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.
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