|
another one of this mini tour's best kept secrets, maduru oya is a gorgeous park that receives few visitors - a geological, ornithological, botanical, and zoological treasure! the animals here are much less inured to the presence of humans and their jeeps, so are shyer and more likely to scatter when approached (always at very respectable distances, of course)... somehow this makes the experience feel more "authentically" wild. pictures are a bit grainy (light and distance), but give some idea of the splendor and beauty, i hope. no pictures of the jackals hunting a huge herd of spotted deer, which was pretty exciting to see (no kill). ...oh yes, and the "ranger" offered to take us on a much less travelled track...where we spent 3 hrs bumper-deep in a soft mud-bottomed "puddle" (pond-sized)...each attempt to extricate ourselves, using logs, rocks, etc under the tires, only sunk us deeper, and this with no walkie-talkie, no cell reception, no one around for many miles, in a park known for its Danger Elephants... uh, whoops...
3 Comments
Stunning place. 1600 years ago, monks were gathered here to protect them as the Sinhala king waged war with the Tamil king. Faint rock paintings and the bowl shaped impressions in the rock are from this era. The temple itself is pretty spare, but the massive rock formation and view from it are awe-inspiring. There's one monk living here, and a groundskeeper. we were invited to come back and spend the night there, which would've been amazing if not for the timing of it. maybe next time - i'll be back!
This last "tour" (9 days travel around an area I hadn't yet seen and a return to the Hill Country for a few hikes I missed on previous visits) has really rekindled my love and awe regarding Sri Lanka's beauty. The next 3 posts will hopefully reflect that and do justice to it in some small way. boat safari in galu oya national park- a totally unique and exciting new way to experience sri lanka's bounty. saw a lot of elephants and a huge crocodile, but between dim light, boat's motion, and distances, not so successful in the archiving.
galu oya is sri lanka's largest lake (or "tank"), created in 1954 as part of the country's extensive water security project. you are familiar with the voice. the voice that has you dry on the shore, watching beautiful waves peel in, not running back to grab your board, nor when back, able to decipher the source or origin of the voice, except it’s not a voice, you can’t understand what it’s saying, it’s a dark murky feeling that won’t show you its face, and you are twin-pulled between two opposing teams of horses, go, don’t, go, don’t, and you don’t know why…
it goes on like this for a day and a half, until, flipping and flopping like a fish that has overshot the bank, you say enough. it is a matter of will, you say. a matter of hump-getting-over. you’ve been on dry land too long and it is simply time to hoist your self up by the nonexistent bootie straps and get in the damn water. what of the unfamiliarity of the break, the fact that you've never surfed a reef break like this, that you are paddling out alone… pshaw, you say, it is time. you know there is an element of fear, of the wide and long shelf of reef right at the water’s edge, and the next shelf a little further out, and the one after that, but you finally decide your fear is overblown, you’re just out of practice, etc etc. you DO ask a fellow surfer the best way to paddle out, and then, unaware that you have not asked the most important question of all, you head out. strangely, there is still fear as you paddle out, over and through the first section of the reef garden. there is still fear as you begin to appreciate the power of these particular waves jacking up on shelf after shelf and pounding down and you working hard to push through. there is fear when you begin to appreciate just how weakened injury and surgery and travel-complicated rehab has left your arms, how aerobically unfit you’ve become. and there is still fear as you bob out on the ocean and face these walls of water coming at you. you are out of your league and you are scared. it is then that you become aware of the most important question you were previously too confused in your push to overcome to think to ask. “how (the hell) do i get back in?” you stay out, breathing, trying to calm and clear your mind, make the most of the fact that you’re out there, and when the time comes, you plan to ask someone for advice on the best exit strategy. you catch a couple of very nice waves, a few of the peeling rights you’d appreciated from shore, when they looked smaller somehow, friendlier. after your last wave, halfway between where you started and the beach, you decide to go in. this is the first of a series of poor decisions you will make. you haven’t yet asked about the best route to paddle safely in to shore. you decide to aim for the spot where you got in. when you realize the idiocy of that choice, it is too late - there is no paddling back out, your arms like overcooked noodles, there is no control any more, you are not aiming anymore, the ocean just has you, and, like an ill-trained and pent up puppy, it wants to play. you cannot see the concerned citizens on the beach trying to point you to a spot way down the shore where you could get out. you can see a 7 wave set rolling in behind you, the sky, the white foam all around you, and the massive wide shelf of sharp dead coral between you and deliverance. the waves come. you are pushed into the shelf, then sucked over and back out, at one point you are submerged at the confluence of three directions of water with limbs every which way and the leash wrapped around your neck. you bump bash scrape are grated like cheese, you sputter gasp brace surrender scream “fuck!” once or twice, the only mercy is that each successive assault bumps you a little further in to shore, until finally, the last wave of the set drags you over the shelf completely and deposits the battered bleeding tangle that is you into a sandy-bottomed pool at the water’s edge. shame, pain, nausea,disorientation all bundle under the cloak of shock as you muster an ironic grin to greet the 3 men, Dinesh and 2 strangers, who have rushed to your aid. you check your board first. you sit to catch your breath. broken not bitchin’, not a shining example for Surf Like a Girl, tail tucked between wobbly legs, you just limp back - your ego, your stoke, and your left hip feeling shattered. back at the hotel, you give, and weep for 10 minutes under the shower’s cold stream. and so concludes Lesson One at Mr Humble’s School of Reef. perhaps tomorrow, you will have learned what all of living seems to conspire to teach you - when to push, and when to sit quietly and LISTEN. post script: all heals well. mostly minor, and no infection, thank the gods. grateful for good luck and for what seaweed there was on the reef. post post script: there are many many breaks here in midigama, with easier access. it is also the one place in sri lanka that has A-frames with really good lefts. the above is not a cautionary tale about midigama surf, but one about not grounding and listening to your gut. come surf here. you’ll love it! On the morning of November 9, as yet ignorant of the disaster that had befallen the US, indeed the whole world, I awoke to a smaller, domestic disaster, here in Tissamaharama. Stirred by an unusual amount of noise & activity for 5 am, I opened the back door, headed for the outhouse, and found D’s parents standing hands on hips and staring at what had, the night before, been their kitchen. Heavy rains that night had proven too much for the spindly rotten poles, wire, mud bricks, twine, and rusted out sheet metal that held the structure together, and it had collapsed completely.
In a few hours, we had cleared and sorted the debris, rescued what pots and dishes and stored water bottles we could, all of us covered in sweat and soot. I caught Rani’s eye numerous times, and she smiled, laughed even, at the crazy randomness of it all. In another few hours, Dinesh and his father had leveled the ground, breaking up and spreading the clay bricks to form a flattish new patch of ground.We expected to be bringing food in for several days, but after I brought in some egg buns for everyone’s breakfast, Rani set to work, and by mid-afternoon had constructed a raised platform covered with a piece of sheet metal, upon which she arranged bricks to form a cooking fire. Lunch for everyone cooked and served up by 2 pm! (You CANNOT keep a good woman down…!) November 10, the day of my departure, was a little less laughter-filled. Many many tears and heartfelt exclamations, the words of which I did not understand, but the sentiment was obvious. It was a heavy morning; goodbye to the puppies, D’s parents, and taking in the belated news that the Unthinkable had really happened half way around the world, on November 8. I dedicate this post to the resilience, creativity, and unstoppable nature of women. A picture of Rani and what used to be her kitchen, her new cooking fire, and Tissa, who made the best of it by digging a new sleeping hole! F.U., Mr President-Elect. they've grown like weeds. 2 are in new homes, the remaining 3 wreak havoc and spread joy here at the Harsha home. goodbye/so long for a while photos here. Oh lord I am being schooled. and humbled. Reeling from this perpetual smack down, Sri Lanka brings me to my lily-white north american knees again and again, and forces me to look at my own arrogance, the frequency with which and degree to which I think I’m Right or I know what’s right. I suspect I am just too soft to stay here. Every day seems to bring either moral outrage or devastation at the suffering of the animals here, from benign neglect to outright cruelty (which might just be ignorance in a very ugly suit). I understand that people here are too consumed by the struggle to keep themselves fed, clothed, housed to have much bandwidth for thoughts of animal welfare, environmental degradation, and such, that they are, by and large, poorly educated and ignorant of many kinds of knowledge I take for granted. Does it take money or education, though, to feel compassion for other sentient beings? Does it require time to contemplate such things or is it just the function of a beating heart to care, to notice, to behave kindly…? I know the answer. These ‘truths” I hold so dear are very modern concepts, and what feels like “natural compassion” to me is, or could be, in fact the product of education and immersion in modern cultural norms. Furthermore, animal cruelty and neglect are most certainly alive and well across the entire globe, and thriving in the factory farms, slaughterhouses, and dog-fighting pits of my own very modern backyard. Same same but different. At any rate, I break down into hysterical fury at the sight of the temple elephants, chained and weaving side to side neurotically, I cry every day over some dog or another, and the process of adopting out the puppies is killing me. One went out to a home of a relative nearby, and Dinesh came back after a visit to check in on him, sadly reporting that the pup is miserable and tied up because they can’t control him when he’s not*. I know I cannot control the fate of these pups, nor was I responsible for bringing them into the world, that we have done our best for them - but best doesn't feel good enough here, and it kills me to feel like I am failing them. Even here, where we have built them a nice dry cage and a fairly spacious run at the side of the house, I am consumed by guilt every time they whine and cry out of boredom,hunger, and/or desire to be out with the humans. Last night we had Tissa spayed, at a clinic about as sophisticated and clean as a war zone field hospital. It was brutal. Had I been warned, it might have been less so, but as it was the vet had no assistant that day, was trying to see as many of the line of waiting dogs as possible, and had no time to hold this foreigner’s hand. So, he put her out with 2 injections, hoisted her up on the small stainless steel table, which had been wiped down with some disinfectant spray and a filthy mop, propped her body up between what looked like old phonebooks taped together, her head hanging back almost off the table, tongue sticking out the side like a cartoon, and sliced her open… and then near the end of the operation, she started to wake up and cry pitifully… and i LOST IT. I began haranguing Dinesh (freshly deputized as veterinary nurse and assisting the vet to a small degree) about “WTF is going on???” “no it’s NOT normal to wake up before an operation is even finished…” etc etc etc… the other people waiting with their animals are somewhat sympathetic, but also,I suspect, think I am displaying an embarrassing lack of self-restraint. The vet, to his considerable credit, just kept sewing her up and then gave her another shot - he did not have me thrown out , nor come over and punch me in the face himself. When all was said and done, he explained that “Here in Sri Lanka, we have to use “chemical” anesthesia, which is dangerous, especially for an older dog…” (5+ yrs, he estimated), so he has to use just enough but not too much or she could die - “we trade a bit of pain for not killing the dog, you see…”. I am horrified, but chastened, and apologize for freaking out. He wobbles his head (an indeterminate gesture at the best of times), gives me the post-op low-down, we shake hands, and it is over. It is monsoon season now in this part of Sri Lanka. The daily torrents that turn the entire yard into a lake, the neighbors yard into a river, the bone-rattling thunder, blinding flashes of lightning - all beautiful, awe-inspiring, and welcome, to my mind. Not so welcome, however, are the new generation of mosquitoes and seeming thousand-fold population explosion of flies. they are everywhere, swarming over everything, and there is nowhere to escape them. Today it got the better of me; I whimpered “Uncle!” and booked into a hotel for the night, citing (to Dinesh’s mother) my need for wifi as an excuse. So here I am, binging on wifi access to pay credit card, search out flights, etc. I have some big (-feeling) decisions to make around my plans, whether or not I will extend my visa here or just move on to more stimulating pastures. Questions of money, emotional attachments, lack of clarity and motivation … all obstacles to contend with. I want to make the decisions from a place where I am truly applying myself to the present situation, not just mindlessly enduring it with my head in the Next Thing, so that I am appreciating the truth of the realities I am considering. One thing seems clear, though; that I have run out of steam - either I’m just not made from the Right Stuff, or the stuffing has just been sucked out of me by this village life of heat, dirt, discomfort, and tedium. I “know” there are/must be deep lessons to be learned from this, too, but lord what a struggle to stay awake enough to recognize and receive them. Next week, I return to volunteer at Animal SOS down on the south coast. More heat, filth, and flies, for sure, but also service and a sense of purpose. * btw, the pup ended up running away and coming back here, and we just gave him to someone else more prepared and able to deal with an untrained puppy).  Camp Tissa - where i stayed and slept for 2 days with Tissa post-op, trying to keep her from worrying her sutures.
|
Author
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
December 2016
Categories |
RSS Feed