Saturday, 23 August 2014
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Jogjakarta
Don't feel like writing right now, so let these photos do the talking!
Sultan's palace. Shadow puppets and batik!
Saturday, 5 July 2014
Monday, 30 December 2013
Final day negombo
Today is scorching. The sand too hot to walk on at midday, my neck feeling burnt. I have a long day to fill till my 3am flight. So far it's languid. An early morning stroll along the shore from my guesthouse past beached catamarans and men under thatched shelters mending fishing nets. Nice not needing to wear anything on my feet as I step out, but I'm wary of walking in the water as I seem to have got an infected cit on my ankle. My breakfast is my second visit to grace's juice bar where I'm am introduced to more fruits ive ever come across before. She prides herself on providing fruits nowhere eels does. I have an ambrrella and soursop mix.
I spend the rest of the morning in a patch of shade next to some fancy resort where westerners lie on clean sun loungers batting away the hawkers or lording over them from their reclined position like Egyptian queens yeah ing or nayimg a succession of bright dresses and saris the local women produce from bags a nd spread out on the sand. It feels a bit alien to me, but there is no. Shade anywhere else. A helicopter comes in to land further along the beach, depositing guests at an even fancier place.
Last night I spend an hour or so after dark with Dave and Donna on the beach with beer, sitting on a parked boat. Behind us was a party at a hotel. A stage, a do, dancing, bright lights., Sri Lankan techno, sounding both Africana and West Indian, rockets fired into the air, flashes of smoke and light from fireworks illuminating the distant dancing figures and their cars. Ex decide to approach, aware already grooving, but the party is small and it's all men, so Donna going gangnam style is likely to get a lot of unwanted attention. So, we keep our distance as the party unwinds
Today is a good indulgence day, and getting rid of my cash. Lunch again at Edwin's, this time a green leaf curry, a bitter cucumber one. Now at ice bear cafe, a colonial mansion light and airy Strauss or Mozart plays. waiting for my ice cream: brandy, cinnamon, cashew, honey flavours. I've just been scooting around the harbour, two guys chopping up tuna on wood blocks amid a sea of drying silver fish and a wasteland of fish heads being picked over by crows and cormorants. I cycle around the fishermens house and suddenly hear a hello in my ear as a young boy has jumped on the back of my bike for a quick ride. The harbour is sleepy, the boats are in. Men doze in the boats or fix nets.
The beach is collier, windier, fine sand stings as it sidling on my back. A fisherman tries to sell me the jaw bone complete with razor sharp teeth of a 20 kg shark. So how would that fit in my luggage? A guy from kandy chats with me and has my pic taken with him. I have to sort out his phone for him to send me the photo. The sun slips down, never quite making the horizon once more. The end of my daylight in Sri Lanka. Back at graces juice bar I have bello and pineapple mix and spend some time talking with. Bulgarian couple about football. Just before I leave grave makes me a present of 3 wood apples.
Finding Dave and Donna is as easy as cycling done the street. I arrange to meet them in Edwin's again, as I return the bike. The old woman at the guest hous asks me each time is see her where I'm from. After paying for the bike she even asks for money for herself. A guesthouse owner begging for goodness sake. I have a dosa which really isn't too good, thick and gooey rather than paper thin and crisp.weshare some more beers,catch the end of some performance outside the church, then see Liverpool lose to Chelsea in a bar.
I'm now at the airport. 2.41 and pretty damn tired.
A splendid post script. After a tiring groggy 18 hours getting to gatwick I'm informed my bag wasn't loaded. I'm without warm shows, socks, rain coat and worst of all, no door keys. My phone is out of juice and when I do get some small charge I can't get hold of Fran who has my keys.useless. I phone my letting agency bit they are closing early so I can't get keys from them. I'm cold, hungry, jetlagged, want to go to bed.but even getting to Brighton is a nightmare. No trains from gatwick, and I queue in the cold outside the airport with a growing mass of very disgruntled newly landed holiday makers.there is no system and a weedy Marshall thanking us for waiting. 30 mins there then another wait at 3 bridges for a slow train. I still have no idea how I will get into my flat. Oh and the conversations on the bus. A one legged squaddie prattling om to the driver about traffic and bills and getting pissed with his mates. I don't care. Shut the hell up. Give me a crowded srilankan bus instead. How dare they make me pay the normal rail fare for this debacle. It is not good to be back.
I spend the rest of the morning in a patch of shade next to some fancy resort where westerners lie on clean sun loungers batting away the hawkers or lording over them from their reclined position like Egyptian queens yeah ing or nayimg a succession of bright dresses and saris the local women produce from bags a nd spread out on the sand. It feels a bit alien to me, but there is no. Shade anywhere else. A helicopter comes in to land further along the beach, depositing guests at an even fancier place.
Last night I spend an hour or so after dark with Dave and Donna on the beach with beer, sitting on a parked boat. Behind us was a party at a hotel. A stage, a do, dancing, bright lights., Sri Lankan techno, sounding both Africana and West Indian, rockets fired into the air, flashes of smoke and light from fireworks illuminating the distant dancing figures and their cars. Ex decide to approach, aware already grooving, but the party is small and it's all men, so Donna going gangnam style is likely to get a lot of unwanted attention. So, we keep our distance as the party unwinds
Today is a good indulgence day, and getting rid of my cash. Lunch again at Edwin's, this time a green leaf curry, a bitter cucumber one. Now at ice bear cafe, a colonial mansion light and airy Strauss or Mozart plays. waiting for my ice cream: brandy, cinnamon, cashew, honey flavours. I've just been scooting around the harbour, two guys chopping up tuna on wood blocks amid a sea of drying silver fish and a wasteland of fish heads being picked over by crows and cormorants. I cycle around the fishermens house and suddenly hear a hello in my ear as a young boy has jumped on the back of my bike for a quick ride. The harbour is sleepy, the boats are in. Men doze in the boats or fix nets.
The beach is collier, windier, fine sand stings as it sidling on my back. A fisherman tries to sell me the jaw bone complete with razor sharp teeth of a 20 kg shark. So how would that fit in my luggage? A guy from kandy chats with me and has my pic taken with him. I have to sort out his phone for him to send me the photo. The sun slips down, never quite making the horizon once more. The end of my daylight in Sri Lanka. Back at graces juice bar I have bello and pineapple mix and spend some time talking with. Bulgarian couple about football. Just before I leave grave makes me a present of 3 wood apples.
Finding Dave and Donna is as easy as cycling done the street. I arrange to meet them in Edwin's again, as I return the bike. The old woman at the guest hous asks me each time is see her where I'm from. After paying for the bike she even asks for money for herself. A guesthouse owner begging for goodness sake. I have a dosa which really isn't too good, thick and gooey rather than paper thin and crisp.weshare some more beers,catch the end of some performance outside the church, then see Liverpool lose to Chelsea in a bar.
I'm now at the airport. 2.41 and pretty damn tired.
A splendid post script. After a tiring groggy 18 hours getting to gatwick I'm informed my bag wasn't loaded. I'm without warm shows, socks, rain coat and worst of all, no door keys. My phone is out of juice and when I do get some small charge I can't get hold of Fran who has my keys.useless. I phone my letting agency bit they are closing early so I can't get keys from them. I'm cold, hungry, jetlagged, want to go to bed.but even getting to Brighton is a nightmare. No trains from gatwick, and I queue in the cold outside the airport with a growing mass of very disgruntled newly landed holiday makers.there is no system and a weedy Marshall thanking us for waiting. 30 mins there then another wait at 3 bridges for a slow train. I still have no idea how I will get into my flat. Oh and the conversations on the bus. A one legged squaddie prattling om to the driver about traffic and bills and getting pissed with his mates. I don't care. Shut the hell up. Give me a crowded srilankan bus instead. How dare they make me pay the normal rail fare for this debacle. It is not good to be back.
Saturday, 28 December 2013
Negombo 2
A good sleep followed bya. Cycle along the main road past Hindu temples, juice shops, cheap samosa stalls and churches to the fish market. Old women crouched by their plastic sheets with tiddlers, men at butcher blocks chopping the larger catch, a cluster of curious men and boys surveying a 70cm ray of some kind. Seems nobody knows what to do with it. Beyond on the beach are sheets of small silver fish laid out to dry under the right sun. By. The shore the small boatsarelandi g their catches and teas of me and old women are shank out the nets. Women and men are gutting and sorting larger fishes further along. Catches are ferried by pairs of men by baskets on poles to the sea edge to be washed. Everyone is working fast and the bosses are circulating and handing out pay.
The town is divided into tourist strip, commercial main road, a market full of fabric shops and residential streets stretching along the canal and shore of the lagoon, larger fishing boats moored here. I see home made nativities of straw, plastic figures and fairy lights at many street corners, some constructed on abandoned boats. I see small boys crossing themselves as they pass the crucifixes at junctions.
Back at Lewis place I have a juice in a place run by a half Filipino family which has a variety of fruits new to me. Must go back there. My dinner cum lunch at Edwin's restaurant is a very. Good and interesting curry and rice which includes a pineapple and soya korma type affair. I catch up with Dave and Donna on a stretch of the beach near some fancy hotels. The sea is refreshing, the surfs.aps you hard and is bracing. A wedding banquet is being set up on the beach, photos of the bridal pair taken at sun down by some catamarans. Some ponies are ridden by, Russians on sand mobiles drive up and down. We play cricket with some locals in underpants by the waters edge as the sun descends turning into a glowing orange disc, disappearing into cloud just a before it hits the horizon. There are quite a few hawkers with Xl polo shirts,saris, shorts, necklaces. Closer to the road is a guy with a monkey on a chain and a cobra which he offers to tourists to hold. A couple of cocktails later, I'm back at the guesthouse which is deserted. The soundtrack is fire crackers and the roar of the increasing waves.
The town is divided into tourist strip, commercial main road, a market full of fabric shops and residential streets stretching along the canal and shore of the lagoon, larger fishing boats moored here. I see home made nativities of straw, plastic figures and fairy lights at many street corners, some constructed on abandoned boats. I see small boys crossing themselves as they pass the crucifixes at junctions.
Back at Lewis place I have a juice in a place run by a half Filipino family which has a variety of fruits new to me. Must go back there. My dinner cum lunch at Edwin's restaurant is a very. Good and interesting curry and rice which includes a pineapple and soya korma type affair. I catch up with Dave and Donna on a stretch of the beach near some fancy hotels. The sea is refreshing, the surfs.aps you hard and is bracing. A wedding banquet is being set up on the beach, photos of the bridal pair taken at sun down by some catamarans. Some ponies are ridden by, Russians on sand mobiles drive up and down. We play cricket with some locals in underpants by the waters edge as the sun descends turning into a glowing orange disc, disappearing into cloud just a before it hits the horizon. There are quite a few hawkers with Xl polo shirts,saris, shorts, necklaces. Closer to the road is a guy with a monkey on a chain and a cobra which he offers to tourists to hold. A couple of cocktails later, I'm back at the guesthouse which is deserted. The soundtrack is fire crackers and the roar of the increasing waves.
Negombo
Reached negombo by bus from Anuradhapura, a local bus described as semi luxury. I don't really understand that definition. Maybe it was driven faster, maybe because I was able to take luggage with me. Regardless it was crowded with many people standing in the aisle, and hot and airless when crawling through the towns. I closed my eyes and absorbed the sounds and physical sensations. The whirl of the Diesel engine, the rush of the breeze through the open door at the front, the sway and swerve as it cut out then cut in around traffic invisible to me in the thick of the crowd. The bass heavy groove of singhalese dance music. When I shift to the windows seat I can lean out but the air is so hot and the sunlight scorching at midday. I see in the side mirror the face of a moustachioed brightly coloured shirted driver in whom I have trusted my safety.
Negombo is a busy road full of guesthouses and more upmarket hotels, occasional fake xmas trees festooned with lights, and flimsy nativity scenes. There are churches here too. My guest house has Xmas decorations, and a catholic shrine too. There are many options to stay. The first two I look at are dirty, smelly, unpleasant. The third is extravagant and costly. I settle for a family home stay guesthouse at the end of the row on the beach. A curious old woman with 4 teeth constantly milling around. I have at tv, not that I need it, but later watch highlights from yesterday's premiership. The beach itself is grubby, firework debris and assorted packaging lie around, the tide leaving black rings on the sandy shore.almost immediately my attempt to chill out is disturbed by a hawker opening his bags of necklaces and carved elephants, spreading them out on the sand in front of me and refusing to understand the words " I don't want to buy anything". He finally gets lost, disappointed. I do mangea. Read and a doze. A wind builds and I rouse myself just before sunset, the beach is busier and some groups of locals are playing cricket.
I managed to track down Dave and Donna finally. Having located their guesthouse and got through to the staff who barely spoke any English that I wanted to leave a message, we hol up in the evening to have dinner and beer, trade stories and compare tans.
Back at the guest house is talk to the boss, who calls himself Adrain and for the first time I meet a local who openly criticises the government. He complains about the scarcity and price of protein foods such as cheese and meat, laments the cost of attractions to and thus the negative imapct this has on tourism. He calls the president a war president and even compares his behaviour and publicity ( the images you see everywhere) to sadaam. His friends are in agreement.
Negombo is a busy road full of guesthouses and more upmarket hotels, occasional fake xmas trees festooned with lights, and flimsy nativity scenes. There are churches here too. My guest house has Xmas decorations, and a catholic shrine too. There are many options to stay. The first two I look at are dirty, smelly, unpleasant. The third is extravagant and costly. I settle for a family home stay guesthouse at the end of the row on the beach. A curious old woman with 4 teeth constantly milling around. I have at tv, not that I need it, but later watch highlights from yesterday's premiership. The beach itself is grubby, firework debris and assorted packaging lie around, the tide leaving black rings on the sandy shore.almost immediately my attempt to chill out is disturbed by a hawker opening his bags of necklaces and carved elephants, spreading them out on the sand in front of me and refusing to understand the words " I don't want to buy anything". He finally gets lost, disappointed. I do mangea. Read and a doze. A wind builds and I rouse myself just before sunset, the beach is busier and some groups of locals are playing cricket.
I managed to track down Dave and Donna finally. Having located their guesthouse and got through to the staff who barely spoke any English that I wanted to leave a message, we hol up in the evening to have dinner and beer, trade stories and compare tans.
Back at the guest house is talk to the boss, who calls himself Adrain and for the first time I meet a local who openly criticises the government. He complains about the scarcity and price of protein foods such as cheese and meat, laments the cost of attractions to and thus the negative imapct this has on tourism. He calls the president a war president and even compares his behaviour and publicity ( the images you see everywhere) to sadaam. His friends are in agreement.
Thursday, 26 December 2013
Christmas Day and Boxing Day
I'm on a big rock. In fact it's a mass of enormous granite boulders which feel clumsily tumbled together by some giant. Trees twist In and out casting pools of shade. A small flat lizard with an orange head scampers by. This is called the 68 caves and all the gaps between these massive lumps. Were at one time hermitage meditation spots for monks.the view is extensive I am high up. But there is never silence. I can hear the old car horn honking of the ice cream seller and occasionally the wafting insidious annoy of the official at the mini tale site. The early after noon sun is hot, I'm drenched in sweat, a gentle breeze flows.
The minhitale site was a limb up a lot of stones it into the rock face. Apparently 1800 of them, but it felt less. Atthe enclosure at the top there are a number of peaks. The dagbola with more steps and a viewing platform that pilgrims ate queuing to access.an enormous white stupa,another peak with a plain white Buddha. It would be very calm and peaceful were it not for the described tan oh. I understand not a word, and the voice is staccato and dreary. These are not prayers.announcements of some sort.
It's been a religious Christmas, at least in terms of the places I've been. Christmas afternoon was spent at the oldest tree in the world. A venerated 2000 year old boddi tree, a destination for barefoot white bedecked singhalese Buddhists and orange robed monks. There was a lot of groups praying together, chanting together, making flower offerings to the tree. I met a curious group of women, two nuns of some kind, in similar robes to the monks, sitting in the conversation hall peeling back the petals of lotus buds, dipping them in fresh water, preparing them for the pilgrims to leave at the alters. A parade is beginning led by small boys carrying cushions of white lotus flowers and elderly monks with yellow parasols, A long long roll of fabric, striped like prayer flags is unrolled and carried overhead by hundreds of pilgrims chanting satu satu sat. The procession is hundreds of metres long and winds around the tree, pilgrims jumping in and also clasping the flag, then leaves through the gate in the direction of another sacred site. The lotus women exchange addresses with me. This is becoming common. The following day an 11 year old boy gives me his number and tells me to call him. An old man at the parade asks me to send him photos.
Now out of site I can hear military drummingand marching sounds. What is happening? Could it be something to do with the masses of young soldiers I saw lounging in the park before the car park to the mihintale site?
Back at the carpark I have. Fresh coconut and chat with a guide who agrees that the tourist charges to the sites in Sri Lanka are far too high. I roll down the hill and look for the place he tells me about, black water. I find this after climbing a path through a forest, past some monk houses cut into the rock and lifting some tree branches to pass under. I emerge in an area of ruins next to a water tank, the water deep, dark, reflecting the huge boulders and hills scattered around. On the other site is a little island with the ruins of a temple. It's very peaceful, quiet, empty, perfect. A young boy in a black shirt calls out to me from a rock then runs after me and starts a rudimentary conversation. He takes my picture, then walks with me to introduce me to his mother who is sitting on a wall next to the reservoir. We chat and then his other 2 brothers and father appear. More talk. The boy wants to take lots of photos. The family are from Matara and invite me there next time I'm here.
The ride back into town is incident free. Everyone calls out hello to me, the odd white curio. This is a country where people still stop to watch train passing and kids wave at them.
At the guesthouse I learn from the owner that the bicycle mystery hs been solved and the missing bike, the one I borrowed 2 days ago, has returned. The story is complicated and it transpires that I did take someone else's bike when I was at the gin shop. The story was put together by the guy working there. My bike sat unlocked abandoned at the store for 2 days, then was stolen by a junkie today. The shops CCTV, identified this guy, helped them retrieve the bike, them they worked out it was mine from older CCTV. The guy remembered that I had asked directions or my guest house, so they phoned them and the bike got returned. I'm amazed. I'm amazed that it hadn't been stolen over 2 days, that they use CCTV here, but most of all that I did in fact screw up. I was swearing categorically that I couldn't have taken the wrong bike. I was sure I was riding the same bike. Being lost that night clearly scrambled my brain. Alls well that ends well, I guess.
The minhitale site was a limb up a lot of stones it into the rock face. Apparently 1800 of them, but it felt less. Atthe enclosure at the top there are a number of peaks. The dagbola with more steps and a viewing platform that pilgrims ate queuing to access.an enormous white stupa,another peak with a plain white Buddha. It would be very calm and peaceful were it not for the described tan oh. I understand not a word, and the voice is staccato and dreary. These are not prayers.announcements of some sort.
It's been a religious Christmas, at least in terms of the places I've been. Christmas afternoon was spent at the oldest tree in the world. A venerated 2000 year old boddi tree, a destination for barefoot white bedecked singhalese Buddhists and orange robed monks. There was a lot of groups praying together, chanting together, making flower offerings to the tree. I met a curious group of women, two nuns of some kind, in similar robes to the monks, sitting in the conversation hall peeling back the petals of lotus buds, dipping them in fresh water, preparing them for the pilgrims to leave at the alters. A parade is beginning led by small boys carrying cushions of white lotus flowers and elderly monks with yellow parasols, A long long roll of fabric, striped like prayer flags is unrolled and carried overhead by hundreds of pilgrims chanting satu satu sat. The procession is hundreds of metres long and winds around the tree, pilgrims jumping in and also clasping the flag, then leaves through the gate in the direction of another sacred site. The lotus women exchange addresses with me. This is becoming common. The following day an 11 year old boy gives me his number and tells me to call him. An old man at the parade asks me to send him photos.
Now out of site I can hear military drummingand marching sounds. What is happening? Could it be something to do with the masses of young soldiers I saw lounging in the park before the car park to the mihintale site?
Back at the carpark I have. Fresh coconut and chat with a guide who agrees that the tourist charges to the sites in Sri Lanka are far too high. I roll down the hill and look for the place he tells me about, black water. I find this after climbing a path through a forest, past some monk houses cut into the rock and lifting some tree branches to pass under. I emerge in an area of ruins next to a water tank, the water deep, dark, reflecting the huge boulders and hills scattered around. On the other site is a little island with the ruins of a temple. It's very peaceful, quiet, empty, perfect. A young boy in a black shirt calls out to me from a rock then runs after me and starts a rudimentary conversation. He takes my picture, then walks with me to introduce me to his mother who is sitting on a wall next to the reservoir. We chat and then his other 2 brothers and father appear. More talk. The boy wants to take lots of photos. The family are from Matara and invite me there next time I'm here.
The ride back into town is incident free. Everyone calls out hello to me, the odd white curio. This is a country where people still stop to watch train passing and kids wave at them.
At the guesthouse I learn from the owner that the bicycle mystery hs been solved and the missing bike, the one I borrowed 2 days ago, has returned. The story is complicated and it transpires that I did take someone else's bike when I was at the gin shop. The story was put together by the guy working there. My bike sat unlocked abandoned at the store for 2 days, then was stolen by a junkie today. The shops CCTV, identified this guy, helped them retrieve the bike, them they worked out it was mine from older CCTV. The guy remembered that I had asked directions or my guest house, so they phoned them and the bike got returned. I'm amazed. I'm amazed that it hadn't been stolen over 2 days, that they use CCTV here, but most of all that I did in fact screw up. I was swearing categorically that I couldn't have taken the wrong bike. I was sure I was riding the same bike. Being lost that night clearly scrambled my brain. Alls well that ends well, I guess.
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