The sacred city of Anuradhapura

"Serendib," Arab merchants called it when their boats bumped onto its white sand beaches, fringed with coconut and palm trees. From Serendib: serendipity, the essence of unexpected but pleasurable discovery. Greg Sibley tastes the essence of Sri Lanka.

From Colombo to Negombo
When you touch down at Colombo, the first discovery you make is that you are actually 25km north of the capitol and the tight security leaves you little option other than an official taxi - with an officially high fare to match. Avoid this, and Colombo' chaos, by staying a few kilometers further north in Negombo. Even better, fax a hotel in this bustling fishing town before you leave and they'll send a car to collect you. The driver from the friendly Beach Villa Guest House ably dodges potholes, cows, dogs, tuk-tuks and ox carts while pointing out places of worship: churches, Hindu and Buddhist temples, a mosque, the cricket pitch.

Snorkeling is allegedly good in Negombo, but there ain't a lot to detain you during the west coast's monsoon season (May-October), when the Indian Ocean is whipped into murky breakers with undercurrents too dangerous to dip your toe into. Besides what comes out of the sea, there are fishermen here keen on another, more lucrative catch. Unless you're on a really tight schedule, think twice before getting hooked into what seems like a bargain-priced tour. There are cheaper.

Or take the train instead. From Colombo there are three routes; north to the Dry Zone, south hugging the coast with its clear waters and resort hotels, or the famed route to Kandy and beyond that winds dramatically up into the Central Highlands through lush tea estates. We go north. Keeping an eye on the press (a couple of dailies are in English) can reap a few discoveries, such as news of the Perahara (festival pageant) about to take place in Sri Lanka's most sacred city, Anuradhapura.

Elephants and onlookers at the Perahara festival

Pageantry in the Cultural Triangle
Clambering aboard an old, dusty red wooden carriage about to snake its slow way to the ancient capital, soaking up the changing landscape, the softening of light into evening strikes a romantic picture. The romance evaporates quickly enough as the locals nimbly squeeze past and into the vacant seats to leave us standing in the aisle, the jammed open windows affording a view of approximately two meters either side of the tracks. But there's hope. Talk to the people around you and you'll soon be adopted, included in the continual rotation of seating, offered food, involved in their discussions, even cajoled into participating in the singing. The charm of train journeys returns.

Towns peter out into villages, villages into small clusters of palm-leafed shacks bleached gray, as the train shuffles from the most densely, to the least densely populated region of the island. Arid rice paddies attest to the grueling livelihoods of the local farmers as well as the changing climate.

Anuradhapura is hot and dry. Shelton's ebullient welcome to his impeccable Charm Inn Guest House (\1200 for large, cool rooms in a lovely flowering garden) is warmer than most. He treats our palates to his exemplary culinary talents, supplies us with gallons of free tea (try it with ginger) and countless bits of information.

This ancient capital, along with Polonnaruwa, Dambulla and Sigiriya, is Sri Lanka's "Cultural Triangle." These sites testify to the once-great Sinhalese kingdoms, dating as far back as the 3rd century BC. They're a bit pricey but you've got to visit a couple of these places for the unique architecture, fine carvings and sense of living history, as they remain active religious sites (dress accordingly).

This weekend flocks of pilgrims have converged on Anuradhapura for the festival, and stream among the stupas, the hemispherical solid brick structures covered in brilliant white plaster. Originally built as funeral mounds, none are more impressive than those in the ancient capital. Their sheer immensity can only be realized after stepping up on the platform and tilting your head back beyond the dome of heaven to the tapering spire, the axis of the cosmos... After picking ourselves up off the floor, we head to the oldest tree in the world.

The Sri Maha Bodhi, a gift from India sometime around 200 BC, was originally cut from the tree (long since perished) beneath which Buddha sat and attained enlightenment. Every April it is bathed in milk, but today, in sultry twilight thick with burning incense and hypnotic Buddhist chants, the shuffling lines of worshippers are here to offer handfuls of scented puji flowers. It is an intense ceremony, but friendly smiles make us feel less intrusive.

A single rocket explodes into the night sky, signaling the start of Perahara. Bring on the elephants! Sri Lanka's most revered animal, painted, carved, printed, molded, embroidered - their image is everywhere. Majestically clad in voluptuous red velvet with gold ornaments and strung with flashing lights, they are the centerpiece of any Perahara.

By coal-burning torch light, between the regal pacing of the elephants, relentless drummers spur on gyrating dancers in traditional costume to make a complete tour of the town. We don't make it under the mozzie net until the early hours.

A tank and a temple
"You cannot go here," the tourist information officer at the airport told us, marking on the map in thick, red ink a sizable chunk of the island. "It's dangerous." The Pearl of the Orient, if not cracked, is a little tarnished. Since the early 1980s a conflict has been raging between the Tamil Tigers pressing for a separate homeland and the largely Sinhalese government. Until recently, most tourists avoided visiting outside the south and central regions, but with the fighting now largely confined to the far north, they have begun to trickle back to the east.

With apologies to the officer at the airport, we're going, too. To Trincomalee. For the beaches, for the snorkeling and, why not, for the sheer adventure.

You can bus it, but only in daylight hours and only if you have patience enough to sit through a dozen or so army checkpoints. For three hours our eyes are glued to the sun-seared savannahs for a chance sighting of a wild elephant or two. They are drawn to the large tanks or reservoirs, a legacy of the far-sighted early Sinhalese kingdoms. One passenger tells us, between zealous searches of his sack of potatoes, "Every town has at least two things: a tank and a temple."

We haven't seen any elephants by the time we reach Trinco, but we have seen a couple of hundred wild water buffalo and learned how to abbreviate the town's name. Pausing to marvel at the natural deep water harbor we grab a tuk-tuk for the pristine beaches just north of town. The recently re-opened Nilavelli Beach Hotel is the closest starting point to the big attraction here: the coral reef off Pigeon Island.

There's good snorkeling where it once must have been magnificent. A combination of El Nino and unscrupulous boat drivers has irreparably damaged the reef. Don't take the hotel boat - it's been seen with tourists and locals laden with bags of freshly cut coral. On the beach you could ask for Kamul, who seems genuinely concerned about the decline of the reef, and negotiate a price for a great day out including a sumptuous barbecued fish lunch. The lobster sunburn is optional.

Judging by the curious looks we get, not many hotel guests care to raise their butts from their sun chairs for a stroll north along the shore. What they're missing is a fishing village of palm thatched homes perched on the beach, the inhabitants at twilight hauling the nets onto the sand in full singing voice.

We're only looking to buy some water, but we're taken to a small store in this Muslim village by old man Benedict who, after a discreet word and a small fee, is glad to dig out of the sand behind his hut a half bottle of Arrack, home brewed from coconuts (mean but palatable). A brief history of the world and of the village and what a Catholic is doing in this abstinent community is free. Don't go past the headland - this is a no-go area and the army, we're told, shoots on sight.

It's 7am and the kids are already deep in the throes of several cricket games on the green. We're packed and walking to the bus station. Checking-out of Nilavelli necessitated the signing of a sheath of papers carbon-copied in triplicate, hammered out on an old typewriter minus a couple of consonants, in a room buzzing with flies and ceiling fans: Like stepping out of a 1930s movie.

Next week: Kandy and Gal Oya National Park.