Sigiriya

This weekend, we finally made it to one of Sri Lanka's most famous sites, Sigiriya, an ancient palace located atop a 200 meter rock. 

In 477 AD, Kashyapa, the Buddhist King Dhatusena's son by a non-royal consort, seized the throne from his father and killed him, following a coup assisted by Migara, the King’s nephew and army commander. The rightful heir, Moggallana, fearing for his life, fled to South India. Afraid of an attack by Moggallana, Kashyapa moved the capital and his residence from the traditional Buddhist capital of Anuradhapura to the more secure Sigiriya. Sigiriya was then developed into a complex city and fortress. 

He built his palace on top of the rock and decorated its sides with colorful frescoes. On a small plateau about halfway up the side of this rock he built a gateway in the form of an enormous lion.

Our guide, Lal, telling us about the man-eating crocodiles in the inner moat.  

I've learned over time to be less wary of guides.  When Lal made a beeline for our car as we pulled into the completely deserted parking lot, I suppressed my immediate instinct to turn him away. Not only was I sympathetic to Lal's plight (there hadn't been many visitors, much less foreign tourists, to the site since the beginning of the pandemic), but I remembered how much value our guide in Egypt added. I'm glad we decided to let Lal join us. I'm not sure how much choice we had; I'm sure he wouldn't have taken 'no' for an answer. 

The feet of the lions is all that remain of the entrance to the upper levels.

Before the morning was over, we learned King Kashyapa lived a pretty posh life. At the base of the rock,, there were several large rectangular swimming holes. Lal pointed out the seat where the king sat as he watched his 500 concubines swim nude. When he was ready to return to the palace, he and the queen were carried back up the rock in a rickshaw. 

The kids were riveted. The trip was the type of adventure their pandemic life had a been lacking, hanging on to the side of a cliff, scaling rickety metal stairs that threatened to come unriveted from the rock face at any moment. Not to mention the near bee attack, fleeing monks, orange robes flapping behind them, cobras and pythons. The entire experience was harrowing, thrilling, electrifying in a way nothing we'd done since the pandemic started was. 

Watching the Puddles Gather Rain

It's raining and raining and raining.  

It's rained -- literally, nonstop -- for over two weeks. It rains all day. It's raining in the morning when we wake up. It rains at night when we go to bed. It rains all night, and we lie there listening to the rain pummel the earth, hands clutching the edges of the bedsheets, pulling them up under our chins, staring at the ceiling, the only things between us and the rain. Listening to the constant thrum of the rain, wondering how much rain it would take to wash the island away, imagining the island sinking like Atlantis, the lost city. 

It may be a monsoon, the type of rain locals would be able to predict with metereological precognisance, the things farmer's almanacs are made from, a metaphysical, preternatural oneness with nature. Really, just generations of observations, knowing the rains will begin on this day and end on that day. But even the locals predictions have been upset. Climate change has made the farmer's almanac all but useless. Weather doesn't follow the same patterns anymore. Generations of farmers won't admit their observations are obsolete, but the rain no longer begins on this day and it no longer end on that day. Try telling that to the locals. "Eight more days of rain," they'd say with smug certainty. The rain doesn't stop falling.  

The rain started shortly after the lockdown ended, so we feel as though we've been captured in one state or another for months, like a prehistoric insect encapsulated in amber. The moment is somewhat outside of time. Hours, days, and weeks all running together since July, now into fall, stretching to Christmas. Sometimes, when I dive into the ocean, I don't know which way is up or down, which way lies the bottom of the sea or the surface. Weightless, tossed and turned by the roiling waves, I don't know whether to swim up or down. I feel a little like that now. 

Peter and Sam are still at home, doing online school. This past weekend, I made a concerted effort to make Saturday and Sunday feel different, special, not like every other day of the week (which they very easily could because they never leave the house). Friday night I told them they could order delivery from wherever they wanted. Peter got Taco Bell, Sam ordered a fried chicken sandwich from Black Cat, and Clementine got sushi. Saturday morning, I bought out the entire movie theater so the kids and their friends could see "The Eternals" relatively safe from the virus. On Sunday morning, I invited two of thwir friends over for D&D. Clementine had a horseback riding lesson that afternoon. 

But what I remember from the weekend is the kids -- Sam and Peter, mostly -- fighting and bickering through most of it. They need to go back to school. 

Fingers crossed, we just heard in the news they may go back next week. Finally.  

Now, it just needs to stop raining.