Curry Jar-Jar’s Mind Junk
Can you imagine being on a bumpy roller coaster ride for seven hours straight? Ha, well that is what it felt to be aboard the Bangalore- Madikeri bus. It was so bumpy at times that we could not contain our laughter (much to the bemusement of our fellow passengers) as we got chucked about like sacks of spuds. Thank goodness none of us were car sick or needed the toilet partway through. As we stormed up the amassing hills skimming the Western Ghats and then hurtling down the other side; one could see the landscape dramatically changing from vast desert-like plains to lush mountainous jungle.
The further we encroached into the Western Ghats the more we witnessed quaint cottage-like villas dotted sparsely by the roadside with proper front yards and gates (a rarity hitherto) and a thickening lush forest that blocked dramatic views of the tea estate valleys below. As I intently looked upon the ever changing and yet ever mesmerizing view from my window, I coolly listened to Radiohead’s OK Computer and became induced into a semi-conscious state of complete bliss. OK Computer has definitely become the quintessential soundtrack of my time in India thus far. It completely encapsulates the musical interpretation of what I am seeing, hearing and feeling.
On the way we passed through a small town called Kushalnagar that stands out in my memory for just one reason: Tibetan Monks. They were everywhere. At first we simply could not fathom why. Tibet was hardly just around the corner. Only after enquiries was it revealed that Kushalnagar was considered by many monks to be a safe haven for them mainly because of its distance from their homeland. Apart from its geographical location; Kushalnagar had been only a random choice. Random indeed.
Peeling our bums off the leather seats when we thundered into Madikeri bus stand, we organised ourselves with military speed into two parties to scour the streets for accommodation. Within no time at all we had checked into a comfortable, but basic hotel by the town’s cinema and trundled off for some dinner.
Madikeri is a small unobtrusive town nestled in the ridges of the Western Ghats. You cannot stumble across Madikeri; you have to make a specific journey to reach there which is perhaps why it has been able to retain its quaint charm. Don’t be mistaken however; the town centre is still hectic and dirty but one can easily oversee its downfalls by simply sitting in Raja’s Seat Park and watching the sun set over the panoramic view of the Kodagu region below.
We had the bright spark idea of voluntarily arising at 5am to catch the sun rise also. I am glad that I hauled myself out of bed and sulked my way across the town lit by crystal-clear twinkling stars to join the others, and see the sun creep over the distant hills because I would have been awoken anyway by the Muslim morning call to prayer competing (loudly) with the Christian church bells summonsing the congregation. Once in Raja’s Seat I was surprised to see literal scores of locals also in the park but they were not there to admire the pending view; but to exercise!? Bedecked in preposterous woolly hats and LA style velour tracksuits about 30 middle-aged men and women strutted their stuff about the park. How queer!
To try and keep warm I left the others and wandered alone around the park and came across a shabby desolate once-white pagoda in the Eastern corner of the park. I perched on the edge and let my bare feet dangle over the cliff below as I felt the warming of the sun awaken my sleepy face. I admittedly daydreamed for about an hour before I picked myself up and went to join the others who had walked onto the protruding rock far from the madding crowd in the west of the park. The view from there was even more breathtaking. The morning mist clung so heavily to the trunks of the trees below along the silhouetted mountain ridges that if one glanced over the scene quickly you would be forgiven for thinking you had just seen the giant back of an alligator; all silent and ready to capture its prey.
With the increasing light came the chorus of the cockerels and the thinning of the valley mist in conjunction with the sinking of the distant interspersed stratus clouds. The clouds then slowly began to drift through the valley like a delicate whisper until they disappeared out of sight. We all sat contently in silence until I opened my big mouth and blurted that I was hungry and did anyone want breakfast?
Later in the afternoon (after a much deserved nap) we got dropped off at Abbi falls, which is seven kilometres out of Madikeri. We thought it would be a grand idea to see the waterfalls and then leisurely walk back through the neighbouring villages. About three minutes into the walk back it became a trek of survival to reach base camp before dark. Granted, they were only hillocks but my goodness was it humid! Along the way we did take the time to take in the stunning views of the abundant forests below. Call me weird, but at times it felt like we were in the backcountry of Rwanda. What sparked that thought? I have no idea. Simply.
The indisputable reason why we went to Madikeri was to go trekking high up in the Ghats. Fed up of taking most tourist routes when in any given town, city or temple; we wanted to get off the beaten track and really savour Indian countryside. Thus we approached a local guide and arranged a day to go exploring, deep into tiger country. At seven we were collected from our hotel by a young lad (of no more than sixteen we approximated) and taken to his house for a home cooked pourri breakfast. Delicious! Afterward we were introduced to his father and acquaintance, who was the ex- forestry commissioner for the surrounding Coorg region, and then we departed for the hills.
Adorned in what looked like his Sunday best clothes the ex- forestry commissioner throughout the day leapt ahead, jumping over barbed wire fences, clambering up near-to-vertical slopes and jabbering to local farmers to retrieve examples of limes, lemons, chillies, pineapple, honey, pepper, wild rose, banana, coffee and tea plants. He also showed us plants and fruit that I have never seen or tasted before.
For a little rest we sat on the edge of some paddy fields and were offered to try Paan. I wish I had not accepted! It was gross! Yuck! When you see images of Indians with blood-red stained mouths and spitting profusely; that is Paan. To try and alleviate the foul taste left in my mouth the Dad went to scout for some toddy (a naturally alcoholic drink extracted from trees up high) but alas came back empty-handed. He did however hear from a local that an elephant had angrily charged a nearby village that very morning and had knocked down a man. Mouths aghast- we were excited to hear such a thing and asked whether we would be able to see any elephants up close? He diplomatically explained in broken English via his son that he did not want to endanger us by deliberately trailing the path of any elephant because of their renowned violent and unpredictable temperaments. Disappointed, but appreciative of his wisdom we followed them into the dense forest and set about taking off our shoes and treading precariously through murky waters to discover a beautifully secluded waterfall. Knocking Abbi falls into a cocked hat; we braved the spidery waters to reach the spray on our faces. It felt like we had found the secret garden and were traipsing through the damp foliage like the original famous five (minus one). On the way back to the shoes I nearly did a Bridget Jones repeat by slipping on stones, but managed to steady myself by reaching out for the nearest branch; which turned out to be an ants nest that mostly crumbled around my fingers. Gross!
The higher we walked the steeper and raggedier the tracks became. Ellie looked as if she would explode what with the colour of her poor ruby-red puffed face, Helena’s glasses kept sliding down her nose because of the perspiration, and Alpa’s feet slid about in her flip-flops. But we all soldiered on much to the hilarity of our guides who still (don’t ask me how) had a distinct spring in their step. As we neared the summit of the ridge we crossed paths with a villager carrying three bottles of toddy. We later discerned that it was her occupation to climb 60 feet up a bamboo ladder at 5am ever morning to collect toddy and then walk into Madikeri to sell for 60 rupees each. After thinking about it, we still found it difficult to fathom that this woman went about such laborious endeavours to earn less than just 200 rupees a day. That was a reality check for all of us but one that our guides did not understand. In their own words: what else would she do?
As we finally staggered to the top, all of our moans ceased as we saw the view stretching out in front of us. At 1500 feet high and under the auspices of a glorious midday sun we could see for miles and miles, and happily sat drinking toddy with the fresh breeze all around us. Further along the young boy found seven day fresh tiger poo amidst some fern. What! Suddenly I put up my guard and became very apprehensive. Tigers? How naïve was I to think that tigers would only be found in wildlife reservations like back home! Silly Chloe.
Throughout the whole day we only came across one other party of trekkers; two Danes and their guide. We all commented how that would never have occurred back home. Such places of unimaginable beauty would be swamped with twitchers, retired day-trippers and coaches of school children with clipboards; and thus be spoiled.
Being so close to nature and having basic processes of plants etc. explained made us all realise just how removed we are from nature back home. Even I who can often be found on a Sunday meander in the countryside have no clue as to the names of plants or trees, let alone their respective medicinal qualities. I felt so stupid not knowing.
By the end of the day we were pooped and overwhelmed with information about the Coorg region, but had relished every moment of it. We could not thank them enough for their patience and hospitality for they had shown us a brave new world where the smallest plant or insect counts.
In my opinion whenever anyone arrives at a new destination with a heavy rucksack on their back and the scolding sun on their neck, they have about two hours of patience to find accommodation. After that time you lose complete hope in humanity, would prefer to crumble onto the floor and irritably bark at anyone who approaches you. Fortunately when we arrived into Mysore that did not happen! In fact we found the queen of hotel deals: free soap! A full-length mirror! Hot water! A soft bed!? Coat hooks! And even an elevator!
Eager to reunite with Sunita and Bradley, we met them for some supper to hear of their time already spent in Mysore and were pleased to find out that they were yet to visit the Maharaja’s Palace (the main attraction of Mysore) because they had wanted to wait for us. So with that we got up early the following morning and circumnavigated the palace walls on foot until we found the entrance .
Completed in 1912 the palace was designed by a British architect under commission of the Raj to replace the previous palace that had burnt down during a wedding celebration. Not wanting to sound too over-the-top, but equally wanting to give credit where credit is due; the palace was beautiful. When one imagines how a Maharaja’s palace to be; colourful, decadent to the point of almost being shameful, gaudy, unapologetic in its grandeur, attention to detail, employment of expensive materials, fabrics and space; that was the palace of Mysore.
Lining the inner walls of the central ballroom was a continuous stream of intricate murals depicting life in Mysore during the Edwardian Raj era. When one looked up to the ceiling, the most elaborate chandelier hung precariously below the most stunning stained glass peacock roof.
For me the best aspect of the palace was the brave enmeshing of both Eastern and Western architectural designs into one magical and exotic form. For example oriental pillars choked many of the grand halls, European paintings furniture and scattered the corridors, and Indian sculptures guarded the inner courtyards. A great triumph in design and interior landscaping.
Wanting to continue our mesmerization with the art that Mysore could offer we hurried over to the Jayachamrajendra Art Gallery. Leaving the gallery we opted to undertake a spot of shopping in the famous Devaraja Market and cheer ourselves up. What mayhem followed! The market was a crazy pungent maze of vegetable, spice, and Sandalwood perfume stalls. It was brilliant. Sunita had earlier found a local man selling an array of organic perfumes and took us to meet him. He ushered us into his stall and ordered us all tea as his nephew masterfully demonstrated how to roll incense sticks. Alpa gave it a go and ended up with what looked like a corndog! Ha. For the next two hours we happily sat huddled in his stall and tested just about every perfume he had in stock: mint, lavender, eucalyptus, watermelon, Ylang Ylang…. I found it quite overwhelming at one point and so had to excuse myself. By the end we all stank but were happy with our purchases.
While we were safely undercover the heavens opened and it poured with rain. Peeved and caught unawares we remained in the market and just pottered about until finally the rain slightly subsided so we could make a run for our hotel.
Our evening’s plans to return to the palace to see it lit up were (literally) washed away with the continuing thunderstorm and torrential rain so we retired to our hotel to indulgently watch television. Helena and I however, were not satisfied and so we ventured out in the rain to buy some alcohol to pass the evening. We were denied entrance into at least one bar and severely gawked at in the off licence where we were eventually served.
On our way back I sort of caused an auto accident. Oops! Usually when autos sound their horn one steps to the side of the road out of their way but on this occasion I refused because the road was wide enough for both of us and, more importantly, there was a massive puddle to my left. I definitely did not want to plunge my foot into that! However because of my (in) action the auto theatrically swerved into the middle of the road and collided clumsily with a bicycle. Feeling incredibly guilty I hurried over to see if anyone was hurt but was ushered away from the scene as the locals ensured that the young lad had nothing more than a few scrapes upon his knee. Oh dear- not good karma! I am still awaiting the repercussions.
The last destination within our sights was the former-colonial hill station of Ooty. Individually we had all heard many recommendations to visit Ooty and so naturally, we followed what we had heard and set aside five days to explore the town and surrounding villages. On the way our bus blew a tyre and so we had plenty of time on our hands to read up on the history of the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka, the defacto caste system still present within South India, and speculate just how many autos were there in India?! Answers on a postcard please.
Unlike all the other bus rides I had been on hitherto; this one was scary. The height at which we climbed and the speed at which we took the hairpin bends made me want to close my eyes and pray to a God. Any God. The higher we climbed the more magnificent (and petrifying) the view became: lush green tea estates blanketed the mountain slopes with intermittent eucalyptus trees standing proud sky-high like ivory poles.
Ooty was a dump. Not just that; a cold, wet, muddy, and almost-deserted dump. From the moment we stepped off the bus, something just did not sit right with me about Ooty. Perhaps it was because I had expected a hilltop oasis speckled with decaying colonial houses and lush greenery decorating cobbled roadways etc. But Ooty was a far cry from anything considered lush. To set the scene for you: the local kiddies “Amusement Park” (I purposefully placed the word within inverted commas because it is unlike any amusement park I had ever seen before!) was called Jolly World; well, it was the saddest-looking jolly place I have ever seen. With only a few rusty go-carts and swings, it was empty and remained so for the entire time we stayed there. No wonder.
The hotel we found was the best yet if only because it was like we were living on the set of Faulty Towers. The waiter in the restaurant would abruptly appear out of the kitchen and demand (not ask): “What do you want?” When he had written down the order he would declare: “Finished! Next?”
Our six-bedded room that partially overlooked the lake apparently caused quite a commotion with the other guests if only because a man (Bradley) had checked in, and was sleeping with five girls! Scandal! The room itself was freezing because windows lined its Eastern front, and there were flies everywhere. Gross! In the restaurant also there were flies. Where were they coming from? Upon reading the anti-guide to Ooty we read that the lake (although picturesque) was where ALL of the town’s sewage was dumped. Enough said.
Later on the same day we arrived into Ooty we took a stroll along the lakeside to go and visit the Thread Garden. The exhibition of threaded flowers is not even worth even a tiny description because it was rubbish so I will save you the boredom that we had to endure for 20 minutes. As we walked aimlessly about it struck me what Ooty was akin to: the setting of a Point Horror novel! All the elements were there; a dark and ominous lake, deserted amusement park, the town set high away in the cold, misty mountains, weird and kooky staff members bowing to their “masters”, windows a-rattling and flies choking the air…we all got a bit creeped out after I confessed my comparison to many a Point Horror novel I had read as a teenager.
In the evenings we would all huddle in our hotel room together (to retain maximum heat) with the rain bashing the windows and hang our damp clothes on impromptu washing lines. With no traditional British camping game of scrabble to contend ourselves with we adopted the game of trying to find the most obscure words and guessing what they meant. It was actually quite fun as Bradley had bought a book that contained the stupidest words- ever! For example, can you guess what krukolibidinous means? I will keep you guessing. Looking back we had some of our best nights together there because we would laugh at just how ridiculous our situation was, and talk late into the night about random topics like: just how long could one survive in the desert on beer?
Taking opportunity of a fine day we arranged to go trekking in the Nilgiris with a guide named “Santosh” who was recommended by a few guys we had met at dinner. The day we spent with him will live forever in infamy in all our memories for no sooner had we loaded all our gear into the jeep and begun to trundle along the dirt tracks towards the hills, we were stopped by a government official and warned that we were not able to cross any further because it was a private road. Just as he finished his spiel a public bus doodled past! Hmmn, I think we all knew his game. Graciously Mike entertained his prohibition and stood talking with him awhile before they both returned to our vehicle, and both hopped in! It turns out that he had missed his bus into work and wanted a ride. No actual fiscal bribe was necessary but with a few little pats on the back, we were “allowed” to venture on.
As we traversed the increasingly hostile landscape, Santosh informed us of the state of wildlife preservation in India. He explained the present dire situation of both tigers and elephants within the reserves. They are legally protected however it is common practice for rangers to accept bribes so that tourists can either poach them or enact an activity called “elephant ramming”. I think you can imagine what that entails. We were silenced by our shock and dismay. It was a deep shame to hear how the elephants were becoming violent towards humans because of their growing ill treatment. Of course I do not blame them.
As we crossed the path of a herd of dozing bisen, Santosh’s stories of former treks became wilder and (for me) scarier: tales of surviving elephant chases and encountering tigers face-to-face! Now I being quite a calm and rational being, became quite rattled and started to internally panic about being savaged by ravenous tigers or being squished by a cross elephant. I made my way to the middle of our tour (I didn’t want to be at the front because I didn’t know the route and I most definitely did not want to be at the back in case I was snatched or set upon) and begun to creep along. Petrified.
Thankfully we reached the hill’s summit in one piece and were told to sit and relax with some coconut biscuits before we would commence our descent into the Hungerford Tea Estate. I had just begun to relax when I heard a faint whirring. Getting louder I turned around to see a black tornado-shaped cloud of swarming bees emerge from over the brow of the hill. I yelled at the top of my voice: Swarm of Bees! With that Sunita leapt up and began to run down the (steep and rocky) hillside with the others. I reacted by rolling down my cargo pants; place my hoody firmly over my head and turning my back to the swarm. Meanwhile Santosh’s only words of wisdom to us all were: they don’t like fire. Great. Let me just whip out the campfire I had stowed away in my rucksack. Mercifully the bees were not interested in us and continued to whirr down the hill. Afterward we sat about laughing but I think all of our hearts were still beating fiercely within our chests.
It was bizarre to see yellow gauze on the hilltop and I enquired as to whether it was indigenous to the Nilgiris. Alas, it was not and had been brought by the British. For what purpose I cannot conjecture but maybe to remind them of the rambling English countryside? – It worked for me, ha!
For the remainder of the afternoon we were taken to meet local Toda’s in a nearby village, wandered through tea estates and ate chocolates by a log fire. The story of the Toda’s (who are native tribesmen to the Nilgiris and still inhabit the countryside) is a tragic one. Like the plight of Native Americans in the U.S., the Toda’s are stuck in-between their loyalty to continue living like their forefathers and fighting the forceful influence of the encroaching Western world. They are a lost people. The men are renowned for being lazy drunks. Too lazy to work their own land so they rent it out for a mere pittance to Tamil families (who make a good living from toiling the land) and too lazy to assist the women of the village who are left to raise the children, care for the small barn of animals, cook, and clean etc. The children do go to school but Santosh told us once they have reached a marriageable age, the girls are not permitted to continue their education any further (for fear that they will want a more acculturated existence and abandon their Toda heritage).
Listening to their stories, and to Santosh, they both painted a picture of how Ooty was once the paradigm of serenity, prosperity, and order. Families would return to the hill station every year to enjoy the cool summers and fresh countryside. Now there was corruption, a desperate clinging to tourists and dilapidated colonial housing.
Feeling like the mirror image of the weather: miserable, the following day Helena and I darted into town to eat a Thali and see if we could bag a jewellery bargain. While out we got caught in the most terrific rainstorm and so had to hurriedly retreat into the closest bakery (pure coincidence I tell thee ha!) and over the next three hours did a tea and cake crawl back to our hotel. I managed to plonk my foot into the biggest (and murkiest) puddle in our haste to reach cover. When I pulled out my foot it was covered with soggy excrement. Needless to say I was not best impressed. In fact I could not wait to leave Ooty far, far behind.
Eager to leave a soaking wet and cold Ooty we grabbed the first bus that would take us to the train station, which so happened to be an a/c ultra deluxe service. Score! With music to serenade our three-hour journey down through the mountains and reclining, padded chairs; you would think that this would be my most comfortable journey to date in India. Unfortunately not as I had to contend with the piercing sounds of a young girl hurling her guts up as we swung around every hairpin bend. As a direct result both Sunita and I felt quite queasy and dared not look out of the window to see the whimsical stonewalls that separated us from the vast plains stretching out below us as far as the eye could see. And when we arrived I kissed the blessed ground.
The rest of our trip was not very exciting or worth boring you with because we simply caught the train back to Chennai and then clambered into an auto to reach the city bus station and then made our way back to Kanchipuram. We were all travel- weary and so in a zombie-like fashion we silently sat together until we collapsed into our flat, and beds!
All in all however, I had an awesome time and cannot wait until my next trip with Helena to Mumbai. So until anything happens (as I am fearful that it will) in my life here in India, I shall sign off poyittu varukiren!