here we are in...

  • about
  • contact

Vietlandia

train

Serendib

April 24, 2018 by Beth Leave a Comment

The cold weather (50s) and the Tet holiday (everyone leaves) provided two compelling reasons to temporarily ditch Hanoi.  We travel often with our friend Douglas and this was no exception. Off we went to Sri Lanka with no firm plans except a ticketed return date.

 

Sri Lanka is an island south of India that is the size of western WA. With 20 million people. The population of WA state is 7.5 million. Sri Lanka is compact.

 

Historic Buddhist ruins in the upper center, tea plantations blanketing the hills in the lower center, and beaches all the way around. This country is 8 years out of a 26-year-long civil war between the Tamils and the Singhalese. 8 years is not long in terms of readjustment. The infrastructure is recovering, albeit slowly. Trains and buses, both inexpensive by local standards, are the primary mode of travel. The wealthier citizens own cars. Tuk tuks and motorbikes rule the outlying roads, with bicycles and cows not far behind. Walking the train tracks is acceptably the cheapest and shortest way to travel between villages.

Next to the tracks are well-worn paths to step into when a train passes.

 

Yes, we did.

 

We started by visiting Douglas’ friend living just north of the capital, Colombo.  The rice paddies outside their neighborhood were loaded with birds and wildlife.  And water monitors!  OMG. Imagine a little lizard crossing your path. Then expand it to 3 feet or 4 or 6 feet. They resemble crocodiles. But they are lizards, and they cross the roads often. Serious adrenaline rush every time they crossed our paths.

I didn’t get a good photo of a water monitor, but here’s our friend capturing a neighborhood cow.

 

With so many Sri Lankan beaches to choose from, we started our route at the furthest beach town we could find. We took an 8-hour train ride to Trincomalee with a 30-minute tuk tuk to Nilaveli.  Small, quiet town. Expansive, swimmable beach. Check.

 Nilaveli is colorful.

 

School lets out as we first arrive in Trincomalee.

 

Locals standing around to cool off in the water. We loved the swimming.

 

Nilaveli is NOT teeming with restaurants. We met this family that invited us home into the living room cum restaurant.  It was one of our best meals in Sri Lanka. To top it off, after they discovered our love of music, the college-aged kids stopped studying and sang a traditional song for us. During the civil war, at age 16 Margaret was sent to Germany to nanny because her family couldn’t afford food. While there, she advanced her cooking skills. Seriously, her daal was the best we’ve ever tasted.

This feast was cooked on a wood-fired clay stove and hot plate.

 

Sri Lanka is famous for growing tea. The plantations are stunning.

Seedling nursery, surrounded by mature plantations.

 

Lipton Seat, where the first plantation owner supposedly looked out at his empire. Mama dog had the best seat.

 

The first tea plants were smuggled in from China in the 1820s for personal consumption. The business of growing and exporting tea was created by the British in the 1860s, to supply affordable tea to the London tea-drinkers. 100,000 Tamil workers were brought in from India to keep up with the quick expansion. They worked hard and were paid little. A familiar scenario. Housing rights, land rights, education and medical care are all lacking for those locked into plantation life. Read about the true cost  of your cup of tea. Unions are forming and rights are being considered with every new political turnover, but progress is slow. Traveling in this colonized country with its own modern-day slavery amplifies the need for abolishing systemic slavery on a global scale.

 

We walked through endless plantations going from town to town, including a few kilometers with this entertaining group on their way home from school. They taught us Tamil and Singhalese words that we shouldn’t repeat in public. Suddenly, an enormous 6′ long snake crossed our path.  We ALL reacted identically. Snakes are one of the hazards of plantation work.

 

This is where we parted ways. See them just above the tea plants? Their houses were recently re-sided with new sheet metal. Can you imagine the daytime temperatures inside these homes?

 

The importance of religion was nationally apparent and ever-present. Shrines, Buddhist stupas and dagobas, Hindu temples and Islamic mosques were abundant. Catholic and Methodist churches too. Presently, there are violent clashes in Kandy and Colombo between the majority Buddhist Sinhalese and the minority Muslims. Hopefully these violent actions will subside. This violence does not align with my understanding of Buddhism. We did not see conflict during our visit. We visited numerous temples and stupas in large and small towns, and spent time speaking with people from all these religions, who live side by side in small communities.  People want to have religious freedom, equitable work and a place to nurture and educate their families. Universal concepts.

 

Decorated 800 year old Hindu lingam representing Shiva, located in a small shrine in Polunnawura.

 

The oldest and only Buddhist stupa with original plaster (under the white paint) from 1180s. Kiri Vehera, located in Polunnawura.

 

Shiva atop the Koneswaram temple in Trincomalee.

 

Hindu temple top in a small village outside Haputale.

 

Where there are mountains, there are waterfalls.  Sometimes used as bathtubs, with soap. This is outside Haputale.

This sounds cliché, but we were constantly reminded how privileged we are to travel. I like ditching first world comforts. How would I know if I liked squatters or thrones better unless I spent time comparing? The appreciation is powerful when we turn on a water faucet and hot water flows. We all have different comfort levels. And Sri Lanka has it all. The least we can do is travel responsibly, choose fair-trade, locally owned, farmed and grown products. Follow the money.

Elephants roam along the water’s edge, making surprise appearances.

 

Parakrama Samudra, a 30 square mile reservoir built by King Parakramabahu in the mid 1100s.

 

The word serendib has special meaning in Sri Lanka. Serendipity. It refers to happy accidents. We were humbled by the graciousness of strangers. We met people with inspiring stories of strength. Along the way, our understanding of the country’s hardship was heightened. Go there. You won’t regret it.

And then come to Hanoi to see us.

Posted in: day trip, food, Haputale, Nilaveli, Sri Lanka, Trincomalee Tagged: beach, cow, curry, elephant, pagoda, tea plantation, temple, train, waterfall

Not a bad mistake

February 26, 2017 by Beth 3 Comments

Doug and I have a meme.  It originated from a recording we love, found on a 1940 Smithsonian Folkways compilation, of a young jump-roper named Ora Dell Graham, singing  rhymes as she jumps.  If one of us does something wrong?  Maybe even a little stupid?  Accidental mistake?  I milked that sow.  Pullin’ the skiff.

I made a mistake the other night and milked that sow.

My tutoring job was done for the night and I was headed home on the #1 bus, a new bus to me.  I had an idea of the route but the Hanoi Bus website isn’t updated, so was missing actual validation.  My Vietnamese isn’t good enough to converse about such details with the ticket collector.  I can ask the questions, but I can’t completely understand the answers.  (All part of the adventure, yes?)  I wasn’t worried.  I knew the general vicinity to disembark so that my walk home would be reasonable, keeping in mind that it was after 10pm and it was dark.  Midnight curfew isn’t enforced anymore, but this part of Hanoi is certainly quiet at night.  I watched the penultimate stop come and go, feeling confidant that the next one was it.  The bus took an odd turn, but hey, the streets are a little convoluted and overlapping with ramps and overpasses at that spot.  I convinced myself we were making a loop in the twisty section and would double back and I’d get off at the next stop.  I’d seen other buses do just that.

The curve turned into an extended on-ramp to a long modern bridge that spans the Red River, east of Hanoi.  This is when the song turned on in my head.  I made a mistake.

At this point, still on the bus were one other rider, the ticket collector and the driver.  I tried to text Doug but my data was apparently out (I knew I should’ve topped off my sim card earlier but I relish living on the edge).  I called instead and got a sketchy connection, but did let him know I was taking the scenic route home and would be late…then got disconnected before I could provide any actual details.

I could’ve got off when the last rider disembarked but it was dark and I didn’t see anything on the other side of the street that looked promising. Then the ticket collector got off.  Oh boy. By default, I had decided to ride to the end, subliminally curious to see where I would end up, quietly hoping the bus would turn around and retrace its route back into the city. After riding for what definitely felt longer than it was, studiously noticing the turns as I stared outside in case I had to walk back, we left the mixed residential and commercial areas, then made an abrupt turn into a big, dark parking lot next to a big, dark industrial looking building.  The driver yelled something at me and swished open the door.  I de-bussed and I swear, he zoomed away particularly fast, although it probably was just regular departure speed.

At least it wasn’t raining.

I stood there in the dark thinking about how I love the unpredictable-ness of life, felt bad that I had been a little cavalier when I had called Doug because he was probably worrying and didn’t have any way to actually find me, and then laughing because in one hour’s time I was in a really different place than I thought I’d be.

I heard the motorcycles before I could see them.  Xe oms.  Motorcycle taxis.  Usually old dudes.  I’ve used them before, and it was never dull.  So…yay!  I wouldn’t have to walk home.   With xe om drivers, I knew it was important to get a good breath-whiff so that the ride can be declined if the driver is alcohol-infused.  I started a conversation with one guy, while other curious drivers drove up and joined in the conversation.  I said my address, he mumbled a price, I negotiated, he didn’t say yes, just ok, ok, ok which I’ve learned to mean let’s go and we’ll renegotiate later when we get to where you want to go.  He’s already on his bike, ready to go.  Nope. I’ve learned to be clear upfront about both the location and the money, resulting in a more direct exchange all around.  I’m feeling rushed.  I decide to slow it down.   I try to talk (all in Vietnamese) to the little crowd that’s formed.  They want to know how I ended up there.  How old was I?  Where from?  Why?  What do I do?  The usual questions that I’ve learned the answers to.  My phone doesn’t work but I do pull up an iBook map detail of Trúc Bạch (thanks, Carol, for showing me that iBook is useful).  Oh…ok, ok, ok.  Someone reviews with the driver exactly where that is, then helps me get him to agree on a fair price to get there.  Ah…ok, ok, ok.  It’s a long way back over the river on the big bridge, which at this time of night means no return customer for the driver.

Ok.  Fare is communicated, agreed upon, reassured by eye contact and smiles, all is well.  One more thing, my arm still doesn’t bend enough to put on my helmet and I need help.  I tell them about my accident (mostly in pantomime and a few key words) and then ask the driver to buckle my helmet.  This requires touching…even more than the usual joked-about full-body-hugging hoped for by some xe om drivers.  Xe om, after all, means motorbike hug.

I’m buckled, loaded, my backpack is adjusted, the other drivers wave and say goodbye like we’re all old friends.  Off we go.  It’s exhilarating, actually.  Except for the fact that I have no idea who this guy is and seriously, I’m totally 100% at his mercy.  My arms are holding tight around his wide waist, his pockets wadded up in my fists for something to hold on to.  No one else is around, the streets here are deserted and I am obviously unfamiliar with the area.  But…nah.  This is one reason why I love it here.  I feel safe.

We’re driving on streets that the bus definitely did not take.  He is chattering away in the wind and I’m sorry I can’t understand much of what his deep voice is saying.  We take a little off-road short cut (what?!) and suddenly, we’re on a bridge.  Not the modern 4-lane bridge I came over on.  This is old.  Vintage construct.  It smells wooden.  We slow way down.

  

I probably squeal with surprise and delight.  He grins.  The center of the bridge is train tracks with the side lanes used for motorbikes and shared with pedestrians.  No cars.   There are late-night workers who actually drop below the span when the trains speed by.  And it’s alive with people and movement.  It’s like a festival.  Couples are sitting on burlap-sack blankets, dangling their legs over the sides, groups of friends are laughing, talking, and eating grilled corn and drinking hot tea from the food carts.

This, I find out later, is the Long Biên Bridge.  It is believed that the bridge was designed by Gustave Eiffel, the man behind Eiffel Tower and Statue of Liberty during the French occupation, then built by the Vietnamese using local wood, lime and concrete in 1889-1902.  It was bombed many times in 1967 and 1972 during the American War, and always put back together.  It is a symbol of rebellion, strength and resilience.

The driver was obviously happy to have shared this bridge with me.  We got to the end of the span and we came out in a place I recognized.  I named it for him and he smiled, đúng.  Correct.  We reached the apartment in about 15 more minutes; Doug was sitting on the balcony, watching, and came down.  Hands were shook, I got out my dong to pay and tried to say keep the change.  But no way, he wouldn’t.  An agreement is an agreement and tipping is not part of the culture here.  The ride cost 3$.

Since that night, I’ve read a lot about the Long Biên Bridge.  Today Doug and I went during the day to see it again.  It is indeed falling apart.  I hope preservation is in its future.  There really is nothing like it.

 

There’s Doug, walking westward, way in the distance.

 

Here’s looking south at the other, modern bridge.  The land (called Middle Island) and water underneath this bridge has become the home of Hanoi’s destitute.  Makeshift homes and shelters are appearing as people get pushed out of the city as the economy burgeons.  There is also a thriving nude beach area for health conscious locals, who bicycle down to swim, relax, meditate and practice yoga.

 

One of the pig (or boar) farms under the bridge.  See the little one nestled between the 2 center sleepers?

 

I had hoped to get a shot when the train went by, but maybe it was better to miss that.  Just walking on the bridge was a little unnerving due to the constant vibrations, shaking and big gaps and cracks in the concrete pavers.

 

Discovering the bridge at night, the way I did, was the perfect introduction.  A little mistake that turned out not too bad after all.

 

(These videos are visible only if you view the post from the website, not from the emailed version.)

Doug on the Long Biên Bridge

Drone fly-over of Long Biên Bridge

Pullin’ the Skiff by Ora Dell Graham

Posted in: bridge, day trip, Hanoi, thoughts Tagged: bus, Eiffel, Long Biên Bridge, motorbike, pigs, Pullin' the Skiff, Red River, train, xe om

Recent Posts

  • Con Mèo
  • paradise
  • ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
  • it’s the little things
  • seasonal changes

Archives

  • January 2020
  • November 2019
  • December 2018
  • November 2018
  • May 2018
  • April 2018
  • November 2017
  • October 2017
  • April 2017
  • February 2017
  • December 2016
  • November 2016
  • October 2016
  • April 2016
  • February 2016
  • January 2016
  • November 2015

Categories

  • bridge
  • Cambodia
  • Da Nang
  • day trip
  • food
  • general
  • Hanoi
  • Haputale
  • Hmong
  • Hoi An
  • Kampot
  • Lopez Island
  • music
  • Nilaveli
  • Ninh Bình
  • pagodas and temples
  • SaPa
  • school
  • Siem Reap
  • Sihanoukville
  • Sri Lanka
  • thoughts
  • Trincomalee
  • Uncategorized
  • Vietnam
  • violin
  • Whistler Mountain

Copyright © 2025 here we are in....

Delicious WordPress Theme by themehall.com