Destination Nicaragua – León

From Honduras, I travelled straight to León, a fairly small town in Nicaragua, but according to my new bank of knowledge, very popular with the tourists. This was one of the recommended backpacker hotspots, and true to form, Bigfoot Hostel (busy party hostel offering popular tours), and Via Via (hostel boasting a large bar and ample space for music and dancing), occupy the same street. I opted for a hostel just around the corner, complete with snoozing cat on the free-to-use pool table, and guaranteed quiet relaxing mornings. Las Vacaciones was away from the pumping centre, but still within walking distance of everything. You can’t beat a free breakfast of fluffy pancakes with fresh banana and maple syrup either.

  

The hostel feline, showing us how to relax

So, with my first full day in León ahead of me, I grabbed a free map from the information table. Eager to explore, but still a little nervous about strolling around Nicaragua, a place I had led myself to believe was riddled with crime and danger, I took out my trusty, fancy, black Bic Biro, and drew myself a route. I intended to visit all thirteen churches in one day, because that’s what I’m like. I’m a planner. I often feel a heavy guilt if I don’t see absolutely everything that a place has to offer. Naturally, I also needed to pinpoint where the best eateries were; never miss an opportunity to taste your way around a country.

Indio Viejo in Cocinarte vegetarian restaurant – a Nicaraguan dish that translates as ‘Old Indian’. Although this version is vegetarian, the stew-like dish originally contained any meats and vegetables that were native to the region.

With my map in hand, my ‘lifeline’ for the day, I opened the metal gate and stepped onto the street. It clunked heavily behind me, locking me out. The sun was rife. It was only ten in the morning, and it was hot. Thank goodness for factor seventy sun lotion.

Keen to get moving, I started to follow my intended route, towards the first attraction. Now I may not be the most religious person around, in fact, I’m not religious at all, but I do have the ability to appreciate breathtaking architecture when I stumble upon it. And in Nicaragua, this is not hard to find. After a simple, less-than-five-minutes walk from my hostel, I turned a corner, and there, in front of me, wedged between two exposed red-brick bell towers, was Iglesia El Calvario, a masterfully painted, beautifully bright, yellow church. Unfortunately, it was not open at the time, so I marvelled at the skilfully painted religious murals on the front of the building; above the door, central and proud, was Jesus’ portrait, nailed to the cross. I tried to imagine the ornate and antique treasures that might be inside. Little did I know, the interior may not have been as grand as I was dreaming.

Aside: apologies for the lack of photo here, a lot of my León snaps are on my camera memory card, which has already made the journey back to the UK. Please follow this link to the Iglesias El Calvario Trip Advisor page where you can view other travellers’ photos.

While admiring the façade, I was joined by an Asian family who were also touring the town, following the same map. It was the first time I started to feel at ease in Nicaragua. This was the moment that I stopped fretting and allowed myself to sink into the pleasures of being a stranger in a foreign country.

Next stop was Central Park. No, not the New York City kind, but the Central American kind. Every major town/city seems to have one. Even the tiny island of Flores in Guatemala had a mini Parque Central. Don’t be deceived by the word ‘parque’, though. They’re not the kind of place you roll around in the sunshine and get grass stains over your summer frock. Most of them are concrete jungles teeming with merchants, locals and tourists. Generally the main centrepiece of each square is the biggest religious building of the area. The cathedral. And León’s is pretty spectacular.

Front of the Cathedral in Parque Central

Extract from the twenty-thirteen Lonely Planet’s Central America on a Shoestring: ‘The cathedral was having a face-lift at press time but should be completed by the time you read this.’

Well their prediction was seventy-five percent close. When I was there in November, the front of the building looked sparkling, straight out of the packet, brand new; you almost needed your sunglasses to look directly at it. But one of the sides hadn’t been touched by even the slightest lick of paint yet, and the opposite side to that still had scaffolding scaling the side of it.

Untouched side of the cathedral with the original lion statues

At this rate, I don’t even think the Cathedral’s restoration will be complete by the time the updated edition of the Lonely Planet is released.

Repairs aside, I sat down under the shade of a tree in the park and studied the spruced up cathedral. Upon reflection and a closer examination, I noticed that the tops of the bell towers were already falling victim to weathering. The mixture of humidity, scorching heat and damaging rain can’t be easy to contend with. 

As was to be expected, the inside of the cathedral does not disappoint, and not because it is adorned with riches and expensive décor, in fact, the interior is quite plain. Finally. There are a few flashes of gold paint here and there, but most of the walls are a neutral off-white, complimenting the clean stone flooring (Nicaraguan’s are forever sweeping). 



Inside the cathedral. This is one of the only golden treasures I have seen in the Central American places of worship

An 0pinionated aside: Something that bothered me when I was in South East Asia, was how elaborately decorated their places of worship are; absolutely bursting with golden Buddhas, ornate furnishings, and ancient precious jewels behind glass casing. Yes, they are beautiful spaces to enjoy, but you are then expected to leave offerings and donations all over the place. I would often see people that were obviously living in poor conditions, giving away precious coins to their faith, when they probably needed it for more pressing amenities, like food. I don’t disagree with the concept of religion, because I believe that everyone has a right to be able to seek comfort from wherever they choose, but I disagree with the way it has become such a heavily money orientated society. The simplicity of León’s grand cathedral took me by pleasant surprise.

In time, I have learnt that most of the churches in Central America share the same simple and clean interior, and I like it. The space is always airy, the ceilings high, and the people are friendly. Nobody badgers you for donations or payment. Wandering in and out of these religious spaces is relaxing and enjoyable.

You can pay a small fee to explore the roof of the cathedral

León isn’t all about churches and cathedrals. Oh no. It’s also about ice cream. A couple of blocks away from the hostel is a little haven called Kiss Me, where they sell the most delicious vodka sorbet. If you’re cheeky, like me, you can ask for a couple of samples before you choose your poison. I went for the luminous purple dragonfruit, teaming it with the super sweet, refreshing, passionfruit sorbet. And the cone is homemade, so naturally I opted for full frozen euphoria.

Me eating sorbet from Kiss Me.

It was over in minutes.

The oppressive thirty-two degree heat was not going to let me eat my treat in peace. Before I knew it, I had sticky purple juice dribbling down my hand, like a child. But it was all ‘oh so’ worth it.

So what is the big draw to a town of religious architecture? Why do backpackers flock there? You’ll never guess so I’ll just tell you.

If you pay around $20-$25, you can book a tour in which you drag a plank of wood up a volcano for an hour. Super exciting, eh? Well actually, it is. Cerro Negro is active, and once you get near the top, you can feel it’s heat if by hovering your hand above the black sand. You can’t get too close to the crater’s edge, but you can get close enough to smell the sulphurous fumes it emits.

At the summit of Cerro Negro

So that pesky wooden board. Why did our group adorn ourselves with such a burden? You may have guessed already. It was our ticket down. We shimmied into big oversized blue boiler suits, pinged on a pair of goggles and put on some handy, if a little over-used, somewhat protective, gloves. Our guides demonstrated the movements for speed, slowing down, breaking and turning, although I can tell you now, the manoeuvring is s lightly more complicated than they let on. Just plan on going straight and you’ll be fine.

Walking up the volcano with our boards

I was the last of the group to sit on the board and ready myself for the signal (our guide had positioned himself halfway down and would wave his hat when the path was clear). Annoyingly, I had to wait an unbearably long time, because the girl that went before me seemed to struggle to get going, or actually, move at all. I reckon she dragged herself the whole way down the volcano with her feet.

Our guide explaining the rules of volcano boarding

The white hat flicked into the air, so I lent back and I lifted my legs. The board slid over the sand with ease and it wasn’t long before I started picking up some decent speed. I’m not normally much of an adrenaline junkie, but I’m trying to stop being a wimp with activities like this, so I put all my trust into the board, and my ability to break if necessary.

In no time at all, I was bombing past the guide, waving to his video camera. But the joy of the speed and the blustery wind on my face was short-lived. The girl in front of me still hadn’t reached the bottom of the volcano. I tried to turn with my feet, but I just kept going straight. Before it was too late I slammed my feet deep into the black sand and stopped. I waited about ten more minutes before I could continue my decent, all hope of a clear run behind me.

Our volcano boarding group

To this day, I’m a little frustrated that my own volcano boarding experience had been tainted, especially as it was something I happened to be quite good at. So whenever someone asks me if I did it in Nicaragua, I just say, ‘yeah, it was so awesome!’ And I leave it at that.

And you know, it was, I truly loved it. I would have dragged that board up Cerro Negro for another hour and done it again if I could.

Back in León, I washed three times in the shower to scrub all the sand out of my hair and off my body. I had a lovely chill in the hostel and found some cheap delicious, if a little oversized, street food for my evening meal. I ate half of the monster portion and had the rest bundled up in a banana leaf before heading to the cinema to watch Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Just like a local.

Pre-cinema street food of chicken, caramelised plantain, salad, rice and beans, all for £3
This post was written to a mixture of Ellie Goulding’s albums on my iPod while flying from Costa Rica to Mexico City. I finished and tweaked it during my flight from Mexico City to Lima the following day. During this moment, as I complete the post, I am listening to Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve.

Planning and prepping for an adventure

How do you decide where to go? Is it within your budget? What public transport options are available? Will it be dangerous? Can I travel solo? What activities can I do there?

You can take risks and travel smart at the same time. It’s a skill that’s taken a long time to develop and nurture, but I think I’m getting the hang of it. That is, until the next series of mishaps, which let’s face it, are unavoidable. There’s no such thing as perfection in the world of travel.

When we dream about visiting faraway lands, we can sometimes let excitement cloud our judgement. The adrenaline we feel when deciding what plane ticket to buy, can cause us to forget that some trips require a bit more planning than simply bashing your credit card details into the internet. The world is only your ‘oyster’ until something goes wrong.

So with seven countries and six months behind me, it’s time to reflect on where I have been and how I executed my route; and I must be doing something right, because I’m still happy, healthy and bobbing from place to place.

First of all, you need to know that I am guilty of almost skipping Nicaragua. Shocked? In hindsight, I am appalled at myself. 

Here’s my story:

Way back when, in the first quarter of twenty-sixteen, I started researching my trip. I’d purchased my one-way ticket to Toronto and had further plans to visit my friend while he was in Mexico City, so what next? I bought both Lonely Planet’s trusty Central And South America on a Shoestring guidebooks, because that seemed like the natural root from Mexico.

Handy smartphone and tablet friendly PDF copy of Lonely Planet’s Central America on a Shoestring 

“Is it safe?”

“I don’t know, Mum, I haven’t researched yet.”

“Be sensible, Lauren. You’re a single female traveller this time.”

And of course, she was right. Mum normally is.

Cue Facebook message from said parent: You’ve made a typo in your latest blog post. You put ‘normally’ instead of ‘always’. Don’t worry, I’ll let you off.

I instantly plunged into the depths of the internet and googled the logistics of travelling through Latin America. Once I owned those travel books, I was determined.

In the UK, our ‘go-to’ website for this kind of information is the government travel website, as it’s supposed to be accurate and is regularly updated. Most of the countries seemed to throw up the usual issues, such as petty crimes, mugging, drug trafficking etc. ‘Exercise caution as you would at home’. But Nicaragua appeared to showcase a few more issues than this, so many in fact, that I didn’t bother reading the majority of the negative essays attached to each link. So I promised that I wouldn’t go; I intended to pass straight through and head to Costa Rica.

Upon starting my journey through Central America, as is to be expected, I met many backpackers that had commenced their travels as far South as Panama, and were making their way to Mexico. In the cosy common areas of hostels, we would share our experiences and offer lists composed of our near-future wanderlust plans. Every time I mentioned skipping Nicaragua, I received many different reactions, the only element they had in common was negativity.

“But why?”

“You can’t, it’s amazing.”

“You’ll be missing so much!”

I felt the excitement for my chosen route diminish. Rapidly. I pleaded with these like-minded free spirits; “but it isn’t safe, right? Especially for a lone female traveler? Isn’t there too much unrest? Too much crime?” Again, those disapproving looks.

Loaded with new information and stories of golden experiences, I battled with my inner-being. Do I stay on track, or do I cut my planned two weeks of diving in Honduras? Should I set foot in a completely unknown (I hadn’t even bothered reading the Nicaraguan section of the guidebook) and previously off-limits land? Do I break my promise?

I broke my promise.

Carrying a plank of wood up a volcano in Nicaragua. Why? Blog post to follow…

Like a kitten with a saucer of milk, I drank the precious knowledge in the Lonely Planet and roughly planned a route through the country.

“Mum, I’ve decided to see Nicaragua.”

“But it’s not safe.”

“It’s fine, there’s hundreds of backpackers doing it, I’ve met loads of them.”

Traditional Nicaraguan dancing. Both performers are men

I can’t quite remember how I convinced her, I’m not sure if I ever did, not until I was on the other side, travelling to Costa Rica.

“Your photos are amazing, I might look into visiting Nicaragua.”

“You definitely should, Mum, it’s breathtaking.”

The food is pretty breathtaking too

In non-scientific, completely opinion-based conclusion, what I’m trying to stress here, is not that we should ignore travel advice, or rush off around the world without a thought for personal safety, but we should definitely be more open-minded about where we plan to leave our footprints.

Artisan bus shop at Zopilote Eco Village on Isla de Ometepe, Nicaragua

Here’s what I’ve learnt:

• Read the ‘dangers and annoyances’ sections of guidebooks. They are written by travel experts for a reason.
• Read blogs and get a snapshot of other people’s experiences.
• Make and share your own opinions. If you go to a country and you don’t feel safe, leave.
• As much as I value the UK government website, I recommend using with caution. I’m probably going to put it in my, ‘things to be aware of’, pile of notes, rather than make a decision based purely on this information.
• Use your common sense.
• Be aware of world affairs.

Nicaragua has so far turned out to be my favourite Central American country. I did not feel threatened or out of my depth, the people are very friendly and helpful, and the public transport is easy to navigate. If you do not know any Spanish, you can rock up to a bus station, say your destination in a questioning tone, and someone will definitely point you in the right direction. Of course you still need to have your wits about you, but this probably applies in your own country, too; so why would you let your guard down anywhere else?

Enjoying a sleepy chicken bus ride with the locals

This post was written to the deep base of semi-rap/hip-hop/Caribbean mix of music in Roadshack Deli in Uvita, Costa Rica. I ordered a veggie burger with a mix of potato, yuka, and plantain fries. I left the bun.



…Advanced Course!

So I just found this blog post on my Kindle. I suppose I should upload it. Yeah.

Once we got back to DJL reception, signed our dive logs and had an attractive photo taken for our dive licenses, Sam and I decided to book the advanced course, starting the following day. At roughly 8000 baht, £145, (we received a helpful ten percent discount for taking the PADI course) and with a couple of days to spare before we had to be in Bangkok, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity for more time with the fishes. But first, we had to attend the Koh Tao pub crawl to celebrate our open water diving success. If you head to the island yourself, I definitely recommend the lady boy cabaret show. It’s brilliant.

Anyway, back to the diving. The advanced course consists of five dives in the space of two days. It’s pretty intense, and there are skills that need to be completed, but they mostly turn out to be fun dives. As a group, we decided to do the following:

– Navigation dive (compulsory)
– Peak performance buoyancy (compulsory)
– Night dive
– Wreck dive
– Deep dive

As interesting as it sounds, the wreck dive wasn’t as exciting as I was expecting. My favourite was the night dive. I was initially worried about heading 30 metres below sea level at night because I thought the darkness would make me feel claustrophobic, but it actually had the opposite affect. Even though there were other divers around the site at the same time as us, (not as many as during the day, though) it still felt like we were the only people in the entire ocean. I know the sea is vast anyway, but somehow it just felt, bigger. Our instructor, Jo, gave each of us a torch, not only for light, but for communication. If any of us were to see anything of interest, we were to slowly circle it with the beam of the torch, being careful not to shine it in the eyes of the marine life.

I don’t think I’ve ever come across a feeling that night diving instilled within me. It’s one of those places that you would go to put issues and worries on hold, because you just don’t tend to think about crap like that when you’re able to bob along next to the colourful wonders of the ocean floor with your newly acquired buoyancy.

So, £320 later, and I am officially an advanced open water diver. I didn’t think I’d ever take to island life. I’m not really a beachy person. But it was very difficult leaving Koh Tao. Diving isn’t just a sport or a hobby, in the six days that I spent in the company of divers, I realised that it’s a way of life. Getting up early for a 6am dive is never a problem when you know you’re going to be heading out on a boat for the day. Thank you Davy Jones. Thank you very much.

Koh Tao

So today I realised that I’ve been putting off a lot of important stuff. That life stuff that life is full of:

– Replying to emails
– Replying to Facebook socialisings
– Nurturing blog
– Printing flight confirmation
– Buying conditioner

I suppose you could say I tried to tackle some of these neglects this afternoon when I propped my Kindle against the wall and turned it on with every intention of writing. Something. Anything. Naturally I flicked through the interface’s carousel and opened the non-word processing app, ‘TED’. Not only did I fail at all of the above, I also fell asleep.

When I woke up, I stumbled upon a TED talk by Dave Eggers, which can be found here:

I may have been drawn to his talk because I’m familiar with him as an author, it might have been because I’m fascinated with the way he talks faster than he can think, maybe it’s because he has an impressive beard, whatever it was, I’m thankful for it because it rescued me from slipping into a state of writerly disinterest.

Serious writers probably shouldn’t need a metaphorical kick up the arse to get the pen moving, but when you’re on the other side of the world, and your life is rushing past like rice paddies outside a bus window during a journey from Hue to Hanoi in Vietnam, you begin to misplace some of that writerly passion. And I say ‘you’ rather than ‘I’, because I know I’m not the only person to have strayed away from this chosen path before, and I won’t be the last.

You might also be wondering why the post is titled ‘Koh Tao’. Well it was initially supposed to be chronologically travel related.

I guess it still is, really.

KL

A five hour bus journey later and we arrive in the city of Kuala Lumpur. Much like Singapore, we found the metro and headed towards the station where we would find our hostel, Reggae Mansion. Sam chose it because it has a cinema. We never used the cinema.

Tired and beaten, we decided to get an early night. I wasn’t sure if this was going to be possible in a twenty-four bed dorm, but I was ready to try. The friendly member of staff explained the route to the room and gave us the code. I forgot it instantly. Thankfully, Sam was more alert, and we were in.

My first impression was: this is cool. The bunk-beds are built up against the walls. Each one has a curtain across it and there are lockers at the underneath the bottom bunk, big enough to fit an entire rucksack. Sam was excited because it was the first place we were able to test our padlocks. It’s not always the big things that excite backpackers.

My excitement soon dwindled when I matched my number with the bed. Top bunk. How the hell was I meant to get up there?

My first attempt at climbing the ladder proved that my legs and arms are quite short. But I found a way to lever myself up in the end. It’s a good job I don’t suffer from vertigo. Once settled, I realised I’d be sleeping in a luxuriously comfy bed for three nights, in a private little pod that I could actually change in. Again, the little things, like not needing to go to the bathroom to get dressed, are luxury.

Before I started writing this piece, I really didn’t know what I had to say about Kuala Lumpur. To me, it was just another high-rise city. Although it wasn’t what I expected. I suppose, because it’s in Malaysia, I assumed it would be quite dilapidated and dirty. It was neither of those. It was more like an underdeveloped Singapore and an overdeveloped Bristol.

So I’m taking this piece down a different path. In fact, I’m going to talk to you about my favourite aspect of travel.

People.

We didn’t meet many people in Sri Lanka because it was so guesthouse/homestay oriented. We stayed in a dorm once, where we did eventually meet fellow backpackers. Anyway, it turns out that Reggae Mansion is like a hub for meeting new people. They offer an all day tour called ‘The 7 Wonders of Kuala Lumpur’. We hadn’t really looked at tours before, apart from the massive tuktuk scam we went on in Sri Lanka that robbed us of a few thousand rupees. Hidden charges are everywhere in Sri Lanka, so be careful if you’re heading that way. But this 7 wonders tour seemed legitimate and a bargain.

It’s roughly 5RM to the £1, not bad for a full day and seven different places. Plus, the tour started at 10am. Even better.

We reached the lobby a few minutes early and sat on the sofa. The room started filling up and people were shuffling around or fidgeting in seats. We’d had a short chat with someone else going on the tour, but other than that, there wasn’t much conversation around. When the guide turned up, he did a quick register. Thirteen of us altogether.

For the first destination, everyone went off in their pairs or by themselves to explore the mosque we’d been taken to. Despite our separate ways, we all came together at the end and spoke about the one thing we had in common – the mosque. This was enough to break through the wariness you feel around new people, and from then on, the bus was full of voices. “So, where are you from? How long have you been travelling? How much did you save for your trip? Do you like travelling alone?” These are the critical questions that begin any friendship between one backpacker and another.

By the end of the tour, we’d had group photos and more in depth conversations. We also found out it was someone’s birthday, a girl from sunny England. So of course, we collectively decided that she needed to have a night out and arranged to meet at the rooftop bar in Reggae.

After a dry three weeks, the vodka went straight to my head, even after a whole plate of BBQ food and Sam’s leftover baked potato. Eating that night definitely wasn’t cheating. Then someone said ‘buckets’ and ‘card games’, and that was it. All dignity was lost through karaoke and struggling with stairs. But it was a night to try and remember, and one that would be difficult to top.

The next morning, I dragged people out of bed and demanded we get coffee before the hangover kicked in. As the morning ticked on, everyone else joined our breakfast table and lamented that they had buses to catch and bags to pack.

It’s a shame we all dispersed so soon after we’d just met, but that’s the way of the backpacker. You come and go as though you were never there.

But fortunately, we have Facebook.

Haw Par Villa

As promised, here’s the story for another time.

One morning, I got talking to a guy who’d been in Singapore for two weeks. I asked him what he’d enjoyed most and what he’d recommend. Reeling off the usual guidebook attractions, I noted them down and circled my map. Just as I was going to clear my breakfast dishes, he said:

“Oh, and my favourite thing I did, was go to Haw Par Villa. It’s this place full of Chinese statues. I won’t say anymore, just go there. Trust me. It’s bizarre and brilliant.”

So I did. But not before having a sneak peak at the Lonely Planet guide to see if there was anymore information. The answer was, no, not really:

     ‘That which is derived from society should be returned to society’, said Aw Boon Haw, creator of the Tiger Balm miracle salve. A million dollars later, what he returned was the Haw Par Villa, an unbelievably weird and undoubtedly kitsch theme park showcasing Chinese culture.

Knowing that it was about the people who developed Tiger Balm, but not much else, I hopped on the metro and headed for the conveniently named station, ‘Haw Par Villa’. When I got off the line, I wandered into the street, expecting to find a map with a big YOU ARE HERE red dot, but who needs a map when you can just turn right and you come across this:

I walked up to the main gate where I was met by a man. It was very quite and I couldn’t see any tourists. This is often a bad sign in SEA.

“One hour,” he said. “We close.”

Crap. I’d left it too late and so I had to rush. I smiled and said thank you before continuing up the slope towards the attraction. When I rounded the corner, I found a signpost and a map. This place is big. With my camera around my neck, I decided to take a picture of everything as I knew I wouldn’t be coming back here. Not for a long time anyway.

Walking around, I thought I’d be able to gain some information from the abundance of plaques and signs dotted around the area, but most of them were a metallic gold, chipped and most of the writing was worn away. This was much the same story for the statues themselves. What were once colourful depictions of Chinese myth and legend, were now fading bridges and beasts, weathered and crumbling.

A clichéd splash of paint would have actually brought these statues back to life, but somehow, they seemed better this way. I’m sure back in 1937 when the Villa and it’s grounds were opened, the bright colours and clear, blue water features would have attracted visitors from all over. In fact, an article on the way out proved this to be true. But I felt as though this dilapidated park had an abundance stories whispering through the tunnels and over the bridges of chipped plaster and paint.

Did I mention it was deserted? Not only were there no tourists, but there were no staff either. I had the lonely place to myself. It was brilliant. I wandered around in the silent world of tigers, fish, people, and myth. It was a blissful hour.

Although run-down, I felt this place deserved a post. It was my favourite spot in Singapore. It felt unloved and unattended for, but this is what gave it charm and illusion – exactly what Haw Par Villa is supposed to represent.

Adam’s Peak

Oh, hello blog, it’s been a while. Twenty-four to be exact. Since then I’ve been to Singapore, Kuala Lumpur and Thailand. So yes, I’m very behind. I do have some pretty good reasons though:

– Hours of overland travel
– A couple of nights of excessive alcohol (because 3 weeks without it was enough…)
– Learning to dive
– Being hooked on diving

Excuses, excuses, excuses.

So 2380km takes us back to Sri Lanka. I’m going to keep us hidden in the hill country for a little longer.

We got off the train at Hatton, and we were instantly badgered by Sri Lankan transport. “Where you going? Tuktuk? Taxitaxitaxi? I own this hotel, nice hot water and comfortable.” As per our usual, we started asking for the bus station. But of course, ‘no’ buses run to Delhouse, you have to take a tuktuk. So the bartering began. Somehow, we managed to get a ride for four hundred rupees. It probably should have cost us one thousand, perhaps more, but the driver did actually stop several times on the way to pick up various tuktuk essentials; a spare tyre, some fuel, some oil. Oh, we did get to see a lake on the way.

“You want pictures?” The driver was already getting out.
“Okay, what’s the lake called?” I asked.
“Sorry?”
“The lake. It’s name?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Does it have a name? The lake?”
“Ohhhh. No. No name.”

And off we went, although not before having our photos with Mr Driver and his beloved tuktuk.

After a cold shower and an afternoon of chill time, we tucked ourselves into bed and slept until 3am. Some climbers had been awake for an hour already, but word of mouth informed us that it should only take roughly two hours to reach the summit. Plenty of time before sunrise.

On the way to the base, we stopped by the open stalls to stock up on water and bars of sugar. Energy energy energy. After being badgered into a too-early-to-care donation scam, we found the first step at 3:30am. This is where team Sam and Lauren split up. I can’t walk slow due to a knee condition, and Sam can’t walk fast due to asthma.

As I started to ascend, Sri Lankan men, women and children, were already coming down and finishing their pilgrimage. We often exchanged morning pleasantries, but as my breathing became more shallow and the words ‘good morning’ didn’t feel so good anymore, I plugged myself into my iPod and let Maroon 5’s rhythm carry me forward. It felt like I was running on the beach back home, but this was steps, and I didn’t have my wing-dog, Lenny.

The entire path leading to the summit was lit, so I could roughly judge how far I’d walked by studying the number of lights above and below me. I had a system where I would walk up blocks of steps without stopping, and then allow myself a couple of seconds respite at the top of each block. This worked perfectly. I was able to make progress while admiring the activity around me. I was struck by the number of elderly men and women making the pilgrimage, probably for the hundredth+ time in their life. Bare foot, frail, determined, they took it step by step, many women in their nineties were supporting each other, stopping with each other. Sometimes I’d pause my music, just to listen to their native language. It wouldn’t have surprised me if they were gossiping the whole way. Sri Lankan tea plantation workers are well known for their twitterings.

Besides the couple of seconds of breathing time, I did stop once. Big mistake. I knew as soon as I’d perched myself on a railing, I’d be stuck. I felt the muscles spasm in my legs and the cartilage in my knees started to burn. I’d probably walked up four thousand steps by that point. The top seemed so close, but the lights above me never seemed to reach the summit. I checked my iPod. 4:45am. Determined to make the sunrise, I swigged my water and took a bite of the sugar bar. I must have stopped for five minutes. Too much.

Although, it wasn’t soon before too long (see what I did there?) that I turned a corner and the steps became steeper. There was a set of railings on either side of the path, and one straight through the middle. I picked the right hand side and mimicked the pace of the person in front of me. Eventually, the trail of people ahead started to slow down due to a human traffic jam near the top. Sweating and wobbly, we all waited. I checked my watch. It had been one hour and thirty minutes ago that I’d conquered step one. There were about one hundred left and it took me fifteen minutes. I shouldn’t say I’m dissatisfied that I could have reached the summit quicker, but actually, I kind of am. Personal competition and all that.

Anyway, I edged around the temple that sat at the top of the peak, and joined the Western world that had been waiting around for a couple of hours. The early risers were shivering under blankets and jumpers. This would probably be the coldest place I’d visit in Sri Lanka. On went my own two hoodies and a pair of gloves (thank you, Mum, for making me pack winter-wear).

A quarter of an hour later, Sam joined me at the top; just in time for the sunrise. We watched the sky pinwheel through its colour chart of navys, blues, pinks, reds and yellows. As it rose, the mountains below started to come into focus, triangular shadows pointing to the sky.

If I’m honest, that was pretty much it. Although beautiful, the urge to see the sunrise was quickly replaced by an urge for descent.

I won’t bore you with the details of going down, but I will let you know that it hurt. A couple of times I had to move aside for people to be stretchered down the mountain.

But I made it. Tired, sticky and shaking, ready for a shower and some breakfast.

At the bottom, I turned around and looked up, towards the peak, where we’d left people in peace, praying after their long pilgrimage.

They’d be there for a couple of hours, eating, drinking, praying, socialising. This was their way of life, and they’d let us in. Grateful, I turned around and dragged myself back to the hostel.

As I tucked into my toast and runny jam, I thought about how I would climb Adam’s Peak again if I was ever in the area. It’s definitely cheaper than a gym membership.

Stories To Tell

I’ve Been Searching For It For Days

We’d trudged through the dusty towns and cities of Colombo, Negombo and Kandy, and I was beginning to wonder where the renowned Sri Lankan scenery was hiding; apparently it can’t be missed.

Standing on the platform at Nuwara Eliya, we waited among the seventy/thirty tourist to Sri Lankan ratio, for the train to Ella. We were already in the ‘hill country’, but we were yet to experience the vast tea plantations that are supposed to occupy the area. Although we’d already sampled plenty of it.

The train rolled in and people started shuffling along the platform. Shuffling, shuffling, shuffling, running. Running to claim a seat for the three hour journey ahead. Of course, we were not quick enough. One of the main guidebook attractions we wanted to experience, and we had to stand in the aisles or between the carriage couplings. I managed to park myself in the middle of a carriage so I could see out of the window. I didn’t bother taking my camera out. I didn’t want photos of filthy windows taunting me for missing the views on the other side.

The train jerked forwards. I could already feel the cramp in my toes from my not-so-broken-in walking shoes. For the first half an hour, the scenery passed by, much the same as everything I’d already seen in Nuwara Eliya. Dry grass dominated the slopes either side of the track. A three-legged dog relieved itself on what looked like a giant pink tulip. A couple of mini waterfalls trickling down the side of the hills attracted a few twitterings from the tourists, but nothing guidebook worthy yet.

I was distracted by a fidgeting French couple when it happened. Since they’d gotten on the train, all they’d done was move their bags from one place to another in an attempt to make some seats. While I was trying to grab the strap of my bag to tug it out of their way a forth time, the train emerged out of a tunnel and the voices in the compartment rose. I looked up, and there it was. A reason to use the word beauty.

Colombo has its busy roads and backstreet drug grottos that tuktuk drivers are happy to show you in case you’re that way inclined (often without asking you first), Negombo has its beach that attracts many tourists and even more locals, Kandy has its Temple of the Tooth (turns out there’s one in Singapore too), its scamming tour operators and its man-made lake. The stretch between Nuwara Eliya and Ella has these sheer drops on either side of the railway tracks, and hillsides that would send you plummeting into a forest of coconut trees or tea plantations.

I took my phone from my bag and wrote the following sentences:

     The Sri Lankans make incredible use out of their land. Wherever there is a patch of mud, a seed grows.

I look back at this and feel as though I didn’t put enough effort into describing what I saw, but then, upon reflection, this note expresses exactly what I thought of the scene at the time. The simplicity of the sentence structure shows just how much I wanted to be looking out of a window rather than at an iPhone screen. It’s not very often that we experience something that has the power to transport our minds away from technology, long enough for us to temporarily forget that it exists.

I stared at the expanse of foliage that was revealing itself to us as we sped across the rails. Each time we went through a tunnel, a different view would be there to greet us on the other side.

I watched the silent movie of the countryside until the train stopped. Sri Lankans started vacating their seats, so I threw my bag onto one next to a window and climbed across. Normally, I would be more  polite, but this was important. I had to see.

The train pulled away and I took my camera out; poised, I waited. But the view was gone. No more rippling hills or overcrowded forests. No more mist brushing the canopies of coconut infested palms. No more sheer drops. Just fields, and mud.

A Sri Lankan occupied the seat beside me and started asking me the usual, ‘where are you from? Where are you going? How long in Sri Lanka? You like?’ spiel. I took the opportunity to ask him about the environment, trying to mask my disappointment. I found out that those patches of mud I’d been ignoring, were actually rice fields.

We spoke about cultivation for the rest of the journey, and by the time we reached Ella, I’d taken fifty+ photos and been informed that I should try a red banana during my stay. I promised I’d buy one as soon as I could.

I met Sam on the platform and showed him some photos.

     “Did you see? All those plants. Look at this one of the train.”

     “I couldn’t see from where I was standing. That’s a good photo.”

I felt sad that I’d managed to capture a fraction of the beauty that Sri Lanka has to offer.

     “We’ll take the train to Hatton when we go to Delhouse to do Adam’s Peak, okay?”

And so, we did:

P.s. Adam’s Peak, you ask? Another day perhaps…

Stories To Tell

– USUAL DISCLAIMER: it’s been a while, WordPress. Normally I would have something to blame for my lack of posting, but this time…
… nothing. Apart from maybe being distracted by the exciting lives of other travellers and making friends along the way through the wonderful world of hostelling. But you can’t blame me for that? Can you? –

So I left you all contemplating the obscure town of Nuwara Eliya, right? Well we only spent one night there, and it wasn’t very exciting, so don’t worry, I’m not going to bore you with the dull, ‘we went here, then there, then did this and saw that’, style narrative. Instead, I’ve selected a few Sri Lankan tales that I will individually blog about to round off the first part of our trip.

Yep, we catch our second flight in two days. Singapore, we’re ready for your noodles.

One Banana?

Way back last week, in what seems like another age – what day is it? – we were wandering down to the lake in Nuwara Eliya, which, as is the norm around here, we would have had to have paid a higher price than the locals to get into the complex. Opting to keep our foreign payments (a few days later, a fellow backpacker informed me that if we’d travelled north to Sigiriya, aka Lion Rock, we would have paid 3800 rupees more than the locals) we chose to view the lake from the road. Brushing that fun fact aside, before you get to the lake itself, there are many pop up stalls on the roadside selling fruits.

As we’d travelled through several towns by then, we were getting a clear picture of trade in Sri Lanka. Back in the UK, it would be unheard of to open two of the same franchises/stores next to each other (such as two McDonald’s’ – gross), but here, everyone is selling the same product and you find yourself choosing between six of the same stalls to purchase that perfectly ripe piece of fruit. Where do you even begin?

Trying not to make too much eye contact with the sellers, I eventually chose a bright red apple that looked crisp enough to take a few hits from the Sri Lankan cricket team. With it swinging in a bag at my hip, I scanned the stalls for the ripest looking bananas. It appeared that I would be picking the best out of a bad bunch, so I walked towards an elderly gentleman who smiled and said hello. He was missing his top front teeth.

     “Can I help you, Madam?”
     “How much are the bananas?”
     “Twenty rupees, Madam. This?” He pointed to a long, bruised green one underneath a bunch that was hanging from the roof of his stall.
      I stood on my tiptoes and pointed to a stubby, yellow, equally bruised one at the top.
     “That one, please.”
     “One?”
     “Yes please.”
     “One banana?”
     “Yeah.”
     “One.”
     I nodded, not sure what else to say. Is it weird to want one banana? Apparently so.

It was the sweetest, softest banana I’d ever tasted. My short stay in Nuwara Eliya taught me not to judge a banana by its skin, and that making an elderly Sri Lankan fruit seller smile, is a better way to spend my money than on an over-priced admission to a tourist attraction.

I will continue to ask for one banana, even if I fancy two.

Observation Sri Lanka

– DISCLAIMER: this post is slightly out of date due to wi-fi connectivity issues –

My travel partner and I have been mingling with the locals of Sri Lanka for five days, and in that time we’ve visited four areas of the country. Upon arrival, we eased through customs in ten minutes and were soon walking past flat screen televisions, washing machines and other household items. Did this provide an accurate first impression? Well…

…in our sleep deprived state, we caught a taxi (luxury number one) to Colombo Airport Hostel @ Negombo Beach. Naturally, so as not to waste time, we de-backpacked and headed for the capital by bus. The hostel name proved to be slightly deceptive, because an hour and a half later, we arrived in Colombo. Oh, Colombo. Busy, busy Colombo, with your squished markets and rows of shops.

A short walk through a couple of streets and we were done. Everyone has something to sell and each road looks the same. I’m sure if we’d given it more of a chance, we’d have stumbled upon something of interest, but the lure of the trains that would rattle us back to Negombo was too enticing.

This in itself, has to be my most dominant memory of Sri Lanka so far.

Mistake number one of the trip occurred when we hopped (while it was moving) onto a rush hour train. If you’ve ever been subjected to a London tube at five pm on a weekday, multiply the intensity of the journey by ten and you have the experience of the human-cattle-herding train from Colombo to Chilaw. On top of this, the train takes longer than the bus and not all the stations are signposted (apart from Negombo -fortunately). By the end of the ride, I felt like I’d just stepped out of a film. Having just witnessed people hanging out of the train doors and jumping off at non-existent stations, I was ready to say goodnight to Sri Lanka.

With a little healthy traveller debate, map staring and toast munching, we decided to head for Kandy. It was everything you’d expect from a tourist trap, cramped with street sellers, restaurants, tour guides (official and ‘not-so-official’), etc. Initially, I felt more at home than the relaxed life in Negombo, but soon took a dislike to the constant badgering to buy the finest silk in Sri Lanka, or to try my luck at winning a car that I clearly wouldn’t be able to fit in my luggage; backpack or otherwise. Although I did appreciate the peaceful walk around the lake in the centre of the city:

This aside, on the second day, we hired a tuk-tuk to take us around the surrounding area. We visited the Bahiravokanda Vihara Buddha Statue above Kandy (one of the best places to take valley photos so far, but we are yet to visit the hill country), a war cemetery, and a spice plantation where we were treated to a massage (for a tip of course) using their own ingredients.

Oh yeah, we rode an elephant.

On our last day in Kandy, we donned our finest trousers and cover-ups so we could enter The Temple of the Tooth. We were fortunate to be part of it that day due to it being a full moon. These are known as ‘poya days’. Sri Lankans were buying fresh flowers outside and inside the temple as their offering to Buddha. It is prohibited to actively smell the flowers, but you didn’t need to, it smelled like a perfumery in every room, but not in that ‘bathing in aftershave’ kind of way. There were also signs asking visitors to refrain from posing for photographs in front of shrines, so I was a little taken aback when I witnessed two monks taking it in turns to photograph each other with Raja, the body (thank you taxidermy) of the sacred Sri Lankan Tusker elephant.

I will never understand why they broke the temples rules, and I doubt I’ll ever fully understand Sri Lanka. The only people that have been able to give us straight answers to questions like, ‘how long will it take by train?’ are the children on the bus to Nuwara Eliya – a bizarre and confused little town that doesn’t seem entirely Sri Lankan and only partly colonial.

Destination Sri Lanka has so far proven to be a clichéd ‘throw in at the deep end’, but I don’t regret it.

This is why I’m here.