71 - Anuradhapura (North Central Province, Sri Lanka)
“I wasn’t sure what to make of the situation, but I pressed on… Spidey-sense engaged. Chandana hopped on the back of my bike, and we drove off with rickshaw in tow. After about a two-minute drive, we arrived at Chandana’s house where we parked my bike, so we could all pile into the tuk and meet the keymaster…”
by The Nostomanic
THE FLUX CAPACITOR. IT’S WHAT MAKES TIME TRAVEL POSSIBLE. I didn’t have one but, metaphorically speaking, perhaps I didn’t need one. Not in Anuradhapura, one of the world’s oldest continuously inhabited cities. A land steeped in ancient history with the well-preserved ruins to match. The current iteration is a hodgepodge of old, older, new, and new-ish. It served as the capital of a Sinhalese empire lasting well over a thousand years, a bastion of political stability and Buddhist thought. A thousand years? The US has barely scraped together two hundred fifty. Good fuckin’ luck with that. Currently, we’re like a social media rendition of Dali’s Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War). But I digress…
First stop? Ruwanwelisaya Dagoba. What the hell is a dagoba, you ask?
“A dagoba is a dome-shaped memorial alleged to contain relics of Buddha or a Buddhist saint; also referred to as a stupa or chaitya.”
Dali’s Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War).
This one was built by King Dutugemunu around 140 B.C. and supposedly houses “two quarts” of Buddha relics. What the hell is a relic? Um, pieces of Buddha, I believe… maybe? After he died, it was clear if prominent Buddhist enclaves didn’t get their “cut,” the holy shit would hit the silk fan. War! I’m sure unbridled religious carnage is exactly what the Buddha would’ve wanted. So, to stem the tide of absurdly ironic bloodshed, eight princes in eight countries were each given two quarts of body relics (as opposed to material objects used by the big man). As far as I can glean from my readings, this includes ashes, hair, teeth, and whatever else might’ve survived cremation. (Sadly, his ball sack didn’t make it. Probably for the best. Imagine the civil unrest.)
As the photos will attest, it’s a most impressive sight oozing with Buddhist vibe and mysticism. Devotees from around the globe come to make offerings, to pray, to meditate, and to pay their respects. I saw few if any western faces during my visit. Mostly pilgrims and local worshipers. And, I must admit, I was stirred ever so gently somewhere in some place in a corner of my mind untethered to reason and rationality. Something special there. Ain’t no doubt. Placebo effect? Maybe, but a most powerful one. Whether it’s Karma or Dogma you seek, Anurad has something for everyone.
Speaking of relics, I moved on to a doozy—Jaya Sri Maha Bodhi. This sacred fig acts as the physical and spiritual heart of the city said to be the oldest historically authenticated human-planted tree in existence. Tended, guarded, and worshiped for over two thousand years. Why so serious? It’s reputed to be the southern branch of the Sri Maha Bodhi (tree) under which Lord Buddha attained enlightenment in Indian’s northeast state of Bihar. (Does it not seem irreverent to deface the original, or am I just crazy critters?) There was an offering bonanza on display as devoutees believe donations bring positive changes to one’s life and ensure a bountiful harvest.
Ancient Anurad’s center rests within a light forest bleeding peace and serenity. I was nearly overpowered by a sense of calm and well-being and had all I could do not to curl up on a patch of grass near a ruin or under a tree for siesta time. Oh, what a sight in its heyday. I made stops at Elephant Pond (Eth Pokuna), The Moonstone (Sandakada pahana), Samadhi Buddha, Twin Ponds (Kuttam Pokuna), and a host of other sites too numerous/onerous to name. Just to be there… just to be there…
I ended my tour at the massive brick Jetavanaramaya Dagoba built in the third century. At the time of construction, it was thought to be among the tallest structures on earth (122 meters, 400 ft) though it fell into disrepair after the fall of the Anuradhapura Kingdom in the 11th century. A restoration phase ensued in the next century, but its height fell to its current level at 70 meters, 230 ft. A shitload of bricks went into the prototype.
How big’s a shitload?
Over ninety million. Hard to fathom, no? The surrounding area also contains the ruins of a monastery believed to have housed ten thousand monks, give or take. Besides architectural grandeur, it’s significant for belonging to a competing Buddhist sect and underscores contemporary religious tensions. Like other parts of the ancient city, it’s in a beautiful area of green patchwork interspersed between trees and other remains.
*Video Courtesy of Amazing Places on Our Planet.
Time travel is both invigorating and exhausting. A good day. A very good day, indeed. But the best was yet to come. In the parking lot of Jetavanaramaya museum, I busied myself trying to remove caked mud from beneath the Baja (motorcycle). Lots of red clay in the Sri which, when moist, can be a devil to remove. A man approached and made an unsolicited offer to help. I was wary of his motives but let him assist nonetheless. Worst-case scenario? I’d throw him a few rupees for his trouble. He was friendly and had a gentle way about him. Amid our efforts, I received a phone call from the bike owner, Suranga of Sha Lanka Negambo. (See previous post).
On my way into Anuradhapura, I managed to lose the motorcycle key. I say “lose” but that’s not fair. Somehow it dislodged from the ignition and fell to the ground while in flight. I didn’t notice until I stopped. Luckily, foresight prevented me from feeling like a foreskin. I had extras made before leaving Negombo (at the tall goofy white guy rate if one recalls). I figured there was little I could do, so I let it go. Well, the key had a tag with a phone number and the man who found it called Suranga. Suranga called me and passed along the stranger’s digits.
The call became an epic linguistic struggle. He spoke very little English, and we were getting nowhere fast. My mud buddy shifted his role to that of translator. Chandana (mud buddy’s name) informed me the guy was not at home but would be there around 5:30 pm. I was given the street name but nothing else. He (Chandana) offered to assist and gave me his business card so I could call when I was ready to rock. As it happens, he was a tour guide in Anuradhapura. He claimed he wasn’t interested in money and only wanted to help. Skeptical I was, but this was my best chance in hell of locating the keymaster’s address.
We (Chandana and I) agreed to meet at the same spot from where we would head to the man’s house. He showed up in a tuk-tuk (auto-rickshaw) with two friends, including a large Sri Lankan gentleman (the driver/owner). I wasn’t sure what to make of the situation, but I pressed on… Spidey-sense engaged. Chandana hopped on the back of my bike, and we drove off with rickshaw in tow. After about a two-minute drive, we arrived at Chandana’s house where we parked my bike, so we could all pile into the tuk and meet the keymaster. Again, I wasn’t entirely comfortable about jumping into a vehicle with three strangers and driving off, but my instincts told me I would be okay… probably.
On the way, I called keymaster once again and, once again, understood little. I handed the phone to Chandana only to discover the guy wasn’t where he said he’d be. Instead, he was outside town. Um, ‘kay. My choices were to drive to him or pick up the key the following day. I decided on neither. I had two spare keys (as did Suranga), so I thought, Screw it! Let him keep it, a souvenir of our star-crossed rendezvous. Way too much effort for too little reward. With two spares, Suranga was unconcerned as well. To their credit, my new friends made repeated offers to take me to the key, but I explained it wasn’t worth my time or theirs. They made it clear they wanted nothing in return.
With the task of key retrieval dispensed with, I was invited to ginger tea at a roadside kiosk. Sri Lanka is famous for its tea, and after a few sips, I knew why. Gimme a “D” for delicious. As I relaxed into the moment, I saw the truth: My “crew” was emphatically sincere, kind, hospitable, and, most importantly, curious. They wanted one thing: hardcore anal. Um, no. Friendship was their sole aim.
We engaged in stimulating conversations on a variety of topics. All spoke English well, but Chari (Chandana’s close friend) stuck out as being quite educated (self-educated as it turns out). He threw out words like “ascetic” and “flabbergasted.” We talked politics, family, religion, and philosophy among other things. They piqued my interest in Buddhism, and I decided right then I must read up on the subject.
We discussed the security situation, and I explained how the US State Department had issued a travel warning for the country, more for the possibility of random acts of violence than any overt conflict. They too reiterated what I’d heard all along. For the most part, the situation was relatively safe. They did concede the “shit happens” possibility. Though I hadn’t occasion to feel threatened, I did relay my unfavorable experiences in Negombo (SIM card, key cutter, t-shirts, etc.). They laughed but were adamant most Sri Lankans weren’t like that. And I was starting to understand.
Chari, also a tour guide (according to Chandana, the Anuradhapura tour guide), shared his fascination with the ancient Sri Lankan civilizations. His conclusion: The deeper one digs (literally and figuratively), the more amazing the finds. His innate passion underscored his words. He discussed Buddhism and how it’s all about finding the path. Free yourself and everything you need (as compared to want) will come to you. He spoke of rebirth (distinct from reincarnation) and the universe’s continuous yet ever-changing status. He mentioned Einstein and his connection to Buddhist thought. Although I was unaware of the association, it does make perfect sense. Einstein’s work involved unlocking the secrets of the universe, piercing the veil if you will—exactly what Buddhism is all about. To quote:
“The religion of the future will be a cosmic religion. It should transcend personal God and avoid dogma and theology. Covering both the natural and the spiritual, it should be based on a religious sense arising from the experience of all things natural and spiritual as a meaningful unity. Buddhism answers this description. If there is any religion that could cope with modern scientific needs it would be Buddhism.”
(Albert Einstein, The Human Side: Glimpses Glimpses From His Archives edited by Helen Dukas and Banesh Hoffman, Princeton University Press, 1954)
It appears Einstein was, more or less, a Buddhist. Funny how I had to visit Sri Lanka to find that out. Chari deemed me an interesting fellow and said I was not the person he, nor Chandana, thought me to be. I was to learn my appearance and demeanor led them to believe I was a hard man, possibly a bit of a ruffian. They were surprised and delighted to discover my kind nature (according to them, of course). On top of that, I was a fountain of good karma (also according to them).
I’ve heard the “off-putting personal personality theory” before and since. On the road, I can say it was somewhat of a construct. I tried to balance the line between friendly and unapproachable in a doomed effort to attract the cream and discourage the miscreants. Still, I’d be lying if I said this aura didn’t attach in situations where hindrance outweighed benefit. I loathe to admit it, but my unapproachable nature has often put up a social defense shield. And though I was (am) acutely aware of my social shortcomings, something about hearing it from Chari and Chandana hit home. I shudder to think how many interludes I’ve missed along the way on account of my gruff aura. I resolved to substitute less “Grrrrrr” for a little more “Purrrrrr.”
Something about standing next to a thousand-year-old ruin (our post teatime lounging area) under cover of dark in the rain while discussing philosophy I found truly gratifying and almost, for lack of a better word, spiritual. Buddhism is the path to Enlightenment, the search for the reality of our reality. Chari championed the idea I’d come to learn more about the culture, the people, and that I was willing to sit in the rain at night and allow him to share his thoughts and ideas. Was I an unwitting Buddhist? Chari implied such. I took his words as high praise and was abjectly humbled at the prospect of having such a positive impression on someone I’d just met.
In addition to three Lankans and a goofball, Mary Jane also joined the conversation. Incongruous with all the high-level Buddhist self-enlightenment talk? No, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling a bit judgy in the moment. Looking back, this was ghost of outdated stereotypes haunting my synapses. Still, I abstained more out of fear of making an ass out of myself than any moral repulsion. Also, I was so enthralled by the exchanges, I doubt MJ could’ve done much to enhance the experience. Then again…
Some irrational part of me thought Chari tainted his vast intellect with drug use. This was misguided and dumb. Super dumb. Even then I understood this, especially as I learned more of the man. Marijuana was a tool for Chari, one he used to his advantage. It clearly stoked his curiosity and honed his perceptive abilities while strengthening his cognitive attributes, not adulterating them.
Case in point? He taught himself French, attaining enough proficiency to guide those hailing from the land of Napoleon. A highly (pun intended) intelligent fellow with a enough self-awareness to know what is and is not good for him. He wasn’t abusing MJ; he was its master, cultivating its beneficial properties to better himself. Not an escape. Not a diversion. A path to self-improvement.
Marijuana as a gateway to self-actualization? For some, I believe so. For me? Not sure. If I’m being honest, more often than not, the ganja turns me into a blubbering pile of idiot. There have been notable exceptions, but I was gun-shy in the company of strangers I was rapidly coming to respect. It may be time to revist Puff the Magic Dragon.
So, after our sacred city ganja-laced powwow, we went to Chandana’s home for tea and a monstrous portion of succulent watermelon. I was greeted by his mother and wife. This was an honor. Invited to his home the day we met, served food, and introduced to his family? “Humbling” is the word, and I can’t overstate my gratitude. These weren’t just friendly natives. These were my friends, and I felt like I’d known them much longer. More conversations ensued with everything from Buddhism to Sri Lankan soap operas vying for our attention. By then, our group had shrunk to three. Mary Jane and the tuk-tuk owning friend bid adieu for the evening.
Chandana had a star-crossed tale to tell, and it’s a testament to our fast-drying friendship he shared such a personal story. The couple eloped without seeking permission from her parents, a source of constant tension within the family and a fairly big cultural no-no. Her folks were actively shunning them. As Chandana put it, “They are not ready to speak to us yet.” Um, awkward.
From what I understood, there was a class dynamic at work. Her family was more affluent and felt Chandana was a step down on the social hierarchy. I searched their faces for any subtle signs of regret. I found nothing but love and child-like glee in those eyes. I wonder if mom and dad could see that I saw. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. I remember thinking, Fuckers might as well get on board cause these two are in it for the long haul.
Their devotion bathed their modest home in an aura of peace and tranquility. It almost felt like my home. Comparatively, they would be considered dirt poor (home wasn’t much more than plywood and tin, dirt floor, modest furnishings, etc), but they felt richer than most families I had ever known. I fear if my visa had not been so short, I might have spent weeks, if not months in Chandana and Chari’s company. As it was, I was scheduled to head north the next morning. Thankfully, I failed to launch. This procrastination led to a highlight of my two and a half year fandango.
