After four days in Kandy,
I boarded the train and headed deeper into the Hill Country. My energy
was low and I would have slept the entire ride if not for the
spectacular scenery. In a country that has already impressed me with
its beautiful beaches and ancient cities, one wouldn't expect it to get
much better. But when Marco Polo wrote thatSri Lanka
was the finest island its size in the world, he knew what he was
talking about. In terms of natural beauty, the Hill Country is one
treat after another.

The train rambled out of Sri Lanka's
second largest city (though arguably there are only two real 'cities'
in the whole country) past outlying homes, snack shops and schools
where children waved excitedly through open windows. As we stopped in
small stations on the far Kandy
outskirts where life took on a more leisurely pace, the train began to
clear and before long I was directed to give up my window seat on an
empty car and change trains. To my dismay, the ongoing train was nearly
full and no window seats available so I slumped down in an empty chair
and quickly fell asleep. I was awakened an hour later as my neighbor
departed at his stop, freeing up the coveted window seat beside me. Now
I had no excuse for sleeping as I watched the train begin its gentle
climb deeper into the Hill Country.

The beauty of Kandy
preceded us every bit of the way so that there was no striking
difference those first couple of hours. The lush green color that was
interspersed between buildings and temples in Kandy
continued with us through small villages and vast open countryside.
Only the buildings became fewer and smaller while on both sides of the
train mountains grew and farmlands became more prevalent than pavement.
Gentle, smiling faces looked on as the train passed mothers cradling
curious-faced children and farmers briefly stopping their work to wave
friendly hellos. Popcorn peddlers and peanut pushers walked by
repeatedly and became familiar faces as this east-bound train was
shorter, with fewer cars in which to unload their goods. I watched the
world pass by with lazy eyes, occasionally snoozing then waking to find
us passing postcard-perfect views. Jade green tea plantations began to
appear along sloping hillsides and the occasional waterfall trickled
its way down rocky creek beds. Tamil and Sinhalese villages appeared
amongst the vast terraces of tea plantations, and our train followed a
level grade in the midst of the green glow of row after row of tea
plants.

I chatted with the tour guide of a group of well-to-do British tourists as he told me his story of first climbing Adams Peak
alone at 15, fainting on the summit and being comforted by monks who
poured holy water on his weary head. Past his face an open door began
to afford glimpses of photo-worthy mountainsides and I had to excuse
myself to stand in the doorway and marvel at the passing views.
The train slowly meandered its way along the upper slopes of a broad
valley with higher mountains occasionally poking up on the distant
horizon. A river snaked it way across the valley floor, colorful
clothes drying upon its rocky banks. And on both sides of the valley,
from the utmost ridges on both sides to the cool rushing river below,
were endless rows of jade green tea plantations, sculpted in winding
rows for as far as the eye could see. Squads of Tamil tea pickers (all
women) moved through rows of bushes picking leaves and buds with
baskets or bags upon their backs supported by a strip of cloth fastened
to the container and held in place upon their foreheads. After being
collected, the tea would be transported to the factories, large
multi-storey buildings that dot the landscape and provide the tea that
we enjoy at home. I stood in the open doorway, my head hanging out the
train like a local and watched as an endless stream of picturesque
plantations passed by.

The train dropped me at Hatton where I got a seat on the local bus and began the trip towards Dalhousie and Adams Peak. This lofty peak has sparked people's imagination for centuries. It is variously known as Adams Peak
(the place where Adam first set foot on earth after being cast out of
heaven), Sri Pada (Sacred Footprint, left by Buddah as he headed
towards paradise) or Samanalkande (Butterfly Mountain, where butterflies go to die).  Some believe the huge 'footprint' on top of the 2243m peak to be that of St Thomas, the early apostle of India,
or even of Lord Shiva. Whichever legend you choose to believe, this
place has been a pilgrimage center for over 1000 years. These days the
pilgrimage season begins on poya day in December and runs until Vesak
Festival in May. During that time, a steady stream of pilgrims (and the
odd tourist, like myself) make the climb up the countless steps to the
top of this mighty peak. It's not only the footprint pilgrims seek; as
the first rays of dawn light up the holy mountain, they are treated to
a wonderful view, the hill country rising to the east, while to the
west the land slopes away to the sea. Also, the sun casts a perfect
shadow of the peak onto the misty clouds down towards the coast. Then
as the sun rises higher, this eerie triangular shadow races back
towards the peak, eventually disappearing into its base.

The
small village of Dalhousie was quite calm upon my midday arrival,
though only days before over the full moon (poya) weekend, record
numbers of pilgrims made the climb, some say in the thousands or
millions, depending who you ask. But today the village was quiet and
easy-going, many of the stalls along the road that sells toys, hats and
traditional food left unopened. I walked the few streets that meander
among the hills and observed a line of tea pickers unloading their
day's pickings and others praying before an enshrined golden Buddah. I
ventured from the main road lined with stalls and trinket sellers, keen
to get a glimpse of local village life.

A
kind man who spoke no English indulged my curiosity, unlocking a small
Hindu temple and beckoning me inside. He showed me the statues of Hindu
deities and encouraged me to take photographs while he lit incense,
poured oils and performed ritualistic prayers and offerings, smearing
my forehead with streaks of white powder and the familiar red dot. We
were joined by three worshippers, a boy and two girls all around my
age, one who spoke good English. She explained that when the large
black statue in the main shrine was brought here 100 years ago, it was
very small, but over time had grown to the size I saw before me. Then
she pointed out a sacred rock at the base of a tree that shaded the
temple. It, too, had grown in size she said, possibly due to another
statue which the tree had grown around and was now impossible to see.
Though I feel a certain skepticism in these situations (much like
Buddah's Sacred Tooth in Kandy),
I have learned to accept that the importance of such religious beliefs
lies not in the truth of the matter, but in the faith which followers
hold dear.