Life's a Leech

My poor, aggrieved mother is still recovering from last week's Peanut Cheese, in which we hung out of the side of a Sri Lankan train for 8 hours, then later asked a stranger to drive us to an abandoned "bangalow" in a remote valley where no one would be able to hear our cries for help.

Aside from it being close to 5 p.m. when we arrived and me being really ready to eat lunch, I wasn't really that concerned about the location or emptiness of what she refers to as The House of Freakin' Usher.

Until the taxi driver left and the bungalow staff asked if we wanted something to drink.

Them: Something something something drink?

Us: Oh, yes! We would really love some tea.

Them: (silence)

Us: Some tea, please?

Them: (more silence)

Us: Tea? You know, the national drink and largest industry of Sri Lanka?

In retrospect, I might have paid more attention when the owner of the bungalow texted me to ask if we would be bringing a local guide with us, or if he should arrange for a supervisor who spoke English.

I might have also spent the extra 0.05 cents to photocopy the "food glossary" page from our guidebook.

Eventually, we worked out a creaky system in which either the owner or a manager would call from Colombo to talk to the (theoretically) English-speaking supervisor, who would then come find us and hand over his cell phone.

I would talk to the manager about what we wanted to eat and when, and then he would talk to the supervisor again.

Then the bungalow staff would retreat to the kitchen and emerge two hours later with the most delicious Sri Lankan feast imaginable.

Then the manager would call back to make sure were happy and fed and to urge us once again to call him if we needed anything.

This happened approximately 37 times during our two-night stay, which was a little excessive but led us to realize (eventually) that the poor guys in charge — both in Colombo and at the bungalow itself — were pretty stressed out about having us there.

Sure enough: a quick flip through the guestbook revealed that the only other non-Sri Lankan guests had visited back in 2007.

The novelty of having Western visitors may also explain why we were treated like royalty.

I mean this in both the good sense and the challenging sense of said treatment.

On one hand, if we sat in one place for more than 20 minutes, we could be fairly certain that a nice man would bring out a tray with tea or snacks for us to eat.

On the other hand, the English-speaking supervisor and his minions kept us on a pretty short tether.

Toward the end of our second day, for example, we wanted to walk down the dirt road to the village, partly just to take a walk and partly because we really wanted to take a photo of the big yellow sign that described the guesthouse as a "bangalow."

We thought it might create an international incident if we just disappeared, so I went and found Mr. Supervisor.

Me: I wanted to let you know that we're going for a walk. We'll be back before dark.

Mr. Supervisor, looking more than a little concerned: (silence)

Me: We're just going down the hill to the village.

Mr. Supervisor: (silence)

John, coming to find us because he can hear from afar that I'm not having any luck: We're going to walk on the road. Down to the village.

Mr. Supervisor: No.

John: No?!

Mr. Supervisor then disappeared into the back of the bungalow, eventually returning with a young guy we had never seen before.

We didn't know who he was or where he came from, but it seemed like he spoke slightly more English than our English-speaking supervisor.

Mr. Guy: Is everything okay?

John: Yes, it's fine. We're just going to take a walk. To the village.

Me: For fun!

Mr. Guy: For fun?

Us: Yes, just a walk. Two kilometers. We'll be back in an hour.

Mr. Guy: Any problem?

Us: No problem. We're just going to walk. For fun.

Mr. Guy considered this for a minute, then translated for Mr. Supervisor, who shook his head and — to our surprise — laughed out loud.

We laughed, too, but mostly out of relief that we were going to be allowed off of the property.

As John and I scampered down the hill, having all kinds of fun, we realized that this is another key difference between us and the bungalow's normal clientele.

We think it's fun to walk four kilometers up and down a hill for no reason, while the last thing a wealthy Sri Lankan from Colombo wants to do is walk down a muddy path into a village with 10 families, 17 chickens, and a tiny hole-in-the-wall store.

See how much fun we were having?

But as tempting as it was to just sit around on the lawn at the guesthouse and wait for treats to be delivered, we also used our Colombo food hotline to arrange a short guided trek into the jungle adjoining the guesthouse property.

Sinharaja Forest Preserve (and, we assumed, its buffer zone) is known for its healthy population of leeches, so we spent a good part of the morning gearing up for said trek.

John and I agree on most things related to travel, but we learned that morning that we are from two different schools of leech prophylaxis.

John opted to wear longish shorts with two pairs of bright white liner socks. His theory being that if you can see the leeches as soon as they jump onto your legs, it's easier to remove them.

He was also fairly confident that the leeches would not be able to penetrate both layers of socks to burrow into the warm, tender areas around his ankles.

As an added bonus, I think you'll agree that it's a pretty hot look:

I, on the other hand, felt that it was important to seal all openings around my ankles by tucking my thick cotton pants into my socks.

Which is also a hot look, though more in the overheating sense of hot than the hot sense of hot:

Our guide, meanwhile, was from a third school of hiking through leech-infested jungle altogether: he showed up with bare feet, a sarong and a machete.

Bare feet or no, our guide did not pull any punches.

Within about 10 minutes, we were boulder-hopping across (or in my case, through) a deep river / waterfall on our way to a rubber tree plantation on the other side of the valley.

We were surrounded by giant trees, ferns, vines, snail-covered rocks, the soothing sound of rushing water, and something else I feel like I'm forgetting...

Oh yes: now I remember.

About 57 million leeches.

We did our best to keep an eye out for birds and reptiles and monkeys in the trees overhead, but I have to say: it was difficult to divert our attention from our poor besieged ankles.

Toward the end of our hike, John did spot a lizard hiding in a tree:

But John's photo session with this adorable little guy coincided with me saying something like, "You know, I think I might have a leech in my sock."

Back at the bungalow after what turned out to be 45 minutes — at the very most — of trekking in the jungle, we removed our boots and socks for the Day of Reckoning.

As it turns out, John's school of leech-wear was fully vindicated.

While my school of leech-wear...?

Mine was clearly not.

Just in case you're not completely grossed out yet, here's what an engorged leech licking its chops looks like:

I know.

I know!

Me at the dinner table last night: I'm not really sure if I want to subject people to that disgusting photo.

John: But it's educational! Just think of the hordes of people who have never seen a leech!

What might be even more educational is considering the type of loving boyfriend who would take a close-up photo of a leech wallowing in his girlfriend's blood-soaked sock.