A lovely cuppa

After my surfing exploits and my now overwhelming desire to liberate myself from sand, I escaped to the hills and slowly chugged - by bus - into enchanting Ella.

Ella is blessed with some of the most beautiful views I have ever seen. The sleepy village, which only received electricity in 1984, is nestled in a valley peering straight through Ella Gap to the plain nearly 1000m below. Alongside dramatic mountains, Ella is enveloped by tea plantations, which roll and ripple as far as the eye can see.

And so, dedicated tea drinking commenced. Teapots and teapots of the hot, leafy goodness that calms the senses and clears the mind.

Sipping from chipped china cups and hugged by waves of tea plantations, I could feel the blend of civilisations between the British colonial past, the Tamils who were forcefully moved from India to pick the leaves and the ancient layers of Sri Lankan history far beyond.

To break up the tea drinking and work up a thirst, I took myself off on treks through the hills and plantations - meeting only poverty-wage tea pickers and the occasional rosey-cheeked tourist. The view from the top of Ella rock was worth the uphill scramble (and downhill tumble), as the hills stretched away into the distance, popping up like little islands in the morning mist.

Despite filling up on oodles of tea, I did sample the hill country's culinary creations, tucking into regular banquets of garlic curry (containing 18 cloves of the potent plant - I counted), sweet and sour aubergine, tomato curry, mint potatoes, dhal, beetroot, pineapple chutney, tamarind, spicy coconut sambal and an alien looking vegetable called a bitter gourd which was very tasty indeed.

Now, I needed to find myself a bigger mountain to climb to work off some of those indulgent calories!

Surf's up; Sally's down

Surfing - how hard can that be?

Very, it turns out.

Don't be fooled by docile, laid back, 'life's a breeze' surfer bum types, it's probably because they've been bashed over the head with their board so many times they've got constant mild concussion.

After a brief stop at Batticaloa (which sadly seemed to be having a harder time recovering from the war than Trincomalee), I headed to Sri Lanka's answer to Australia's Gold Coast: Arugam Bay. The locals, and the surfers there, will tell you the bay is in the top 10 surfing spots in the world - and I didn't (and still don't) know any better. I do know that the waves were enormous, though, and were getting bigger by the day according to local surf reports. Excellent, just what a total surfing beginner wants to hear.

I didn't do myself any favours either, deciding to go out partying until 4.30am the night before my 8am surf lesson. With Lion beer still pumping around my body, I fought my way into the surf with my board and started with lesson 1: paddling. This was all about balance and strength, and so this bit I could do. It was the next bit that was the struggle. Lesson 2: surfing a wave.

I know I shouldn't blame my instructor, or my unsuitable board, but I will just a little bit. Our teacher was a tuk tuk driver turned surf instructor and clearly had more interest in catching his own waves than helping me catch mine. The epitome of hopelessness was when he surfed over my head - yes my head - and nearly drowned me. But I persisted; I'm no quitter.

A series of set backs ensued and I went from being able to get up on my feet on day 1, to barely being able to get in the water by day 4. And then there were the scrapes, bangs and bruises caused by the surf board dealing me blow after blow until I ended up beached on the coarse sand like a clumsy whale.

On day 5, I switched instructors after a few frightening encounters - in and out of the sea. My new instructor talked me through everything properly and I really enjoyed the surfing despite now being alarmed every time a big wave appeared on the horizon. But, after 5 days of trying to surf twice a day, I was exhausted and decided to end on a high on day 5.

My dreams of being a surfer dude would not be fulfilled on this trip, but I was just pleased to have not sustained any serious injuries at the hands of an incompetent instructor and monster waves. If surfer cool really is minor head trauma, I'm at peace with being a clumsy beached whale.

Civil and tsunami war: The aftermath

We were among some of the first tourists to visit the north east coast of Sri Lanka. For years, the north and east of the country has been dealt blow after blow by civil unrest, the Asian tsunami, and yet more civil war.

Starting in 1983, there was an insurgency against the government by the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE, also known as the 'Tamil Tigers'). The LTTE are a seperatist militant organisation who fought to create an independent Tamil state - named Tamil Eelam -

in the north and the east of the island. After 2 decades of fighting, a ceasefire agreement was signed in 2002.

Then, the tsunami hit in December 2004, killing more than 30,000 people and destroying homes, businesses and agriculture on a staggering scale. The recovery was slow and still ongoing.

In 2005, the next blow struck as civil hostilities renewed. The government launched a series of major military offensives in 2006 and the LTTE declared they would resume their freedom struggle. The civil war continued at full strength with huge humanitarian fall out.

Just over a year ago, in May 2009, the LTTE surrendered and its leader, and many other members, were killed. Many thousands of civilians also died amid the horrors of this last battle, bringing the civil war's death toll somewhere between 80,000 and 100,000.

Arriving in Trincomalee on the east coast, it was clear to us that the military retains an

oppressive grip on the port town and there were soldiers with guns on every corner and checkpoint. We were warned to expect shop doors to be bolted up and an atmosphere of 'Baghdad-on-sea' as the wounds of the war had yet to start healing.

Thankfully, it was a slightly brighter story and we were glad to see that the town is limping back to life and the hotels are receiving lots of inquisitive guests who, like us, want to see what life is now like in this battle-scarred paradise.

We surrendered to the crisp white crunchiness of the Uppuveli and Nilaveli beaches, blocking out the military men with sunglasses and Factor 30. The navy had recently relaxed its strict regulations and, on my Dad's last day, we were able to take a 5am boat to see leaping dolphins and then headed to Pigeon Island to snorkel its coral reef (where the only work the navy had to do was to scold me for not wearing my life jacket!).

After my Dad had left, I befriended a few NGO workers who were on weekend vacation from Jaffna - the capital city of the northern province and at the heart of the ethnic conflict as it was once a stronghold of the LTTE. It would appear that the problem now is not one of terrorism but of good governance. The country may be developing after the war, but democracy is still very frail and the NGO workers are fearful of a renewed insurgency as inhabitants of the north grow restless.

Let us all hope that the future is golden for Sri Lanka and democracy prevails at the same rate as tourism and commerce.

Elephantastic!

My Dad's Birthday in Sri Lanka was certainly one he (and I) will never forget.

We decided to take a jeep to Kaudulla National Park, a 6,656 hectare forest centred around the Kaudulla tank and part of the elephant corridor.

Late afternoon, we stood up in the back of the jeep for the bumpy journey through the forest, spotting chameleons, storks and jackals as we dodged the low-hanging branches. As the sun

cascaded down, we entered an expansive clearing around the tank.

And we lay in wait.

Numerous small herds of elephants inhabit the park for most of the year (the number fluctuates throughout the year as the elephants move up and down the corridor) and gather together in the evening on the open bed of the tank to graze, drink, bathe and socialise.

Thankfully, it wasn't long until the first trees started to shake and crack as one of herds ambled out of the forest into full view. There were about 20 in the group, with the young being fiercely protected by the older females. They appeared to be completely unaffected by the presence of our jeep and took time to feed on the forage, quite silently.

In the distance, we could see more herds slowly emerging from the dense green as if they had all been waiting for another group to make the first move. No one wants to be the first guest at the party. The numbers of elephants were swelling around us and our jeep slowly moved into new positions so we could see other herds come forward. The drivers were sure to keep away from the lone male elephants who seemed to enjoy their solitude, on the prowl for females.

Our knowledgeable guide suddenly got our attention to point out a new born elephant that was just a few day's old. This was the first sighting of the baby and we were only given snatched views of the little one as he or she was ferociously guarded by all the females in the herd.

We now had around 90 elephants in our view and the evening sun filtered through the cloud-flecked sky, glinting off the surface of the tank and bathing the herds in its gentle glow. We watched on, hypnotized by the spirit of the wild. It is a heart-swelling, dizzying sight like no other.

Reluctant to leave this moment behind us, we headed back as the sun started to set. A storm struck and we had to swiftly pull on the cover of the jeep - watching the fork lightening tear up the sky.

And how do you finish a Birthday like this? A surreal 'party' with your hotel's underworked staff involving a strained rendition of 'Happy Birthday' and a plethora of handshaking - that's how.

Who is Mr. Bandulla?

Before we left Anaradhapura, I rang and booked ahead for a hotel at our next stop: Polonnaruwa. This is when Mr. Bandulla leapt into our lives.

Speaking to Mr. Bandulla on the phone about the booking, he arranged to come and pick us up from the bus station in the town and I was to call him when we were getting close. But he called us first. Then again, and again. Which led us to ask the question: who is Mr. Bandulla?

He rang once more, telling us he was ready and waiting at the Polonnaruwa bus station for us. He's keen, we thought. But things got even stranger as we stepped off the bus to be greeted by 2 people claiming to be Mr. Bandulla. Confusion ensued.

One of the gentlemen then changed his tact and focussed on telling us, very calmly, that the other chap was lying to us and that he wasn't the real Mr. Bandulla who owned the hotel - that was a different person altogether. The other man - with a roguish face - was still earnestly trying to prove he was the real Mr. Bandulla, waving his phone at me with my number on it and pulling out a faded and torn identity badge. Quite convincing. However, the other man was reassuring us that he was telling the truth, that we shouldn't go anywhere with this man and that we should just make our way to the hotel on foot.

'Mr. Bandulla', by this point, was getting exacerbated and his voice was raising and eyes

widening. I decided to ring the hotel and ask who was the real Mr. Bandulla. The confused woman on the phone suggested that if he wasn't there, we should walk to the hotel or take a tuk tuk.

I looked around in despair and my eyes fell on the line of tuk tuk drivers who were sat watching the entire 'Mr. Bandulla' performance. Bewildered by the past 8 minutes or so, I headed over to them and asked if they knew what was going on and could one of them take us to the hotel. They all looked over at the dueling men and one of them suggested we walk, and gave us directions.

And so walk we did, with 'Mr. Bandulla' hot on our heels - still waving his phone at us and telling us to believe him. As we neared the hotel, the owner's car drove to pick us up and confirmed that, yes, this was indeed the real Mr. Bandulla. This left us even more confused as a) why didn't Mr. Bandulla just call his sister, the hotel owner, or ask to speak to her when I rang and b) why was there a respectable looking man telling us not to go with Mr. Bandulla and to walk to our hotel. The answer lies in The Lonely Planet.

Mr. Bandulla is featured under the hotel's description in the guide and it seems that some of the locals are jealous of his new found fame - something he isn't particularly shy about. It seems his immodest pride has angered one or two men in the village, who are now trying to make life as difficult as possible for him. We did feel guilty for not believing him at the bus stop but, would you?

Mr. Bandulla was then glued to our sides for the next couple of days and called us constantly when he had to leave us to help other tourists. Really, it was very sweet but Mr. Bandulla did become a figure of hilarity during our trip. Wherever we turned, his cheeky face would be there to help us when we didn't even know we needed it!

Discovering it was my Dad's birthday, he promised to bring a cake and have a party for him - and he didn't let us down. In the pouring rain, he arrived at the hotel in his tuk tuk with an iced orange sponge cake an arranged candles on top in the shape of '53' (sorry, Dad). Naturally, recognising another way to make money from his tourists, he charged me double for the cake and candles but, because he was Mr. Bandulla, we forgave him.

What a character!

So, if you ever in Polonnaruwa...watch out, Mr Bandulla's about!

The Cultural Toblerone

Unfortunately, this is not a tale of a classically educated chocolate bar, nor an account of my Dad and I visiting temples and museums munching on Swiss chocolate (not recommended during an Asian summer).

Instead, it is an attempt to make my tale of Sri Lanka's Cultural Triangle slightly more entertaining for those of you who aren't that bothered by ancient ruins or for those of you who, like my Dad and I, are interested for the first day but start to dwindle in enthusiasm on the second and third days.

And so, The Cultural Triangle will from this time forth be known as its chocolatey counterpart.

First stop on The Cultural Toblerone was Dambulla's cave temple - the largest and best-preserved cave temple complex in Sri Lanka. We looked around the 5 caves, each ornately adorned with countless Buddha statues and paintings, some enormous in size. (NB do not have your photo taken standing next to one of these images, you will be nothing short of rugby tackled to the ground.)

Hurling our backpacks with us, we then headed to Sigiriya rock, an even more impressive affair! Also known as the Lion's rock, this ancient fortress - standing at 370 metres - once had a palace perched on top and is surrounded by the remains of an extensive network of gardens and reservoirs.

After being dropped off at the gate, we decided to walk to the public entrance with all our bags, assuming it couldn't be that far from the main gate. How wrong we were! In the piercing midday heat, this walk was akin to military training...and then we had the rock to climb. Someone get us a towel!

Described by my Dad as "the stuff of heart attacks", we made our ascent up this huge rock - a hardened magma plug from an extinct and long-eroded volcano. Two adorable wrinkled Sri Lankan ladies in front kept turning around and putting their fingers to there lips, pleading with us to be quiet. We were bemused between our heavy breaths until we saw the sign: 'Noise may provoke hornet attacks'. We looked up to see huge hornet nests clinging to the edge of the sheer rock face and continued to the top sheepishly.

To our delight, the top of Sigiriya provided incredible 360 degree views of the surrounding, untouched landscape and was more than worth the sweat-busting walk up. Just don't pick a fight with the monkeys! I learned that the hard way.

Next on The Cultural Toblerone was Anaradhapura - one of the ancient capitals of Sri Lanka and a place name that took me 3 whole days to remember correctly. We hired some bikes from our hotel to explore the town - they didn't have functioning breaks or gears but I did get a basket on the front of mine. You can't have it all!

Anaradhapura is a popular destination for Buddhist pilgrims because of its many ancient Buddhist monuments - and we were to witness this in its full glory! The town is scattered with dagobas (or stupas), which are huge mound-like structures that contain Buddhist relics, typically the remains of the Buddha or a saint. So, they're Buddhism's answer to the pyramids.

We cycled up to the Sri Maha Bodiya (a sacred Bodhi tree grown from a cutting of the tree the Buddha gained enlightenment under) and it's neighbouring dagoba. We were swept up in a bustling crowd of white pilgrims who were here to make offerings to the Buddha, known as snana puja. The pristine cotton and the white of the towering dagoba was blinding and we were disorientated by the heaving, busy crowd. Near the Bo tree, the pilgrims sat shoulder to shoulder, chanting and worshipping the tree with such intensity and number that we hastily made a quick exit.

Around 6 dagobas later, we were hot and heavy-legged so we bid farewell to Anaradhapura and headed to Polonnaruwa - further east.

Bananas, tea and Kandy

A contender to the 'jewel of the Indian Ocean' crown, Sri Lanka is a geographic explosion of palm-fringed beaches, dense forests, wild hill country and rolling national parks.

In the midst of the hills lies Kandy, which proved to be as sweet as its name. Home-from-home guest houses, haphazard markets and temples cluster around the town's grand, peaceful lake (although the lake's history is a little squirmish with impalings and slave labour at its foundations).

From our little guest house with stunning views of the lake and Sri Lankan's answer to Basil Fawlty for an owner, we were left to explore the banana and tea plantations, temples and hills.

North of Kandy, we made a day trip to Knuckles Range - so named because it resembles the shape of a clenched fist, if you squint, eat some poisonous berries and stand on your head (not necessarily in that order). Beautiful views, fauna and flora aside, the trip proved memorable for other reasons.

Firstly, none of the nearby town's locals appeared to have any clue where the mountain range was and our tuk tuk driver was among the most clueless of the day. From there, we embarked upon a steeplechase expedition where we fought off whiplash, kept repeating ourselves loudly like true 'Brits abroad' in the hope our driver would understand us and picked up a random follower on a scooter. Thankfully, our tailgater eventually introduced himself as a forestry official (still doubtful) and (for money) would be our guide. Feeling like we were the only tourists to ever step foot in the range, we gladly handed over our (Dad's) rupees.

The views were spectacular, the walk was refreshing...but the leaches were not! Despite pulling up our socks and keeping a quick pace, we still encountered a few too many of the blood

sucking brutes and even in the safety of the tuk tuk I had leach paranoia. Give me spiders any day!

We also visited Kandy's infamous Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic. Just like the dusty little boxes parents collect their children's baby teeth in - except a thousand times bigger, lavished with gold and with more protection than Her Majesty the Queen.

Hidden inside a golden box, inside a small room, inside a bigger room, inside the temple, lies the tooth of the Buddha. I've yet to mention Sri Lanka's Buddhism roots but, as you can imagine, this is quite an important tooth box that not even the tooth fairy herself can gain access to. We did get the briefest glimpse of the golden box, though, before they hurriedly slammed the doors.

We bid a fond farewell to Kandy and got back on the buses, heading north.

Sri Lanka - best explored by dilapidated bus

Dad and I hit the ground running in Sri Lanka and I was determined that he would have a trip to remember.

Before planning my trip, Sri Lanka was known to me because of 3 things: tea production, the civil war with the 'Tamil Tigers' and cricket. I later realised it also exports coffee, rubber and cinnamon, it elected the first female Prime Minister and has a rich cultural heritage dating back to the Paleolithic era. Not to mention a

cracking curry.

The backpacking lifestyle certainly didn't stop when I met my Dad and we planned to take the charming ramshackle local buses up to the tea hills, around the cultural triangle before finally hitting the war-torn north east coast. A brief summary could read: bus, elephants, bus, hills, bus, temple, tea, bus, cave temples, bus, big rock, bus, ancient ruins, bus, wild elephants, bus, beach, sea, aaaaahhh. But I'll take the time to expand...

First stop was the Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage for a larger than life welcome to the country. There is something momentously surreal about being so close to these enormous land mammals and we stood wide-eyed, cameras poised, like the rest of the tourists on day trips. Sadly, after this initial awe, we started to question the reality of the orphanage and the regular contact the elephants had with the public. For an extra charge, visitors could feed the babies bottles of milk, which had the essence of a popular fairground attraction with the pushing and shoving to boot! We also saw a few elephants tied up, throwing up another morality check despite the obvious good the orphanage does.

Thankfully, bath time down by the river was an all more pleasurable experience as the elephants were left to roam and play away from the crowds and boundaries of the sanctuary. We sat near the water's edge in admiration, anticipating what else Sri Lanka would have in store for us.

It was then back to the bus, each journey throwing up a new story as we interacted with the benevolent locals and bounced through the exotic jungle terrain. Every single person on these buses seemed to make it their principal priority to ensure Dad and I got off at the right stop, never exasperating the friendly ticket master with constant reminders of where the 2 tourists were heading.

Every journey was a carnival, serenaded by Singhalese music, honks and food sellers and I was delighted that my Dad was enjoying it even more than me! It's these experiences that characterise the true adventure of travelling and leave the lasting impression on all those who take the ride.

Goodbye Hindustan, Ayubowan Sri Lanka!

So now I say goodbye to India, hoping that our paths will cross again soon. This country that was once so strange, unruly and distant to me has left a lasting imprint on my life and on my soul.

It's the spirit of India that wriggles right under your skin, frolics with your senses and then nestles in there for the long run, refusing to budge. A spirit that is alive, bold, strong, creative, colourful, loving, determined, thankful and living in every single one of India's extraordinary inhabitants, permeating ever aspect of their lives.

From the ceremony of the Ganges to the docile Keralan backwaters, from the rubble of Hampi's lost world to the adventure playgrounds of the Himalayans, I have unlocked and delved into a culture so formidable and incomparable to my own. And yes, at times, it was arduous and frightening and the biggest challenge I have ever faced but mainly it was wonderful and fruitful and meaningful.

I'd like to share my grandfather's final thoughts as he left India, as he was my whole reason for this journey. He wrote:

"I was absorbed and totally fascinated with a subcontinent which seemed to defy the realism of nature. Where millions survived dad by day, often when there was no sign or obvious provision that they should.

"It was clear to me that an important and influential part of my life was now over. I had grown up a great deal during my time in India, having seen and experienced many things I had not previously encountered, nor would I ever have encountered in my own home environment. I knew that I would miss India very much."

With my head giddy with these reflections and memories of my Grandfather's tales of India, I arrived in Sri Lanka: my next travel destination. And there at the airport was the familiar, beaming face of my Dad, who was to join me on the backpacking trail for the next 2 weeks.

Flower power!

My lungs had grown accustomed to the fresh, Himalayan air and I was in no hurry to head back to the city for my last days on Indian soil.

Instead, I was coerced into making the eventful journey to land less trodden and, so, the Valley of Flowers expedition began!

After an overnight bus journey from Dharamsala to Rishikesh (where The Beatles got their guru on), without rest, we took a jeep for 9 hours to make the perilous climb up to Govindghat - a small town used as a spring board for thousands of Sikh pilgrims heading to Hemkund, a holy shrine located at 4200 metres above sea level. Our jeep swept past steep cliff faces, where the remains of fresh landslides had recently fell. As day turned to night, the circuitous road became more treacherous and for the last part of my journey I held my breath and closed my eyes like only the brave do.

After the kind of sleep where your body simply collapses with exhaustion, it was up early to join the pilgrimage up 14km of steep, rocky mountain to Ghangaria - where we were cut off from the rest of the world for 3 days. The 6 hour climb could have been a lot more fluid had we not been stopped every few metres by jolly Sikhs with hand-carved walking sticks. They asked for photographs, details on where we were from, where we were going, were we married, had children, what job we did, what we thought of India and any other questions their very articulate English could dream up.

And then of course we were nudged and trodden on by the mules and stretchers carrying fragile ladies, the deceased and portly adults and children who really could do with the exercise. Not to mention the porters carrying oversized bags (including our own), swaying and buckling under the strain. For many of them, retirement was long overdue. It was an exhausting climb but our spirits were high.

Ghangaria, at an altitude of 3049m, was a series of crumbling guest houses in desperate need of clean bed sheets, lashings of paint and correctly fitted windows and doors to keep the mountain chill out. The restaurants all had duplicate menus, competing to have the highest number of bizarre spellings and staff with quirky bobble hats. But, for India, this small village was amazingly functional considering its isolation from the rest of the world.

Ghangaria was a true symbol of survival against the odds as, despite its sublime beauty, everyday life for its inhabitants was clearly a struggle and I can only guess what the winter months behold.

The Valley of Flowers, a 3km walk from the village across mountain streams, is a glacial corridor carpeted with beautiful wild flowers, which paint the valley blue, purple, pink and red during July and August. The valley, at 3650m, was only discovered by the Western world in 1931 and we really felt like we were discovering it for the first time, barely seeing another soul over the 3 days, and absolutely no Westerners.

Surrounded by towering snow-capped mountains, I was reminded of my own insignificance compared to Mother Earth. Never had I felt so small yet so in awe. And the valley seemed untouched by people, and unaffected. And what would be the perfect way to finish our days of trekking and warm up as the temperatures drop? Beer? A glass of wine? Or maybe something stronger? But, alas, we had to settle with hot chocolates and chai as Ghangaria is a strictly alcohol free settlement.

Tired, but happy to have fallen well and truly off the tourist trail, we made our descent down, once again dodging the pilgrim paraphernalia and porters.

Part of me wanted to stay cut off from the world so I didn't have to say goodbye to this country that I had fallen in love with. I was soon thumped back to reality, though, with a deadly bus journey back along the snaking road.