of neat stuff about the mountain. I am going to read the following article during lunch.

http://www.nationalgeographic.com/adventure/0602/sports/ski-japan.html

When I saw “backpack, snowshoes, poles, shovel, beacon, etc.,” I thought, “Yeah, right!” But I put myself on “pause” mode, just in case, and followed the link. That clinched it! Attempting diplomacy, I responded to Valerie that I have become a “comfort” skier; I don’t do hiking in order to ski. I would be fine skiing with Jennell, her, and the others. Valerie wrote back:

That sounds good. But I don’t think there is a lot of hiking involved because the lift takes you to the peak of the mountain. If I could – I would join you all, but of course I don’t have the skills to do so.

In my nest message I became more blunt and pointed out that hauling around snowshoes, poles, a shovel, and a beacon in a backpack failed to reassure me that there would not be much hiking or similar laborious adventure. She replied with “LOL” and “maybe you’re right!”

Now here it is Presidents’ Day weekend, and I sit at my computer. Yesterday Jennell bailed on the trip because of serious flu; I’ve had a sore throat and a general feeling of malaise for two days. If the two of us decided not go, the group had the option of reducing the number of rental vans needed. So, that is what has happened.