CLIMB EVERY MOUNTAIN - SIGIRIYA ROCK, SRI LANKA
OOur first sight of it was certainly dramatic, lit up in the darkness by the sudden flashes of lightning accompanying the latest downpour to take us by surprise. It was after all the rainy season in Sri Lanka. Perhaps a clue to the drama to come.
Sigiriya Rock or Lion Rock as it’s also called, rises 220 metres into the air, steep on all sides and protruding from the pancake-flat landscape as if it had been dropped there by an unseen hand. Its majestic silhouette only hints at the dark events of its turbulent history. What had drawn me there though was the enigmatic Sigiriya Maidens. I had read how beautiful these 5th century frescoes were and the fact that they were so inaccessible, hidden in a gallery high in the rock face, only increased their fascination. I hoped to capture those serene expressions with my camera.
The rock was once crowned by a vast palace complex, Kassapa I’s Palace of the Clouds. This bizarre choice of location was down to Kassapa’s fear of his half-brother Mogallanna’s revenge. After all he had walled up their father alive to punish him for refusing him the succession to the throne. When Mogallanna attacked and forced him out, Kassapa stabbed himself, the palace was destroyed and the rock was handed over to monks.
Our ascent was planned for early next morning. The weather had cleared and we hoped to complete the climb before the sun really started to bite. As I stepped between the two giant lion’s paws at the base, all that remains of the rock carving that gives the fortress its name, I was expecting a tough climb but when confronted half-way up by a rickety, spiral staircase clinging to the sheer rock face, I froze. Vertigo. It was too late to turn back and there was no way I could go forward. The next thing I knew, my hand had been grasped by an elderly Sri Lankan. He’d sensed my predicament and come to my rescue, leading me firmly upwards, muttering unintelligible words of encouragement in his native Singhala. I clutched my camera tightly to my side, concentrated fiercely on the pattern of his fraying blue sarong – the only part of him I could see apart from his dusty bare feet – and somehow trusted him to lead me safely to the top.
I was probably in no fit state to fully appreciate the 5th century pin-ups that awaited us there – the Sigiriya Maidens – elegant, lightly-clad ladies, looking unsuitably provocative for their time. The long-awaited photos were disappointing. I don’t know which was shaking most, me, or the camera. As the guide explained about the Mirror Wall facing the frescoes, with its thousand-year-old, surprisingly sexy graffiti about the maidens, I wasn’t really paying attention. I had just one thing on my mind. Would we have to go down the same way we came up?
Sigiriya Rock or Lion Rock as it’s also called, rises 220 metres into the air, steep on all sides and protruding from the pancake-flat landscape as if it had been dropped there by an unseen hand. Its majestic silhouette only hints at the dark events of its turbulent history. What had drawn me there though was the enigmatic Sigiriya Maidens. I had read how beautiful these 5th century frescoes were and the fact that they were so inaccessible, hidden in a gallery high in the rock face, only increased their fascination. I hoped to capture those serene expressions with my camera.
The rock was once crowned by a vast palace complex, Kassapa I’s Palace of the Clouds. This bizarre choice of location was down to Kassapa’s fear of his half-brother Mogallanna’s revenge. After all he had walled up their father alive to punish him for refusing him the succession to the throne. When Mogallanna attacked and forced him out, Kassapa stabbed himself, the palace was destroyed and the rock was handed over to monks.
Our ascent was planned for early next morning. The weather had cleared and we hoped to complete the climb before the sun really started to bite. As I stepped between the two giant lion’s paws at the base, all that remains of the rock carving that gives the fortress its name, I was expecting a tough climb but when confronted half-way up by a rickety, spiral staircase clinging to the sheer rock face, I froze. Vertigo. It was too late to turn back and there was no way I could go forward. The next thing I knew, my hand had been grasped by an elderly Sri Lankan. He’d sensed my predicament and come to my rescue, leading me firmly upwards, muttering unintelligible words of encouragement in his native Singhala. I clutched my camera tightly to my side, concentrated fiercely on the pattern of his fraying blue sarong – the only part of him I could see apart from his dusty bare feet – and somehow trusted him to lead me safely to the top.
I was probably in no fit state to fully appreciate the 5th century pin-ups that awaited us there – the Sigiriya Maidens – elegant, lightly-clad ladies, looking unsuitably provocative for their time. The long-awaited photos were disappointing. I don’t know which was shaking most, me, or the camera. As the guide explained about the Mirror Wall facing the frescoes, with its thousand-year-old, surprisingly sexy graffiti about the maidens, I wasn’t really paying attention. I had just one thing on my mind. Would we have to go down the same way we came up?
