Tag: sri-lanka

Nine: From Blisters to Bliss

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I stare at the words on my laptop screen, images stare back at me. Like a 3D puzzle, it makes sense only when I stop trying to see what I know … surrender to what the image knows of me. I discern the bigger picture when my eyes learn the images in a different code. Everything I require requires something from me.

Arrival in Galle at Le Bella Inn 1912 is to a celebrity welcome. Procrastination terrifies me so, with my precrastination skills, I made this reservation four months ago. Exalted as the very first person to book a room here, it is presumed that my lucky charm energy resulted in subsequent non-stop bookings, including a dozen from South Africa where the owner has recently toured. Within five minutes I have his oath to assist me with a long term visa extension next time I am in Sri Lanka. Wise action is the path to manifestation.

For me, the first thing to do on arrival anywhere is to walk. But a sign outside proclaims that life starts after coffee. The 19-year-old waiter brings me real coffee; his t-shirt tells me that dreams only work if you do. Manifest is a verb. So, the second thing I do is walk … compelled to keep walking until my feet have drawn the maps on my body and my soul starts to recognise the terrain. Competency building to find my vibe; to dispel my demons into the cobbled roads. The difference with aging as I travel is that my inner elements require a little longer to find resonance with the outer; I need a little longer to calibrate; to integrate. If I don’t immediately do the thing I fear, I get locked in the inertia of it. A cobra recoils into its basket, its flute-playing master closes the lid. Imprisoned. The gun metal ocean tones reflect the rows of cannons of this once heavily defended island. Gun fire shoots me back to the 5-year-old desecrated by her molester on the cannon at the not so defended Durban Library.

An ancient on a bicycle delivers coconuts to Tap House across the road. LKR200 he states. Tapping into the distinction between tourist and traveller I follow the trail to the source, encouraged now to leave the confined bastion of Galle Fort and venture to the street markets. The mania of the city always calms me; slows my stride; brings me closest to my core. Traffic that makes no sense; people and dogs slipstream in flow. I join the harmonic discord. Brightly embellished fishing vessels and cats devouring discarded tails counterpoise the stench of death at the fish market. I follow a cow across a traffic circle. Vehicles mirror me. Fruits and vegetables with knobs and spikes and colours never seen in Cape Town’s aisles of homogenised produce. And king coconuts for LKR100. I get two. One young for ‘drinking’ and one mature for ‘eating, drinking’. I stroll the streets and back through the sally port still eating the flesh on arrival back at the Tap House: Cool King Coconut LKR450 affirms my mini adventure that stretches me into the edges and keeps me real. What ‘feels right’ is simply what feels familiar. When’s it’s uncomfortable—when it burns—that’s when it matters.

Forged in the fire; more beautiful for the fire; I find equilibrium in the water. But first a run—the fire of dynamic meditation to release the kundalini energy to cleanse my emotional body. I do four laps of the fort walls; each re-turn to the lighthouse exhibits another sublime perspective of the rising sun. I have my skipping rope. It strobe-lights the view and I zone out as my entire being becomes a part of my sensory experience and my cells vibrate with joy. Whereas I once I adhered to following my blisters, I now surrender to Joseph Campbell’s true adage and follow my bliss. Exorcising self sabotage is not a once-off event. Magick is a process; practice makes practice.

Writing too takes practice. The foetal heart is formed as it travels in contraction over the brain to nestle in a knot of chambers in its slotted cage in its chest. I write with my heart brain. I write until the writing writes me. Reconstructed. The Tetris Effect. 

Imagine a city where the culture isn’t about sitting down to eat or drink; where the main purpose of walking isn’t to shop. Imagine reverting to tribal culture being genuine progress, where people connect and engage over music, dance, shared experience. Where you can be normal even without an addiction. Conversations can often sound something like back and forth WhatsApp exchanges—threads frayed, only randomly matching. Glimmers of a stitch.

When I travel my body reprograms my brain with felt senses and shifts my approach from top down to bottom up. Sensory signals or guesses; I get to choose which side of the scales to place each experience. It is only with the heart brain that one can ultimately fully comprehend. Cognitive dissonance lingers in a dark skull box. The blueprint knows where to inspire and where to protect. Denied ecstasy … also disillusionment. I feel.

I stare out the taxi window en route to Colombo Airport; words look back. Forests and hanging fruits. Fecund. Phallic. Feral I am. The wanting to stay taints the wanting to go. Gratitude. Grit. The wanting. The waiting. The pause. Breathe. The driver straddles the lanes. Neti neti.

Waiting at the airport for the international flight to Chennai, the tension of the opposites waits with me. I attempt to connect the dots back to who I was when I arrived at this place a month ago. Deer-eyed. Interrogated. The Circle of Zen is not always a simple brush stroke. This cycle that has brought me back to the same place is an explosion and collapse of rainbows and black holes. Order, chaos and everything in between. Each new day a new me. Travel creates the earth’s tarot cards that give direction based not on cardinal points but on the ever-churning and spiralling internal highways that never get me lost. Because I can never be lost. Because I am always right here. Where are you?

After a month in Sri Lanka, I will have to re-orientate my being around my old lover; India … to feel if her devotion is strong enough to hold me. Usually when I’m anxious I shop online. The only thing available to me is an upgrade. “Gulp!” I don’t want to leave but know that I must … it is only in the leaving that I will be able to return. Sri Lanka has chipped away at my heart and snuck inside. If you look real close you will notice the chains are broken.

Seven: Amniotic Floating

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Places leave imprints on the soul. Like lovers, we exchange DNA and leave a part of ourselves in each other. Like attracts like so, just as consumption of any substance creates a resonance for more, so too do these places I traverse set up the frequency of return. Since arriving at Mama Lanka’s bosom, my eyes no longer strain for familiar comfort, my ears find solace in the sounds. 

But it’s not about seeing anything new but rather seeing everything anew.

The words composure and sangfroid are common synonyms of equanimity. While all three words mean ‘evenness of mind under stress’, equanimity suggests a mind only rarely disturbed under great strain. Stress tears the gloopy untransformed caterpillar from its chrysalis; it cracks the shell from the inside, killing the unformed baby bird.

A friend told me not to worry too much about my food addiction, that I would find connections to fill that void. I feel fed through my senses. How right she was. Our fears simply show us what we are searching for.

A mongoose scuttles across the road. A smudge of baby bird yolk on its snout. And I’m on the move again. Belching exhausts,, burning plastic … potholes big enough to devour a small person. City life layered between rice paddies. Coconut groves. Dogs sleep in doorways to keep cool and across roads to keep warm … and politely keep watch at food stalls. Hope lives. A gormless looking water buffalo lifts an opportunistic egret into a marsh. Horns are honked as greeting. Hairy brown coconut shells on spikes pierce the earth to scare marauding crows. Scalps on sticks. A dog run free still choked by its owners chain. Freedom wears a cosh.

Each day of travel breathes change into me, like the changing landscapes I am tugged through by growling grumbling tuk tuks. The earth turns slowly, the tuk driver freewheels; gains little momentum. Captain Jack Sparrow glowers at me from the fabric ceiling. Are we there yet?

If Vipassana was solitary confinement, and Kandy was fast track freedom into the frenetic, Hiriketiya is the equilibrium, the poise. Like the literal rows of surfers on every wave the bay can conjure, it is the place that balances the familiar on both sides of the spectrum. Arrival at Sand Dollar House is like coming home; it even has a dog called Bella. No belching smoke, no burning plastic … and the opinionated peacocks have enough to say to override the discordant ice-cream truck … mostly. It is a beautifully considered space for quiet introspection away from the carnage of resort-style escapades yet, a short walk away for swims and … yes … runs.

Like bubbles rising up through honey, calibration needs to breathe. And to run is my best form of breathwork. Movement, I have come to reflect on, isn’t a diversion. It’s a purification … it’s pure liberation. My teacher says I must “run first, then class”. “Purify physical body to unlock trapped kundalini energy”, he adds. He gets me. One of the few, he accepts my all.

Running the bays in the early morning avoids heat and gives a glimpse into the behind-the-scenes local vibes, while the throngs of tourists on surf holidays are sleeping off their cocktails. I have the beach almost entirely to myself. As an indication I’m on the right map, I see an actual sign Connect the Dots to Dots Co-working space and surf cafe … I get my laptop and go for coffee. The dog has taken the best seat in the house.

My runs are short; they take long. The view refocuses me, the sunrise blinds me, and I drop for expansive moments into the magnitude of connection. A vicious dog stops me in my tracks, grabs my leg and tries to bite me. White with a black head, it reminds me of the bird at Vipassana, content with its shadow part that still remains … a reminder of work to be done. Done with fighting, I sternly grab the scruff of his neck and look him square in the eye. “NO!” I declare. He listens better than a few men I know and runs off on his way.

In the months before my departure, anxiety sat on my shoulder and coaxed me into researching, plotting and planning; it collaborated with my intuition around what I felt I needed and would need as I progressed. A structured itinerary to provide the containment for the journey to flow. Every place I chose has dosed me with the medicine I need.

To affirm and highlight this wise inner voice, Saturday night brings waking through the night to club music. And chanting. At 1am the music is throttled. The chanting remains; no liquor licence required for sustainable living. Fireflies surround my bed like glow-in-the-dark stars. Am I dreaming the whole thing?

Blue Beach beckons like sirens. I hear the call and walk the 2km to a tiny fisherman’s’ bay. And, like sirens, it thrashes me over jagged sea-urchin-encrusted rocks. I bleed. Bloodletting is clearly still my medicine. But, if you’ve read my previous updates, you now know the way to remove a leech is simple—just a squirt of salt water. I immerse my being in an entire bay. The waterfalls all run here and all the metaphorical leeches that cling are cleansed away.

Life right now is all about beach runs, ocean bathing and coconuts. I travel solo to get from myself what I seek from others. where I can meet myself in fullness. I don’t travel because I am brave but because if I don’t travel I will die.

Sand Dollar House is expanding and looking for longterm lets—it is the perfect space for writers, artists, therapists, surfers and free-spirited wonderers; a haven away from the hustle and bustle where you can perfect your craft whilst still having easy access to the most beautiful bays and a multitude of local and international bars, restaurants and shops. Oh how tempted I am.

You can’t stop the waves but you can learn how to surf. I am taking this purely metaphorically as I watch the surfers and feel only JoMo floating on my back in the over-salted swell, needing no balance because the water cradles me, supports me.

Every step I take is a paving stone on the road to my future, a stem cell in the placenta of my development. I am both pregnant with potential and also that potential being hatched.

Maybe I really can have it all.

Five: Cleansing and Ritual

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With each departure I feel the pull to stay and the pull to go. The journey ahead is again unknown and begins with negotiating a fare with the tuk tuk driving brother of my hosts at Vegetable Garden House. “Seven or eight hours drive”, he says. I offer forty Dollars, he counters with seventy and we settle on fifty-six plus I’ll buy lunch en route.

We climb past the sparkling lake. The temperature goes in the opposite direction. Tea plantations form stairways to the moon. And Buddha stands watch above it all. The Empire turns in its tepid grave. Despite the attraction I can neither ignore or negate the shadow side. What is seen as a lake is in fact a dam for tea irrigation; a pool of pesticide run off and an unnatural pool depriving the villages and eco systems downstream.

Whilst most folk deny their shadow in favour of their light, I err on the side of the opposite. I don’t curate; I mine. I unearth diamonds under layers of coal; seeing all facets is my superpower.

We descend the stairways of rice paddies, returning to the heat of the day. Far from hell, I consume the variegated landscapes for lunch. Sense doors are gateways to my soul; the only relevance of the external is my response through the portals of sight, sound, taste, touch and smell. To find that sweet spot of reflection and integration it is important to not mistake resistance for discernment and to recognise that aversion and craving brings neither respite nor the fulfilment of desire. If pleasure cannot give life meaning then the lack of pleasure cannot take meaning away.

The dots of the puzzle can join in a multitude of ways; A to B is not always obvious. Like the precariously poised hillside stalls, adventure brings teetering between groundedness and flight.

The driver chews betel and spits russet saliva. A wave washes over my foot. He drives faster in the rain. Dogs flee. Ganesha removes no obstacles. Shiva with his cobra necktie looks indifferent. Betel alkaloids can stimulate adrenalin or euphoria … he’s not euphoric. The roads aren’t worthy of a map and the tuk tuk has the suspension of a hobbled rodeo bull, so bumpy my phone logs mileage. The journey is long, but I learn to recognise that interesting is more important than speed.

A wall of water; I arrive in the rainforest. And all is calm.

New Year’s Eve is just another Sunday. No pressure and anxiety or pretending to resolve to be a better version of myself. No contrived celebrations to shed some old me that likely will still exist tomorrow. No hedonistic and redundant rituals laying pathways of expectation and failure. No false festivities and empty intentions that negate the reality that tomorrow will be just another Monday.

Instead there is the forest and the river and the rampant wildness reminding me of life’s constant flux of endings and beginnings. Nothing is ever the same. So I chant and I meditate and I climb into bed listening to the lullaby of it all. My intention with the ending of today is to use each and every night as an opportunity to assess and recalibrate so that each and every morning is a new year, a new day and a new me … to use each and every exhale as a letting go and every inhale as an invitation to the new.

Be mindful of this moment; this moment is your life … said someone.

I wake in the still darkness, hungry … for a cold shower, for meditation and chanting, for a swim in the waterfall and for perfumed fruits and real coffee. All is satisfied in that order. And just as an added bonus, a leech attaches itself to my wrist. I want to keep it there for a while. Always fascinated by the ancient healing technique of bloodletting, it feels part of the cleansing ritual. My host sprays salt water on it and it drops to the ground. There will be more where that one came from.

It feels as though I have slipped dimensions; through a crack in the continuum … as though someone else is living my comparatively normal life back home and I have escaped the constructed reality that had me chained.

Four: The Peak of Pilgrimage

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Mercurial Gemini with a strong intellect and speed, I get myself so tied up in knots over labels and judgements; flummoxed by the dangerous new age bullshit of either being in my head OR in my body. My pilgrimage this past year has almost broken me; taken jackhammers to my psyche trying to understand where the unique intersection is between the paper doll, the shadow and the self; made me sick wasting energy justifying who and how I am … on blending two parts of myself that were never separate.

“Now, about that word authentic. It is related to the word author—and you can think of it as being the author of your own self.” — Marion Woodman

Being authentic and spiritual makes me the more real, not the less. It guides me on those internal spiralling pilgrimages down passages of grief and awakening. I touch into every part of me that is also a part of you and therefore a part of everyone and everything in the universe. I can’t hide or deny any aspect of myself. And so I write and I walk and I journey to the places most are afraid to go; places I am mostly also afraid to go.

Slightly Chilled. The name of a guest house I pass on my walk to find real coffee. Nescafe signs send me away. Coconut time. I walk to the river and put my feet in the coolness. Vegetable Garden House is Super Chilled—the family, the garden setting, the beautiful young travellers I meet over delectable Sri Lankan breakfast dishes and weird Sri Lanka coffee.

I wake before the three alarms I have set. It’s 1h40. I am dressed in full hiking gear when I climb into bed at 8pm. My fast-pack is loaded with every warm item of clothing I brought with me, including the pink shawl (the Diana I take on every pilgrimage), a kikoi, extra socks, an entire change of clothing and merino wool gloves. Geared up with head torch and rain jacket, I emerge from my room to the sight of a woman also kitted out for the climb. Her name is Cami, she’s from Paris and it’s her 32nd birthday. It’s hard to imagine I’m twenty years her senior. I feel 35 again, meeting young travellers on their first round of adventure. I get the sense I am being appraised with a measure of curiosity; they are not sure which bracket to place me in as I am the age of the mothers who are in the process of making home and being normal.

Walking this path often means walking alone. And alone isn’t about being without people but without the capacity to articulate my sense of self. Relationships fail for me because I attach to an ideal based on what the world wants from me rather than what I myself want for me; I attach to the illusion of what it promises despite knowing that intentions are generally to ‘fix’ my rabid self reliance in order to make others feel less conflicted and more comfortable with their own erroneous attachments.

Most hikers in Cape Town know the Newlands Forest 400 steps. Add another 5,100, throw in a gazillion tons of concrete, hundreds of neon lights, tea stalls, sweet stalls, Buddha statues, snack bars and innumerable walkers from as old as ancient and as young as infant. It’s a lot to take in. I have the intention to do two nights in a row up SriPada. I am delusional.

Like the star at the top of the Christmas tree, the cluster of neon lights marks the end point of the climb, where the foot of Buddha is believed to have dented the top of the hill. I am initially captivated by the continuous row of lumens lighting up the path until I recognise the reality and the altogether fabulous absurdity of it all. A monk ties a white string around my wrist with blessings for the journey and, similarly to the Camino de Santiago scallop shell, I am branded a pilgrim and given kudos for my commitment.

I navigate new pathways and pave new neurological networks. Like the silk of the spider’s web or moth’s cocoon, the white pilgrims threads create initiation networks, a semi-permanent anchor on the railings. I lay paths that others may follow, not because I know my way but so others may know it’s okay to not know. There are no solid  lines on this map. Only hyphenated. A dot-to-dot puzzle. This is my Sadhana.

People sleep where they sit. A young girl walks holding her mother’s hand; sleepwalking. A man walks barefoot; it’s his 15th time to the Peak. “Is that a spiritual thing?” asks my walking companion. “No, my boots got too heavy”, he replies, focused fully as he places each footfall tentatively on the gnarled concrete. But I feel differently. That kind of pain can only be a spiritual experience. People carry babies and toddlers, people sing to encourage each other, and the elderly use the  railings to replace worn out knees. Babies cry; some adults too. It’s an endless river in flow, night after night after night. The same yet always different.

Everything in life is pilgrimage. Nothing we do or say or love is unique. Yet, in pursuit of being individual … special … we try to carve our own way and, in doing so, fail to recognise the struggle, the value, the pull, of all the millions that came before. And without proper ritual to honour the trajectory of sameness, we ultimately get lost.

I lie awake on the second night in the shadow of SriPada imagining the thousands more trudging to the peak, and I know that as weird and whacky a pilgrimage it is, I am bound to do it again … many times. People who judge me for my atypical free-spirited escapades also follow me vicariously; afraid to step into the groundlessness of the abyss … smothering themselves instead in the illusion of hoarding for something that never comes. A guru tells me that I’m on the right path when fewer and fewer people understand me. 

I travel solo so I can disappear into a framework of existence that doesn’t require justification or proof of my being. I travel solo to untether myself from these insidious and relentless chains curtailing my capacity to simply be. I travel solo so I can re-understand myself.

Courage is my currency.

Three: It’s a Jungle out there

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At international departures, Cape Town, a father bribes his daughter with a lollipop to “kiss uncle on the mouth”. The gateway to abuse. I’ve been there. Always having to ‘be nice’, to not offend, I still don’t always recognise it until in hindsight when boundaries have been violated and trust already fractured. It happened last year in India with an 80-year-old man I saw as a father figure, until he threw me out of his home when I denied his lascivious advances. My son called it, told me how obvious his angle was. I felt foolishly naive.

And it happened again this week in the spice garden. Well regarded and highly respected, I wanted to meet the almost 70-year-old herbal medicine doctor. At 50, his wife was run down by a train and he retreated to a cave on a barren hill where he has lived the past 17 years. Slowly slowly, sherpa style, he began by planting a simple vegetable garden to sustain himself and gradually expanded the planting, integrating his holistic medicinal knowledge. An area of regular landslides and death due to receding vegetation is now jungle once more. I caveat this with an ‘allegedly’ at the end of each statement as what followed gives me cause to doubt. I get a tour of the spice garden and a pulse reading and feel inspired to return as a volunteer to help him reach his target of adding another 8million trees to the 2million already planted. And then he hugged me and told me I would have to dedicate three hours a day to sex and that my energy was causing him to want to do things to me with his tongue. Confused, I busied myself in the herbal shop, got financially exploited for remedies I don’t trust are the real deal and fled in the getaway tuk tuk back to Kandy. Trust … boundaries … total weirdness … that’s life, although it shouldn’t have to be.

The benefit of approaching menopause is the transition from fertile body to fecund mind. I am driven more into the space of exposing sexual harassment; not remaining quiet; not protecting anyone regardless of how incredible a human they are (allegedly). Even when it still feels awkward and uncomfortable doing so, I want to work towards flicking off the ‘nice switch’ in the moment of feeling violated.

“From earth”, is the new retort to men more interested in my marital status than my birth place. I add, “my wife is taking care of my son.” A happy boundary. Despite my occasional need for a facetious push back, I have found the Sri Lankan people to be engaging, kind, helpful and super chilled. Safe I am.

Navigating a new country is like learning a new language. And Madugalle Friendly Gamily Guesthouse has become a familiar language. This is a new comfort zone. I consider canceling my trip to climb Sri Pada to stay two more nights … but there is also the tensile force pulling me to challenge myself on whether I have in fact found a new way to engage with this relentless downpour and climb 7km up 5,500 steps to almost 2,500m, a 1km ascent with a gazillion pilgrims … starting at 3am to summit for sunrise. This all sounds mad, right? 

Linda Goodman sums me up in her Sun Signs tome I discovered as a teenager when I had lost myself in the dysfunction of my family system. “Why walk when you can run?” is the single line adhered to my psyche. I use this as justification for my special kind of crazy.

One last delicious curry—green beans and sweet potatoes—at Mrs Madugalle. A walk for a final coffee at Natural Coffee Kandy. It’s still closed. And rain comes tumbling down … in drops, then sheets, then buckets. The coffee is worth it; waiting in the rain isn’t. The people are short enough for the countless umbrellas to take out an eye and the eaves drip exactly where the walkway is. I arrive home wet. Packed and as ready as I’ll be, the only thing to do is get to Vegetable Garden House in Nallthaniya, ten minutes walk to the start of the 5,500 step climb.

I’m great making choices when I have no choice. Confused the first time I heard this, I learn to let go of regrets and accept that I also have to do certain things just to know I don’t want to do them … which means often I have to just go with the (moment)um and know a fail is as good as a win. Not brave enough for the bus, not scared enough for a taxi … the tuk tuk always comes out top. I order a PickMe. I enjoy the road tripping and so far I have had super friendly humans behind the handlebars.

We stop for king coconut and tea. The road is good to begin with and then I understand better why taxis command such a high fare. The roads become potholed and corrugated and there are entire sections of wash away down the mountainside. I feel the bus may have been a stretch too far for me and am grateful for my wise choice. Eventually I hear the voices of all the bugs over the sound of the tuk tuk engine; I see waterfalls and hilltops; I see tea plantations and rice paddies beside dense trees and forest foliage; I see life. NOW we are in the jungle! The first 80km build the anticipation and I keep feeling like I must be there already but with the state of the flooding, the last 25km take as long. Huts, tea houses, shops and lodges hang precipitously from the cliffs. I see the remains of homes not lucky enough to escape the recent deluge. Four and half hours after setting out, the lush and comfy Vegetable Garden House stretches out into a field. It grounds me. No vertiginous sleeping. I commend myself on another excellent choice.

There is a fire in my chest. The doctor warned of a potential healing crisis and, if this is it, I’m going to be just fine. The past months are burning off me now and the two weeks I have been away feel endless and infinite. Before departure my body was in a condensed state of dis-ease and I developed a pathology that causes me to hold my breath. My diaphragm gets stuck; my soft centre curls in on itself … I can get to the precipice of blacking out. As with the packing process, I am paralysed by the phobia of taking up too much space. If I hold my breath will I shrink? I consider if this is why I push myself on runs and hikes. Is it the only time I fully breathe?

Tonight I practice breathing. Tonight I climb. Tonight I allow the jungle to breathe for me.

Two: Christmas Not

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Memories of Christmas Day are entangled with images of a hunk of pig flesh skewered by toothpicks securing pineapple rings and cherries. I stopped subscribing to Christmas cruelty almost twenty years ago and feel relieved to escape this insanity in Sri Lanka.

Mrs Madugalle, owner of Madugalle Friendly Family Guest House (Kandy Inn), keeps me topped up with porcelain pots of Ceylon tea and sits down to chat. I prattle away in my usual way, offering up 100 words a minute on the premise that if only 30 are understood, that’s a good result. Concerned about my lack of appetite since my water fast, she animatedly recommends an Ayurvedic doctor “only two minutes walking from my door”. What allopathic doctors, she says, couldn’t do for her in months with medicines, he cured in three sessions. I booked immediately. As a Buddhist, Christmas day is also just a Monday.

Pierced chakras and moxibustion heat down each shaft into my body and my freakish mind conjures up the Christmas roast. It’s painful … but in a good way. 
“I give you a little massage now?” With nothing more than threadbare towel and scant knickers as personal boundaries; I instantly feel regret for an offer too quickly accepted and, as my mind recreates memories, my muscles become taut at the impending experience of having a strange man’s hands all over my body. Accused of being a prude for most of my adolescence, desperate to be accepted, I dropped many vital boundaries. Perfect prey for the plucking. But this is post-Vipassana … “with a calm and equanimous mind”, I practice instead directing attention to the sensations of my body—“the reality as it is”.

The frequency at which I vibrate—physical, emotional, mental and soulful—attracts the same. If I struggle to trust, untrustworthy people will be drawn to me. As the protagonist changes so do the supporting roles; as the instruments change, so too the melody. I unravel the myth of my life to pull new threads and weave new narratives. It’s not always easy … which is why it’s called a practice.

From feet to head and hair, my entire body is slathered in ghee—ready for the oven—and my head with eucalyptus, until my chi and my trust are restored and detoxified. He’s thorough and brilliant and I feel safe in his healing hands. And that’s how I spend my first three hours of Christmas day and Boxing day—learning lessons in trust. I feel I have changed my tune.

The lotus perfume tacky in my nostrils as I gather with thousands of people at Sri Dalada Maligawa with their offerings. Babies start wailing; sweat drips off someone’s forehead onto my arm. I want to go NOW … a futile fancy. As an ADHD Duracell bunny with narcolepsy and a stroke of autism, there’s always a chance in high tension situations that I will either freak out … or nod off. The drumming begins along with a crush of bodies; a buildup that can only lead to denied expectations. Agitation … near panic; I cover my ears and close my eyes; the air is too thick to breathe. Every second seems like minutes waiting for tardy monks to open shrine doors to momentarily expose the Tooth Relic to masses intoxicated by their devotion. And, with the big reveal, the heaving horde gets propelled like peristalsis past a relic barely visible behind a large man in robes raking in bribes in exchange for enlightenment. Was it even there? Religious dogma. I am disillusioned. Forcing my way through clammy bodies, I at last burst out into the night. The storm clouds close in like primordial fluid. It’s time to contract and retreat to home base. 

Corresponding expansion comes twice a day with a circuit of Kandy Lake where, amidst the excessive sound, plastic and carbon monoxide pollution, reside furred, scaled, finned, fanged, winged and feathered creatures, all seemingly oblivious to the madness of humanity at their threshold.

As a foreigner walking around Kandy Lake, it’s important to trust boundaries … to remain equanimous with every offer of a tuk tuk ride to somewhere I don’t want to go … to never get frustrated repeating myself and to keep an even tone after countless, “no thank you, I want to walk”, “yes, I know where I’m going”, “no, I wouldn’t like to buy gems … wood carvings … your first born …” It’s crazy out there. I politely decline an offer from Lesley “look at my Trip Advisor profile … where you want to go?” to take me any of the places he goes, tell him I’d like to enjoy my walk, and move on. Two monitor lizards, a hundred bats, five dogs and a turtle later, there he stands with the dejected look of a man being dismissed at a bar, a foreign couple shaking their heads at him and moving on. I take his number. You never know, I say, I may want to go somewhere other than around the lake and to see the hope induced mirage of ancient relics.

There’s a worm in my ear that has been boring through my brain since Vipassana. It is the sound of ice cream trucks and rickshaw hawkers playing the high-pitched tunes of programming. Combined—simultaneously—with DJs smashing out some banging beats and megaphone mantras from temples, I feel an impulse. I call Lesley; it’s time for the jungle.

I travel to re-familiarise myself with the harmonious interplay between planning and whim … knowing that one requires the other. I travel to feel into … to breathe into … to emote into … to love into … the infinitesimal galactic marriage I have with the world. I travel not to find freedom but because it is always there.

And here I am at Lal Homestay, a haven from the city, after a tuk tuk tour to Dambulla Cave Temple, a roadside health food eatery in the Ayurvedic spice garden district, the essential coconut (“eating, drinking”), and a walk (scramble) in the rain to the top of Pidurangala Rock. A young girl climbs the rock in strappy Grecian sandals; I suspect they will soon be discarded along with the multitude abandoned footwear. There’s no such thing as bad weather, only choices around how I engage with it. Travel feeds me but hiking does more; the combination is my sweet spot. A quick up and down a rock, shrouded by fresh misty air, tropical rain and lush vistas is the alchemical elixir, the perfume fruit, the lotus flower.

Still restless, I walk some more. In Sigiriya village, I stop at a signpost at a Rasta restaurant: South Africa 7493km. It doesn’t seem possible it could still be so close; it doesn’t feel it should exist at all. I am in my bubble. If no one sees me do I still exist? To make sure, I ask permission to ring the big bronze bell at the monastery. I expand my wonder-full soul with sound. 

I decide not to climb the tourist highlight, Sigiriya (Lion) Rock, because of something I read to Nic from the India photobook prior to both of us departing. On the trip to Chennai Int’l the last time we went to India, I mentioned something we hadn’t had time to do and he said, “that’s ok, Mum, because it means we have something to come back for.” This inspires me to not only return again but to do so with the budget to view Lion Rock from the sky … in a hot air ballon. Yes, that’s a real thing here. And it’s in my crystal ball calendar.

I wake at 3.30am—my body clock having over-compensated by an hour or two—to rain as strong as my desire to walk. The world is a mysterious wonder and when I wander I find the mystery in me. It’s as much a calling as a compulsion. Strong black tea is delivered at 6am and a fruit platter at 7am. And then the wet weather gear gets reinstalled for a morning walk around the Lion in lieu of the summit. Alone on a road between a waterway and a jungle, I have noted the wild elephant warnings and have decided that, if encountered, I will take the waterway and just swim for it.

The squawk of peacocks comes first. An explosion of monkeys from the undergrowth follows.  There is eerie creaking, then the loud cracking and shattering of a tree falling towards the road. The chattering and squealing monkeys line up on the treetops; front row seats at the wildlife playhouse … there’s something there, and it’s BIG! My three Fs are Fight or Flight or Figure it out. Curiosity gets the better of me. But visibility is poor enough in the downpour and, failing climbing up to join the raucous crowd, I can’t see through the density of the first row of trees to claim a sighting. There is leopard here too. What a way to go. But I’m not yet ready. I walk away … slowly, lightly … I am neither prey nor predator.

Returning to Kandy, the real benefit of choosing tuk tuk travel becomes evident with the inundation of cars turning single lane roads into triple lane highways.. It feels like we’re in a getaway tuk tuk. I’m chilled; speed is my vibe. Between bouts of swerving and weaving and extreme driving skills, we take the crucial pit stops: coconut water and sweet fruits.

Roadside, a vendor adeptly carves a mango and bags it … peel and tip still intact yet dismembered from its seed. We stop beside a lake to eat with a view. I pull the skin back and sink my teeth into perfumed flesh, drinking each segment too juicy to chew. The earth stops still for a moment for me to savour what I am living into. Samadhi.

I have discarded the maps in favour of the territory and I am still just getting to grips with the lay of the land. And as I go, I plot my way. There really is no such thing as getting lost.