Thursday March 19th:
After a little more exploring of Ooty, which consisted of sampling the abundant homemade chocolates, having our palms read by a fortune teller (no worries, we're all going to be happy, loaded, have kids, and die of old age; very original) and whiffing essential oils, we're off to Coonoor, a smaller hill station 15 km south. From there we'll take a bus to the Non-Such Tea Plantation and hike to Droog Fortress, a pinnacle offering great views of the plains below, to camp for the night.
When we arrive in Conoor Court's feeling a bit dodgy, and opts to take a room in town, so Vegar and I hop on a local bus towards the plantation and are soon rewarded with magnificent, awe-inspiring scenery. The old bus lumbers up hills and winds amongst perfectly sculpted, vibrant green tea plantations that are lined with tall poinsettias and dotted by huge purple flowered mayflower trees. Here and there the plantations drop off into the sky, giving way to rocky cliffs that plummet down 100's of feet, cutting up the impressive landscape.
After being the topic of many hushed whispers and backward glances, all from smiling faces though, we arrive at the end of the bus line and are further impressed by the view. The colors are painted on the fantastical serated cliffs in impressive swatches, glowing in the late afternoon sun. We set out towards Droog, the top only being a 4km hike through the fields, and on which is a type of cement, two story gazebo that we can see from here. A group of school boys offer to walk part of the way with us; they run home, returning with two of the better looking Indian canine specimens I've seen, panting and sniffing on leashes. And we're off!
We wander along the rocky red road and make small talk with the boys who are eager to practice their English. Women are beginning to bring their days' pickings in. Huge bundles of the emerald leaves ride atop their heads as they crowd around a scale and accepting their rupees and quickly shove them in the folds of their saris. A tractor pulls up alongside us and stops; the men on board warn us about tigers, urging us to turn back.
After a short discussion Vegar and I convince ourselves they're joking and push on. The contrast between the rolling green and the jagged drops, paired with children's voices rising and falling and calling from behind trees, evokes J.R. Token's hobbits and how they would enjoy such a place. We start up the final hill and wave goodbye to our loyal guides and their even more loyal and patient dogs. We veer off on a path through the forest, and although I'm sure the tiger stuff was just a spook, our mood quickly changes, becoming quieter and more alert.
The sun is setting so we scramble up the crumbling stone path, past the ancient wall that once encircled the top of the mountain. We reach the peak in time to get through the little bit of forest that's between the gazebo and a cliff that drops down 700 ft. I sit at the edge, or as near to it as my crawling skin allows, and attempt to take it all in. There can't be many places on earth like this; no wonder the people who live among these magnificent hills and valleys believe so much in their gods and heaven, they have their own small slice right here.
The sun has set and it's final hoorah of red and pink is lingering. Then, as if on cue, a lightning bolt jumps through a cloud. If I wasn't already impressed that wouldn't have done the trick, but I am; I've been given a front row seat to the best show around.
It's an uneasy sleep though; in my mind every rustling leaf and unfamiliar noise is either a stalking tiger, rabid wolf, or pesky monkey. Morning doesn't bring much relief, as I'm woken by a "Forest Ranger" who warns that we aren't allowed to sleep here. We convince him to let us go check out the view one last time and I try to soak it all in. It's a weird feeling, being able to see so much and for so far. And you know there are millions of people living in the fertile land below, you can see their marks, but you can't hear a sound of it; only the faint calls of the wind prick your ears.
I'm yanked back to reality as the guy seems to be pretty serious about us being in trouble, so we play along, take our last moment of silence on the hill, then allow him to lead us down the mountain and back to town. We're shuffled along through a long line of "superiors" and after an hour, and me refusing to pay a fine that will undoubtedly go straight into their pockets, we apologize and walk away; good Indian justice.
Now we get Court, who's been waiting patiently and is feeling much better, and head to the train staition to grab the Toy Steam Train down the mountain. The Nilgiri Mountain Railway is a World Heritage Site and it's steam engine has been pushing cars up the mountain for over 100 years. We share a car with four Indian men, and upon opening a packet of biscuits, offer them around the car. A moment later I learn another little Indian lesson: always count teeth before offering hard snacks; the guys didn't even have a full set between them.
28 miles, 16 tunnels and 250 bridges later we're back in Mettupalayam and the memory card in my camera is nearly full. We're here for the wedding; a day early though so we head out to grab a beer. It's been two weeks since my last sip and the brew couldn't taste better. I turn the beautiful, cold, sweating bottle in my hands and laugh aloud when I read: "Manufactured Date: When Filled."
Oh India, you're funny.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Not Just High Altitude in Ooty!
Sunday March 15th:
We wake up and are cold, but feeling great; time to break out the sneakers and jeans I've been hauling around in the heat! Udhagamandalam, or Ooty for short, is a town 2,240 meters (9,080 ft) up in the Nilgiri Hills, the second highest mountain range in India (Himalayas are #1). This area was developed rapidly under the British Raj in the 1800's, and still holds a bit of the colonial charm; however most of it's been bulldozed over and rebuilt with unsightly, yet real-estate friendly, multiple story concrete structures. Two big selling points are the lake, though from my nasal research I'd presume that the liquid is less water than it is fecal matter, and also a racetrack for horses, but sadly for them the shape of the track is much like India's roads, plagued with pock marks.
Horses and ponies in Ooty are what the cows were to Goa's beaches and the goats to Fort Kochin, they're everywhere! They run past rickshaws on the streets, bite each other's butts and have a height advantage to all the other animals trying to get into the dumpsters (luckily for the other animals dumpsters are few and far between, semi-strategically placed garbage heaps are much more "in"). At least they're not trying to run around that shabby track.
Just as we feared, the gray skies that've been hovering above have finally decided to show us some action. Sopping wet, we hop in a rickshaw and ask to be taken to a nice hotel that has a fireplace; we'd read in the guide book that there are still a few old ones around that'll stoke the fire on a cold day. We arrive a few minutes later, on a hill above the town center, at Lymond House. We're greeted by Anita, an Indian woman in her 40's, and invited in. It's not so much a hotel, but a B&B. The house dates back 150 years and was one of the summer homes of a very rich Brit who owned half the town. There are two sitting rooms, connected by glass french doors, and each has a massive brick fireplace. Even though they don't light a fire during the day, and especially when there's no one staying there, we decide to have a cup of coffee. We are sat amongst the old black and white photos of successful hunting expeditions and summer picnics in the wooded forest. Not only are we surrounded by original, antique furniture, but a feeling of nostalgia begins to envelop me, as though someone has slowly stopped the clock and then begun to move it cautiously in the other direction. Our voices are hushed as we sip our coffee from porcelain cups and daintily nibble butter biscuits; I drift easily off to a place some time ago, where women wore petticoats, men walked with shiny black canes and worries were for the working class.
A little while later Anita re-enters with a proposition. Business is slow, there's no one occupying any of the six rooms, and if we'd like to stay we just have to name a price we can afford. She leaves the three of us for a few minutes to discuss. We agree that it'd be quite an experience to stay here, our socked feet sliding across the wide wooden floorboards, so we tell her that we can do 1000 rupees. She says 500 each person, breakfast included, and we can't say no; the house has already started to work it's charm, sucking us in.
After retrieving our bags from our original guesthouse, we pick the "green" room, with pastel walls and a nice patch of mold where the ceiling has leaked. The bathroom is tiled green and has a gorgeous, huge shower head, that rains out hot water! I haven't taken a hot shower in a month so I'm the first one in; finally drawing back the curtain I can barely make out the shape of the toilet in the corner. There's a big four-post bed, complete with canopy and embroidered linens; curtained windows that open out onto the garden; a fireplace; and wouldn't ya know, a flat screen TV mounted on the wall.
With my hair still dripping I grab my book, wrap a wool blanket around me and assume my position by the fireplace in living room #2. Court and Vegar soon join me, and we're served dinner right there; no need to move into the massive, cold dining room, they say. It begins with vegetable soup and chili gobi (gobi being cauliflower), and for the main course we have a fresh, spicy curry, boiled veggies and steaming chapatis (must be Indian for tortilla). After dinner we're served tea as we continue to put wood on the fire and enjoy the heat and smell of smoke.
The staff have gone to bed (there's a full-time staff of six) and the only sound in the house is that of the cracking fire and the chiming of Grandfather Clock, who sits otherwise silent in the corner, as he has for a century.
I awake early but linger in the comfortable bed. After willing myself out from between the warm sheet and enjoying breakfast in the early morning sun that fills the garden, we head down the hill and across town, off to find a trail that Anita has told us about. We follow the narrow road through thick forests and over hills; the evergreens make me miss home. Bright green tea plantations blanket the hills in areas, while in the valleys there are equally bright rice paddies shining up at us; there are sporadic human settlements scattered around to see to the tending. Finally we spot the fallen tree that's been hacked in two to allow traffic on the road, and veer off on a dirt path to the left. We pass more tea plantations and fingers stop picking as towel wrapped heads turn to us; strangers coming up the all but forgotten path. Then the forest thickens and right on cue we spot the cobblestones that lead off to the right. Anita had assured us that you won't find this path in any guidebook, it's the last remaining one of it's kind, scattered with poems etched in stone, a quiet indication of the British Raj.
We hike up and up, stopping only to try and make out the poems under the encroaching moss. At the top we're rewarded with a magnificent view of the valley. A mist has settled in and shrowded the city in a cleansing film; from here you'd have no idea that Ooty is just as filthy and littered as any Indian city. It looks more like a whimsical winter's wonderland, patiently awaiting the big day.
On our way back to town we take a detour up to The Fernhills Palace, the very place the Maharaja of Mysore called his summer home. It's set on a hill, just as all majestic places are, and looks down at the plantations whose owners once flocked here to dance on fine floors, eat fine foods and gossip to no end I'm sure. We walk through the grand hallways and enter the main chamber, a room with nearly a dozen fireplaces, a ceiling I can barely make out, and every kind of plush chair that was around back then. It isn't hard to imagine this other breed of people passing the summer months in this cooler climate, away from the grime of greater India, able to sip tea without sweating and socialize as if this were a part of England herself.
Monday: I'd forgotten how difficult it is to get out of bed when it's cold, I guess a year and a half of good weather will do that to you. But this morning it's back down the hill to the Botanic Gardens, where we find a beautifully manicured garden, with miles of well trimmed topiary (though I never could make out any of the images; elephants perhaps?) We walk to the very back of the garden, wind our way and watching our footing up the hill, and are met by a chain link fence with a little turnstile in it. Out the other side and we're standing in a Toda village. The Toda people are an indigenous tribe, whose numbers now hover only around 1,000, and live in relative isolation to the crowds just over the hill. We get chatting to two old women, who proudly show us their shawl-like garments, that are hand embroidered with black and red geometric designs, and take six months to complete. As Court and I step into a house for a cup of tea we nearly have to bend in two; these doors were not made for tall Americans, but rather the Toda women who slip in without a change in posture.
After the village we make for the Nilgiris Library. It's an old building, like anything that's worth seeing here, with a fine rare book collection. The British poured their hearts into this place, trying desperately to bring with them all the best of home. What's left are cobweb crossed rooms with leaning shelves that are swollen with books that haven't been opened in decades. Slow moving people, nearly as old as the building, shuffle amongst the shelves and tend the counter; ghosts who've no idea the changing of the times. We're taken to the attic room, a place that's kept locked, home to the oldest books. (Lucky for me it was the British that built this library and not the French. I'm able to sift through the covers, reading the titles and picking up a few that peak my interest; "Life in America" doesn't say anything about automobiles or television.) I ask to see the oldest book they have, and out comes another set of keys, unlocking a dusty glass case. I turn gently the pages of "The Ancient Ecclesiastical Histories of the First Six Hundred Years After Christ," printed 1587. I can feel the indentations the printing press left while inking on the letters. There are typos, or perhaps some things were just spelled differently then, or did they run out of letters in this particular font? On some pages the first letter must've been cut from a large wooden block, floral patterns swirling around it. Few of the edges are straight, the years have been hungry. On the final page of the book there is a handwritten letter, telling of the six propheciesed ends of the world; floods and famines predicted to take place centuries ago.
I sign the guestbook and then walk out into the future, squinting in the sunlight and breathing in the crisp air of 2009.
We were planning on leaving today, after treating ourselves to two nights, but we can't be fussed to pack our bags. Instead we set out to walk around the lake and try to find the ashram that's on the other side; should be just one turn from where we hiked into the forest the day before. We get around the man-made lake, which I've mentioned is nothing of the clear water that the creators were trying to capture back in 1850's, and head up towards the hills. I'm feeling pretty confident in my navigational skills and convince Court that if we cut down through the valley, instead of sticking to the ridge and making a big "U," we'll shave off some time. Court, being the good friend that she is, still pretends to trust my internal GPS although it's gotten us lost on several continents, and agrees to my plan.
There will be nothing short to this cut, we won't actually make the ashram, but it's not my GPS's fault I swear!
We come across a beautiful little village that's built up around the small bit of brown water running through the lowest part of the valley. The water itself is disgusting, as is all water accessible to the public in India, but from it springs green patches of carrots, potato, and beetroot. We stop to get some snacks and the man tending the small shop invites us in for tea; Court and I glance at each other, we know this won't be an in-and-out job. Half an hour later we're stuffed with a complete box of biscuits and brimming with a pot of tea, but it's off to the next house! More tea and biscuits and then, just like clockwork, out come the saris. This time they don't stop with just the sari though; soon we're dripping from head to toe in gold jewelry and my hair's been neatly combed. Now for the ceremonial parading for all to see; we're escorted into the garden, which will make a lovely backdrop for the photo shoot. Again, right on the mark, as Court aims the camera in my direction a wailing baby is tossed into my arms. It's assumed that we're staying for dinner, and they insist on feeding us chicken (we're both veggies). We know we can't refuse, they're serving us their very best, so we grin and bare it. I picking small bits of meat off the bone and mix it with the rice on my banana leaf before popping it in with my fingers (That dang Muslim generosity again!). Our every bite is followed from floor to mouth with proud eyes, stopping only to pile more on our leaves.
It's late and we can barely move, thankfully the father offers to take us home in his jeep. We exchange information, promising to mail photos, and wave, genuinely sad and happy to leave at the same time. Back at our little villa on the hill Vegar is worried sick, it's nearly 10pm.
I'm soon tucked in bed, so tired I don't give a seconds though to the ghost stories Anita was telling us about the house and especially the piano...but as my senses fade I think I hear the soft plunk of keys.
A day like today, only in India.
We wake up and are cold, but feeling great; time to break out the sneakers and jeans I've been hauling around in the heat! Udhagamandalam, or Ooty for short, is a town 2,240 meters (9,080 ft) up in the Nilgiri Hills, the second highest mountain range in India (Himalayas are #1). This area was developed rapidly under the British Raj in the 1800's, and still holds a bit of the colonial charm; however most of it's been bulldozed over and rebuilt with unsightly, yet real-estate friendly, multiple story concrete structures. Two big selling points are the lake, though from my nasal research I'd presume that the liquid is less water than it is fecal matter, and also a racetrack for horses, but sadly for them the shape of the track is much like India's roads, plagued with pock marks.
Horses and ponies in Ooty are what the cows were to Goa's beaches and the goats to Fort Kochin, they're everywhere! They run past rickshaws on the streets, bite each other's butts and have a height advantage to all the other animals trying to get into the dumpsters (luckily for the other animals dumpsters are few and far between, semi-strategically placed garbage heaps are much more "in"). At least they're not trying to run around that shabby track.
Just as we feared, the gray skies that've been hovering above have finally decided to show us some action. Sopping wet, we hop in a rickshaw and ask to be taken to a nice hotel that has a fireplace; we'd read in the guide book that there are still a few old ones around that'll stoke the fire on a cold day. We arrive a few minutes later, on a hill above the town center, at Lymond House. We're greeted by Anita, an Indian woman in her 40's, and invited in. It's not so much a hotel, but a B&B. The house dates back 150 years and was one of the summer homes of a very rich Brit who owned half the town. There are two sitting rooms, connected by glass french doors, and each has a massive brick fireplace. Even though they don't light a fire during the day, and especially when there's no one staying there, we decide to have a cup of coffee. We are sat amongst the old black and white photos of successful hunting expeditions and summer picnics in the wooded forest. Not only are we surrounded by original, antique furniture, but a feeling of nostalgia begins to envelop me, as though someone has slowly stopped the clock and then begun to move it cautiously in the other direction. Our voices are hushed as we sip our coffee from porcelain cups and daintily nibble butter biscuits; I drift easily off to a place some time ago, where women wore petticoats, men walked with shiny black canes and worries were for the working class.
A little while later Anita re-enters with a proposition. Business is slow, there's no one occupying any of the six rooms, and if we'd like to stay we just have to name a price we can afford. She leaves the three of us for a few minutes to discuss. We agree that it'd be quite an experience to stay here, our socked feet sliding across the wide wooden floorboards, so we tell her that we can do 1000 rupees. She says 500 each person, breakfast included, and we can't say no; the house has already started to work it's charm, sucking us in.
After retrieving our bags from our original guesthouse, we pick the "green" room, with pastel walls and a nice patch of mold where the ceiling has leaked. The bathroom is tiled green and has a gorgeous, huge shower head, that rains out hot water! I haven't taken a hot shower in a month so I'm the first one in; finally drawing back the curtain I can barely make out the shape of the toilet in the corner. There's a big four-post bed, complete with canopy and embroidered linens; curtained windows that open out onto the garden; a fireplace; and wouldn't ya know, a flat screen TV mounted on the wall.
With my hair still dripping I grab my book, wrap a wool blanket around me and assume my position by the fireplace in living room #2. Court and Vegar soon join me, and we're served dinner right there; no need to move into the massive, cold dining room, they say. It begins with vegetable soup and chili gobi (gobi being cauliflower), and for the main course we have a fresh, spicy curry, boiled veggies and steaming chapatis (must be Indian for tortilla). After dinner we're served tea as we continue to put wood on the fire and enjoy the heat and smell of smoke.
The staff have gone to bed (there's a full-time staff of six) and the only sound in the house is that of the cracking fire and the chiming of Grandfather Clock, who sits otherwise silent in the corner, as he has for a century.
I awake early but linger in the comfortable bed. After willing myself out from between the warm sheet and enjoying breakfast in the early morning sun that fills the garden, we head down the hill and across town, off to find a trail that Anita has told us about. We follow the narrow road through thick forests and over hills; the evergreens make me miss home. Bright green tea plantations blanket the hills in areas, while in the valleys there are equally bright rice paddies shining up at us; there are sporadic human settlements scattered around to see to the tending. Finally we spot the fallen tree that's been hacked in two to allow traffic on the road, and veer off on a dirt path to the left. We pass more tea plantations and fingers stop picking as towel wrapped heads turn to us; strangers coming up the all but forgotten path. Then the forest thickens and right on cue we spot the cobblestones that lead off to the right. Anita had assured us that you won't find this path in any guidebook, it's the last remaining one of it's kind, scattered with poems etched in stone, a quiet indication of the British Raj.
We hike up and up, stopping only to try and make out the poems under the encroaching moss. At the top we're rewarded with a magnificent view of the valley. A mist has settled in and shrowded the city in a cleansing film; from here you'd have no idea that Ooty is just as filthy and littered as any Indian city. It looks more like a whimsical winter's wonderland, patiently awaiting the big day.
On our way back to town we take a detour up to The Fernhills Palace, the very place the Maharaja of Mysore called his summer home. It's set on a hill, just as all majestic places are, and looks down at the plantations whose owners once flocked here to dance on fine floors, eat fine foods and gossip to no end I'm sure. We walk through the grand hallways and enter the main chamber, a room with nearly a dozen fireplaces, a ceiling I can barely make out, and every kind of plush chair that was around back then. It isn't hard to imagine this other breed of people passing the summer months in this cooler climate, away from the grime of greater India, able to sip tea without sweating and socialize as if this were a part of England herself.
Monday: I'd forgotten how difficult it is to get out of bed when it's cold, I guess a year and a half of good weather will do that to you. But this morning it's back down the hill to the Botanic Gardens, where we find a beautifully manicured garden, with miles of well trimmed topiary (though I never could make out any of the images; elephants perhaps?) We walk to the very back of the garden, wind our way and watching our footing up the hill, and are met by a chain link fence with a little turnstile in it. Out the other side and we're standing in a Toda village. The Toda people are an indigenous tribe, whose numbers now hover only around 1,000, and live in relative isolation to the crowds just over the hill. We get chatting to two old women, who proudly show us their shawl-like garments, that are hand embroidered with black and red geometric designs, and take six months to complete. As Court and I step into a house for a cup of tea we nearly have to bend in two; these doors were not made for tall Americans, but rather the Toda women who slip in without a change in posture.
After the village we make for the Nilgiris Library. It's an old building, like anything that's worth seeing here, with a fine rare book collection. The British poured their hearts into this place, trying desperately to bring with them all the best of home. What's left are cobweb crossed rooms with leaning shelves that are swollen with books that haven't been opened in decades. Slow moving people, nearly as old as the building, shuffle amongst the shelves and tend the counter; ghosts who've no idea the changing of the times. We're taken to the attic room, a place that's kept locked, home to the oldest books. (Lucky for me it was the British that built this library and not the French. I'm able to sift through the covers, reading the titles and picking up a few that peak my interest; "Life in America" doesn't say anything about automobiles or television.) I ask to see the oldest book they have, and out comes another set of keys, unlocking a dusty glass case. I turn gently the pages of "The Ancient Ecclesiastical Histories of the First Six Hundred Years After Christ," printed 1587. I can feel the indentations the printing press left while inking on the letters. There are typos, or perhaps some things were just spelled differently then, or did they run out of letters in this particular font? On some pages the first letter must've been cut from a large wooden block, floral patterns swirling around it. Few of the edges are straight, the years have been hungry. On the final page of the book there is a handwritten letter, telling of the six propheciesed ends of the world; floods and famines predicted to take place centuries ago.
I sign the guestbook and then walk out into the future, squinting in the sunlight and breathing in the crisp air of 2009.
We were planning on leaving today, after treating ourselves to two nights, but we can't be fussed to pack our bags. Instead we set out to walk around the lake and try to find the ashram that's on the other side; should be just one turn from where we hiked into the forest the day before. We get around the man-made lake, which I've mentioned is nothing of the clear water that the creators were trying to capture back in 1850's, and head up towards the hills. I'm feeling pretty confident in my navigational skills and convince Court that if we cut down through the valley, instead of sticking to the ridge and making a big "U," we'll shave off some time. Court, being the good friend that she is, still pretends to trust my internal GPS although it's gotten us lost on several continents, and agrees to my plan.
There will be nothing short to this cut, we won't actually make the ashram, but it's not my GPS's fault I swear!
We come across a beautiful little village that's built up around the small bit of brown water running through the lowest part of the valley. The water itself is disgusting, as is all water accessible to the public in India, but from it springs green patches of carrots, potato, and beetroot. We stop to get some snacks and the man tending the small shop invites us in for tea; Court and I glance at each other, we know this won't be an in-and-out job. Half an hour later we're stuffed with a complete box of biscuits and brimming with a pot of tea, but it's off to the next house! More tea and biscuits and then, just like clockwork, out come the saris. This time they don't stop with just the sari though; soon we're dripping from head to toe in gold jewelry and my hair's been neatly combed. Now for the ceremonial parading for all to see; we're escorted into the garden, which will make a lovely backdrop for the photo shoot. Again, right on the mark, as Court aims the camera in my direction a wailing baby is tossed into my arms. It's assumed that we're staying for dinner, and they insist on feeding us chicken (we're both veggies). We know we can't refuse, they're serving us their very best, so we grin and bare it. I picking small bits of meat off the bone and mix it with the rice on my banana leaf before popping it in with my fingers (That dang Muslim generosity again!). Our every bite is followed from floor to mouth with proud eyes, stopping only to pile more on our leaves.
It's late and we can barely move, thankfully the father offers to take us home in his jeep. We exchange information, promising to mail photos, and wave, genuinely sad and happy to leave at the same time. Back at our little villa on the hill Vegar is worried sick, it's nearly 10pm.
I'm soon tucked in bed, so tired I don't give a seconds though to the ghost stories Anita was telling us about the house and especially the piano...but as my senses fade I think I hear the soft plunk of keys.
A day like today, only in India.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Force Feeding and Dress Up Dolls
Saturday March 14th (getting closer to being caught up!)
It's still early morning as I look up from my book and out the bus window. Not far beyond the shanty towns and palm forests are rows and rows of jagged gray mountains; neglected teeth chipped and snarling. These are The Western Ghats.
We're coming into Coimbatore, our first pit-stop in Tamil Nadu, and traffic is thickening. It's a city of 1.5 million, our largest yet, and an utter mess. I've yet to see a traffic light; buses take the slow and steady approach, while scooters and rickshaws dip and dodge. We arrive at the station just as a bus north to Mettupalayam is pulling out. I run and jump, grabbing the hand rail, Indians pull me inside and I turn to help Court on; Vegar manages to swing aboard just as we're gathering speed.
Bad news at Mettupalayam, the steam train that we were planning to take up to the hill station of Ooty, has been canceled for the past two days and we won't know for hours if it'll be running tomorrow. We throw our bags in a room near the station and set out to hoof it around town while we're waiting. The city is buzzing near the bus station; it seems like half of this nation is continuously coming or going by bus. The stations are chaotic places of seemingly little organization. Signs aren't often posted in English, so you need to ask around to get anything done. Asking directions from an Indian isn't an easy task though. It's common knowledge that Indians don't like to say "No" or admit that they don't know, so you have to be careful how you word your questions. You can't ask "Is the bus to Ooty over there?" and indicate a certain direction, because even if they don't know they'll say yes. Instead you have to ask "Where is the bus to Ooty?" not giving anything away; but still be weary, because even if they don't know they're liable to just point anywhere. To confuse things even a little more, Indians also have a head wobble. I know this sounds funny, or that perhaps it's an isolated thing, but really, it's nationwide, and done by the young, elderly, men, women, rich and poor. It's a kind of side to side, bobble-head nod they do when they speak and are being spoken to, but in no way does it mean yes, no, or anything in particular; it just is. So when seeking directions or help from an Indian, it requires all sorts of code breaking and interpretive skills; assert caution, one misread head nod could send you two states over.
We head away from the bustle of the transit area, veering off down a narrow street that's home to a wilting veggie market. Tarps are strung over the path for shade and lethargic stall owners sit amongst their surplus of produce. The only thing buzzing around here are the flies.
Out the other side and we're on a quiet, clean street lined with blue and white stuccoed walls. Behind open doorways we can see small yards and the homes beyond. Soon we catch the eye of the neighborhood kids who all want to see themselves in a photograph (I've long since given up trying not to look like a tourist, my fat Canon strap hangs forever around my neck). This goes on for sometime, take a photo and a dozen grubby hands fight to see the screen. Some of the more outgoing children insist on getting behind the lens and take photos of us, grinning with pride and accomplishment. They continue to march us down to the river, our numbers swelling, where men and women are beating clothes on smooth rocks, then laying them to dry on the pebbly shore; I might be doing my own laundry from now on, this isn't normal "wear and tare."
Back up the hill we go, and straight into one of the kids' homes for tea. The home is simple but very tidy; four rooms around a small open courtyard with a water spicket for washing up. We are sat in the father's room, complete with bright lemon walls, and handed a cup of tea. Two minutes later and a girl grabs my hand, placing it in her lap and begins drawing mehendi on my palm with henna.
I feel like I've just stepped into a play, I'm surrounded by a bunch of characters, each cast superbly! The father of the house is 80 years old, and in what appears to be good health, carrying a big belly on him, with a long white beard. His two daughters and their families live here, the head count totaling ten. One sister is big, round, with large features and a bit serious, the other is tiny and wiry, with mischievious eyes and a loud mouth; though she hardly speaks English she's chatting away, grabbing and slapping our hands as she laughs like crazy, exposing more gaps than silver capped teeth. The larger one disappears for a minute. While she's gone her sister makes her arms into a circle and with a head nod towards the door, says "Big Mama," then goes off into hysterics, taking the rest of the room with her.
I've been watching the girl paste floral and paisley mehendi patterns on my palm and fingers and hadn't noticed the room filling with people. There are now at least 30 bodies crammed in the make-shift living room and even more struggling to get a head in the door. "Big Mama" comes back, the seas parting to let her through in her yards of pink silk sari, and she's brought biscuits. My hands are full, one being painted, the other with tea, so she starts dipping biscuits in my tea and then feeding them to me, soggy and dripping. She lets out a deep chuckle, thoroughly enjoying playing with her brand new American Girl Doll. I'm being plumped up; just as long as she doesn't start poking me with a stick and stoking the fire, Hansel and Gretel style.
I look back just in time to catch two heads popping up and down in the window, vying to catch a glimpse of the spectacle. Every few minutes Big Mama shoos the crowd back into the hallway and onto the street, then refills our small metal cups and feeds us more biscuits. There's a saying around here about three cups of tea; one and you're acquaintances, two, friends, three and you're family; we've had ten. The family is Muslim, and Zakat, or alms-giving, is one of the five pillars of Islam; they appear to be fairly well off, so it is obligatory to extend their good fortune to those around them, including us travelers.
We've now long since exhausted their English vocabulary and my mouth is aching from non-stop smiling. I don't think I can swallow another sip of sweet, milky tea, even to wash down a mouthful of fried dough. Much to my relief Big Mama grabs my arm and says "You, sari." Oh dear, now comes the dress up part, seems her new "American Girl Doll" came with a change of clothes. I'm led to a back room where there's a wardrobe filled with saris, every color and print you could imagine, light catching sequins and diamond encrusted folds. I'm stripped, put in a long plain cotton skirt and a short midriff blouse, or choli, with hook and eye closures down the front; Big Mama buttons me up. It's deep red with diamond flowers sparking all over, and pretty baggy, but nothing a safety pin won't fix. Then comes the wrapping of the matching sari. Sari's are a strip of unstitched cloth, from four to nine meters in length and draped around the body in various ways. She begins by tucking a knotted end into my waist, then wraps it around me, gathering it to make a sort of fan at one side, then brings it over one shoulder, a long bit trailing down my back and nearly to the floor. Finished! I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself, I belong on the Bollywood red carpet (Bollywood being India's Hollywood). Big Mama is laughing uncontrollably as she leads her doll, glittering red from head to toe, out the front door and into the cheering crowd.
The village's all here, laughing and clapping, pushing right up to have a feel (perhaps an American in a sari feels different). One woman tosses me her baby and I can't help but feel slightly like Angelina Jolie, ethnic baby in hand, towering over a crowd of locals, wearing traditional garb; the only difference is I'm not taking this baby home...and perhaps a few other things. Another woman brings the tail of my sari up over my head, Muslim style, which brings another round of cheering.
Court has managed to stay out of the limelight for the moment being, but soon they spot her and away she's whisked, emerging a few minutes later dripping in silk and smiling ear to ear. After a brief photo shoot, much to the amusement of the crowd that's fighting to get an arm in, we are disrobed, reclothed in "American dress," and then tugged two door down. We're sat again in a tiny living area, this time without a fan, where more tea and biscuits await. Again the small talk and staring and smiling, until someone decides that the timer's gone off and it's their turn to feed the foreigners.
This goes on for hours, and at the last house we're served Sweet Burri; a fried dough puff filled with sugar and coconut, which I can hardly appreciate, as I've been near to bursting and about to go into a sugar induced seizure for the past three hours. One of their daughters is getting married next week and we're given an invitation and made to promise we'll be there; Saturday at 4 pm we're to arrive at the house to partake in pre-game ceremonies and then the wedding at 10 am the following day. We exchange phone numbers and assure them that we wouldn't miss this opportunity to get a better glimpse into their lives and culture for anything (in fewer words), and bid our farewells while shaking hands with everyone in sight. We take off into the night with our care packages of Sweet Burri and salty mangoes, the children escorting us skipping and shrieking down to the main road.
We're thoroughly exhausted, can't even look at street food stalls we're passing, but smiling from toe to hair. This has just turned into one of the best days ever. We hurry back to the room and then high tail it to the bus station, we need to catch the last train north to Ooty. We get there in time, but the bus is full. I convince the ticket-taker to allow us to put our bags in the aisle and sit on them; a few extra rupees for him and he's sold. Soon we're slowly crawling up the mountains, the air cooling as we gradually ascend. I'm glad it's dark out because the roads are crap, the bus is 30 years past it's prime and there are no guard-rails between us and the valley floor far below.
But India, today I love you.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Cruisin' the Keralan Backwaters and Fort Kochin
Monday March 9th, 2009 (12 days ago):
Our hellish train journey brings us deep into Kerala, which in 1957 made history by democratically electing a communist-led government. We hop off in Allepey, the gateway to the Keralan backwaters, from where we'll catch a ride on a houseboat. The backwaters are a chain of lagoons and lakes, connected by canals and fed by some 38 rivers. The labyrinthine system is formed by more than 900km of waterways and connects towns and cities, providing a superb mode of transport for people and goods.
We are met at the station by Mattiew, a guy who's been recommended to us to help sort out our houseboat cruise. He takes us to his guesthouse; it's brand new, has a grand marble staircase, and the most beautiful toilet I've seen in weeks. We settle in for the night and rest up for our day of cruising tomorrow. Tom, an Australian we met in Hampi, arrives at 6 am and takes our numbers up to 6. A few hours later we arrive at the dock and are told our vessel's not there yet. We're waiting between two plush looking boats, but I'm expecting ours to be a pole powered, simple amenities deal, seems how it's only costing $20 each for the night and three meals.
In pulls a floating fortress, wedging tightly between the other boats. 8000 rupees has landed us the nicest looking ship on the river; four bedrooms, all with one exterior wall of glass and individual bathroom, a beautiful dining room with a round table that'd be the envy of the knights, and an open air living room complete with polished dark wood walls and a flat screen. It's a palace equipped with a four person crew, whose sole purpose is to keep us happy. I'm pretty sure I don't deserve any of this.
Five minutes after boarding we've each grabbed a throne (in the living room, not porcelain) and are sipping fresh coconut. We spend the next few hours passing palm lined rice paddies, shrieking and waving children, and waterfront shops. We tie up in a lake and are served a delicious lunch; I haven't had anyone actually dish out my food for me since I was three, seconds too! After lunch we share a few cigars, lounging around on the overstuffed sofa area at the front of the boat. A fisherman pulls up his small canoe-ish boat and sells us some enormous prawns; they look like albino lobsters...don't know if I'd actually eat anything out of this water. Cruising again we ease quickly into our luxurious surroundings; tea anyone? Before we know it it's dinner-time and we're watching the sun set behind a row of black palms, the birds getting in their last songs of the day. The beauty and serenity is broken by the sound of a helicopter, wait, no it's much closer; good God, it's the mosquitoes. They're kicking up the papers on the table as they lower down onto their heli-pad, which is, unfortunately, any part of showing flesh. These things are massive and immune to DEET; not quite paradise found after all.
U ioeb nt etes abd sqyubtl U cab see nt feet abd hyst betibd tgen tge syb us akreadt bkazubg hyst abive tge giruzibm gikdeb ku................um, sorry, I just realized I was off by a key on the keyboard.......
(I just took a lunch break, and the guy at the little veggie restaurant had to come by and correct Court and I on our eating technique, turns out there's a certain way you're supposed to eat with your hands; first rolling little balls of rice and curry with your fingers, keeping your pads clean, then popping them in with your thumb. All of this took place over our banana leaf plates.)
I rub my sleepy eyes and open them, immediately jolted awake by the magnificent view. Just beyond my feet, out the massive wall/window the sun is just beginning to make it's way above the horizon, already ablaze, golden light flooding in. Ripples in the water are pulsing flames licking at the canal's edges. I remain in bed, enjoying fully this perfect moment.
Out in the dining area we spot a commotion on shore; men are running around laughing, half naked, throwing what looks like colored powder on each other. We make a b-line for the action and find out that it's Holi, "Festival of Colors," a Hindu spring celebration. Soon we're all covered in a kaleidoscope of talcum powder; it'll take me two days to get all the yellow out of my ears and orange tinges can still be found in my hair. My eyelashes bat blue as I grab handfuls of powder and chuck them at the closest person, rubbing the rest into Court's hair. I look at our posse and laugh out loud; we look like the aftermath of an explosion at the Crayola factory.
When the colors run out we stop and chat with the guys who initiated the colorful battle. Turns out all the hard bodies we're surrounded by aren't just a fluke, but belong to India's National Kayak and Canoe Team, not to mention a few Olympians.
The guys all jump in the water, but we're in India, so the girls must refrain, modesty prevails. Back on the boat, and freshly showered (with now ruined towels we'll have to pay for), we're getting a little sad our high life will be ending soon. This was a nice taste of what life is like after you've "made it;" maybe not Jay-Z power yacht in Greece made it, but something like that.
Back on dry land we head for the local bus stand and board one headed north for Fort Kochin. We claim the back seats and are a tangled mess of backpacks and limbs; travelling six deep can be a chore!
Fort Kochin is an old Portuguese city built on an island just off the mainland, accessible by ferry or a long bridge. It's Portuguese heritage is evident in the crumbling storefronts and narrow alleys. It's Josh's last night, he's flying back to London to sort out his mom's will, so we find a place that'll serve us alcohol. Alcohol is hard to get in these parts, and since they just held elections, it's especially hard to find. We manage to stumble on a little joint that'll serve us "Special Tea" and settle in. A thunderstorm has just opened up, so we're feeling pretty cozy with our bottle or rum; that is until we look around at the corrugated metal roof and walls of our flimsy second story perch, one of the tallest building around, lit by lightning cracking overhead. I go to step outside, enjoy some off the cool air and get out of the lightning magnet, and the waiter tells me to wait until the rain stops. He says that the first three rains of the season bring down all the pollution in the air; awesome, acid rain!
Back at the hotel Josh packs his things to grab his 2am flight up to Mumbai and then London. It's a teary eyed goodbye, but like so many friends I've met along the way, they're for life, so really it's more of a "See ya later."
Thursday March 12: I wake up early and head out for a stroll, opting to take one of the many winding alleys through stuccoed homes. The narrow cobblestone paths allow leisurely foot traffic, unhurried, away from the busy main-veins. Women are stinging up colorful laundry and I can hear children laughing and shrieking behind closed doors. Goats wander, sit, and munch on posters; curious dark eyes pear out from barred windows and tiny hands flick a wave. Men stare; even though I'm always conscious to cover my shoulders and knees, a tall blond is not an everyday sight in these parts. I head toward the water to catch the huge Chinese style fishing nets in action. A huge net is submerged, strung between wooden beams jutting out from the land, small boulders are dangling from a rope 20 ft in the air. Three men stand out on the scaffolding in the water as several others pull the rocks back to earth, the rocks' weight then pulling the enormous net out of the water. I nudge closer; a few fish flop around, stranded, but for the most part it's trash and debris. No fish outta this water for me.
We hire a rickshaw for the day and tour the town. We wander through warehouses full of spices in all stages, piles of ginger being sifted, kicking up a sneeze inducing powder, cumin and curry powder lay a light yellow film on our clothes. Then we swing by the history museum, pop into a few souvenir shops, and poke around the local "laundromat;" loads are being washed by hand and ironed with a coal powered iron. School's out and I stop to count heads in an auto rickshaw; 19 little plaid-clad bodies are crammed in the three-wheeler.
Early the following morning Court, Vegar the Norweigen, and I are hopping a bus for Coimbatore, a city in the neighboring state of Tamil Nadu, that's in transit to the mountain station of Ooty, our next destination. Tom the Aussie heads up to Goa to meet a friend flying in, and Renee the Brit is south-bound for a yoga retreat. And then there were three.
Our hellish train journey brings us deep into Kerala, which in 1957 made history by democratically electing a communist-led government. We hop off in Allepey, the gateway to the Keralan backwaters, from where we'll catch a ride on a houseboat. The backwaters are a chain of lagoons and lakes, connected by canals and fed by some 38 rivers. The labyrinthine system is formed by more than 900km of waterways and connects towns and cities, providing a superb mode of transport for people and goods.
We are met at the station by Mattiew, a guy who's been recommended to us to help sort out our houseboat cruise. He takes us to his guesthouse; it's brand new, has a grand marble staircase, and the most beautiful toilet I've seen in weeks. We settle in for the night and rest up for our day of cruising tomorrow. Tom, an Australian we met in Hampi, arrives at 6 am and takes our numbers up to 6. A few hours later we arrive at the dock and are told our vessel's not there yet. We're waiting between two plush looking boats, but I'm expecting ours to be a pole powered, simple amenities deal, seems how it's only costing $20 each for the night and three meals.
In pulls a floating fortress, wedging tightly between the other boats. 8000 rupees has landed us the nicest looking ship on the river; four bedrooms, all with one exterior wall of glass and individual bathroom, a beautiful dining room with a round table that'd be the envy of the knights, and an open air living room complete with polished dark wood walls and a flat screen. It's a palace equipped with a four person crew, whose sole purpose is to keep us happy. I'm pretty sure I don't deserve any of this.
Five minutes after boarding we've each grabbed a throne (in the living room, not porcelain) and are sipping fresh coconut. We spend the next few hours passing palm lined rice paddies, shrieking and waving children, and waterfront shops. We tie up in a lake and are served a delicious lunch; I haven't had anyone actually dish out my food for me since I was three, seconds too! After lunch we share a few cigars, lounging around on the overstuffed sofa area at the front of the boat. A fisherman pulls up his small canoe-ish boat and sells us some enormous prawns; they look like albino lobsters...don't know if I'd actually eat anything out of this water. Cruising again we ease quickly into our luxurious surroundings; tea anyone? Before we know it it's dinner-time and we're watching the sun set behind a row of black palms, the birds getting in their last songs of the day. The beauty and serenity is broken by the sound of a helicopter, wait, no it's much closer; good God, it's the mosquitoes. They're kicking up the papers on the table as they lower down onto their heli-pad, which is, unfortunately, any part of showing flesh. These things are massive and immune to DEET; not quite paradise found after all.
U ioeb nt etes abd sqyubtl U cab see nt feet abd hyst betibd tgen tge syb us akreadt bkazubg hyst abive tge giruzibm gikdeb ku................um, sorry, I just realized I was off by a key on the keyboard.......
(I just took a lunch break, and the guy at the little veggie restaurant had to come by and correct Court and I on our eating technique, turns out there's a certain way you're supposed to eat with your hands; first rolling little balls of rice and curry with your fingers, keeping your pads clean, then popping them in with your thumb. All of this took place over our banana leaf plates.)
I rub my sleepy eyes and open them, immediately jolted awake by the magnificent view. Just beyond my feet, out the massive wall/window the sun is just beginning to make it's way above the horizon, already ablaze, golden light flooding in. Ripples in the water are pulsing flames licking at the canal's edges. I remain in bed, enjoying fully this perfect moment.
Out in the dining area we spot a commotion on shore; men are running around laughing, half naked, throwing what looks like colored powder on each other. We make a b-line for the action and find out that it's Holi, "Festival of Colors," a Hindu spring celebration. Soon we're all covered in a kaleidoscope of talcum powder; it'll take me two days to get all the yellow out of my ears and orange tinges can still be found in my hair. My eyelashes bat blue as I grab handfuls of powder and chuck them at the closest person, rubbing the rest into Court's hair. I look at our posse and laugh out loud; we look like the aftermath of an explosion at the Crayola factory.
When the colors run out we stop and chat with the guys who initiated the colorful battle. Turns out all the hard bodies we're surrounded by aren't just a fluke, but belong to India's National Kayak and Canoe Team, not to mention a few Olympians.
The guys all jump in the water, but we're in India, so the girls must refrain, modesty prevails. Back on the boat, and freshly showered (with now ruined towels we'll have to pay for), we're getting a little sad our high life will be ending soon. This was a nice taste of what life is like after you've "made it;" maybe not Jay-Z power yacht in Greece made it, but something like that.
Back on dry land we head for the local bus stand and board one headed north for Fort Kochin. We claim the back seats and are a tangled mess of backpacks and limbs; travelling six deep can be a chore!
Fort Kochin is an old Portuguese city built on an island just off the mainland, accessible by ferry or a long bridge. It's Portuguese heritage is evident in the crumbling storefronts and narrow alleys. It's Josh's last night, he's flying back to London to sort out his mom's will, so we find a place that'll serve us alcohol. Alcohol is hard to get in these parts, and since they just held elections, it's especially hard to find. We manage to stumble on a little joint that'll serve us "Special Tea" and settle in. A thunderstorm has just opened up, so we're feeling pretty cozy with our bottle or rum; that is until we look around at the corrugated metal roof and walls of our flimsy second story perch, one of the tallest building around, lit by lightning cracking overhead. I go to step outside, enjoy some off the cool air and get out of the lightning magnet, and the waiter tells me to wait until the rain stops. He says that the first three rains of the season bring down all the pollution in the air; awesome, acid rain!
Back at the hotel Josh packs his things to grab his 2am flight up to Mumbai and then London. It's a teary eyed goodbye, but like so many friends I've met along the way, they're for life, so really it's more of a "See ya later."
Thursday March 12: I wake up early and head out for a stroll, opting to take one of the many winding alleys through stuccoed homes. The narrow cobblestone paths allow leisurely foot traffic, unhurried, away from the busy main-veins. Women are stinging up colorful laundry and I can hear children laughing and shrieking behind closed doors. Goats wander, sit, and munch on posters; curious dark eyes pear out from barred windows and tiny hands flick a wave. Men stare; even though I'm always conscious to cover my shoulders and knees, a tall blond is not an everyday sight in these parts. I head toward the water to catch the huge Chinese style fishing nets in action. A huge net is submerged, strung between wooden beams jutting out from the land, small boulders are dangling from a rope 20 ft in the air. Three men stand out on the scaffolding in the water as several others pull the rocks back to earth, the rocks' weight then pulling the enormous net out of the water. I nudge closer; a few fish flop around, stranded, but for the most part it's trash and debris. No fish outta this water for me.
We hire a rickshaw for the day and tour the town. We wander through warehouses full of spices in all stages, piles of ginger being sifted, kicking up a sneeze inducing powder, cumin and curry powder lay a light yellow film on our clothes. Then we swing by the history museum, pop into a few souvenir shops, and poke around the local "laundromat;" loads are being washed by hand and ironed with a coal powered iron. School's out and I stop to count heads in an auto rickshaw; 19 little plaid-clad bodies are crammed in the three-wheeler.
Early the following morning Court, Vegar the Norweigen, and I are hopping a bus for Coimbatore, a city in the neighboring state of Tamil Nadu, that's in transit to the mountain station of Ooty, our next destination. Tom the Aussie heads up to Goa to meet a friend flying in, and Renee the Brit is south-bound for a yoga retreat. And then there were three.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Photo links
Here are links to my facebook photo albums thus far...enjoy!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2222823&id=11505810&l=bcf6f
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2223883&id=11505810&l=bf9c8
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2222823&id=11505810&l=bcf6f
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2223883&id=11505810&l=bf9c8
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Team UN goes to Hampi
It's time to get off the beach and see some of India that isn't covered in sand and raining coconuts.
March 4th:
We book a sleeper coach to Hampi, nine hours inland in the Karnataka state, meant to to be a magnetically charming village built amongst the Vijayanagara Empire ruins. We board the bus and settle into the very back row that's one flat bed to sleep five, perfect. Sleep however, is not in the cards tonight, as I soon realize the condition of the roads will not get any better. Potholes plague the asphault and being in the back we catch the worst of it; playing musical chairs mid-air. On top of being notoriously bad roads, they're also continuously busy; during the night there are just as many, if not more, of the huge diesel "Goods Carrier" trucks that dominate the narrow, unlined roads, taking their half from the middle.
When the sun finally comes up I cautiously peer out the window, mindful not to sit up fully in case we hit one of the abyssal holes that'll send my head into the bunk above. On the outskirts of the towns there are tent villages; homes erected from any material found, tarps, palm fronds and cloth. It isn't hard to imagine how devastating a storm or the monsoon is to these makeshift dwellings.
We arrive late morning and immediately know we're in for a treat. The landscape is majestic; smooth round boulders form mountains that rise around the village built along a slowly winding river, amongst temples that date back to the 14th century. The town of Hampi is sometimes confused with the ruined city, seeing how they built it smack in the middle of the Vijayanagara ruins. Monkeys perched on roofs eye us suspiciously as we wander through the narrow stone streets. We find a guesthouse overlooking the river with two available rooms at 300 rupees each, sold. After ditching our gear, mine which has that magical power of appearing heavier and more full with ever repack, we head out to explore. Hampi is a holy city, no meat or alcohol is sold within the walls. Cows wander freely, as in all of India, and as we're about to walk around a fresh steaming pie, a woman in an immaculate sparkling beaded blue sari swoops in and scoops up a handful of the dung. A few seconds later after she'd turned to walk back down the street with her loot, someone mentions it and Renee says "Oh my God, I thought I'd just imagined that!" No, it was real, but with so many things in India, you just sort of accept it without it fully registering.
Later that afternoon Josh and I are waiting in a cafe for the others to finish up with their internet session (Court's better at keeping up than I) and are struggling to carry on our conversation over the sound of monkey feet scampering across the corrugated metal roof. That evening we watch the sun set behind the hills, silhouetting temples, from our perch on a boulder we'd hopped to in the middle of the river. Women are beating laundry against rocks and laying them on the flat boulders to dry, colorfully quilting the brown rock.
The following day we're up at 7:00 to do some sightseeing, trying to beat the heat that settles into the still afternoon. We head towards the river and a man offers to take us down in his boat. The five of us pile into the round vessel made of bamboo, tarp and tar; I can't help but think of the teacup ride in Disneyland, a whole other fantastical world away. He's paddling us slowly down the smooth water, pointing out temples along the rocky edges; the meditation temple whose steps are carved into a boulder breaking from the water, a carved cow, the "monkey" temple off in the distance, home to 100's of pesky monkeys. We stop and get out, climbing through and over fallen temples that during monsoon time are submerged; carved Hindu gods are scattered throughout the debris and holy men can be spotted sitting silently in temples. Soon we're drifting again through the once mighty empire, imagining the bustle that engulfed the river's shore, centuries ago.
That evening we set out in an autorickshaw for another grouping of ruins a little farther from the city. After a day of looking at rocky ruins we're getting a bit creative and eager to entertain ourselves; we make up a little game that entails us each claiming a space in arched doorways so that we can't see each other, however the person standing out with the camera has a clear shot of us all. On the count of three everyone strikes a pose, resulting in some pretty funny photos; maybe it was just the heat.
The following morning we set a team record and are up at 5 am; Josh proving to be quite the accurate alarm clock, a far cry from his party/sleeping all day phase in Goa. We head down the main street in the bazaar, careful not to step in any yet undisturbed cow pies that were laid in the night. My eyes adjust to the light and on either side of the road are people, asleep on mats beside their goats, cows and carts. We walk quietly, enjoying the peace at this time of day; perhaps India does sleep.
At the end of the road we cut up past the tiered ruins and head for the hills, climbing up and up. We arrive and monkeys are swarming the hilltop temple, eying us each for what they can possibly steal. We buy chai from the man who says he's been up here for every sunrise and set for the past few years, and keep them close, away from all the thieving fingers lurking around.
We take in the sprawling landscape all around and far below; the river is flat and still, a dark ribbon threaded around hills and temples, palm trees line the rice fields. A "babu," holy man, sits on a rock ledge 30 ft below, wearing only a small bit of white cloth around his waist, he's doing yoga and meditating in the earliest morning light, supposedly extra energizing. As the sun drifts above the horizon, the river now turns to fire and the dozens of monkeys suddenly calm down, turning their mischievousness to a more practical task, grooming. Young and old partake in this morning ritual, allowing their bodies to go limp while several others mill over them, head to toe, moving their arms and legs when they need to get a better angle to pick.
We finally tear ourselves away from the awe inspiring vista as the sun is now high in the sky. Heat getting the better of our sightseeing for the day, we opt for a day at the lake. We take a taxi boat to the other side of the river where we hire an autorickshaw to take us to the reservoir a few kilometers away. We're greeted by a sign reading "DANGER: CROCODILES IN WATER, DO NOT SWIM." They're just kidding I'm sure, so we head for a large boulder, strip down and make the 20 ft jump...I'm careful to keep in the middle of the pack just in case though. Time flies and before we know it we're racing back across the river, stuffing our bags, and weaving in and out of traffic to get to the bus station the next town over. We're heading back to Palolem for a day before catching the train down to Kerala. Court's counting modes of transportation we pass; buses, train, bikes, camel, hand peddled wheelchair, ox drawn cart, elephant. I think if I saw T-Rex stroll by I wouldn't even blink.
Before I even get on the bus for the night journey I'm feeling a bit queazy, and by the time we're finally moving I'm having a hard time keeping it in. I do manage to hold back until we're out of the center of town, into thinner traffic, but it's not going to last long. Josh, worried that I'll get a side mirror to the temple if I stick my head out the window, offers to keep watch from a few windows down. I won't go into too much detail, but Josh didn't last long out the window as I paint the bus green. I can't lie down, let alone sleep, so I pass the night with my head rested in the window frame, ready when the urge strikes. Luckily it's only coming out of one end, no toilet on the bus could have made for a very sticky situation.....Ahhhh Delhi Belly!
We arrive back in Palolem, I'm weak, tired and not feeling too much better, and now Court's feeling ill too; welcome to the sick ward. We rent a bungalow a stone's throw from the beach and I hit the pillow, able to hear the waves which I won't be enjoying today. After a full day in bed we're feeling much better, almost up for the 15 hr train journey tonight, yeehaw!
The five of us board the sleeper train, which has, in proper Indian fashion, arrived over an hour late, and can't believe our eyes. We're speechless and shuffle quiet glances at each other. We are standing in a car with dozens of people and the "beds" are flat steel slabs stacked three per wall, held up by chains on the ceiling and walls; windows are barred and years of filth has collected on the antique fans struggling to buzz overhead. This is what prison on wheels is like. Luckily for me, I'm so exhausted from my belly battle that I'm fast asleep shortly after we pull from the station, in for my best sleep in days.
I awake late morning gaging on thick hot air. Unable to sit up fully I remain lying down, from where I can just barely see out of the top of the window. It looks beautiful, much more lush than Goa, but honetly I only catch a glimpse from my cattle-car cell. In that kind of heat and discomfort the only thing to do is sleep; I pass in and out of conciousness, too weary to even care. My waking moments are defined by a series of beggars passing through the car. A man with crippled legs, unable to stand, sweeping the train floor with two pieces of newspaper, cleaning his way down the coach; he stops when he sees our white faces to ask for 10 rupees. A young girl moves into our car, clapping together two rocks, singing in an unneccesarily loud and out of tune voice; I give her 2 rupees just to leave. A woman in a black sari hands me a card that says, in very broken English, that's she's deaf and dumb, is a widow and can not support her children. It's difficult not to give them all money, but with over a billion people in this country, and77% of them living on less than 20 rupees per day (not even 50 cents), I'd go broke in a minute.
I don't know it then, but what's waiting in Kerala will make this hellish ride worth every sweaty second.
March 4th:
We book a sleeper coach to Hampi, nine hours inland in the Karnataka state, meant to to be a magnetically charming village built amongst the Vijayanagara Empire ruins. We board the bus and settle into the very back row that's one flat bed to sleep five, perfect. Sleep however, is not in the cards tonight, as I soon realize the condition of the roads will not get any better. Potholes plague the asphault and being in the back we catch the worst of it; playing musical chairs mid-air. On top of being notoriously bad roads, they're also continuously busy; during the night there are just as many, if not more, of the huge diesel "Goods Carrier" trucks that dominate the narrow, unlined roads, taking their half from the middle.
When the sun finally comes up I cautiously peer out the window, mindful not to sit up fully in case we hit one of the abyssal holes that'll send my head into the bunk above. On the outskirts of the towns there are tent villages; homes erected from any material found, tarps, palm fronds and cloth. It isn't hard to imagine how devastating a storm or the monsoon is to these makeshift dwellings.
We arrive late morning and immediately know we're in for a treat. The landscape is majestic; smooth round boulders form mountains that rise around the village built along a slowly winding river, amongst temples that date back to the 14th century. The town of Hampi is sometimes confused with the ruined city, seeing how they built it smack in the middle of the Vijayanagara ruins. Monkeys perched on roofs eye us suspiciously as we wander through the narrow stone streets. We find a guesthouse overlooking the river with two available rooms at 300 rupees each, sold. After ditching our gear, mine which has that magical power of appearing heavier and more full with ever repack, we head out to explore. Hampi is a holy city, no meat or alcohol is sold within the walls. Cows wander freely, as in all of India, and as we're about to walk around a fresh steaming pie, a woman in an immaculate sparkling beaded blue sari swoops in and scoops up a handful of the dung. A few seconds later after she'd turned to walk back down the street with her loot, someone mentions it and Renee says "Oh my God, I thought I'd just imagined that!" No, it was real, but with so many things in India, you just sort of accept it without it fully registering.
Later that afternoon Josh and I are waiting in a cafe for the others to finish up with their internet session (Court's better at keeping up than I) and are struggling to carry on our conversation over the sound of monkey feet scampering across the corrugated metal roof. That evening we watch the sun set behind the hills, silhouetting temples, from our perch on a boulder we'd hopped to in the middle of the river. Women are beating laundry against rocks and laying them on the flat boulders to dry, colorfully quilting the brown rock.
The following day we're up at 7:00 to do some sightseeing, trying to beat the heat that settles into the still afternoon. We head towards the river and a man offers to take us down in his boat. The five of us pile into the round vessel made of bamboo, tarp and tar; I can't help but think of the teacup ride in Disneyland, a whole other fantastical world away. He's paddling us slowly down the smooth water, pointing out temples along the rocky edges; the meditation temple whose steps are carved into a boulder breaking from the water, a carved cow, the "monkey" temple off in the distance, home to 100's of pesky monkeys. We stop and get out, climbing through and over fallen temples that during monsoon time are submerged; carved Hindu gods are scattered throughout the debris and holy men can be spotted sitting silently in temples. Soon we're drifting again through the once mighty empire, imagining the bustle that engulfed the river's shore, centuries ago.
That evening we set out in an autorickshaw for another grouping of ruins a little farther from the city. After a day of looking at rocky ruins we're getting a bit creative and eager to entertain ourselves; we make up a little game that entails us each claiming a space in arched doorways so that we can't see each other, however the person standing out with the camera has a clear shot of us all. On the count of three everyone strikes a pose, resulting in some pretty funny photos; maybe it was just the heat.
The following morning we set a team record and are up at 5 am; Josh proving to be quite the accurate alarm clock, a far cry from his party/sleeping all day phase in Goa. We head down the main street in the bazaar, careful not to step in any yet undisturbed cow pies that were laid in the night. My eyes adjust to the light and on either side of the road are people, asleep on mats beside their goats, cows and carts. We walk quietly, enjoying the peace at this time of day; perhaps India does sleep.
At the end of the road we cut up past the tiered ruins and head for the hills, climbing up and up. We arrive and monkeys are swarming the hilltop temple, eying us each for what they can possibly steal. We buy chai from the man who says he's been up here for every sunrise and set for the past few years, and keep them close, away from all the thieving fingers lurking around.
We take in the sprawling landscape all around and far below; the river is flat and still, a dark ribbon threaded around hills and temples, palm trees line the rice fields. A "babu," holy man, sits on a rock ledge 30 ft below, wearing only a small bit of white cloth around his waist, he's doing yoga and meditating in the earliest morning light, supposedly extra energizing. As the sun drifts above the horizon, the river now turns to fire and the dozens of monkeys suddenly calm down, turning their mischievousness to a more practical task, grooming. Young and old partake in this morning ritual, allowing their bodies to go limp while several others mill over them, head to toe, moving their arms and legs when they need to get a better angle to pick.
We finally tear ourselves away from the awe inspiring vista as the sun is now high in the sky. Heat getting the better of our sightseeing for the day, we opt for a day at the lake. We take a taxi boat to the other side of the river where we hire an autorickshaw to take us to the reservoir a few kilometers away. We're greeted by a sign reading "DANGER: CROCODILES IN WATER, DO NOT SWIM." They're just kidding I'm sure, so we head for a large boulder, strip down and make the 20 ft jump...I'm careful to keep in the middle of the pack just in case though. Time flies and before we know it we're racing back across the river, stuffing our bags, and weaving in and out of traffic to get to the bus station the next town over. We're heading back to Palolem for a day before catching the train down to Kerala. Court's counting modes of transportation we pass; buses, train, bikes, camel, hand peddled wheelchair, ox drawn cart, elephant. I think if I saw T-Rex stroll by I wouldn't even blink.
Before I even get on the bus for the night journey I'm feeling a bit queazy, and by the time we're finally moving I'm having a hard time keeping it in. I do manage to hold back until we're out of the center of town, into thinner traffic, but it's not going to last long. Josh, worried that I'll get a side mirror to the temple if I stick my head out the window, offers to keep watch from a few windows down. I won't go into too much detail, but Josh didn't last long out the window as I paint the bus green. I can't lie down, let alone sleep, so I pass the night with my head rested in the window frame, ready when the urge strikes. Luckily it's only coming out of one end, no toilet on the bus could have made for a very sticky situation.....Ahhhh Delhi Belly!
We arrive back in Palolem, I'm weak, tired and not feeling too much better, and now Court's feeling ill too; welcome to the sick ward. We rent a bungalow a stone's throw from the beach and I hit the pillow, able to hear the waves which I won't be enjoying today. After a full day in bed we're feeling much better, almost up for the 15 hr train journey tonight, yeehaw!
The five of us board the sleeper train, which has, in proper Indian fashion, arrived over an hour late, and can't believe our eyes. We're speechless and shuffle quiet glances at each other. We are standing in a car with dozens of people and the "beds" are flat steel slabs stacked three per wall, held up by chains on the ceiling and walls; windows are barred and years of filth has collected on the antique fans struggling to buzz overhead. This is what prison on wheels is like. Luckily for me, I'm so exhausted from my belly battle that I'm fast asleep shortly after we pull from the station, in for my best sleep in days.
I awake late morning gaging on thick hot air. Unable to sit up fully I remain lying down, from where I can just barely see out of the top of the window. It looks beautiful, much more lush than Goa, but honetly I only catch a glimpse from my cattle-car cell. In that kind of heat and discomfort the only thing to do is sleep; I pass in and out of conciousness, too weary to even care. My waking moments are defined by a series of beggars passing through the car. A man with crippled legs, unable to stand, sweeping the train floor with two pieces of newspaper, cleaning his way down the coach; he stops when he sees our white faces to ask for 10 rupees. A young girl moves into our car, clapping together two rocks, singing in an unneccesarily loud and out of tune voice; I give her 2 rupees just to leave. A woman in a black sari hands me a card that says, in very broken English, that's she's deaf and dumb, is a widow and can not support her children. It's difficult not to give them all money, but with over a billion people in this country, and77% of them living on less than 20 rupees per day (not even 50 cents), I'd go broke in a minute.
I don't know it then, but what's waiting in Kerala will make this hellish ride worth every sweaty second.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Anjuna and Palolem
Sooo.....Looks like I'm worse at this blogging thing than I am at getting out emails, I'll try to step it up.
We spent a few days tripping around Northern Goa on the scooter, not really aiming for anywhere, just turning where it felt right. One turn led us down a small dirt road where we found Mother Teresa's Roses House. It's a home that has 25 children living there, aged 4-13. These children aren't orphans, their single mothers gave birth to them in Mumbai, and although they were uncapable of caring for them, did not want to give them up for adoption. The members of Mother Teresa's Roses, a group that's supposed to care for homeless and sick adults, couldn't help but notice that there was nowhere for these women to go to help them raise their children; their only options being keep their babies on the streets or lose them completely, the latter often being forced upon them by most charity groups. They decided to set up a home enabling these women to raise their children off the streets. Soon though it became chaotic and crowded, with various age groups and needs under one roof, so they chose to move the school aged children into a new house that had been donated in Goa. There was no roof, only four walls, but everyone turned up to help piece this place together. The children now go to school and are learning English, their mothers, who are still in Mumbai working now, visit and phone them on their holidays.
I was driving the scooter and saw the sign for the house and thought I might as well stop in and see what's going on; I'm so glad that we did. There was a man working outside and he pointed us to the front door where a dog, later to be told his name was Scooby Doo, greeted us; Mother Lucy came out and invited us in. The children were very excited to have visitors, and kept calling us "madam." We were there for over an hour, reading, dancing, coloring. I couldn't believe how happy these children were, getting along very well and so polite! Soon I was completely exhausted and it was dinner time, so we bid our farewells and promised to be back soon...we kept that promise, returning the next day with talcum powder, soap, shampoo and a bit of a cash donation. Mother Lucy asked if we had a few minutes, and of course we did, so we sat and she told us the story of how the house came to be. What I've just told you is a much shortened version, and without the heartwrenching details, but as you can imagine, it was quite overwhelming. She told of the first woman they saw giving birth on a park bench and then pointed behind us to the small boy sitting on the floor, his head resting on an empty propane tank, asleep; he'd started it all. It's amazing to witness what an extended hand and love can accomplish, even in the most dire of circumstances.
While in Anjuna we also took Swami, the yogi we'd met at the market, up on his offer and rode down to Calangute, a town 15 km south for morning and evening sessions of yoga and meditation. After spending time in the meditation room I'd be so relaxed that I couldn't drive; I'd have to walk around town acclimating to the chaos again before getting on the bike to head home! If everyone did yoga there would be peace on earth.
We met some other backpackers around town and from our evening volleyball sessions; a few English, George, Josh and Renee and a Norwiegen guy, Vegar, who'd been further south on a beach called Palolem for a few weeks. It sounded nice so six of us hired a big Land Cruiser to take us the three hours south, costing each of us only 6 bucks! It got greener and greener the further south we went. Palolem is a beautiful long white sand beach with palm forests pushing right up behind the beach bungalows.
Our new crew headed towards one end of the beach and crossed a small river to a bar. We sat around, candles stuck in sand, under a clear starry night, drinking Kingfisher, a really, really bad beer that gives you even worse headaches, reminiscing over the past 12 hours we'd known each other. On our way home the small river had risen and now had a wide mouth; unsure of how deep it was we hired a boat to take us across; how convenient, the guy was just waiting for us, dumb tourists. Well turns out it was quite shallow; pretty sure the boat was plowing through sand the whole time, so we got out at the halfway point and walked. Only one of us got hung up getting out and hit the water, but somehow we all managed to get wet and sandy, which made for an uncomfortable sleep since we're saving rupees sleeping three to a bed.
The following day we got scooters again, man I love driving those things, and went in search of a more secluded beach. We found Agonda, and not a cow in sight! Another day spent rolling in the waves and building sand castles; life is good.
We spent a few days tripping around Northern Goa on the scooter, not really aiming for anywhere, just turning where it felt right. One turn led us down a small dirt road where we found Mother Teresa's Roses House. It's a home that has 25 children living there, aged 4-13. These children aren't orphans, their single mothers gave birth to them in Mumbai, and although they were uncapable of caring for them, did not want to give them up for adoption. The members of Mother Teresa's Roses, a group that's supposed to care for homeless and sick adults, couldn't help but notice that there was nowhere for these women to go to help them raise their children; their only options being keep their babies on the streets or lose them completely, the latter often being forced upon them by most charity groups. They decided to set up a home enabling these women to raise their children off the streets. Soon though it became chaotic and crowded, with various age groups and needs under one roof, so they chose to move the school aged children into a new house that had been donated in Goa. There was no roof, only four walls, but everyone turned up to help piece this place together. The children now go to school and are learning English, their mothers, who are still in Mumbai working now, visit and phone them on their holidays.
I was driving the scooter and saw the sign for the house and thought I might as well stop in and see what's going on; I'm so glad that we did. There was a man working outside and he pointed us to the front door where a dog, later to be told his name was Scooby Doo, greeted us; Mother Lucy came out and invited us in. The children were very excited to have visitors, and kept calling us "madam." We were there for over an hour, reading, dancing, coloring. I couldn't believe how happy these children were, getting along very well and so polite! Soon I was completely exhausted and it was dinner time, so we bid our farewells and promised to be back soon...we kept that promise, returning the next day with talcum powder, soap, shampoo and a bit of a cash donation. Mother Lucy asked if we had a few minutes, and of course we did, so we sat and she told us the story of how the house came to be. What I've just told you is a much shortened version, and without the heartwrenching details, but as you can imagine, it was quite overwhelming. She told of the first woman they saw giving birth on a park bench and then pointed behind us to the small boy sitting on the floor, his head resting on an empty propane tank, asleep; he'd started it all. It's amazing to witness what an extended hand and love can accomplish, even in the most dire of circumstances.
While in Anjuna we also took Swami, the yogi we'd met at the market, up on his offer and rode down to Calangute, a town 15 km south for morning and evening sessions of yoga and meditation. After spending time in the meditation room I'd be so relaxed that I couldn't drive; I'd have to walk around town acclimating to the chaos again before getting on the bike to head home! If everyone did yoga there would be peace on earth.
We met some other backpackers around town and from our evening volleyball sessions; a few English, George, Josh and Renee and a Norwiegen guy, Vegar, who'd been further south on a beach called Palolem for a few weeks. It sounded nice so six of us hired a big Land Cruiser to take us the three hours south, costing each of us only 6 bucks! It got greener and greener the further south we went. Palolem is a beautiful long white sand beach with palm forests pushing right up behind the beach bungalows.
Our new crew headed towards one end of the beach and crossed a small river to a bar. We sat around, candles stuck in sand, under a clear starry night, drinking Kingfisher, a really, really bad beer that gives you even worse headaches, reminiscing over the past 12 hours we'd known each other. On our way home the small river had risen and now had a wide mouth; unsure of how deep it was we hired a boat to take us across; how convenient, the guy was just waiting for us, dumb tourists. Well turns out it was quite shallow; pretty sure the boat was plowing through sand the whole time, so we got out at the halfway point and walked. Only one of us got hung up getting out and hit the water, but somehow we all managed to get wet and sandy, which made for an uncomfortable sleep since we're saving rupees sleeping three to a bed.
The following day we got scooters again, man I love driving those things, and went in search of a more secluded beach. We found Agonda, and not a cow in sight! Another day spent rolling in the waves and building sand castles; life is good.
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