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Haputale to Diyaluma Falls
Kilometers: 5 Elevation gain/loss: 582/600
Haputale sits perched on the edge of steep tea plantations, tucked romantically in the fold of the ribboning mountainside, looking from a distance like a little Shangri-la. It's suddenly cooler, mistier, and decidedly unlike the tropical south. You notice immediately that the palm and banana trees have given way to exotic pine and eucalyptus, brought in (disastrously) by the British. Of course, now nothing else will grow in those forests, local flora unable to coexist, but hey... it seemed like a good idea at the time.
You also notice that the ubiquitous Buddhist temples of the Singhalese low-lands are fewer and farther between, and instead roadside Hindu temples to the gods Shiva and his son Murgan begin to dominate. At the base of convoluted and entwined fig trees, impromptu shrines with lingams and tridents are a clear sign that you are in an area heavily populated with Tamils.
Almost exclusively, the Tamil women work the tea fields, and the men the tea factories, all (relatively recent) arrivals from India who migrated under British colonial rule. These communities are distinct from the Tamils of Colombo and Jaffna, who have lived in - and once ruled - Sri Lanka for millennia.
Haputale demands a day trip or two, a walk through the tea estates blanketed in the curling mists, a tour of a tea factory, a photo taken where Mr. Synonymous-with-Tea Lipton used to sit to oversea his empire, and a side trip to the nearest waterfalls.
I headed to Diyaluma falls. From below, is a tall, skinny waterfall, the second highest in the country. You take a snapshot. You move on. From the top, for those willing to slog out the steep climb, it offers stunning and pristine pools, perfect for a quick swim to wash off the sweat of the hike. Always up for a stomp, I knew which way I was going.
To reach the top, head about 500 meters west, where a dirt road heads left, uphill, skirting the outside perimeter of a rubber tree plantation. The road slopes up gently for about a kilometer, to a small village where you will be met by any number of small boys, all keen to show you the way for a tip of few hundred rupees. Definitely let the kids lead you, as the route winds confusingly through the houses and behind a tiny rubber factory, where you can see sheets of raw rubber hanging out to dry, and then heads up the steep hills behind. No fools, these kids, they stop before the difficult part of the climb and point you to the top, to manage on your own.
I had trudged my way up to the top, enjoyed the lovely pools, and was coming back down when the day suddenly turned from scenic to fascinating. Passing through a tiny Hindu village, I stumbled across a festival under way. The entire population was out, colourfully dressed, horns blowing and drums pounding, and the energy of the crowd was completely electric. To the urging of the crowd, women began to sway and shake, driving themselves into trance, some fainting, and losing all normal sense of propriety. One by one, as their possession became more furious, men, women, even children, were grabbed by the hair by the priest and dragged into a small flowing stream. A cloth was then thrown over their heads to hide what was occurring, and they emerged tongue or cheeks skewered by metal rods, or backs pierced with hooks. All seemed unaffected by any pain, caught up in the intoxication and fervor of the ritual, and there was not a drop of blood.
With dozens thus impaled, a procession then lead to the Murgan temple, where the exhausted devotees, drenched with buckets of cooling water, collapsed from the emotional experience. Such powerful Hindu festivals stand in sharp contrast to the placid and controlled experience one has at the Buddhist festivals, where people calmly watch performers or privately complete their own quiet worship. Good old Shiva and sons, however, always put on an amazing show, full of theatre and drama and heavy doses of human passion.
Haputale to Diyaluma Falls
Kilometers: 5 Elevation gain/loss: 582/600
Haputale sits perched on the edge of steep tea plantations, tucked romantically in the fold of the ribboning mountainside, looking from a distance like a little Shangri-la. It's suddenly cooler, mistier, and decidedly unlike the tropical south. You notice immediately that the palm and banana trees have given way to exotic pine and eucalyptus, brought in (disastrously) by the British. Of course, now nothing else will grow in those forests, local flora unable to coexist, but hey... it seemed like a good idea at the time.
You also notice that the ubiquitous Buddhist temples of the Singhalese low-lands are fewer and farther between, and instead roadside Hindu temples to the gods Shiva and his son Murgan begin to dominate. At the base of convoluted and entwined fig trees, impromptu shrines with lingams and tridents are a clear sign that you are in an area heavily populated with Tamils.
Almost exclusively, the Tamil women work the tea fields, and the men the tea factories, all (relatively recent) arrivals from India who migrated under British colonial rule. These communities are distinct from the Tamils of Colombo and Jaffna, who have lived in - and once ruled - Sri Lanka for millennia.
Haputale demands a day trip or two, a walk through the tea estates blanketed in the curling mists, a tour of a tea factory, a photo taken where Mr. Synonymous-with-Tea Lipton used to sit to oversea his empire, and a side trip to the nearest waterfalls.
I headed to Diyaluma falls. From below, is a tall, skinny waterfall, the second highest in the country. You take a snapshot. You move on. From the top, for those willing to slog out the steep climb, it offers stunning and pristine pools, perfect for a quick swim to wash off the sweat of the hike. Always up for a stomp, I knew which way I was going.
To reach the top, head about 500 meters west, where a dirt road heads left, uphill, skirting the outside perimeter of a rubber tree plantation. The road slopes up gently for about a kilometer, to a small village where you will be met by any number of small boys, all keen to show you the way for a tip of few hundred rupees. Definitely let the kids lead you, as the route winds confusingly through the houses and behind a tiny rubber factory, where you can see sheets of raw rubber hanging out to dry, and then heads up the steep hills behind. No fools, these kids, they stop before the difficult part of the climb and point you to the top, to manage on your own.
With dozens thus impaled, a procession then lead to the Murgan temple, where the exhausted devotees, drenched with buckets of cooling water, collapsed from the emotional experience. Such powerful Hindu festivals stand in sharp contrast to the placid and controlled experience one has at the Buddhist festivals, where people calmly watch performers or privately complete their own quiet worship. Good old Shiva and sons, however, always put on an amazing show, full of theatre and drama and heavy doses of human passion.
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