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.