Photos Added

Several more photos have been added to the gallery to give a taste of what we saw in Kandy. There will be more to come in the next few days!

From Ewan and George

Sri Lanka in Brief

What was your overall impression?

George: It's a beautiful country in a state of disrepair, but somehow the creeping vegetation and rust seem to add to the environment rather than detract from it. The whole country feels antiquated and that makes it a verry enngaguing place to walk around.

Ewan: An Island with stunning scenery and impressive views. For me one of the most prominent memories I'll have is of the railway and its diversity; alond the shoreline into forest covered mountains.

Best Moment?

G: Walking on a beach in a thunder storm. After a day of overheating the rain was bliss, and the image of the waves smashing into the rows of palm trees was unforgetable.

E: Getting the tour around Kandy with Kapila. We saw more in one day than we did in the rest of the trip put together. It was a purely spontaneous impulse and it paid off. Kandy is a Gem.

Best Dish?

G: A little difficult for me as due to illness I spent most of the week nibbling on chips at infrequent intervals. The best meal was probably the steak and chips I had on the first night, but as it gave me food poisoning the second time around I'm not sure I'd recommend it.

E: After our food poisoning escapade the confidence was struck somewhat. However, I'm glad (with no regrets...yet) that I plucked up the courage to try an extremely hot, yet traditional Sri Lankan curry. There were spices in it I'd never tasted before. It blew my head off!

Favourite form of transport?

G: It has to be the train. Its barely changed since the British introduced it and everything runs cheaply and on time. (Why can't we manage this in our own country?) Its great travelling the same way as the locals, really makes you appreciate the difference that the trainline makes to the country.

E: Although my first experiences of a tuk tuk and their drivers was a hairy and exhilerating one, nothing beats the train for me. I can't believe how scenic some of the routes were! Loved every second of leaning out of the open doorway, with the onrushing air cooling me down as Sri Lanka passed me by.

Top tip?

G: Be careful what you eat! It really can be difficult to tell if a restaurant is safe or not so be as careful as you can. Food poisoning is very possible and can really blow a hole in your trip.

E: Often, journeys took longer than expected. Its easy to assume Sri Lanka is a small island...its not. Leave plenty of time for travel.

Would you go back?


G: Yes, but I'd take a good food guide.

E: Definitely, Sri Lanka and I have unfinished business!

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.

----------~----------

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.

Gallery Added

Look! A brand spanking new gallery on your favourite blog! Full of pretty pictures and stuff. We were always going to see more things than we could possibly find time to write about. And pictures are worth 1000 words right? So check out the gallery at the top of the blog to see all the latest snaps of the things we have, and haven't, mentioned. There will be regular picture uploads, but for now here are 10 of the best so far to get you started.

Love Ewan and George

The Zombie in the Wheelchair

Day 3-6

George:

The ceiling fan chops noisily above my head, but i don't notice it because I'm already on my way to the bathroom for the third time in the night, towel hastily wrapped around  me, not covering enough. I don't know if Ewan's awake. I have never felt this ill. Ever. Every drop of fluid has been ripped from my body by half hourly episodes of wretching spasms and vicious diahorrea. Something is dragging my stomach through my mouth and there is nothing i can do to stop it.

The ceiling fan chops noisily above my head, but I don't notice it because I'm already on my way to the bathroom for the seventh time in the night. The sickness is worse. It doesn't stop. I throw up for 20 minutes get 10 in bed and I'm up again. The towel lies abandoned on the bathroom floor. I don't care. I've woken Ewan and told him i need help, and I do. I'm struggling to stand, my vision is blurry and the room is spinning. My stomach no longer exists, I am throwing up from my gut.

The noise of the ceiling fan is nothing compared to me. I'm empty and still it does not stop. Help is slow in arriving in these early hours, or maybe time has stopped to spite me. Ewan is up and about, I've woken him about 11 times too many. There is nothing of me. I curl and cramp, I feel a husk. And still it does not stop.

----------~----------

Ewan:

Not good. George was ruining a decent nights sleep! And what is worse is he'd started wretching without bringing anything up at all. A very noisy process. So at about 5/6am I decided to get him to hospital. I called down a tuk tuk from the main street and we sped away to the second nearest hospital (the 1st one didnt have a doctor in it!).

George was in a pretty bad way by this point. He looked very pale and dark around the eyes. They took him in to see a doctor immediately and they started injecting him with things! He was pretty dopey-looking after that. The nurses trundled him past in a wheelchair, looking like the dribbling undead.

----------~----------

George:

I do not have time for this. They want my passport number in exchange for a bed. I don't have that with me, I left it behind with my dinner. Ewan is trying to sort out a ward for me with the nurses anyway but it's taking time. Time is something that I, and anyone standing infront or behind me, do not have. I'm already cramping in the chair, my ankles knock involuntarilly against the wheels. The nurses still chat amongst themselves and more forms are produced. They probably have about 30 seconds to get me to a toilet. Ewan looks at me worridly. 20 seconds. One of the nurses is checking over the forms while another is saying something about money. My hand slaps the arm of the wheelchair. 10 seconds. I say to them I'm going to be sick and they have just enough time to look confused.

----------~----------

Ewan:

Eventually, after I'd paid his deposit for him, they took him to a room upstairs. I was starting to get diahorrea at this point too and it didn't take me long to join George as a vomit-buddy. Despite this minor setback, I had just about enough energy to tuk tuk my way back to our Mount Lavinia homestay, pick up some clean clothes for George as well as changing my own, spin around in the same green tuk tuk and hit the road again.

By the time I got back to the hospital I was despirately weak and in a bad way. I was anxious that I had the same thing as George. I laid down and tried to get some sleep, only to find myself waking up and being horribly sick. I called a nurse and she sorted out a wheelchair (which took time, maybe there is only one?) to take me down to the doctor and thus get me admitted to the hospital. They asked the same questions and performed the same tests as they did with George. Mercifully they got me to lie down on a proper bed as they attached the drip to my left arm. Back in 'the' wheelchair again and up to the admin desk. The nurses all found me very unusual and were giggling away in Sri Lankan. I suspect they were saying something along the lines of, "these tourists really can't handle our food can they?!".

On a side note, I guess I must seem quite strange to them. I'd been surprised at how few white faces there had been in Colombo and I get a lot of stares from everyone in the hospital when I walk about. Not in a bad way. Everyone's absolutely lovely here and very kind; always willing to help. Even so, I guess a 6"2' white, 23 year old with gingery/blonde stubble and a mohawk is going to turn a few heads; especially when most Sri Lankan men are 5"3' with dark hair...

----------~----------

George:

Ewan has disappeared and I don't know where he's gone. The room I'm left in is comfortable enough, but one doesn't really care about that as long as the medicine works. The traffic noise from outside is constant, horns and dirty engines. But I don't really care about that either as long as the medicine works.

At some point Ewan, saint that he is, managed to get some extra clothes and things for me from the Guest house. It's lucky he's able to do as much as he is otherwise I might not have made it to the bed I'm in now. The last time I saw him he wasn't looking too great though, so I hope he's ok. If he has anything like me then this trip could be over before its really begun.

----------~----------

Ewan:

Back at the reception for the second time today, I'm having to admit myself. Frantically I fill out paperwork and dictate details to the Sri Lankan receptionist for fear of the onrushing and involuntary expulsion of bodily fluids. After persuading numerous staff that my credit card was upstairs and that I'd have to pay a deposit at a 'better' time, they found me a double room on floor 3.

Ten minutes and I'm scrunched up in bed. The squeaky crescendo of 'the' hospital wheelchair filters down the corridoor, announcing the arrival of Mr. George Butcher. He's placed onto the bed next to mine. Both of us look as grim as death, and are feeling worse.

----------~----------

George:

Three days can pass remarkably quickly when you sleep through the vast majority of it. Both Ewan and myself have been put on a variety of drugs (though I seem to have about 3 times as many as Ewan) and finally, finally, they are beginnning to work. The throwing up is less constant. Less draining. Still not pleasant. The diahorrea is now less rain, more sleet, and I'm sorry for that image, but just be glad you don't have it.

Ewan is already feeling much much better. Whatever he had it wasn't quite as severe as it might have been and he looks back on top of the world. He keeps complaining to me about his drip and how he wishes it wasn't there any more. I can only try my best to sympathise, at the moment I'm very glad for my own drip and the drugs that are there attached.

The nurses are in and out constantly. My blood pressure, despite never being an issue, has been checked 20 plus times since admission. Every time a different nurse comes along to say hello and asks the same questions, "How are you? Where are you from? What is your name? How long you in Sri-Lanka?" It's nice small talk but it can get a bit draining. The best way I've found to avoid it is to be asleep. At the moment, thankfully, thats not a problem.

----------~----------

Ewan:

I've been feeling a huge sense of relief for being a free man. No longer imprisoned by illness and the drip, I can now come and go as I please. George got unhooked but not discharged this morning. It shouldn't be long now. We've been talking about salvaging some of our time in Sri Lanka and deciding our next step. Having missed out on all our hotel bookings for midweek, we intend to check in to the massively imposing Mount Lavinia Hotel which should hopefully have some aircon for George. The heat here is constantly around 28 degrees so a little respite is needed. Preliminary discussions of our options will most likely see us choosing the option to jump back on the railway inland to Kandy; the very historic and apparently beautiful ex-capital of the island. George is currently still undecided about what happens from there regarding his health. Last time we spoke he was 50/50 on returning to the UK with the view of rejoining us in Bangkok, or to continue as planned, into the less sanitized depths of India.

I'm hoping he'll fly to Mumbai and assess it from there.

Exploration, Discovery and Something Else

Day 1:

George:

"To exploration, discovery and something else," says Ewan being unintentionally artistic with his words. Glasses clink; burgers eaten; wallets lighter; stomachs full. Terminal 4 of Heathrow feels smaller than you would imagine. No long walks to check in, a two minute walk to the gate. All in all, everything feels rather relaxed. The excitement hasn't kicked in yet, everything feels disapointingly normal. Ewan's taking pictures of evergthing in sight, texting everyone he knows. I'm sitting quietly writing in a notebook. So far the only difference between this and any other holiday is that the side of the plane reads Qatar.


Our Qatar Airways Boeing 777

Ewan's forgotten his hoodie. This is irritating him significantly as he bought it purposefully. So far I haven't forgotten anything, so 1-0 to me. I'm trying to get myself excited but at the moment Sri-Lanka is still to far away, still not real enough, just a collection of jumbled together, photoshoped images off the internet. At the moment the only real thing is the next 13 hours of...well im not sure yet. Probably gripping the armrests and telling myself that turbulence is normal. Ewan informs me thus:
"I had a dream once about a plane crashing. It was spinning toward the ground and I kept shouting 'Don't worry the pilot will pull up!'. Except. Well. Usually you wake up. But I didn't for some reason. It was awful. We hit the ground and that was it. Game over."

---------- ~ ----------

Ewan:

I was delighted to see that 'Super 8' was on the plane movie list. I'd wanted to see it before I left but didn't have the time. Despite this, the first leg of the journey was largely forgettable. No turbulence of any note to speak of, and the food was surprisingly good for an airline meal.

Our Qatar airways flight changed over in Doha, Qatar at midnight local time, where we were met with a suffocating blast of hot air as we departed the plane. Two air-conditioned buses and a quick turnaround at the terminal later, we were off again on our final flight to Sri Lanka.

George and I managed to have a quick doze on the plane and we needed it! We'd been up for hours and we still had a journey in a challenging new country to our home-stay in Mount Lavinia, several miles south of Colombo.

Armed with our heavy packs we set off from the airport and within moments found ourselfs helplessly approached by taxi drivers wanting out trade. After finding an ATM and enquiring about train travel (which was evidently futile), we surrendered to one of the taxi drivers and set off to Colombo's main rail station.

The Colombo Port Station was built in 1858 during British colonial rule and still runs today. After purchasing two 3rd class singles for a mere 15p we settled on platform 5 and waited for our train which we were told was meant to arrive at quarter past the hour. The life in the station was fascinating. We must have been the only pale faces in the whole place so we certainly felt like we stood out. Opposite us in a yard we could see an old steam train. Difficult to say wether it was still in use or just a reminder of days gone by? However, given the smell of old train steam linkering on the breeze I'd suggest the former. I turn up to a tv monitor expecting to see the train times but instead am greeted by live coverage of the Sri Lanka v Australia cricket match. At this moment hundreds of Sri Lankans disembark a train en masse and I'm astounded to see them all walking straight accross the railway lines to the main building, despite there being an overhead walkway.
Health and safety didn't seem to be a prime concern on the train either (which did arrive on time). The carriage was large but filled with people, who leaned out of the open doorways as the train sped past peoples homes. A woman hung out her washing with literally the train line on her doorstep. It was a very refreshing experience, riding in tandem with the coastline and the cool sea breeze providing respite from the humidity.

Local Sri Lankans cross the rails

The journey took longer than expected, yet we shuffled off the train at Mount Lavinia station and watched as the last of the carriages trundled around the bend. Where now!?

---------- ~ ----------

George:

My back creaks and groans under the weight of too much stuff that I didn't forget to bring. My backpack carves into my hips and shoulders. I look at Ewan sweating and think that forgetting the hoodie was the best thing he could have done.

A tuc-tuc driver sees me struggling and waves me over, but I'm starting to get used to the hassle. I don't mind it really, it's not invasive or threatening, everyone is very polite and eager to help. But getting away from it does require you to have a pretty firm dismissive manner. I picked up some experience of turning people away politely while spending a month at the Edinburgh Fringe, but Ewan, unfortunately, appears to have had no such opportunity. I find myself having to drag him away as driver after driver shouts prices at him in desperate attempts to secure a sale.

It seems anyone who isn't a tuc-tuc driver here has a very good friend who is one. Usually their friend is parked just around the next corner. The tuc-tuc driver around the next corner is, universally, a local friend, very cheap, very safe, very reliable, a favourite of locals due to their expertise and, importantly, they personally know the building you are looking for very well indeed, whatever that building may be. Getting decent directions can be near to impossible as anyone you ask will invariably respond, "ah yes, i know this place very well," and then give you very precise directions to just around the next corner.

The ceiling fan chops in noisy circles above my head sending gust after gust of sweatbox air scurrying to the white stone walls. I'm flat on my back, skin sticking to the cotton top sheet, eyes closed, mind aching from what is already too long a day. Ewan is already asleep on the bed next to me, he passed out the moment he laid his head. Lucky for some. I'm finding sleep hard to come by. My body thinks its 4am but my eyelids are backlit by the glare of a midday sun.

We stumbled on our homestay more by luck than jugement in the end. It is almost impossible to find any particular house number in the winding, criss crossing, shanty fenced streets of Mt Lavinia. Numbers seem to jump from 10/3 to 17/7 and back again. On the way here I saw three 14's in a row and all of them had rooms on offer to tourists. Almost every building here offers accomodation it seems. There are more hotels than people.

I shut my eyes tighter and try to listen, focus my mind on an entirely new soundtrack to the world. Inside the room the fan rattles and squeaks, the refrigerator in the corner hums quietly. I stretch out. From outside I can hear the occasional buzz of a tuc-tuc, alien, willowing bird calls that I can't even begin to identify and in the distance the deep breathjing of the sea.

A shallow roll of thunder and the palm fronds snap violently in the rain. I close the door quietly behind me, hear the latch click into place, and stand under the overhanging roof staring out at the street. Water is already streaming out of the drains, turning the road into a tarmac estury. I hold out my hand under the heavy sub-continental raindrops. The rain here is somehow more definate than in the UK, no drizzle here. My brain sifts through idle thoughts but finally settles on the fact that if the latch has clicked into place then the door now wont open without the key that I've left inside. The rain gets heavier. Bother.

The streets do clear under the rain. Tuc-tuc drivers disappear into side streets and sheltered allyways and for the first time since I entered Sri-Lanka I'm walking down a main road without anyone calling after me. Rain here is a westeners paradise, the temperature drops, a breeze picks up and the hassle all but disolves away. For the first time I spot other westeners out in the open as three Germans speed by me on rent-a-bikes, just taking the time to spin round and offer me a heavily accented "Good afternoon," before zipping round a corner and out of sight, leaving nothing but the hiss of tyres through puddles.

I've left all my things in the room with Ewan as guard. Not that it feels like there is any danger here. The owners of the homestay are extremely friendly and the only other guest is a quiet bearded Australian who sits for hours in the foyer engrossed in the cricket on the TV. The match is in Galle, $10 and a 2 hour bus and he could see all the action live.

The wind picks up as I near the coast. I duck through a hotel car park which backs onto the train line, as they all seem to, and, much to the amusement of the car park atendent, jump out of my skin as a cargo train thunders past in front of my nose. Crossing the train tracks here is apparently much like crossing a road in the UK. No rules as such, cross anywhere you like, but do remember to look BOTH ways. Trains don't necessarily stick to a 'drive on the left' policy. My sandles slip slightly on sleepers shiny with rain as I hop across them, but I needent worry. If this line were indeed a road then it would be more of a single track country lane than a bustling dual carrageway.

The beach is a postcard under siege. The wind whips spray off the rolling surf and blasts it inland. Groves of palm trees arc against the sea, trunks bent outwards at improbable angles, and inbetween the trees, set back slightly from the narrow, dipping golden grey beach are tens of hotels, restaurants, bars, wooden shacks and fishing huts all clamering for a place on the shore, deserted and barred against the weather.
I walk along the sand following trails of overlapping pawprints through the wash, eyes burning slightly from the salt. When I look up I can just make out the high rises of Colombo out on a distant peninsula. Tomorrows place to visit I feel. I'm forcibly reminded of all the internet images that I assumed were edited together for tourists when I first started planning this trip. Now, standing here I have one of those images live infront of me, rocking in the force of a storm. It's a little surreal, a lot beautiful, and all I'd hoped for all those hours ago in Heathrow. I don't feel tired any more, but I know I should try and get some sleep. Tomorrow is a brand new day, and for the first time in a while I have no idea what it may bring.

Emily in Gambia

My little sister is currently in a fascinating country called The Gambia, participating in voluntary work with schools. You can check out her own blog here:

http://girlstriptogambia2011.blogspot.com/




Ewan.