At the Edge of the World
"I think having land and not ruining it is the most beautiful art that anybody could ever want."
Andy Warhol
After two weeks in the cacophony of India’s relentless noise, Sri Lanka is startlingly quiet. As we drive out from the airport, my ears seem to echo with the phantom sound of honking horns that don’t sound here. And when we reach the ocean, and the only sound is that of the water crashing upon the shore – it feels like coming home. But maybe that’s just the part of me that grew up by the sea.
Later, our guide will tell us that Sri Lankans say they sit at the edge of the world, for south of the island there is nothing but open ocean all the way until Antarctica. Staring upon the unceasing waters, it feels that way. As though this is the last stop; a place not so far from many popular holiday destinations, and yet itself remarkably untouched by the towering hand of foreign investment. At least for now.
Sri Lanka is, in short, the most naturally beautiful place I’ve ever seen. It is lush greenery that stretches high to the mountains and far down to the quivering palm trees upon golden sand beaches, the ocean’s crystal blue marred only by its fearsome white-capped waves. Every place we go, I catch myself in awe of it, over and over again. It is unlike anything I’ve seen before.
Maybe my awe comes in part from having had so little expectation for the country. Unlike most of the places I will travel to in these three months, I knew so little about Sri Lanka. I had so little in mind for what I might see and experience, that each moment becomes itself a revelation.
Whereas in India, I felt at all times slightly above the surface of the real country below it, in Sri Lanka, I am immersed. We eat at tiny, locally-owned restaurants and with grandparents on the grounds of their farm; traditional dishes with fresh ingredients often grown or caught only metres away. We leave our little, comfortable air-conditioned bus behind to take a wooden boat across the lake, and bump our way back under the cover of stars in a trailer attached to a tractor as the fireflies dance overhead.
The days seem to ebb and flow in this manner, not the bullet point list of stops that it felt to be in India, but easing from one place to the next through the western side of the country. Each morning, our driver’s assistant gifts us all a flower, picked that morning. I like to think of them as our daily blessings, beginning each morning anew, no matter the one before.
Flowers like these line the inside of many of the temples we see. Each time, I am struck with how much colour there is to be found in these places of worship; so different from the grey religious structures often found back in Europe, so stoic and silent. Here, we may be met by drummers or chants, the sound echoing around the enclosed spaces and folding us within.
Only once are we in a rush, and it is on our way to catch the train to Ella; accompanied with a sense of déjà vu in running for the train in Delhi some weeks ago. The road to the station is winding and steep, taking us high up into the mountains, and we go as fast as we reasonably can. An unfortunate turn for the flower boys of the mountain, because they don’t know that we can’t possibly stop; not for all the magic tricks in the world.
One will try anyway. His is the biggest, warmest smile I have ever seen, arms thrown wide as he leans towards our passing vehicle, bouquet of flowers in one outstretched hand. We don’t stop, but he wouldn’t expect us to yet. It’s why he begins his ascent, scrambling up the side of the hill in the time it takes for our bus to navigate the bend.
There he appears once more, beaming still, barely even breaking a sweat. He tips forward; it is almost a bow, but he won’t quite allow himself that much. We smile and laugh; wave and clap. But we do not stop.
Another bend, and there he is again. One turn after the other, jumping in his friend’s tuktuk and hurtling the last distance up the slope on foot to perfect the illusion. His smile is starting to slip now, sweat beading his temples. The flowers have remained miraculously intact, all things considered.
He is beginning to grow angry; the sunshine smile left several hundred metres behind him. It feels as though he might never give up. Until there, at the top of the hill, sit the remains of those who have gone before him. The flower boys of the mountain, slumped over in the heat, bouquets abandoned at their feet.
It is not all bad news. I see a girl entering the train station with a bouquet in hand. I wonder how much she paid: the bottom of the hill price, or the top of the hill price?
We make it to the train, leaning from the open doors as we take in the steep landscapes hurtling past us. It’s dark by the time we arrive in Ella, and although I peek out at Ella’s Peak from the rooftop of our hotel in the early hours of the morning after returning from dancing, its full beauty will only emerge in the bright light of the morning.
These are the many faces of Sri Lanka. From dancing in Ella one night, to driving past herds of elephants not days later. From the cities like Kandy to the beach towns like Unawatuna. In the midst of them all, it remains an island that feels as though it is governed by the natural world first, and its people second; an unassuming paradise in the Indian Ocean.
