my love letter to sri lanka
To visit Sri Lanka is to be bewitched.
Bewitched by its people, bewitched by its landscape, bewitched by its culture.
The people of Sri Lanka hold such pride in their country they cannot help themselves but show it off, jumping at the chance to give recommendations, tours and hospitality. Such a love for the country is almost catching and an inevitable infection with it ensues as you see the incredible country through the eyes of those who hold it so dear.
Travelling Sri Lanka felt far slower than other such backpacking I’d experienced. Unlike the frantic, fast pace and bright lights of Southeast Asia, or the many parties of Mexico, Sri Lanka gave you time to catch your breath and take it in. This is not to say that the aforementioned places were not wonderful, or that partying is a write-off, in fact, the ‘quicksand’ of Arugam Bay one quickly gets caught up in offers just that and offers it well, but it does not feel an integral part of the travels, simply a happy extra.
Around four times smaller than the UK, Sri Lanka is wildly more diverse in scenery and landscape. In the short month we explored, we experienced hiking in a rainforest in the mountains, surfing in crystal clear waters, diving over reefs and on safari in national parks to name a few. Whilst no country offers everything Sri Lanka comes pretty damn close.
If searching for culture, the island provides an abundance. From painted frescoed caves to temples atop mountains and within cities, from ancient rock fortresses to sprawling archaeological sites, the cultural triangle of Sri Lanka allows an incredible view into the history, religion and culture of the country.
To say that the landscape was rich with biodiversity would be to do it a disservice. We were taken aback on multiple occasions not only the intense greenery which surrounded us but also the tapestry of varying plants which wove through one another. The longer you stared at any one point the more you saw, all beautiful and intricate in its own way.
It is not often I will wax lyrical about a train, arguably it’s never happened before, but the trains we rode were some of the best forms of travel I’ve taken. With the first not even being the most famous (that being the Kandy to Ella), we sat with windows wide open and the warm, sweet air drifting in on what would otherwise have been a relatively warm journey from Colombo to Habarana. Trundling past paddy fields, farms, towns and villages, patchworking across the luscious countryside, we could barely tear our eyes from the practical masterpiece which flew past the window. Just one day into our trip the enchantment had already begun.
Staring out the window I watched a young girl fly a plastic bag as if it were a kite for the duration of the journey, and her infectious glee at her self-invented game was delightful.
Onto the famous (infamous?) train from Kandy to Ella. This train is renowned both within and outside of Sri Lanka for being the most scenic, infamous perhaps only in the stories of the struggle for tickets and having to book in advance in a country where one typically travels day to day. Yet even despite such worries, cheap tickets are still readily available from the government website as opposed to the travel companies who are known to buy up tickets and resell them to unknowing backpackers at an increasingly raised price.
Provided you book a reserved seat (or risk spending your journey on the uncomfortable floor away from any window!), third-class tickets are the way to go. Unlike first, the windows open and you can almost feel the beauty of the passing scenery as it drifts into the carriage.
If the landscape does not invite you in and provide enough entertainment during your journey, your fellow passengers certainly will. A large Sri Lankan family sat in our carriage travelling from Kandy to Nuwara Elia for their holiday arrived on board with a large speaker and two microphones and immediately broke into various Sri Lankan songs purely for the joy of singing. After a few wonderful solos and duets we were spotted and it was suggested (required) that we sing a British song. One turned into two turned into a two-man concert of us serenading a carriage full of people shouting requests for their favourite British/English songs (to their horror we were a few years too young to reliably know any Westlife). The apparent patriarch of the group ventured off up and down the carriage to find anyone who was not Sri Lankan and request a song from their country, giving us a break and turning the encounter into a multicultural musical experience. After many hours singing, swapping from English to Sri Lankan to Spanish and so on, both the family and the karaoke alighted at Nuwara Elia, just over halfway, and we continued our journey enjoying the expected entertainment of the gorgeous scenery and the slightly worrying thought that somewhere on YouTube there was a video of me singing ABBA rather too confidently on a random train in Sri Lanka (to an adoring crowd I’m sure).
A happy accident ensured that our arrival in Ella coincided with one of the highlights of our trip. Chatting to locals on arrival we were told of a procession happening later that day on the very street we were sitting catching our breath before the daunting climb with our backpacks to our homestay. The young man we were chatting with flagged down the last tuk-tuk still running and bundled us into it with strict instructions to hurry back for fear of missing the show.
Cue the world’s most determined tuk-tuk driver who, on attempting to deliver us and our luggage to our homestay, drove us through the entire procession waiting just outside the town in preparation to begin. Hundreds of men, women and children dressed in the most intricate and elaborate outfits, adorned with silver and gold as well as elephants in equally elaborate dressings all neatly arranged ready to put their presumed hard work into practice. And us, weaving our way through them all in a little tuk-tuk (despite our continued insistence we would pay the kind man the full price and walk the remaining so not to disturb any further, a request which fell on the empty ears of a man who was fully committed to the cause).
Delivered safely to our homestay, and without too much disturbance to the procession, we hightailed it back down the train tracks we had arrived on only an hour before into the town to see the beginning of the procession.
The only word that comes to mind is mesmerising. The complete synchronicity with which each section of the parade moved elucidated the practice, moving in flashes of colour to the beat of the drums and music. From men with long, snapping and cracking whip displays, to girls gracefully emulating the dance of a peacock. Boys who looked as young as eight leapt back and forth on stilts which would have given me vertigo while women followed dancing smoothly all the while balancing statuettes on their heads that were as tall as they were.
The progression in skill was evident as well within the sections as young boys carrying one or two flames, proficiently twirled and spun, and were succeeded by men a few decades their senior throwing great wheels of fire over their heads and spun in opposite directions, only to catch them again at what felt like the last minute. One could almost see the future of the young within the elder, their aspirations manifest.
As the light sank the procession returned through the streets and the shining costumes caught the fire and lamp light, glistening in the frenetic motion. I would have happily stood and watched such a parade for hours on end, suspended in the shifting light, colour and movement.
Naturally one cannot truly capture the essence of a country after a month’s visit, and I would not pretend to have, as with any country it resists neat summarisation; too layered, varied and alive. It is a country which lingers, and encourages you to do the same.
I will, undoubtedly, continue to sing its praises to anyone who will listen.
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