There’s such a lot of world to see

My first experience of trains in China was definitely a positive one. I arrived at Beijing West Station (the biggest train station in Asia, ‘Record Breaker’ fans), in rush hour traffic. It seemed as if the entire population of Beijing – and remember, this is a city the size of Belgium – was on the move for the weekend. I gazed in bewilderment at the departures board, entirely in Mandarin (I wouldn’t expect it otherwise), and nabbed a friendly looking operative to point me in the right direction. At least I hope he was an operative and not just a random person in a uniform, of which there are many in China. He pointed me to platform seven, using the finger sign (no, not that finger sign – in China they have a special sign for all the numbers, just using the fingers on one hand. Hold your second and third fingers to your thumb and, hey presto! Seven. What’s wrong with using two hands I haven’t quite worked out yet). I went through to the waiting room, and joined the already massive queue. The system here is that you’re not allowed on the platform until the train is in and ready to be boarded, which can make for one almighty crush, so it’s best to be prepared.

My Mandarin-speaking dorm-mate in Beijing, Heather, had told me that I was in carriage 10, berth 22, and it was a huge relief to find out that this was in fact the case. I plonked myself there on my allocated middle bunk, and zonked out pretty quickly. The train seemed full – well, every train seems full here. I was conscious I had to be awake pretty early, as I had been told it was a nine hour journey from Beijing to Pingyao, getting me there at about 5am. The system here on sleepers is that you exchange your ticket when you board for a token, and the conductor then comes and wakes you up about 30 minutes before your train. So I was a tad concerned when 5am came and went and we were still not at Pingyao, or at least nothing I recognised as Pingyao, but frankly, too sleepy to care. I figured if I ended up in Xi’an, I was heading there anyway, no bother. I can get alarmingly apathetic when I’m tired. Actually, not just when I’m tired, sometimes when I really… oh, I can’t be bothered to type the rest.

Anyway, turns out that we’d stopped during the night for no apparent reason, so we ended up getting to Pingyao round about 7.00, which was far more civilised. A girl in my compartment (there are six beds to each compartment, it’s called Hard Sleeper but is just fine) who spoke great English was telling me it was her dream to go to Pingyao – I will comment on this in a few weeks when I am elsewhere (sorry this is more a note to myself than anything, I’m sure you don’t mind me using this as a mental junk bin).

As I was waiting for the train to get in, I had one of my moments of spectacular stupidity. The berths all have metal bars on the side to stop you from falling out and getting too familiar with the person across from you. I was packing the last of my stuff on my bed, when I sneezed, my head went forward, and I went lip-and-tooth first into the bar. The pain and the blood certainly took my mind off what I was going to do in Chengdu at that time in the morning, I can tell you. Fortunately the damage was just to my lip, not my teeth (I don’t fancy trying to find a dentist here), and it just cut the inside, albeit badly. Eating spicy food for the rest of the day was NOT fun.

Getting off the train, I got talking to an American guy, James, who fortunately for me spoke good Mandarin. We both headed to the ticket office – he wanted to go back to Beijing that night, I was heading south to Xi’an – and he helped me buy what I needed without my having to resort to sign language, which has been my usual method so far. It’s amazing how many different ways you can thing to pronounce a place name without ever hitting on the right way, and all the poor train station people sit and look at me like I’m crazy. I’m probably insulting their grandmothers or something. Unfortunately, the only seats available for both our journeys were no seats at all – unreserved, aka sardine class. Still, putting this out of our minds, we set off to see Pingyao.

Pingyao is an ancient city which is pretty much untouched since its days as a major Ming banking centre. It has walls surrounding it, which makes it feel quite cozy and small, and the old alleyways are apparently still haunted by Ming Dynasty ghosts, who can navigate round the unchanged streets with ease (although, frankly, even if they were changed, I’m thinking a ghost could handle it, having no physical body and all). The whole city is made out of grey bricks, and it’s kept quite quiet as no cars are allowed inside the city walls, though plenty of motorbikes are.

Because we were there early, we were able to watch the place wake up as we strolled through the streets and got our bearings. This is always one of my favourite things to do – many years ago we used to get the coach down to Lourdes, taking over a day, but I loved being awake early and travelling through towns at that time in the morning. You always get such a different perspective, the people aren’t armoured up for tourists, they’re just doing what they need to do. Quite a magic time.

First stop, as always, was breakfast, and it was great to discover that James enjoyed the same kind of food I did, that is, any food at all.  We had a real feast, dumplings, noodles, soup, all washed down with bucketloads of free tea.  I spent the time alternately slurping, and then gasping as the chilli hit my gammy mouth sore.

We decided what order we would see the sights in.  Most of the places in Pingyao consist of preserved houses and businesses.  Even though after a while (ok, after the first one) they all started to run into each other, it was still amazing to see how the other half lived, back in the day.  Most of the places were based around banking, including the head banker’s house which was gorgeous, all courtyards and east wings and second son’s wings and things like that, and, my personal favourite, the first bodyguard agency in the country.  This was set up by a dude called Erba who, from all accounts, was the man – he wrecked this monastery but the monks were merely surprised rather than, say, furious, and invited him to live with them and set up a bodyguard business.  Something may have got lost in the translation from Chinese to English, but that was the jist. 

After another delicious meal, it was time to say goodbye to my new friend James, who will be part of my happy memories of the lovely town of Pingyao, and head to the station.  I was befriended by a couple who spoke no English, but seemed concerned about my unreserved ticket, and made it their responsibility to make sure I got on the train with no problems.  When the train pulled in, it was as jam-packed as they fear, and I was perched in the doorway sitting on my pack, not relishing the thought of a nine hour journey to Xi’an.  When the conductor saw my plight, we managed to have a conversation all through sign language and the basic phrases in my guidebook, whereby he asked me if I wanted to upgrade, I said yes please, so he told me to get off at the next station, run up the platform, and get on at a different carriage.  We then managed to convey my name, my occupation (ok, I lied and said ‘teacher’, but you try acting out ‘well I was in Human Resources but I didn’t enjoy that so now I’m having what I guess you’d call a sabbatical to decide what I want to do when I grow up’), the fact that I wasn’t married, and how long I was in China.  At the next station I did as instructed, was met by a charming train worker lady, and thankfully collapsed into an available bunk for the long haul to Xi’an.

When I was studying for my English Literature A Level, one of the poets on the syllabus was Coleridge. I was never a fan – he seemed to be a poor man’s Wordsworth (who was his mate and who, I think, he ripped off something chronic). However, one thing that sticks in my mind was the big, long introduction to his big, long poem ‘Kubla Khan’. The jist was that he took some opium, fell into an opium-induced haze, and dreamt this fantastic poem. Just at its zenith though, the postman came and woke him up (Royal Mail were annoying even in those days) and he forgot the poem. He just remembered how good it was, and wrote ‘Kubla Khan’ as a second best version. Until now, I always thought that was a cop out, but today I understand a bit how he felt.

Internet access here in China is… sporadic, to say the least. I have been able to access hotmail for about 5 minutes, total, since I got here. And I thought this site was ok, until I wrote a great big long blog entry, hit ‘post’, and watched it evaporate into the ether. I know I’m pulling a Coleridge on you here, but man that was a good entry. And now I don’t have the mental energy to recreate a second best version, the fact that it wouldn’t, couldn’t ever be as good as the first would have me sobbing into my dumplings tonight.

So, here is a bullet listed summary (I can hear the sighs of relief from over here)

– I bought the kitchest, tackiest umbrella in Sri Lanka – with palm trees and blue skies on the inside – and, sadly, I have had much reason to use it here in Beijing.
– Went to the Summer Palace with Leah and Jason from Canada, it was gorgeous and beautiful, serene and lovely, even though it was meant to be flipping summer now and instead it rained. Still, I got to take my fab umbrella.
– Beijing taxi drivers have all, apparently, arrived in Beijing yesterday and have no idea where anything is, even when shown a map of their own city
– Went to the Silk Street market as advised by my mother and displayed the sterling haggling skills I have honed on the mean streets of India. As well as a gorgeous silk jacket for mum (winging its way to her as I type, hopefully, and not in the hands of a government operative), I got an ace top for me, the best pair of fake jeans (7FAMK, jeans fans) I have seen, and a little denim skirt handmade by Victoria Beckham
– Despite the fact that it is rather chilly, I wore my new top and little skirt to go out in, because 1) I’m very brown at the moment 2) I’m on my holidays, and 3) I’m very brown at the moment.
– I am very brown at the moment
– My favourite conversation was with Jason, when he said “I knew there was something very un-English about you – you’re too brown to be English”.
– Did I mention I’m very brown at the moment?
– Beijing’s bars rock (in every way – including the mullets). I want to open a Beijing Bar when I get back home, with live Chinese music, neon lights, and waitresses in tennis dresses and Barbarella boots

– I walked the Great Wall (at Mutiyanu), which was lots of fun.  I didn’t do the toughest section because I climbed Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka.  Ahem.

– Favourite sight at the Great Wall: an American Lady, dressed in pink trousers and a shirt that SHOUTED, asking “Well, there are no numbers on the towers.  How will I know when I get to 10?  How will I know where to get down?  I don’t want to get lost.  I can’t believe there are no numbers signposted on the towers, this is ridiculous”.  My suggestion that she counted the towers just met with a blank stare.

– There are a huge number of French people in Beijing.  Dunno why. 

– Things I have eaten: Too many dumplings to count, chicken kebabs (the sign for the kebab is now the only Chinese character I can recognise), noodles, Beijing Roast Duck (aka pure cholesterol on a plate), tofu brains, centipede

– Yes, I really ate centipede.  It did not taste good.  But you never know until you try, eh?

– I have been given my Chinese name, which I will insist on using at all times.  It is ‘Early In The Morning Deep Blue Sea’.  Kind of poetic, I think.

– The thing is, many Chinese characters sound the same.  So I have an alternative name, which sounds the same as my first, which is ‘Dirty Canteen’.  I will not insist on using that at all times.

OK, think that’s the highlights of my time in Beijing.  I could have stayed there for ages, it’s an amazing city, a pure blend of the old and new China, with its feet firmly in the 21st century.  I’m really looking forward to the Olympics in 2008, from what I’ve seen they’ll put on a spectacular show.  So I bid a sad goodbye to Beijing and set off on the night train to Pingyao to see what the rest of this vast country has to offer.

On my first morning in Beijing I woke up quite late, having managed about one hour’s sleep in the last 48 hours while I was travelling from Sri Lanka. I had planned to get the bus into Beijing from the airport, but I was that zombied that I got a taxi. I felt incredibly safe getting in, an official took my destination and the taxi number, made sure the driver knew where he was going, and handed me a card telling me how much I should pay. And we set off.

Let me tell you now, Beijing is huge. Just huge. I heard twice yesterday that it’s the size of Belgium. I can’t even begin to get my head round that. You come to Beijing and you could be fooled into thinking it’s capital of the Universe, not just China. Scary big.

So I got to the hostel fine, in a quiet hutong (one of the smaller alleyways off the big main roads) and collapsed into bed. The next morning, waking up late, I got chatting to some guys over breakfast. One of them, a Canadian, Morgan, was heading off to the same places as me that day, so we decided to go together. He also suggested we hired bikes. I laughed at first till I realised he was serious. Even though the last time I rode a bike I must have been all of 11 years old, I thought, ok, how bad can it be? You know me well enough by now to know the answer to this one.

We picked out the kitschest bikes available at the hostel – mine was a pretty pink one, apparently called ALICE, and Morgan’s was a sunshine yellow one, FOREVER. We looked like a little rainbow as we headed out onto the mean streets of Beijing. Or maybe a tattoo that you get after a few too many beers. They both had little baskets that were just crying out for a mini dog (Andy and Sam, could you send Jack out for a few days?), but I was gutted that I had no bell.

Now, Morgan is used to biking around Toronto, but I’m not even used to biking in Pennington Park. So he was a tad more relaxed than me, taking photos with one hand, weaving in and out. At one point he looked over and said to me “You’re shaking”. I tried to blame the suspension on the bike, but it was pretty hairy. He’d made me promise he could have my Jimmy Choos if I died, so I wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t swerve me on purpose under a bus. Still, it was actually so much fun, and we spent most of the way to the Forbidden City laughing and laughing. Beijing is actually a biker-friendly city (not surprisingly, given Katie Melua’s stats – 9 million bicycles, that’s a fact, that’s a thing you can’t deny – and I defy you not to have that song in your head all flipping day long as you’re biking round Beijing). We managed to get there in one piece, and find a bike stand to leave Alice and Forever.

After the obligatory photo before the massive Chairman Mao picture (I think I’m going to run out of superlatives here – the fact of the matter is, everything in Beijing is huge, so I might just give up and just start saying ‘big’), we headed through the gates into courtyard after courtyard, the home of the emperors from the Ming and Qing dynasties. It all looked very shiny and new, and we realised that the whole place is being tarted up in preparation for the 2008 Olympics. As we were trying to get our bearings from Lonely Planet, we were approached by three other travellers, who invited us to join their tour. It seemed really reasonable, especially split 5 ways, so we agreed. And it actually made so much difference. Normally I’m not a huge fan of these tours, but we learnt so much from Blue Heart (yes, really) that it was worth it. All about the different numbers used all over the palace, to what the different rooms were used for, to where the stone came from. Pretty impressive stuff. And the emperors really knew how to live. Not really fans of minimalism, these guys had separate buildings for sleeping, for resting, for thinking, for changing clothes. I asked where he kept his shoes, but was met with a blank look.

When the tour finished, Morgan and I headed to the Starbucks in the Forbidden City. Read that sentence back and tell me what is wrong with it. Starbucks in the Forbidden City in Beijing the capital of China. Yes, I know. Almost as good were the signs around the Forbidden City which proudly declared at the bottom “Sponsored by the American Express Company”. We loved having our photo taken outside Starbucks (in an ironic and postmodern way, obviously, although the German girl on our tour really thought we were just pigheaded capitalist westerners), and I’m ashamed to say the coffee tasted really good. No decaf chai tea latte though, which is just a disgrace, Forbidden City or no Forbidden City.

We then decided to grab some lunch, as biking is hungry work, and got a little pizza thing, two hotdogs, and a hunk of corn from a street vendor. As I was parking my bike, Morgan took a bite of his hotdog and got a strange look on his face. I asked him how it was, and was concerned to hear the word “interesting”. This is never a good word to associate with food, so I gave it a go myself and was disturbed to realise it was both chewy and flaky at the same time. We gave up on that and moved on to the little flat bread pizza thing, which was ace, but then made a rookie error by finishing with the tough, tasteless corn. It was so bad we had to stop elsewhere for this amazing little omeletty thing. I could have eaten a dozen.

Managing to go the wrong way up a major road, we somehow ended up at the Temple of Heaven, which was another MASSIVE space. This has got various temples and altars and things – again, all looking shiny and new, and the fabulously titled The Divine Kitchen (which I want to use for a restaurant name), but best of all here was an echo wall. This is a perfectly circular courtyard and, so the story goes, if one person stands on one side and speaks, someone on the other side can hear them. We were dubious but gave it a go, and were just in hysterics when it worked. I don’t know how, I’m not a physicist (Michael, hazard a guess?), but it rocked, however they did it. We also came across a lovely side show, what seemed to be a rehearsal for a choir or something, not for show, just for the love of it, so we stood and watched for a while. Lovely.

Finally, we got back to the hostel amazingly in one piece, had the quickest shower in the world, and headed out to the Acrobatics Spectacular. I’m always slightly dubious by the use of the word ‘spectacular’, but in this case, it was justified. The most amazing strength and grace was on display, as they contorted their bodies into wonderful shapes and brave stunts.

Slightly saddle sore and very weary, we drank a few beers back at the hostel with Leah and Jason, and I collapsed into bed yet again, tired but very happy to be here in this crazy city.

It is with no small amount of incredulity that I realise I have now reached my third country on this trip. To those of you at home forced to read my meanderings out of politeness or family ties, it probably seems an eternity, but for me, it’s absolutley flying by. I guess the old saying really is true. Cast ne’er a clout till May be out. Oh, and time flies when you’re having fun.

I arrived at the airport in Sri Lanka ridiculously early, even by my standards. There were a couple of reasons for this – firstly, my flight was at 2am and I’d been told by a few people that it wasn’t safe to get the night bus alone. And, secondly, I’d completely run out of things to do in Negombo. Negombo was my last stop in Sri Lanka, because of its proximity to the airport, but it is utterly barren of any entertainment. It’s a run down old seaside town – think Blackpool, but less glamorous. Really. I’d been to the post office three times, the internet cafe five times, and I’d even splurged on a buffet lunch at a posh hotel. Despite my dedication and perserverence to the dual causes of eating and time wasting, I couldn’t spin it out for more than three hours. Bear in mind, though, that’s three hours of eating. My dedication knows no bounds.

When I arrived at the airport, it was too early for my flight to be on the board, so I posted myself on some insanely uncomfortable chairs – I’m now convinced they make them that way on purpose, probably as penance for feeling smug about being early – near a couple of girls, one of whom started talking to me. She was Becky and her friend was Erin, and they recognised me from Kandy, where we’d spoken briefly and seen each other around town after that. They were in what politely might be termed a bit of a pickle, and impolitely would be called something that I’m not going to write because my Mum reads this. Basically, they were booked on the 2am flight on Saturday morning but had somehow looked at the tickets, seen the date and the time, and assumed it would be 2am Saturday night/Sunday morning – the flight I was on. Becky was now booked on to my flight but Erin was only on standby, and would fly out for sure the next day. They were amazingly good humoured about it, considering they had been at the airport for 24 hours, and hadn’t slept for 48 hours, and they managed to keep me entertained with card games, and also with their superior knowledge about the airport, being long term citizens. They told me which were the best loos and which had the attendants that watched you wash your hands a bit too closely (to give marks out of 10, maybe?), who were the friendly security guards, and how much the coffee was at the upstairs lounge. I suppose they were prettier versions of Tom Hanks in that film ‘Terminal’ (which I haven’t seen but am obviously an expert in, having viewed the trailers and spoken one time to someone who had seen it).

As soon as we saw a Cathay Pacific Uniform, at about 11pm, we bolted over and Erin pleaded her case – lone female, another 24 hours to wait in the airport, separated from her friends, and so on. I felt like I was in a Sri Lankan version of ‘Airport’ only with fewer orange uniforms, less orange foundation, and friendly, helpful staff – the lady even apologised when she couldn’t guarantee Erin a place.
Becky and I checked in and I went through to Departures, while Becky hung back with Erin to see what the verdict would be. 10 minutes before we boarded, I saw Becky come through alone. She was gutted to leave Erin, but it seemed unavoidable – the flight was completely full, with no room for her. Then, just to make the situation laughable again, Becky got called back, and it turned out she’d been upgraded to Business Class. At least she’d manage a good sleep on the plane, although she declined my (selfless, I thought) offer to swap seats with her.
The flight was excellent, even when I was only one of a couple of passengers to stay on past Bangkok to Hong Kong. I’ve never been on a plane during a turnaround before, and it was so much fun to watch. You know those plagues of locusts that can strip a place clean in minutes? This is what the Cathay staff at Bangkok were like, they descended and, in just a few minutes, then whole plane was clean again for the new set of passengers. They each had their own job – one woman ignored a piece of tissue on the floor, and I was about to point it out when a guy, obviously on the Tissue on the Floor Team, came by and nabbed it. Impressive. Then I had some lovely dim sum for breakfast, which made me delighted to realise I was somewhere so completely different I wouldn’t be constantly comparing it to India, as happened in Sri Lanka.
Now I’m at Hong Kong Airport, a worthy winner of the Best Airport In The World title (yes, these things really happen. I want to be on the panel that decides. Sri Lanka would be ruled out because of the hard chairs and the Snickers Bar costing one pound. No, the peanuts weren’t gold plated). Hong Kong has free internet access – which is why I’m being so wordy – and is easy to get around. I’ve only managed to get lost once. So in a few hours I’m off to Beijing, and I couldn’t be more ready for it.

It’s easy to see why, in the past, so many nations fought to make Sri Lanka part of their empires. I’m not condoning colonialism or any of its implications; this, however, does have the air of an island blessed with precious things.

I can’t remember the last time I saw such astonishingly beautiful scenery. I know this has been a recurring theme throughout my Sri Lanka diaries, and it will be painfully obvious when I upload my photos, but I think pictures will be the only way of completely communicationg the beauty of this country. Peaks as seemingly high as those in, say, Switzerland or Austria, vegetation so lush the air must be the most oxygenated in the world, flowers every colour of the rainbow and more besides and, on the fringes, white beaches and clean, clean seas. I think if I was an explorer in years gone by, I’d have certainly settled here too, believing it to be paradise.

And yet, and yet. Every day you are reminded that it isn’t paradise, but something altogether more flawed. The tsunami devastated, utterly, parts of the south and east coasts. Talking to people who live there, they point out, almost nonchalantly, where walls were swept away, or the tree they climbed to save themselves, or the hotel a few doors away where people died. I hold my hands up and admit that, when I was in Mirissa on the coast, I didn’t sleep very soundly. Every big wave, every gust of wind, had me snapping into wakefulness, heart racing. I had to give myself a mental slap round the face and tell myself that not only would anything as devastating as that probably never happen again in my lifetime, but also I was being a real coward. I was there for a few days only, and yet I was surrounded by the people who had survived the disaster. and who were re-building their shattered lives on the same spot.

A combination of the tsunami and the political situation here seems to result in a lack of tourists. This then has the knock-on effect I described in an earlier entry, where tourists are either hassled a lot (in particular the women – men that I’ve spoken to have had nowhere near as much), or treated like the most honoured guests. A real paradox, and I hope that as more people visit, the super-nice Sri Lankans win out. Because they are very, very nice people indeed.

On the plane over here, I remember reading that one of Sri Lanka’s names is ‘Serendib’, from which the word ‘serendipity’ is derived. This is one of my most favourite words. Not only is it a treat to say out loud – try it, and feel it skipping from your tongue – but what a lovely meaning. A fortunate accident. Things going your way, unexpectedly. This made me smile on the way here but now, leaving, I’m smiling again because I have experienced some wonderful serendipity here. Mostly through the people I’ve met – Tina, Sarah, and especially Anna in Ella and Petra and Detlef – wonderful new friends. In addition, a few serendipitous , brief encounters with other people have really struck home, and will keep me thinking for a long time to come. And it is this serendipity that will be my lasting, happy, memory of Sri Lanka.

Bumper edition today, folks!  The reasons are threefold:

1. I’ve been lazy since I’ve got here and now I’ve found a good cheap internet cafe

2. It’s Friday and you wouldn’t be doing much work anyway – am I right or am I right?

3. I want to update all my Sri Lanka things before I get to China on Sunday and the only thing I will be allowed to write by the government firewalls is “China is a wonderful country, you should come now and spend all your capitalist dollars”.

Sooo… where was I?  Oh yes, in Ella.  The guy who ran my guesthouse, the wonderful, benevolent, rotund Mr J, was born in Mirissa, so he was really helpful in getting me down to the south coast.  I thought I’d have to take another epic journey and change buses many times over, but apparently not so.  There was one that stopped in Ella that went all the way down there.  I might have to stand for the first few miles, but once we got to the next town I would get a seat for sure.  This didn’t bother me – listen, I climbed Adam’s Peak yesterday!  Yes, the real one!

As I sat waiting for the bus (given a different time by everyone I asked, so I plonked myself by the roadside and played the waiting game), I chatted to various locals, bizarrely, about Princess Diana, or Lady Di as they call her here.  I tried to get onto my complex theories, developed over many hours discussion with my mum, about her state of mind and how innocent (or otherwise) she was, but it turns out this doesn’t translate well – all I got in response, every time, was a smile, a nod, and “She was beautiful lady.  Very good’.  Mum would love it here.  I also got chatting to a great German couple, Petra and Detlef, who were heading down in the same direction as me. 

The bus rolled in finally and it was the usual story – get yourself, and your huge bag, into any available space.  Detlef ended up hanging out of the door (he said he preferred it…), and Petra and I were clinging on for dear life inside, hoping that our bags were ok, jammed out of sight somewhere.  It got to the stage where I’d lost all feelings in my arm, was using the man in front of me as a brake, and felt like I was surfing on a bus.  The driver was of the kamikaze variety, and it was with no small amount of terror that we noticed he and another bus driver seemed to be having a race round Sri Lanka’s winding roads.  I was very glad I couldn’t see out of the front window.  Suddenly, we heard a metallic clang, and then a few minutes down the road, we got the strong smell of petrol.  Something definitely wasn’t right, and the bus soon pulled over.

As we were near the door, we jumped off to stretch our legs and see what was going on.  Detlef, an engineer, saw the diesel, saw the hole in the diesel tank, and delivered his verdict of “yes, it’s completely broken”.  I was thinking that myself, but when someone who knows what they’re talking about says it, somehow it becomes worse.  We were all completely incredulous when, the next minute, a French girl jumped off the bus and lit up a cigarette, a couple of yards from a huge pool of diesel.  We shouted over to her that there was diesel on the ground, and maybe she should get herself and the ciggie away from it. “Oh, I’ll be fine”, she said.  We took a couple of nervous steps away in the other direction.

One jammed bus pulled up, and some of the passengers got on, but it was too crowded to even contemplate.  We were deciding whether or ot we should flag down a taxi to take us further down south to a bus station, when luckily another bus came soaring down the road.  We flagged it, it screeched to a halt, and luckily it was going our way.  This time we soon got a seat, wedged on the back row like the troublemakers in school, occasionally flying up off the seat when we went over a bump, and making all the locals laugh with our shouts of surprise at the hairy moments.  Petra and Detlef got off before me, heading for a secluded bungalow near Tangalle, but they were following me to Mirissa in a couple of days, and we agreed to meet up there. 

As soon as I got to the tiny village of Mirissa, I dumped my bag in my room, ran the 10 steps down to the beach with its white sands, palm trees, and crystal clear turquoise water, and pretty much didn’t move from there for the next two days.  There’s not a lot to do in Mirissa, except relax with a book, chat with the other folk here (a particularly laid-back set of people), and get very, very brown indeed.  I set about it with gusto, and could have happily stayed there for a very long time.

The train journey from Kandy to Ella, further East, is beautiful.  It’s funny, you’d think after a while of being surrounded all the time be completely stunning scenery, the effect would wear off, but it just doesn’t happen.  I took another million photos from the train, including some from when we went through a cloud as we got really high up.  I loved it.  Apart from that, the train ride was quite uneventful, which was just perfect – I had my nose in a new book most of the way (nothing changes!)

Although beautiful, the journey was long, over 7 hours, and I was glad to have my bag of fruit from my Sigiriya friend.  This included the new (to me) and rather scrumptious guava, which is candyfloss pink, shaped like a pear, and has a perfumed taste similar, I suppose, to a cucumber.  We arrived at Ella’s small, quaint station that looked like something out of ‘The Railway Children’ late in the afternoon.  At Kandy station I got talking to a lovely Dutch girl, Anna, who I recognised from Pinnewala.  We decided to find a room together as it’s much cheaper than getting two singles.  This was fine until I woke up in the middle of the night, for some reason thought I was still in Bangalore (maybe because we’d been talking about it just before we fell asleep), and thought “Oh my god, there’s someone in my room”.  Fortunately, before I threw my shoe at Anna, I remembered where I was.  Lucky escape (for both of us, I reckon she’d have given as good as she got!).

The next morning, we were both up early, having slept like the proverbial logs in Ella’s peaceful night air.  We had a stonkingly huge breakfast at the guesthouse, then set off early on one of the walks for which Ella is famous.  It’s set in a valley with truly spectacular views, called the Ella Gap, down which they say, on a clear day, you can see the ocean.  No such luck for us, as it was quite hazy, but gorgeous and relaxing nontheless.  The peace and lack of hassle made it my favourite place in Sri Lanka so far.

The first walk was out to a place called Little Adam’s Peak.  The big Adam’s Peak is a famous mountain here.  I wish I was the kind of person who had the inclination to climb it, but the truth is, I’m really not.  So in the future, if anyone asks me whether I climbed Adam’s Peak, I will nod, not mention that it was the little one (so it doesn’t count as a lie, right?), say that I found it a breeze, and move the conversation on to Chantelle and Preston’s engagement.  It was a great walk for a novice like me, through tea plantations, and children shouting “Hello, pen” (lots of people give them pens as little gifts, but I haven’t managed to steal any pens so far except for the two that were given to me by my pals in Bangalore, so I’m not giving any away).  We nattered all the way up, nattered all the time we stopped at the top, and all the way down again, so it’s no wonder we were starving at lunchtime, we’d used all our energy walking and talking. 

We had yet another huge meal at the Beauty Mount Guesthouse, where we were staying, and set out in the afternoon for Dunhedin Falls.  The guidebook said that the path to it was ‘rocky in places’.  What it should have said is ‘Bring your walking boots, your crampons, and your Sherpa’.  It was a real scramble – not made any better by the elegant Sri Lankan ladies doing it with seemingly no effort in dainty sandals.  But the view at the end was worth it, it was a beautiful spot, and the waterfall was amazing.  Anna is a serious photographer, so she was helping me take some excellent photos (I can say that, as the credit should go to her and not me), so I will warn you in advance – when I upload my Sri Lanka photos, there will be a third split between countryside/elephants/waterfall.

After (you’ve guessed it) another huge meal, we fell into bed, exhausted, happy, full.  We both had early starts the next morning – Anna was heading back towards Kandy, whereas I was going south to make the most of the sunshine.

My next day trip out from Kandy was to the ancient rock fortress of Sigiriya.  This was built around 477AD – eat your heart out, Stratford Upon Avon!  It was the brainchild of King Kasyapa, who intended it as an impenetrable protection against invasion.  All I can say is, it worked.  After just about managing to get there and back in one piece, I can say for sure that there is no way I would have done it with weapons and stuff.  Rather, I’d have been the one at the bottom, offering to look after the horses while my more robust colleagues climbed up.  I’m not daft.

Unless I wanted to pay my life’s savings on a private car to take me there, Sigiriya was a bus ride away from Kandy.  No problem.  I’d dutifully checked at the tourist information place the day before, and was told that there was a bus leaving at 8am, took 2.5 hours, would take me right there, and then would leave again for Kandy at 3pm.  This was music to my ears.  The first indication that the day would not go to plan was when I got to the bus station and found the bus left not at 8am, but at 7.45am.  Anyone who has had the undoubtable pleasure of travelling with me, Miss Obsessionally-Early, will know without me having to tell them that I was already at the bus station by 7.15, so the change in schedule, rather than bothering me, made me feel slightly smug.  In a not-at-all annoying way, obviously.

I got a seat, and watched as the bus slowly filled up.  And when I say filled up, I mean there were people hanging out the doors, pressed up against the window, using every available space.  It was now clear where sardine packers got the idea from.  Sitting next to me was a guy in his 60s, who, it turned out, spoke excellent English.  He was a retired banker now living in Kandy, and took the opportunity to tell me all about the countryside we were going through.

I’ve found with Sri Lankan people that they are either super, ridiculously nice and helpful, or that they want to hassle me.  It’s been one of the surprises about this country, that I’ve actually got more hassle here from people (usually men) than in India.  I was expecting it to be the other way round, and thought this would be much more chilled out.  Mostly it can be brushed off, but sometimes – Kandy seemed to be the worst place for it – it could get slightly intimidating, and I was always glad to be with other people, which is the first time I’ve felt like this so far on this trip.  So the upshot of all this hassle is, I’m always slightly wary at first when people start to talk to me, as I’m not entirely sure which way the conversation could go.  Fortunatlely, this time, my travelling companion turned out to be one of the extra nice, welcoming people, and took so much time out of his day to make sure that I was happy, safe, and enjoying Sigiriya. 

When it was time to get off the bus, I double-checked with the conductor that the bus was at 3pm.  “No, no, no”, he told me.  Confused, I asked when the bus actually did leave.  “Tomorrow morning” was the gruff response.  This didn’t exactly pacify me – I had only a small bag, all my things were in Kandy, I had a hotel at Kandy, and I had a ticket for an early train from Kandy the next morning.  So I simply refused to get off the bus until I had a better answer.  It was so much fun (not at the time, but in retrospect) – the driver was shouting at me to get off, I was refusing to until someone explained how I could get back to Kandy that night.  Turns out there was a way, if I took 3 different buses and changed.  I wasn’t delighted, half expecting myself to end up Malaysia or Milton Keynes or somewhere, but realised it was my only option.  I jumped down off the bus and it sped away, Dukes of Hazard style.

It took about 20 minutes to walk from the gate round to the ticket office and entrance, but it was a lovely walk along the moat (I didn’t take the opportunity to have a dip, though, as I was told there were crocodiles in there).  The most obvious thing then, and all day long, was just how empty it was.  Imagining similar tourist attractions, say, in Europe, or the USA, it’s impossible to conceive that they wouldn’t be packed from dawn to dusk, with all sorts of “Sigiriya Experience” shops and museums and the like.  It was rather lovely to have the place so completely deserted.

The entrance fee was the most shocking thing so far – a whopping $20 (twenty!!!) US DOllars, 2040 Rupees.  Especially galling as they were running the standard ‘Sri Lankans get in for 1 rupee’ trick.  Normally I don’t mind paying a bit more, especially when you think about the relative economies, but this was quite chockingly high.  More than the Taj Mahal, more, I think, than any other tourist place I’ve been to, at home or away.  Still, no way round it, so I gritted my teeth and went on through the gate.  I had to swat away a fairly persistent tout on the way, but finally managed to convince him I preferred my own company that day.

The walk through the gardens is pretty stunning.  Either side are symmetrical water gardens that lead up in terraces, and, right above you, rising so high in the sky it’s impossible to see the fortress – or anything – on the top, is the rock itself, 200m high.  I put the fact that I would have to climb it out of my mind, and enjoyed the walk.  The stair soon started, though.  There are 2000 of them in total, and believe me, I felt every single one of them.  They are quite steep, and in some places without a handrail or anything to hold on to, which made me smile to think of the safety standards that would be imposed elsewhere.

Halfway up the rock, there is a spectacular gallery full of painted frescoes, depicting many Sigiriya Damsels.  Sort of 5th Century Sri Lankan Page 3 girls, I suppose, as most of them are in a state of undress.  The colours are just gorgeous, and the detail is beautiful, especially as, looking round, there was no obvious way for the painter to get up there.  Just below the gallery is the Mirror Wall, with graffiti from the 6th to the 14th century on it, all in Sinhala, which I am obviously fluent in after two weeks in the country, so I can tell you they comment on the frescoes, and say things like “As I have seen the resplendent ladies, heaven appears to me as not good”.  The 6th century equivalent of “She’s a bit of alright”.

After this, the climb gets really fun, dividing into two narrow stairways with steps built right up to the side of the rick, at times just a few inches wide.  By now as well it was about mid-day, so starting to get unbelievably hot.  Finally we turned a corner, and realised we’d made it to the castle on the top.  I tell you, that King Kasyapa must have been one dickens of a motivator, to get all his various slaves not only to build the thing, but then to run up and down carrying food and dancing girls and DVDs and whatever else kept a 5th century King happy.  The top was pretty deserted, like the rest of the complex, and I got my friend to take a delightful picture of me at the top, bright red, looking like I’d taken a bath in my clothes, and hair flying every which way because of the wind. 

Coming down was so much more fun than going up, unsurprisingly, and much quicker.  It also was my second opportunity of the day to look smug (how I enjoy that) as I passed people still on their way up, and said encouraging, if intensely annoying, things to them like “Not much further – only about another 500 steps” or “The view from the top is lovely, in daylight”.

Getting back to Kandy was another expedition in itself, and I’m sure that, had it not been for my friend who looked after me and got me on the right buses, I would not have got there ok.  Turns out he was one of the best things about the day.  As I was leaving for Ella the next morning, he turned up at the station with a bag of fruit for me.  So in the end my day at Sigiriya, and my friend, were real delights.