Tag: Sri Lanka

Fear, bravery and bees

Fear, bravery and bees

The man talks rapidly in Sinhala and I have no idea what he’s saying. Possibly telling me to hurry up because of the giant honey bee nests hanging nearby. I grip the railing with sweaty palms because bees are the least of my worries right now.

The “wasps” at Sigiriya are technically giant honey bees. No less aggressive and terrifying.

The bees at Sigiriya are known for being volatile. Some tourists climb in uncomfortably hot-looking beekeeping suits to ward off stings. I am not one of them. I’m mostly focused on not falling to my death.

I take a step and then another. A line of tourists behind the guide watches my painfully slow ascent.

At the top I stand beside a woman easily 20 years older than me. She’s catching her breath too. We both stand gasping for a few minutes before we can take a look around.

Later I’ll post beautiful views from the top with the history behind each picture. I’ll hesitate to focus on how hard it was for me. Everyone likes triumph over adversity, but I find it humiliating to admit the view didn’t come easily.

It’s not just the physical activity. It’s the sheer terror I get from heights.

It’s also the fear of being left behind. The fear of unwisely spending too much money on a tourist trap. The anxiety of not wearing the right clothes, maybe saying the wrong thing, of wondering what I ate that’s upset my stomach, when I’ll be able to get to a bathroom again, whether I’m a terrible girlfriend for even being here right now while Ryan is on the other side of the planet. I’m also nervous about the bees.

I step up into what must surely have been an impressive fortress. I look at the remnants of walls and pools, then gaze past to the deep green forests below.



I can see Katherine and Julia way up ahead. They’ve gone to take photos farther away from the other tourists. The girls look like they’ve gone right out to the edge, so I decide to look around by myself. I’ll gather the courage to go out there in a bit.

Me terrified

I envy their bravery.

It’s madness that I can brave bee attacks and push through my physical limitations to climb a rock fortress and still feel I’ve come up short.

The three of us talked about it earlier on our tuk tuk ride to Sigiriya. The way people back home sometimes tell us how brave we are, being in Sri Lanka.

We talked about how it doesn’t seem so brave when you know a lot of people who’ve done it. It seems even less brave when you think of some of the incompetent fools you’ve met doing the same thing.

Bravery seems like something reserved for heroes. We know we’re not remarkable.

Standing on the fortress, the wind blows hard. I imagine being blown over and falling to a painful death. I hold onto the railing.

Around me there are children and adults of all ages. One woman climbed with crutches. No one else is gripping onto anything with fear. I know I’m not remarkable.

Those are honey combs covered in layers of giant honey bees (not actually wasps, as reported in

But maybe bravery isn’t about the fearless climb up a mountain or how far I wandered from home. When friends from Canada say I’m brave, I like to think they mean more than my desire to make good use of my passport.

They know I hold a bundle of fear in my belly and I don’t let it stop me. Bravery isn’t absence of fear; it’s taking action in spite of it.

Later, on the way down, I still hold tightly to the railing and my breathing is shallow with fright. When we pass the bees’ nests, I shiver and stop. Sometimes I like to remember the things I fear most of all.

I take my shaking, sweaty hands off the railing, hold up my phone and take a photo. Then I carefully place the phone back in my bag, take back my grip on the banister and continue down to safety.

To the summit: A climbing story from a girl who hates to exercise

To the summit: A climbing story from a girl who hates to exercise


The sky is getting light and I’m going to miss the sunset. My friends have powered on ahead, one of them taking the steps two at a time. They all love to be physically active. I do not.

I can feel my cotton shirt sticking to me with sweat. My lungs are aching and I want to stop. But I want to see the sunrise from the top of Pidurangala Rock. And I don’t want to see the looks of pity on my friends’ faces when they come back down to find me reading a book in the jeep. I don’t want to smile and say I decided to save my hiking energy for later in the day. It would be a lie we all have to pretend is true, even though the jiggle around my belly says otherwise.

We haven’t known each other that long. The four of us work for WUSC, a Canadian NGO in Sri Lanka and have met within the past two months. We’re on a weekend trip to Dambulla, seeing ancient historical sites. When we decided to go, I hadn’t counted on quite this much physical activity.

Hundreds of steps behind me and who knows how many to go. Iresha, our guide, waits patiently while yet again I stop on this never-ending staircase to catch my breath and let my heart slow before going on.

“Almost there,” she calls out. The steps are snaking along a huge rock face and I don’t believe her. A few minutes later we come to a plateau. There are half-built rooms under the rock and a large brick Buddha, partly covered in plaster.

MONKS JULY 17 2016

Iresha tells me the rooms were once for monks to meditate, many years ago. The rooms have been there for about 2,000 years. The Buddha was partially destroyed by thieves looking for gems under the plaster; the bricks are part of a restoration.


My breathing feels less shallow as we walk along the flat ground. The view is stupendous. Lush Sri Lanka lays before me in the morning light, looking more like a painting than a real place.


But my friends are not here and we keep walking forward.

I’m a bit in awe of their commitment to physical activity. I hate going to the gym. Exercise for exercise’s sake doesn’t do much for me and the gym makes me feel self-conscious.

I’m always impressed by people who just assume that being active is a normal part of life, because it’s never been a part of mine. If I’ve done active things, it’s always been with ulterior motives: being in the outdoors, commuting without paying for the bus, trying to look slimmer. The idea that it might just be fun is alien to me.

The flatness ends abruptly with boulders and large painted arrows. This isn’t the straight, clear path of the stairs. The arrows and trash left behind by tourists are the only suggestion people have hiked here before.

Iresha begins to climb between and over the boulders. I pause before following her. We are far up and I’m terrified of falling. My leg muscles are shaking and I’m off-balance from my camera bag. I don’t trust my body.

Two years ago I walked 10 kilometres a day. I had two jobs, lived downtown and rarely took the bus anywhere if I could save the $3. Then I moved away from the city core, cars came into my life and the pounds slipped on slowly. I noticed a tight pair of jeans, then shirt buttons popping open. I felt my thighs, my stomach and my bum undulating when I walked.

I still didn’t go to the gym though, because I was busy with my masters and it didn’t seem fun. This experience is completely different. I’m struggling, but I’m motivated. There’s a place to go and a view to see.

To get there, I have to trust these muscles I haven’t taken care of. The sky isn’t pink with dawn yet, so I lean forward, place my hands on the boulders and use my legs to propel myself over the rock. I will not fall, I will not break any bones (or my camera) and I will not plunge to my death. Today is not the day.

I am slow. I struggle. I crawl sometimes when I don’t trust my legs to hold me upright. Iresha waits for me.

Part of me feels I should be embarrassed that I’m taking 30 minutes longer than my companions to climb fewer than 200 metres. But I don’t have the strength to feel self-conscious. I dismiss my ego and concentrate on moving forward, because giving up would be a bigger humiliation than being slow.

The last rock to climb is the hardest. There are no shortcuts and my hands are slippery with sweat. I toss my camera bag up ahead of me, forcing myself to drag my body up and onto the ledge. Then I roll up off the ground and stand straight. I am here.


No one shames me for my slowness. The hiker who caught up behind us doesn’t complain that I slowed him down, even though I did. My friends smile to see me up here.

We sit and drink water, take photos and talk, and take in the beauty all around us. We see Sigiriya, the rock we’re going to climb tomorrow, with a fortress at the top.


There are too many clouds to see the sunrise. Everyone but me is disappointed. I suspect I would have missed it while I was struggling farther down. The thick clouds allow me to be part of this moment.

I stand back to take photos of my three companions, thinking maybe I understand why they love exercise. It’s not just about gorgeous scenery, although that’s nice. It’s about pushing yourself.


We may not have a love of the gym in common, but we are all the kind of people who will pick up and move to the other side of the world. We’re here to remind ourselves we’re more than who we are and what we do at home.

I may feel off-kilter and not up to my new friends’ level, when it comes to physical fitness. But I belong here. That’s as gratifying as the beautiful view, the adrenaline pulsing through me, and the soreness in my muscles.

Out behind the chicken coop: a story from my Sri Lankan homestay

Out behind the chicken coop: a story from my Sri Lankan homestay

I’d like to ask them about the war, but I can’t. Besides, we’ve been advised not to talk politics with anyone. A 30-year civil war is complex and divisive. It’s better to steer clear.

At the moment I’m most interested in where the bathroom is. Someone must have gone, but being in the presence of half the neighbourhood, I haven’t noticed. I’m hoping to see someone drift away, maybe to the back of the property, and deduce where to go, like Nancy Drew might have done.

Instead I resemble a cult leader, with a handful of flowers, linen pants and a group of loyal child followers.

Flowers 2 (1 of 1)


Stop. Reverse that. I am following the children; they are not following me. I look around and wonder how things have changed in the past decade, but I don’t even have my bearings in the present.

There’s a small white building behind the chicken coop. It may be the bathroom. It’s getting dark and I hardly want to go wandering in the woods to investigate. I don’t even know what to be afraid of.

(OK, I do, it’s spiders.)

I can hold it. I’ll be fine. It’s not dire.

Before moving here, I read books about Sri Lanka. I wanted to understand where I was coming to, especially with a long war less than a decade in the past. But I do not feel prepared.

When my coworkers dropped me off in the jungle with a family who didn’t speak English I was terrified. The family was smiling, my boss told me I could call her, but the wide valley of not-knowing was all I could think about.

It probably sounds strange, given that I flew for more than 20 hours to come and live here. I’ve survived a huntsman spider encounter, food poisoning and crossing the streets of Colombo in rush hour. But nothing has frightened me quite like my impending night in the jungle.

The family I’m staying with has a snug little brick house with cows in the yard. In the morning, I’ll get photos to show Ryan’s family.

Cow 1 (1 of 1)

As I sit with the children, one or the other will disappear and come back washed and changed into nice clothing. I feel sticky, sweaty and dusty. I consider trying to ask where I can wash. It will probably be near the washroom.

The matriarch of the family motions for me to bring my camera and get into a tuk-tuk with her and four children. We drive off into the dark night. I’m guessing this isn’t the way to the bathroom. Everyone’s dressed far too nicely.

Out of the black evening shine Buddhas and a white dagoba. Monks are chanting as we get out of the trishaw and walk toward the temple.

We place flowers at each statue. We fill small metal cups with oil and light cotton wicks. The matriarch prays. It’s beautiful. So lovely that I don’t lift my camera, I just watch and follow along behind the children.

When we climb the steps to the largest Buddha, one little girl suggests I take a photo. So I do.

Buddha 1 (1 of 1)

Then we go to the monk. He blesses the children and ties a white string on each person’s wrist for protection and good health (I will find this ironic two days later when I spend four hours throwing up in a van on my way back to Colombo).

We head back to the house and they make me a feast. I’m not to help in the kitchen. I know nothing about anything in this place and I would not be helpful.

Then there is curry. Such delicious curry. *

Now I need to go to the bathroom. No more guessing. No more worrying that they might not understand and I’ll have to awkwardly pantomime squatting.

I hope for the best and simply say, “Washroom?”

The matriarch takes me out to an outhouse with a squatter toilet behind the chicken coop, as I expected. The mystery is solved. I’m no Nancy Drew—she probably would have just asked.


* I’ve decided retrospectively that this cannot possibly be what made me sick. It was delicious, their hospitality was extensive and I refuse to accept it.

The great Canadian bucket list

-Celebrating Canada Day in a foreign country is a fun and interesting experience. I will gladly share what it’s like in Sri Lanka, once I’ve gone through it.

In advance of that, I am sharing a Canadian bucket list, stolen from a Facebook friend’s post and adapted as necessary. For example, getting divorced is not on my bucket list, though being able to get divorced is a freedom I have and appreciate, as a Canadian.

Also, some of these things have very little to do with Canada, but what-the-hey, the list came from Facebook and I like it. I’m also looking for additions, so please add in the comments!

I may not be able to check anything off while I’m in Sri Lanka, but it will give me tons to look forward to on my return.

  • Fired a Gun
  • Been to USA
  • Been to Hawaii, specifically
  • Been to Europe
  • Been to Montreal 
  • Been to Ottawa
  • Visited the Yukon
  • Visited Mexico 
  • Driven through the Rockies
  • Flown in a helicopter
  • Been on a cruise
  • Served on a jury (been called twice and excused twice)
  • Been in a movie
  • Been to Toronto 
  • Been to Vancouver
  • Been to the Maritimes
  • Played in a band 
  • Sang karaoke 
  • Caught a snowflake on your tongue
  • Licked a frozen pole (might sit this one out)
  • Been sledding on big hill
  • Been downhill skiing
  • Been water skiing
  • Rode on a motorcycle
  • Jumped out of a plane
  • Been to a drive-in movie
  • (Rode) Seen a wild elephant (You shouldn’t ride elephantst!)
  • Been on TV 
  • Been in newspaper
  • Been scuba diving 
  • Rode on a dog sled 
  • Driven an ATV 
  • Eaten oysters.
  • Eaten fresh maritime lobster
  • Played pond hockey
  • Been to West Edmonton Mall 
  • Seen the Northern Lights
  • Been to a Powwow  
  • Been to the Calgary Stampede
  • Been to a hockey game
  • Have gone ice fishing
  • Been to the CN Tower 
  • Rode the gondola in Banff