The Kandy Man

Day 8

George:

I am standing in the gangway of the train from Colombo, bag resting precariously at my feet, door wide open, stomach, for once, calm. I'm spending a couple of minutes happily trying to figure out what the difference between 3rd class and 2nd class is on the Sri-Lankan railways. As far as I can see the seats are nicer in 2nd class, plush black leather, but you don't get to sit in one unless you oust a local. And they don't like that.

The railways in Sri-Lanka have been a hugely pleasant surprise. The coast line on which we have spent most of our days so far winds its way along the shoreline, sticking right to the beach so that the spray from the surf mists the line, floats in through the un-latched sliding windows on a slight sea breeze. Only occasionally the line drifts away to make way for leaning palm trees and small picturesque fishing huts with lines of brightly coloured boats pulled up onto the sand. On this line the view is nothing short of spectacular all the way into Colombo. Even the stations are antiquated gems. Overgrown and in a charming state of disrepair they are relics of a bygone era. The platform numbers swing gently on long pieces of string. The corregated iron rooves have clearly weathered many storms, rusted brown showing up clearly against the bright sandy green of the palm fronds that fan out above the station buildings. The only sound is tthe contant wash of the waves on the rocky shore.

The train gives a sudden jolt and I hastily make a grab for my bags as they lurch towards the open door. We're picking up speed now as the line begins to wind further inland. For the first time we're heading to Kandy in the centre of Sri-Lanka, and to get there the train has to leave its flat coastal line behind, and the terrain has started to rise dramatically. Outside the sun is setting over forested hilltops. The skyline is pepered with palm leaves that shoot out of the canopy to be sihouetted against the deep purple sky. As the train climbs higher the forest creeps closer and closer to the track until the palm leaves are slapping against the carrages and the trees close overhead. Ocasionally, when there are breaks in the vegetation, a window is opened onto the valleys beyond. We're high up now and can see for miles. The jungled valley bottoms are already in darkness and all I can see are the occasional dotted yellow lights of houses and farms in the distance. They sit quietly, like private yachts on giant grey green ocean waves.

The train slows as we pull into only the fourth station in 3 hours. Theres no platform here, just a small wooden hut buried in the forest vegetation and a few swaying fairy lights to light a trampled path into the forest. Behind a few palm fronds I can just see the porch light of a larger house a few yards from the track. The glow lights the underside of the roof, the door and two supports for the roof in eerie yellow, and the rest is black. It's a strangely 2d view of what must be a very lonely existence up on the hillside. In the darkness I can just make out the porters carrying sacks of rice out to the house and leaving them on the porch. The train lurches forwards again with a rattle and the lights fade behind us, the jungle returns in force and I'm forced to duck back away from the palms.

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Ewan:

The next morning we wake up in our hotel in central Kandy. Kandy is an obviously beautiful place. Right in the middle of the town is a peaceful and tranquil lake. Hotels and trees circumnavigate the water, their reflections shimmer silently. The traffic still isn't gone, and the high pitched revving from tuk tuks fuses with the morning bird song. Surrounded by tree topped mountains it's an unmistakably relaxing setting. A suitable place for the 'Temple of the Tooth' then; a majestic and imposing temple on the lakeside, with the golden-roofed shrine building at the centre.

Overlooking the flurry of life and nature below him is the mighty white Buddha. Sitting on top of his mountain, the 15 year old statue is visable from all of Kandy. He marks an old execution site.

"When the old king still ruled in Kandy, executions would be held on that mountain. From the palace a flag would be raised. Green meaning the accused could walk free. Yellow meaning freedom at the cost of a limb, and red means..." Kapila motions a cutting of the throat with his fingers.

Kapila is our adopted tour guide. In his late twenties and working in Kandy for the last four years, his proper profession is as a chef at our hotel, but on his work break he recognised us and decided to show us around Kandy.

"I noticed you were both British and you helped us during the tsunami". Kapila went on to explain how in 2004, his sister's home was destroyed by the wave. Tragically, her husband was killed during the disaster. British aid money helped his sister rebuild her home and he feels indebted to the UK for their support. His optimism in assiting us for nothing was endearing, and we couldn't help but feel attached to the man.

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George:

Kapila has an infectious laugh and both Ewan and myself find ourselves smiling almost constantly while we're with him. The chatter is constant as we huff and puff our way up a steeply winding road to the Kandy viewpoint. From high on the hillside (where the traffic is still heavy) we can see almost the entire city. Kapila looks down with us at the lake and traces the outline with his finger.

"Its not quite," he says, "but you can sort of see Sri Lanka?" Ewan and I lean in and try to follow what he's saying. His English is excellent but sometimes his accent can make the words float away.

"The lake is not natural, you know?" Ewan and I nod. "It was made in the shape of Sri Lanka, but later this road was added and now, well, not so much." He laughs and I feel myself grinning. "The island in the middle is here!" He points to a gardened isle in the direct centre of the lake. "It represents Kandy City. The boat at that end is the fishing in the south and the north is over there." Kapila is a mine of information, full of all the history, the culture and the tricks of the trade.

"Can you get to the island?" Ewan asks.

"No, not any more," Kapila shakes his head, "there used to be houses on it, you can get to it through a tunnel in the temple, it runs under the lake." Ewan and I look at each other, the concept of an underwater tunnel appealing to both of us. Kapila notices and laughs. "You can't go in it though," and he laughs again at our disapointed faces.

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Ewan:

Next, we bought tickets to a show later that evening which promised fire eating amongst other things.
The market was to follow, where George and I made a few discounted purchases of quality Sri Lankan spices and tea. Kapila showed us the best places and we tried some tasters. I particularily enjoyed the 'spice tea', which is a sweet and aromatic drink, perfect for winter I thought. Kapila gave us advice on how to get the best prices also, and we excercised our new knowledge. The market made for great photography with its diversity and culture. I got some good shots of the produce on offer with my 7D.

He left us at his favourite restaurant (surprisingly not his own, which he said was not good!) where I'd just ordered a traditional Sri Lankan curry. It came in a small metal dish with rice for company. There wasn't much, which caused me to raise an eyebrow at first, however it didn't take me long to work out I wouldn't have needed extra. Every bite led my mouth closer to the fires of hell, and quite soon I was trying my hardest to hide the agony. The flavour was incredible; a concoction of spices familiar and new, but there was no escaping the ferrocity of the notorious Sri Lankan dish. I'd been looking forward to my encounter with it and I wasn't left disappointed. Thank you Kapila; a fitting parting gift.