The amazing Owse is my go to guy for a delicious rolex, two fried eggs on warm chapati with fresh tomato and onion. Owse has become a fast friend, seeking to learn about Canada as much as he can. In the past couple of weeks he has expressed his desire to come to Canada to find new opportunities. He asked me to find out what I could for him. So I set myself to finding opportunities and it wasn’t long before I realized it was more than a long shot, it’s next to impossible. As it is now, our temporary foreign workers program allows workers to stay in Canada for 4 consecutive years with no chance of going home. When the 4 years are up they have to leave Canada for another 4 years. After 4 years, they could come back with some luck but still have no better chance at becoming a permanent resident. Under our current government, we offer permanent residency to economic immigrants who have a net worth of at least $10 million. It’s telling that we, in one of the world’s richest least-populated countries, accept super rich immigrants while having allowed less than 1,000 Syrian refugees fleeing a brutal civil war. Given this completely unequal system, what hope could Owse, the 18 year old rolex cook with a grade 3 education, ever have?
The globe spun, perched on the corner of my desk. My finger pressed down hard, bringing the spinning to an end. Hidden below my digit was the Pearl of the Indian Ocean, a small island that had recently emerged from 26 years of civil war. Maybe it was living in Egypt, playing witness to the benignity of the day-to-day during a revolution, or maybe it was my youthful incredulity that kept me from spinning again. I let the thought bubble in my head, piecing together the little of what I knew about the small country. Before I knew that my brain had organized the thought, I heard my lips say, “So what about Sri Lanka?”
Days later as we sat elbows deep in flight documents and tentative itineraries, the excitement of exploring a relatively untouched country clouded any fears of instability. Instability was a Tuesday in Cairo during 2013; by comparison Sri Lanka seemed like a Caribbean cruise destination, plotted and predictable.
When I disembarked in Colombo, I realized I had gone from dry-heat to humid-heat, and I immediately knew which I preferred. Stepping out the front doors of the small airport, sweat beaded on my forehead and trickled down my spine. My friend Jeff had arrived a few days earlier and came strolling up to us in the mid-morning sun, “Welcome to the pressure cooker!” he bellowed as we piled bags into the back of an old micro-van.
We snaked our way through the crowded city streets and onto country roads. We were headed to our first destination, a mountain shrouded in myth and, as we would later discover, mist. It was early afternoon when we pulled into the driveway of Slightly Chilled Guesthouse in Hatton, at the base of Adam’s Peak. I walked through the doors expecting Bob Marley and dreaded travellers; instead there were marginally functional air conditioners.
In preparation for the next day’s early morning slog up 5000 steps to the summit of Adam’s Peak, we went out into the surrounding tea plantations to look around and work in our hiking boots. Within half an hour, the humidity decided to break into monsoon rains. My new hiking boots were turning into little lakes. So, with my camera stowed, we ran for cover in a curry house. What an excellent choice. It was during this downpour that I was first introduced to the possibilities of Sri Lankan cuisine, possibilities that have me salivating even now. After hours of delight, we made our way back to Slightly Chilled and hung out our soaked gear in hopes of an overnight drying miracle.
My Nokia phone exploded to life at 2am. I bounced from bed, only to feel the gurgling curry reassert itself. With trepidation, I moved to inspect my soaked boots. Still soaked. Super. I channelled my inner MacGyver, emptied a few plastic shopping bags of underwear, put my feet inside, and pulled on my boots. All set.
I met my friends upstairs for coffee, crepes, and passionfruit. We ate what we could and funnelled out the front door. As we trudged off into the dark, we soon joined a throng of people headed in the same direction. There were families with small children and old grandparents, groups of young Buddhist monks, and foreign explorers. Together we plodded along in the dark to the foot of Adam’s Peak where a giant statue of a reclining Buddha rested. With a look back at my friends, I told them I would see them at the top. The 5,000 steps that separated me from the peak of the famed mountain, started to slip by. My 6 foot 7 frame, balanced on two exceptionally long legs, powered up the stairs. My heart started pounding harder as the air thinned and my breathing accelerated. All around me, people climbed with their own sense of purpose pushing them to the peak.
In my own life, I’ve struggled with spirituality and what that really means. In a society that aspires to own things and acquire wealth, it can be hard to find a soul. Thankfully, I wasn’t climbing an office tower in Toronto but rather, one of those rare places on Earth that millions of people agree is important. Religious groups aren’t known for agreeing on differing doctrine but Muslims, Christians, Hindus, and Buddhists alike believe that the 6 foot tall boulder sitting on the summit of Adam’s Peak is a footprint. Reaching consensus on whose footprint, however, is more difficult. For Christians and Muslims, the footprint is that of Adam, the site where he landed on Earth after being cast from the Garden of Eden by an angry God. For Buddhists, the footprint is that of the Buddha, left behind from when he visited the Buddhist deity Saman on Sri Lanka. And for Tamil Hindus, it is believed to be the footprint of Lord Shiva, the auspicious one.
As I climbed, I wondered who the pilgrims around me believed in. Whose footprint were they hiking to see? Which God was awaiting them at the end of their climb? I wasn’t climbing in duty to a deity but rather as an observer, a student of all religions and member to none. This sense of having no defined beliefs filled me as I climbed, wondering about the faiths of those around me. I felt like I was siphoning off bits and pieces from the pilgrims, attaining my own spiritual fulfillment through the appreciation of their struggle and devotion.
By this time, my Nike workout shirt was drenched in sweat. My grey hoodie was starting to soak up the excess, so I knew I had to stop. Along the stairs were small shops, serving tea and snacks to the weary. I hopped off the stairs and headed for the back of the shop and ordered a piping hot tea. I peeled off my soaking shirt and rung it out before putting it back on. I sipped at the boiling tea and felt my achy body warm.
My wristwatch said 3:50am. The sun was meant to rise just before 6. I still had a long way to go and the foot traffic was intensifying. As I left the shop and rejoined the pilgrims, I saw my friends marching up behind me. We reunited and prepared to push up the final flights of stairs. We spun around a snake in the stairs and come face to face with a queue a few thousand pilgrims deep. The lineup was barely moving. We stood shoulder to shoulder as people began to sit down, crowding the stairs even more than before. By this point, we were racing the sun and it wouldn’t be long before it splashed into the sky. From where we were, there was no end to the line, so we decided to act.
Bouncing over a barrier, we raced up alongside the staircase, crashing through bushes and bumping bystanders in our final assault on Adam’s Peak. We constantly had to pick up new trails, dodging people resigned to waiting inconveniently on the narrow stairs. Just as the first shards of sunlight broke the night sky, we arrived at the gates, filtering pilgrims towards the peak. Surrounded on all sides we waded through the crowd using my tall frame as a marker to stay together. We pushed towards an overhanging ledge with an uninterrupted view of the valleys below and mountains beyond. The ledge teased my fingertips as I extended out of the crowd and onto the ledge. Perched above the pilgrims, I wrapped myself in my damp grey hoodie to stave off the chill spreading from my sweat soaked clothes. Standing stoically behind me, a Buddhist monk garbed in glowing orange gazed out over the mass of bodies. The sun began to break over the horizon, slowly reeled in from the nothingness of night. Heavy clouds filled with dense humidity hung low in the valleys, lending itself perfectly to the sensation of being perched on a peak above the world. Slow, methodical drumbeats and ringing bells filled the morning air as a steady stream of pilgrims pushed on for their moment at the top. Sun shot streaks of pink, yellow, orange and red splashed wildly across the sky.
Time must have continued to tick by because soon the sun was high in the morning sky. In my transfixed state, I was a captive in the eye of a spiritual storm swirling around me, stemming from several religious rites. My adventure to the peak was not intended to earn favour with the recipient of my faith. I was there to observe, take photos and consider the lives of those around me. But what I found was a myriad of perspectives, exercising their own truths on the shared summit. It didn’t matter why you were there or which God you were trying to please. The pull of Adam’s Peak is the shared human experience. Climbing, sweating, struggling, and remaining determined in the face of adversity is how we measure our spirit. Driving yourself to be better and your life to be fuller than it was the day before is the path to personal progress. When we continue to seek out the unknown and to challenge the untested, we uncover our hardwired drive to live, our natural spirituality.
Cohabiting on the plains of the Serengeti, zebra and wildebeest graze side by side. By enlarging the herd, there are more lookouts for toothsome predators. They may have different stripes, but when united for self preservation and faced with death, the differences fade away.
Just another lesson from the animal kingdom, one that we must embrace if we are to save our home from the perils of climate change. Happy Earth Day!
After hours of putting one foot in front of the other, stomping up stairs, I was nearing my goal. I was in southern Sri Lanka and a holy pilgrimage had pulled me out of bed in the middle of the night. I was surrounded by the faithful, making their climb to the top of Adam’s Peak in duty to their deities. But the only absolution I sought, was with the rising sun. Soon, the darkness began to break and shapes came into focus across the hazy horizon. The eternal battle between night and day waned, as fiery light shattered the blackened battlefield.
The dense and heavy fog that filled Ngorongoro was just starting to abate as we reached the crater floor. Having spent the night sleeping on the rim of the dormant volcano, we woke invigorated by the splendour of our natural surroundings. We begged our guides to make sure we were the first truck inside the crater, and we got what we asked for.
Just as I was clawing the remnants of sleep from the corners of my eyes, we spotted a pride of lions sprawled in tall grass. As we approached, they barely flinched. The stains of blood smeared across their faces left them nearly comatose, burdened with the meat of a fresh kill. Behind them, we spotted a destroyed zebra carcass, picked clean. Hard to argue with the efficiency of nature.
As much as I had eaten, it wasn’t my full stomach that kept me planted in my seat. The sun was dipping out of the sky at the end of a beautiful day. The humidity in the air was dense and thick. Dark, sprawling clouds spread across the glowing sky. A breeze kicked up and rain felt inevitable. Cockatoos and kookaburras squabbled in the trees, like arguing monkeys. No, there wasn’t much reason to hurry inside. Not much reason at all.
It seems pretty obvious that we don’t choose the life we are born into. A toddler doesn’t choose their country, their government, their family, their religion, their history, or their social class. When two people come together to bring a new human into the world, they bring them into a life already riddled with rules and limitations, but it isn’t their world either. It is the world they inherited from their parents and grandparents and so on back until the dawn of time. Our societies grow out of necessity and convenience, creating a world around us. But as our societies grew and developed, we began to explore the world and export our customs and cultures. We exploited those that we could and established a hierarchy of human value, based largely on geography. We forgot that each and every person is part of something bigger. We forgot it about ourselves. We forgot that we belong to a larger collective. A collective of human beings, struggling one against the other for a bigger part of the proverbial pie. But the forgotten truth is that we are the pie, and we each deserve to be valued for who we are rather than where we are. So when we take more than we need, we take from one another, weakening the whole of humanity.
The sun was already shining when I threw my things in the car to head to work. For 7 years, I’ve toiled as a kayaking guide out of Prince Edward Island’s Brudenell Provincial Park. It has continuously been one of the greatest experiences of my life. Not only do I get to spend the day in the sun, on the water, wrapped in pristine nature, but I get to bring along my camera.
On this particular day, I drove across the small bridge connecting my family home to our town and immediately threw it in reverse. I backed on to the bridge, grabbed my camera and hopped out to stare out at the seamlessly still water reflecting the world above, while dark shadows revealed slivers of the secrets beneath the surface.
Our bus rumbled across the Aswan High Dam, filled with Egyptian teenagers taking in their country’s history. I was accompanying my Cairene kids as their history teacher and chaperone but in truth, I was the most excited. I had dreamt of exploring the ancient cities and temples of the confusingly coined Upper Egypt ever since my older sister had won first place at the science fair, for her project on hieroglyphics. So, when the bus doors swung open, I was the first to rush out and explore.
I was immediately lured toward a giant towering structure off to the side by the sounds of laughter and music. A large commemorative plaque stood in front of the monument, lauding the cooperation of the Soviet Union and Egypt in their construction of the High Dam.
In the heart of the monument a large dance circle was developing, driven by drums and the sounds of song. Local field trippers and their dedicated teachers performed number after number as each kid had their moment at the centre of the circle. It struck me as an odd juxtaposition, the colourfully clad Egyptian revellers in the heart of a Soviet monument.
My legs were aching as I lunged down to take two steps at a time. I’d been climbing stairs since 2 am with only a few samosas to keep me going. Thankfully, the descent was easier than the climb, because leaving Adam’s Peak behind wasn’t.
My memory is of a rising sun splashing colours across the sky like a drunk Jackson Pollock while the sounds of Buddhists banging on drums and clanging bells rang in my ears, I stopped to look around me. Beside me, in front of me, and behind me were hundreds of people all with sunlight and smiles beaming off their faces.
We live our lives through moments that fleet instantly into memories. When we stop to soak in our surroundings, take time to absorb it all, the moment we’re in becomes a memory, marked in time and in thought.
Together, we shared that moment that is now my memory. They were on the final steps of their spiritual pilgrimage, while I was just beginning my Sri Lankan adventure.