Into the Hills

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Pallebedda-Badanamure to Weligepola to Balangoda

Kilometers: 35 Elevation gain/loss: 997m/614m

Kahawatta has a serial killer. To date, some 16 women have been murdered, the last few just eigh weeks back, often mother-daughter pairs, usually stabbed, or burned, sometimes raped. Every time a new murder occurs, a new motive is found -- drugs, politics, personal vendettas, underworld connections -- and the perpetrator is speedily put behind bars. Then a few months go by and another woman is killed. In all of Sri Lanka, nowhere is as synonymous with murdered women as Kahawatta. It has all the makings of a Criminal Minds episode (without the FBI) if I've ever heard of one. I'm just not buying the "we've caught the killer, you're safe now" line. Not on my life. I'm not going there. Nope. No way.

Which left me with a dilemma... Follow the road through Kahawatta and I'd have guest houses, places to stay, reasonable distances to cover and gentle inclines along the road. The shortcut, turning off at Pallebedda and heading due north, goes through Weligepola, where there would be no places to stay, insanely steep climbs, and a long, long way to go to reach Balangoda, nearly double my average daily distance. I had little choice; Kahawatta was not getting me.

As I started off, the overcast skies and refreshing drizzle promised a cool and comfortable day. By the time I had reached only half way, however, the clouds parted, the sun came screaming out with a vengance, determined to make up for lost time in the morning, and the heat began to climb. The road dragged on and on, my overloaded pack growing heavier with each passing hour, and the kilometers never seemed to end. At times, with the steep inclines, I barely covered two or three kilometers in an hour. I staggered into Balangoda finally, dripping with sweat, bedraggled, panting. Back cramping. Legs trembling. Feet angry.

I hauled my saggy ass up to the Rest House, and after a dramatic collapse in the lobby (one of my theatrical finest), followed by a shower and a brief snooze, I was temporarily revived. Balangoda proved to be surprisingly pleasant for an overcrowded, cluttered little town, with a you're-almost-in-a-city feel to it. I was invited to the family home of my Panamure friend, the smiling policeman Sangadasa, and was taken up a local hill to the Buddhist temple for a late afternoon worship, where views of the mountain ranges can't be beat. The panorama before you stretches from Sri Pada to Horton Plains and Haputale, but my favourite -- as was specially pointed out to me -- were two twin peaks, affectionately known by a local name.

My shortcut had brought me into the hills ahead of schedule. I was excited, as mountains always get my blood pounding and heart racing. There's something about them that calls to me, something that resonates with me in a way no other landscape does. The ocean? Eh. I can take it or leave it. But the mountains? Mountains lift me. For all my huffing and puffing and fainting as I climb them, there is no where else I would rather be. And well, here I am...