75 - World’s End & Dead Butterflies (Central Province, Sri Lanka)
“This was unsettling. This fucker was unmoved by five barking dogs and an asshole in a headlamp. I figured that might make Porky dangerous (as in naked and unafraid), but I had no evidence to support this. Best to err on the side of caution. I froze and awaited his next move. He abruptly cut in my direction and I abruptly turned and fled…”
by Nos T. O’maniac
ONWARDS AND DOWNWARDS TO NUWARA ELIYA, a jumping-off point to Horton Plains and World’s End, if one is so inclined. I was. Horton Plains National Park is an undulating misty plateau of rocky outcrops, sweeping grasslands, and patches of dense forest. It comes to a dramatic 880 meter (2887 feet) conclusion known as World’s End. Beautiful, mystical, and eerie, at least if you have the place to yourself. “World’s End” is a a marketing ploy, but the view is worth the effort. Baker’s Falls rounds out what can be an excellent morning for the early bird. Timing is key. Get there before the crowds or else risk killing the vibe. Please don’t kill the vibe.
The weather was abysmal, and I was certain to see nothing but a gray wall of mist where a beautiful landscape should be. As the half-day trip (á la local agency) set me back sixty clams (US), my mood was nearly as foul as the weather. One may recall my fee disenchantment from an earlier post. Horton’s was much the same. A $15 entrance fee, $2.50 per vehicle, $0.40 for the driver, and an $8 “service” charge. Have I mentioned the service charge? Yes, yes I have. And yet I was as baffled as always. Vehicle charge? As soon as you enter the gate you have to get out and walk. (I don’t recall why I didn’t drive the motorcycle and can only assume I was led to believe a “tour” was required.) Forty cents for Sri Lanka residents? Why not make it gratis so disgruntled folk like myself don’t have to wonder why Johnny Tourist pays thirty-seven times the national rate? And I hate to beat a dead horse, but why not include the service charge with the entrance fee so I’m not forced to ponder the mystical nature of the “service” afforded me? No guide. No orientation. No nuttin. The driver waited by the car while I ventured forth solo. Ya know, like any “tour.” More wine with my cheese? Was I really that perturbed? Nyet. Just playfully irritated is all. Fees support the parks, tourism is vitally important, so on and so forth. Still, a few PR tweaks, and we tourists would remain blissfully ignorant. Thankfully, the mist didn’t roll into World’s End until late morning, so there was a view to be viewed after all.
A few days earlier, my Sri Lankan friend Chari shared a video titled “Spiritual Reality” highlighting meditation’s many benefits, not the least of which is catching cosmic rays. Cosmic energy: It does a body good. Yes, I know how it sounds, brah. Silly? Redundant? Energy in the cosmos is, by default, cosmic energy, is it not? Is not Earth’s energy, energy of the cosmos? Okay, maybe not that energy. Think intergalactic outer space. The idea, through meditation, is to channel and concentrate said energy via the mind. Doing so will blow your socks off. Um, no. The effects, though salubrious, are a tad more subtle. Best approach for getting the minimum effective dose? Find a place where transmission and absorption are multiplied and meditate like a bastard. No better spot than a Buddhist holy site, ya heard? In fact, a crystal sits atop the pinnacle of the Ruvanvelisaya Stupa in Anuradhapura that serves as a conduit for this energy. So, get some.
Did I see her face? Am I believer? I am a big Monkees fan, but no, not exactly. Then again, I can’t say I’m a disbeliever either. You have to admit, it’s an attractive notion, no? Everything is, after all, energy in one form or another (E = mc2, eh?). Who’s to say the human mind isn’t capable of tapping this universal reserve via meditation and mindfulness? Not I. Certainly, not thou. One of the most powerful effects in scientific research? The Placebo Effect. Get some.
With the idea of cosmic influences swirling about my frontal lobe, I entered the park. And I thought, Could be that feeling I get when I visit remarkable places like Horton Plains results from increased cosmic energy penetrating my gray matter. Why not, eh? Mayhap, there’s a reason natural wonders inspire us so. Mayhap, there’s a reason we humans build sacred structures in certain areas. And mayhap, just mayhap, the effect intensifies as the number of people (i.e. potential tuning forks) in such areas diminish. Fewer folks, less diffusion. Think of coffee shop WiFi. More users, slower network speed. And if you’re the sole soul? Well, you’re the main conduit. (Careful, cosmic power comes with cosmic responsibility, young Jedi.) New age mumbo jumbo? Mayhap, but I can’t ignore the poeticism. The real trick, the believer’s true aim, is to ride the cosmic way day in and day out minute by minute. Appreciate the miracle, right? Well, get busy and prove it. See the miracle in hum-drum, uninspiring everyday land… pass it on, pay it forward, and all that shit. I try every day and every day I fail, but I’d like to think I was a little better than before. I wonder if that’s not the whole goddamned point.
*Video courtesy of The Beautiful World We Live In
Nuwara Eliya in my rearview. Adam's Peak in my cross-hairs. So, I made my way southeast to the small village of Dalhousie, the main staging area for ascent to one of Sri Lanka’s holiest sites. This conical mountain (2,243 m/7,359 ft) is also known as Sri Pada (“Sacred Footprint”). Who’s footprint? Well, that depends on who you ask. For Buddhists, it was Buddha’s. Muslims and Christians? Either Adam’s of “Adam and Eve” fame or St. Thomas’. Hindus? Hanuman’s or Shiva’s. (As far as I know, Jews don’t give a shit.)
A near noon arrival meant I had time to kill. (Traditionally, the hike begins in the witching hours. Who am I to flout tradition?) So, a feckless motorcycle ride shaped my afternoon. Per local recommendation (but against TLC’s advice), I decided to chase waterfalls. (The one in the photos with my dopey facade in the foreground is the Sri Padha Waterfall.) I cruised and meandered through the Mare Estate Tea Plantation, a picturesque plot of land abutting Maussakelle Reservoir with a nice view of the falls. Notwithstanding labor and environmental issues, I can’t deny the tranquility of a well-manicured tea plantation. I couldn’t help feeling like a trespasser (um, cuz I was), but you wouldn’t have known from the reception I received outside the tea factory gate from local kids (likely the children of plantation workers). White man drifting between tea hedgerows on a motorcycle? Don’t see that shit every day. Nothing but goddamn smiles. I was nothing but goddamn grateful.
After a relaxing and chill afternoon, I retired early to my chosen abode, the Slightly Chilled Guesthouse. It would be a stupid-early morning rise for the ascent up Adam’s Peak. No guide necessary. Just me, myself, and I. I’m not normally big on beating the sunrise, but in this case, I made an exception. Chances are, I’d confront a wall of white at the top, but I wanted to reach the summit by first light to improve my odds. So, I arose at 2:30 a.m. and crossed my fingers and toes. Dalhousie isn’t a metropolis. During the off-season, it’s a veritable ghost town. Walking through the village at 3 a.m. was a real creep show. With only my headlamp for illumination, I advanced through the darkness toward the trailhead. I was not alone. Dogs. Barking dogs. Given the setting, a loss of bowel control was not unwarranted. Hell hounds? Probably not, but the reflection off their eyes made me consider the possibility. Thing is, they weren’t barking at me. Phew, right? Wrong. They were hassling a wild boar. A wild boar roaming the streets (or street as it were) during the witching hour? Yessir.
This was unsettling. This fucker was unmoved by five barking dogs and an asshole in a headlamp. I figured that might make Porky dangerous (as in naked and unafraid), but I had no evidence to support this. Best to err on the side of caution. I froze and awaited his next move. He abruptly cut in my direction and I abruptly turned and fled. I may have squealed like a pig myself. I wasn’t sure the dirty pig would let me pass, but after a few tense moments, I took a breath and continued. He lost interest and moved on as well. Thank you, dirty pig. Thank you.
*Drone footage courtesy of travel lk
*Drone footage courtesy of a.s.zhigalov
Of the sacred mountain’s many monikers, my favorite is Samanalakande (Butterfly Mountain). The place where butterflies go to die. Poetic and apropos after being chased by a demon pig in inclement weather. Where else would dead butterflies end up? For over a thousand years, Butterfly Mountain has been a pilgrimage hot spot. Every year from December to May the area is overrun with pilgrims and tourists alike. A forty-five-minute scramble (off-season) can turn into a four-hour congested grindfest. Not a problem in August. Six months out of the year Adam is obscured behind clouds. The curtain outlasted my patience, and I failed to capture the peak on film.
There’s a sign-in sheet at the base of the trail and a monk to see you off. Sign register. Give donation. Receive fabric bracelet for good luck. (I wore the bracelet until it fell off months later, then tied it to my camera strap where it remains to this day.) If memory serves, the road to enlightenment is paved with cement and is, more or less, a literal stairway to heaven. Up I went. The path is unlit, so I relied on my headlamp. The night was quiet save my heavy breaths and clunky footfalls. Only two creatures stirred. I and the stray dog who followed me from the guesthouse. At first, this was unnerving, but I soon realized he was no threat. Doggy’s boar-deflection skills needed work, but I was quick to appreciate the company. No doubt he’d learned following tourists led to treats and affection. Being the sucker I am, I provided both. He stuck with me to the top and most of the way down.
Alone (mostly) with my thoughts on a sacred mountain in Sri Lanka… I’m in Sri Lanka. Sri Lanka. A month ago, I knew nothing of the place. And now? I’m humping it up Adam’s Peak in the dead of night with a strange mutt? What the fuck am I doing? Shouldn’t I be working? Am I pathetic? Why am I so pathetic? Time to get a life? What the fuck’s wrong with me?… I went on like that for some time. Just me and my puppy in search… in search of… what exactly? Meaning? Purpose? Inspiration? Enlightenment? Dunno. Sure, I felt the weight of an uncertain future bearing down on me, but I also felt free, or at least as free I could feel. Then again, if discipline is freedom, perhaps I was (am?) a well-equipped prisoner.
Mixed in between bouts of existential angst, I thought of the dog. Not the dog following me, the one who served as my best friend for eleven years. Whimper was his full name. His friends called him Whimp. He was in a sorry state when my family rescued him from a shoddy animal shelter. The veterinarian didn’t think he’d make it through the night. His original name was Champ, but after a night of endless whimpering, the eponym replaced it. (Poor bastard probably missed his siblings.) I considered Whimp as I climbed those steps in the wee hours of a Sri Lankan morning. Set and setting clearly influenced my imaginative flights of fancy. As adults, we spend far too little time in the land of make believe. I decided my new friend was either the reincarnated Whimp himself, or sent along by my dearly departed best friend to keep me company. Here’s the thing about make believe—thoughts needn’t be the least bit plausible to soothe one’s soul. This was more than enough to break the melancholy, and that’s all that mattered.
My mood may have turned blue intermittently, but it didn’t take. Climbing felt good. Real good. I’ve always loved a good hike. The blackout effect was an added psychological benefit. Much easier to settle into the moment when the struggle ahead is obscured. And there was a bonus motivation of the ego-driven variety. In the logbook, I noticed a British couple had set off even earlier. Before 3:30 am? Yup. My mission was to catch them. I failed. They had me by five minutes. I did, however, beat the sunrise. Moral victory. I joined the couple inside the tiny caretaker hut for warmth and tea.
The view from above is a spectacular sight. I’ve seen photos. Unfortunately, that’s the only place I've seen it. There was wind. There was rain. There was cold. What there wasn’t was a view. Still, I couldn’t be disappointed. The shroud of white blanketing the summit possessed its own breathtaking allure. I stood on Mt. Olympus, home of the gods, now protected from the burden of realization. Perhaps my mortal mind couldn’t comprehend what lay beyond those clouds. Pierce the veil and… madness! Where the fuck else would butterflies go to die? That being said, there were occasional cracks in the firmament but these were far too brief to see jack or shit. Still, on the return, I did enjoy panoramic views of the valley below. I won’t say this climb is a cakewalk, but I must admit I was expecting more in the physicality department. The Lonely Planet led me to believe my knees would be screaming for days. Screaming? No. Moderate grumbling? Yes.
And lest you think “sacred footprint” implies an actual print of a foot, allow me to burst thy bubble. The name merely refers to the rock formation (1.8 m, 5 ft 11), not the petrified cast of Buddha’s foot.
A four-hike preceded an eight-hour motorcycle ride. It was time to trade hill country for beach life. The mountain weather was cruddy poo-poo shit. I’d had enough. So, to the sea! I was determined but not “eight-hour marathon” determined. I underestimated the travel time and threw in a few wrong turns for good measure. Slow, winding mountain roads did nothing to expedite progress, nor did the school holiday that precipitated higher than normal traffic volume. I didn’t mind the drive. Actually, I relished it, especially the second half. The scenery was exquisite. Rides like that were the very reason I rented a motorcycle. Simply put, I feared the night. Driving a bike at night is a precarious endeavor under ideal conditions. I resolved to avoid it in the interest of self-preservation. Consequently, I eschewed many a photo op in favor of expediency. Had my foresight been as keen as my hindsight, I would’ve budgeted my time efficiently and smelled a few more roses en route.
I found Arugam Bay, just not in the day. The road to Pottuvil (nearest town) had a ghost town, end-of-earth feel to it. Few, if any, street lamps and almost no traffic. If felt as if the surrounding villages had taken the night off, or alternatively, if no one had shown up to begin with. As if to punctuate the setting’s seedy nature, as I passed a fellow motorcyclist he began pantomiming mysterious gestures and yelling unintelligibly. My Spidey-sense activated, so I shrugged and blew right past him. He would not be denied, so he caught up and screamed, “Blah blah blah daaah… NO LIGHTS!” My metaphorical light bulb clicked on. He needed a beacon of hope, so I was more than happy to light the way. When we reached the city lights, he gave me a grateful nod and turned off. Nothing wrong with a few more karma points in my column.