74 - Wasps, Temples, Knuckles, and Kandy (Central Sri Lanka)
“A glimpse of the Enlightened One’s bicuspid (or is it a molar?) is right up there with Jesus' eyelash, Mohammed's nose hair, Gandhi's toenail, and a piece of Moses' appendix on my bucket list of “Sacred Body Fragments I Need To See.” Blasphemous much?”
by The Nostomaniac
FROM POLONNARUWA, I VENTURED EAST, a mere hop, skip, and a jump to Sigiriya, an ancient “palace” complex built upon a rock plateau borne of hardened magma from an extinct volcano. The formidable column of rock juts two hundred meters (six hundred sixty feet) above the surrounding jungle, an impressive landmark indeed. On the rock tower’s western edge lies landscaped gardens believed to be some of the world’s oldest. Water gardens. Boulder gardens. Terraced gardens. It’s a garden bonanza. Not a bad place to frolic, if I do say so myself.
After a garden romp, a metal staircase leads skyward. Along the way, there’s a small cave containing well-preserved fresco paintings with some big-titty bitties on display.
The western wall of Sigiriya was almost entirely covered by frescoes, created during the reign of Kasyapa. Eighteen frescoes have survived to this day. The frescoes are depicting nude females and are considered to be either the portraits of Kasyapa’s wives and concubines or priestess performing religious rituals. Despite the unknown identity of the females depicted in the frescoes, these unique ancient paintings are celebrating female beauty and have incredible historical significance —https://sigiriyatourism.com/
Keep climbing and you’ ll eventually come to Lion’s Gate, the last obstacle before reaching the top. At one time, a staircase led up through a giant stone lion’s maw. Today, only the paws remain. This lion is (allegedly) responsible for the site’s moniker. (Sigiriya comes from the word Sihargi, meaning Lion Rock.)
The 1.6 hectares at the summit once contained elaborate buildings of which only the foundations survive. Although touted by the locals (and Wikipedia for that matter) as a palace/fortress, recent scholarship points toward monastery, not a royal residence. Everything is labeled as the former, crediting the “palace” construction to King Kasyapa back in the 5th century CE. Nothing like an archeological hissy spat to get the juices flowing. I’d be lying if I said the uncertainty hasn’t kept me up nights. But it doesn’t have to, no? Could it not be both? Monks arrived around the third century BCE. Mayhap, a palace was built in the 5th CE and the site became a monastery (again) sometime after that until abandoned in the 14th CE. Bam, everyone’s satisfied. Peace on earth.
Sigiriya isn’t without its perils. Wasps. Colonies of killer flesh-eating wasps. Okay, maybe without the “killer” or “flesh-eating” part. (Also, technically they’re giant honey bees.) Still, I was told they can be a real problem, enough to close the site periodically. Two weeks before my visit, a sizable contingent of Chinese tourists fell victim to the wasps’ wrath. You won’t like them when they’re angry. Trust me. Many went to the hospital. That’ll ruin your vacation, eh? Is it depraved to think this was probably hilarious to witness from afar? Yes, I suppose it is.
Wasps savage tourists at Sri Lankan attraction, but board won’t shut it down
JULY 17, 2016 8:57PM - Emma Reynolds
TOURISTS have spoken of their terror after a plague of wasps attacked a tourist attraction in Sri Lanka, hospitalising around 40 people in just a week. But the authorities have made no effort to shut down the ancient palace and fortress of Sigiriya…READ MORE
*Animation courtesy of Nimesh Hashintha
*Video courtesy of Wee Srilanka
*Drone footage courtesy of Mahesh Walatara
Sigiriya in the morning. Dambulla in the afternoon, home to the famous Golden Temple of Dambulla. This temple complex rises 160m (524ft) above the city. Though over eighty caves were found nearby, it’s five at the top that contain the most treasures. With nearly a hundred sixty statues (mostly of the Buddha with three kings and four gods/goddesses rounding out the line up), I dare say it’s hard not to be impressed with the technical skill and fortitude required to carve such masterpieces, to say nothing of the painted murals covering the walls. Depictions include Buddha’s temptation by Mara and his first sermon. Remarkable to think some artwork dates back two thousand years, or that the caves themselves were used by prehistoric inhabitants long before the arrival of Buddhism. Mind? Boggled.
Signs strewn about have pictures of tourists engaging in proscribed behavior that read, “Photography which brings disrepute to Buddhism will be a great offense.” This torpedoed my plan to record video of me dry humping supine Buddha while screaming, “Fuck this Buddha! Fuck ‘em!” Can’t have everything.
Non-relevant anecdote, anyone? Entrance tickets are sold in a building at the foot of the hill adorned with an enormous obnoxiously kitsch golden Buddha. I, of course, failed to realize this before climbing to the main caves with youthful exuberance. No ticket. No dice. I was forced to repeat the performance… in the rain. I’ll admit it. I was vexed. Very, very vexed. Gladly, I was not so vexed as to take an older gentleman’s offer to descend to fetch me a ticket (for a fee) while resting in dry comfort. I might be pathetic, but I sure ain’t that pathetic… yet. If I ever reach that point, shoot me in the face… please.
From Dambulla, it was due south to Kandy, the last capital of the ancient kings of Sri Lanka. How ancient? Well, not that ancient, actually. The city was first established in the 14th century, the kingdom (as in Kingdom of Kandy) rose in the 15th. It’s there you’ll find the Temple of the Tooth, a royal complex reputed to house the Relic of the tooth of Buddha, one of the most sacred objects in all Buddhism. A glimpse of the Enlightened One’s bicuspid (or is it a molar?) is right up there with Jesus' eyelash, Mohammed's nose hair, Gandhi's toenail, and a piece of Moses' appendix on my bucket list of “Sacred Body Fragments I Need To See.” Blasphemous much? How dare I? Thing is, you won’t see the tooth. It’s kept in a gold casket shaped like a dagoba (stupa), which contains a series of six dagoba caskets of diminishing size. A Matryoshka doll format? Nice. I’d like to think I went inside but can’t recall if I actually did so, and there’s no physical evidence (i.e. photos). This speaks volumes about my enthusiasm. Either way, I know it’s something of a clown show with backpackers and devotees alike packed together and shuttled around like sardines. Enjoy.
I do, however, remember my drive through the Knuckles Mountain Range the morning after my arrival. Simone (the female owner of my hotel) was kind enough to suggest a route and a place to explore nearby. Winding mountain roads, hillside tea plantations, and very few people. Not exactly the Himalayas but picturesque nonetheless. There is a place on a small plateau to stop and hike to a fairly significant drop (it’s known as mini-World’s End) and an excellent view of the valley below. While loitering at the mini-end of the world, I took what can only be described as “Please, kick my ass” photos that required patience and timer use. But fear not, Karma retaliated.
Amid my photographic ego session, I neglected to mind my belongings. My sunglasses… vanished! There were two prime suspects: mischievous monkey or misguided Sri Lankan teenager. My money’s on the latter. He was part of a family outing that had passed moments before I discovered them missing. I left the glasses with my long-sleeved shirt on a large stone. Neither were out of sight for more than a couple minutes. I couldn’t be a hundred percent, but if I were a betting’ man… I approached the family in mid-picnic and asked if anyone found my glasses. Negative. Poof!
My “Please, kick my ass” photo series.
Karma wasn’t finished. On my return, the Baja’s clutch cable went snappy-snap. Fortunately, this happened on the main road and, more fortunate-er, a few hundred meters from a repair shop. From the moment my cable snapped to the time I drove away wasn’t more than thirty minutes. Now that’s service! If that wasn’t enough, Mr. Mechanic Guy only charged me one hundred fifty rupees (a little less than $1.50) for everything. Amazing. Here’s a gentleman of limited means with a prime opportunity to take advantage of the goofy white guy but refrains, choosing instead to go with honesty. He could’ve asked for five or ten times that without me being the wiser. I find that remarkable and, though clichés be thine enemy, shit like that renews my faith in humanity. Moral of the story? Fuck you, Karma!
You may remember the saga of my friend Chandana and his wife. While in Kandy, I received a call and was pleasantly surprised to hear he was in town as well. I met him and a friend that very afternoon. Over a meal and later drinks, I was to get more background on his marriage. His wife was from the region, the daughter of well-to-do tea plantation owners. He met her while studying in Kandy. Chandana’s friend (and Chandana himself in Anuradhapura) told me he’d never met the parents, but this was inaccurate. (Language barrier, I presume.) He did meet for an introductory cordial discussion. In fact, he visited their home with his mother and brother in tow. (Didn’t realize he had a brother.) Her parents, he assured me, are good people but hung up on the class issue. And their objection, according to them, was not about money. It mattered not if he was rich or poor, only that he was not from a suitable Kandian family. Many of the previous generation tend to view their Kandian heritage as an honor, a cut about the rest of Sri Lanka. There’s a definite “shit don’t stink” phenomenon from the Kandian bourgeois as the area is considered the heart of pure Sinhalese Buddhist culture and history. (If you’re getting whiffs of tribalist nationalism going back generations, you’d be correct. It’s been center stage in Sri Lankan politics since independence and beyond. It continues to infect the political landscape.)
And then shit got fuzzy. The language barrier extenuated my comprehension somewhat. Chandana told me her parents finally agreed to the marriage and that everyone even showed up at the church on the chosen day. But when they arrived, Chandana was informed by the minister his paperwork wasn’t in order. He needed a certificate verifying his residence in Anuradhapura. Attaining such wasn’t a problem but would take time. Out of exasperation, frustration, or whatever the case may have been, Chandana snatched the bride from the spot and eloped. Why they didn’t just wait for the paperwork or whether her parents had something to do with the delay, I cannot say. Details were lost in translation. I do know mom and pop were more than a little upset and hadn’t spoken to them since. At a cousin’s behest, they came without her parents’ knowledge. The cousin shared a conversation with the mother where she expressed her wish to see her daughter. The plan was to inform the parents she was there and gauge their reaction. If that went well, then perhaps a few days later Chandana would also be invited to visit.
(Sadly, I never learned of the outcome. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve lost touch with my SLBFFs (Sri Lankan Best Friends Forever), a situation the troubles me still. And why not reach out? Well, that’s a personal story for another day and has nothing to do with them.)
Chandana brought me and his best friend from the area to his favorite college hangout. We sat in the backroom and shared stories over Strong Beer. A lion’s head and alcohol content of 8.8% underscore the name. Beer and friends. True friends. I have gushed on and on in earlier posts about my good fortune to make such a deep, heartfelt connection. This came to a head when Chandana shared a tragic detail of his life. He never knew his father. His dad was a nineteen-year-old soldier presumed murdered by the LTTE (Tamil Tigers). He and six other soldiers were ambushed and captured. Twenty-five years later, Chandana and his mother still have no word of his fate.
The conversation went from grave to serious. They had to know: Is professional wrestling in America the real deal and, if so, how the hell could anyone survive? The “sport” is enormously popular among young Sri Lankan males. Interestingly, it became popular not because of widespread television broadcasting, but rather as a result of illegal downloading and duplication. It seems the legitimacy of the sport has long been a subject of debate in relevant circles. They now had me to tell them definitively that it’s all scripted bullshit. They couldn’t fathom millions of Americans bothering to watch something they know to be fake. I told them I was just as flabbergasted. Glad to see America’s high culture diffusing worldwide.
