Southern India - November 2004

To tell you the truth I’d been feeling rotten for about 10 days before I left, but with so much going on (that’s another story) I’d not had time to stop and sort it out. With my flight leaving at 1100 I’d planned to get up around 7am so as not to rush, but at 5am I was wide awake, running a fever and generally feeling like shit. Great, I’ve waited almost a year for this holiday and had to cancel it once (you know that story…) so this I didn’t need. Knowing I’d not get back to sleep I decided to get up, get myself some breakfast, take drugs and then make my way slowly to the airport. Good job I left early too, as about 3 metro stops from home everything went wobbly and it was ‘hello breakfast’ all over Belleville station (at least I managed to get off the train before emptying my stomach). Things were going from bad to worse and it took me about 45mins to feel well enough to stand up and shoulder my backpack. What do I do; go home or call the whole thing off and spend the next 4 weeks in bed? Despite the fact that I was beginning to think this whole trip was jinxed I got myself on to the RER and continued on to Charles de Gaulle, arriving just in time to miss check in. I begged the Air France lady to let me on the flight, and I guess the state I was in, and the fact my rucksack could pass as hand baggage persuaded her to make the right decision. This left me with zero time in which to get my self together and I arrived at the gate just as they started to make the call for final boarding. There was no turning back now.
Once on the plane things started to look up. It was a brand spanking new plane and not at all crowded so I had 2 seats to myself, and I was starting to feel slightly human again. Take off was fine, they served us a snack and with 8hrs of flying time in front of us I tucked myself into my blanket and was asleep in no time. I slept like a baby but woke up feeling worse than ever. My head was spinning, it hurt to open my eyes and yep, there was no doubt about it, I was going to be very ill all over Air France’s nice new airplane. I managed to make it to the back of the plane only to find that the toilets were occupied. I think the airhostess must have seen me sprinting down the aisle and thrust a sick bag at me, just in the knick of time.
Hats off at this point to the crew. They were fantastic. They picked me up from where I’d crumpled in a heap on the floor, provided me with a first class flight kit containing face wipes, tooth brush etc and 10 minutes later had made vacant the back row of the plane, padded out the seats with pillows and blankets and put me to bed. What angels.
I’m happy to report that the rest of the journey was totally uneventful and once we arrived I was feeling steady on my feet again. The taxi ride into the city was easy and around 2am I fell into my bed in Bombay’s Southern district of Colaba.
Four years back I spent 3 weeks in Northern India, traveling through Rajasthan and spent a couple of days in Delhi. I’d seen the poverty and filth that one associates with India and so new exactly what I was getting myself in for. What I wasn’t prepared for was the difference between Northern and Southern India. Bombay felt 100 times busier than Delhi, more multi-cultured, with more people, more disparity between the rich and the poor and certainly more pollution. However through the smog you could clearly see that it was a city worth exploring.
Make shift shacks stood at the feet of high rise office buildings, huge trees stood in the grounds of old colonial houses with huge 70’s style concrete housing blocks opposite them and of course, there was a cinema every couple of hundred metres. This is after all Bollywood!
Whilst India has become the outsource capital for the West in recent years it’s also grown the world’s largest film industry, producing multimillion dollar movies, each with the trademark singing and dance routines that frankly put Britany and most boy bands to shame. After 24hrs in the city I knew the names and faces of the 4 or 5 great Bollywood actors, but couldn’t tell you the names of any of the heads of states or significant party leaders, such is the exposure these stars get.
It wasn’t just film stars that were attracting attention. With the Australian cricket team playing the city was full of Ozzies, raucously rejoicing at having won that day’s test match, and celebrating (begrudgingly) with a Kingfisher rather than a Fosters. This didn’t seem to slow them down though. Not wanting to get caught up in the wave of gold and green I headed to the train station only to find that all the trains and busses to Hampi and Goa for the next day had been booked up aforementioned bloody Australians! Nothing for it but to book myself on the sleeper for the following night and spend another day in town. This at least would give me a chance to find some drugs for the illness (that had now turned itself into a chest infection) and to explore.
Next morning I hopped an auto rickshaw to the very North of the city and started South. I truly believe the best way to discover a city is to walk it, and the 5 or 6 Kilometres across town certainly helped me get a rounder view of Bombay. I saw the dobi ghats (where the city’s washing is done), Chowpatty beach, Ghandi’s house, various beautiful old colonial buildings and countless more of the city slums. The pollution combined with the heat and humidity wasn’t helping my health but a couple of days in the Goan sun would sort that out.
Trains in India are fantastic. They’re cheap, they run on time (most of the time), they’re clean, safe and the network is extensive. The 14hr sleeper down the coast was a dream. I was traveling in 2nd class, which provided me with a sleeper bunk (in a cabin of 6), fresh linen and pillows, and air-con, all for about Eu15. After a full day’s walking sleep came easily and all I remember is the rhythmic rocking of the train and the chanting of the chai boys as they made their way up and down the carriages.
Goa’s built up quite a reputation over the last 10 years. Hippies and dropouts made way for drug crazed full-moon parties and charter flights from Europe combined with resort development have scarred both its beauty and reputation. I was careful to avoid the North of the coast (the area closest to the airport and therefore with the most resorts) and so took a bus a couple of hours South to Palolem. Here was the picture postcard beach, a clear mile of sand fringed with palms, and busy, but not too busy, with chilled out backpackers and the odd day-tripper tourist from the Northern resorts. Backpacker beach accommodation is basically the same throughout Asia: a straw hut on stilts, with a mattress, light bulb and mozzie net. What more do you need? I quickly found a quiet place at the end of the beach and installed myself for 150 rupees a night. That’s about Eu3.
Walking up and down the beach it was clear that Palolem’s capacity was much greater than was currently being used with probably 40 places offering accommodation and food. There were a couple of unusual beach occupants though; cows (sacred here of course) and dogs, far too many of them. They kept themselves to themselves in the shade though and I soon forgot about them after a dip in the warm Indian Ocean and a couple of hours lazing in the sun.
Dinner was fantastic Goan curry (although I could have chosen from Chinese, Thai, Italian or Continental such is the culinary range here in backpacker land) and with a cold Kingfisher I watched the sun slip into the sea and headed to bed.
It was then I remembered the dogs. About 30 minutes after sunset the dogs came out in packs to wreak havoc: fighting, rummaging through the bins and anything that had been left at ground level and generally making so much noise that sleep was difficult. The performance was repeated just after sunrise, accompanied by the birds, pigs, and every other animal within a 20km radius.
I met a Kiwi at breakfast who confirmed my worst fear. The night’s noise wasn't just a one-off, every night was the same. Damn, but I was awake now and the sun was shining so it didn’t bother me too much. What was bothering me though was my health. The drugs weren’t working on the chest infection and I was now having trouble breathing at night. After 3 days of beautiful sun filled days and tormented nights I decided to make a move. After all India is a huge country and there’s more to see and do than sleep all day on beach.
Getting away from Goa is pretty easy with a whole network of buses set up to ferry travelers every which way possible. From here I had the choice to head inland and North to Hampi or inland and South to Mysore. Knowing that Hampi risked being overrun with those damn Ozzies I bought a ticket on the luxury sleeper coach to Bangalore.
There’s a first time for everything and within about 5 minutes of boarding the bus I was swearing this would be the last time I’d submit myself to the experience. The ‘luxury’ sleeper was a large minibus, the seats of which had been ripped out and a series of 4ft wide bunk beds installed. Not bad, 4ft you think, that’s a good amount of space to store me and my rucksack in for the next 10 hours… Oh no, you’ve got to share this space with another, in my case a middle-aged, Indian guy.
The roads in India are treacherous at the best of times, andoften not more than a single lane wide The driver’s priority is not only to get the bus from A to B, but to do it in the shortest amount of time, and usually to avoid the all to frequent holy cow sized potholes. This bus driver’s job description obviously didn’t include avoiding the potholes and when you’re flat on your back (sorry, side) with nothing to hold on to it makes for a pretty rough ride. If this didn’t make sleep difficult enough at a certain speed in a certain gear the entire bus resonated making a deafening noise. Trying not to make any physical contact with the guy next to me and not to fall out of bed I managed to rummage around in my pack until I found that first class Air France kit I’d been handed and dig out the ear plugs. Jammed into each ear, and with my fleece wrapped around my head in an attempt to further block the noise and protect my head from the metal bar inches to the right of my forehead I settled back to ride out the journey. I think at some point sheer exhaustion must have overridden the noise and discomfort and I awoke just before 6am as we pulled into a tea stop. The sun was just coming up, the air was still cool and the tea stop was one of the better ones I’d seen. After a couple of cups of chai, and fist of sweet bananas and a bag of masala-flavored popcorn I was beginning to feel human and somewhat reluctantly got back on the bus to watch the last couple of hours' journey into Bangalore.
Bangalore is the silicon city of the North with many of the call-centres and IT services used by the US and Europe being based here. Other than that it’s another large commercial centre with the standard high rises, slums and pollution. Given this I wasn’t keen to spend more time than necessary here and so once liberated from the sleeper coach I hopped into an auto rickshaw to the city’s bus station.
There are various ways of traveling by bus in India. You can use the tourist busses, which are touted as luxury and often fall short of the mark, or you can use the local buses that make no concessions to space, or comfort, being solely focused on capacity and speed. From Bangalore I’d decided to head South West to Mysore, which according to the schedules would take 3-4 hours. The cost for a tourist bus was 70Rs and the local bus was 17Rs so the choice wasn’t difficult.
Now 70Rs is not expensive for a 3-4 hour bus ride. That’s just over 1Eu, or just short of GBP1, which in Europe wont get you very far at all, so the tourist coach would not have been an extravagant option. However all too often if you take the tourist choice you end up with either other western tourists, or Indian tourists, both of which are pleasant travel companions, but not always the most interesting. A tight budget being the mother of all adventure I paid my 17Rs and got me and my backpack on the local bus, which as usual was carrying probably 60% more passengers than it was designed or built to handle. We set off at breakneck speed, dodging cows, carts and people and in no time were out of the city limits and hurtling through the hot dry countryside. I was sat about 5 seats from the front on the opposite side of the bus to the driver so had a reasonable view of the road ahead and could brace myself for the potholes, some of which were pretty considerable. The driver wasn’t stopping for anything though until as we plunged into another foot deep hole the force of the impact was enough to bring the gear lever off in his hand. As we careered on he waved the gear stick above his head shouting what I can only image was ‘SHIITTTTTTTTT’ in Hindi, although it could just well have been ‘Not again, that’s the 3rd time this week!’. We coasted to a stop at which point the driver hopped out, flagged down a motorbike and within 30 seconds was off, still clutching the gear stick in his hand. At this point, all I could do was laugh. We were stuck on a bus and the driver, along with an essential part of the bus had just shot off, God knows to where. As the only Westerner on the bus, me not being able to suppress my laughter was very amusing to the women and children on the bus, all of who were staring at me. Meanwhile all the men on the bus were now huddled around where the gear stick and driver should be, contemplating loudly the situation. About 5 minutes later the motor cycle driver, our driver and gear stick reappeared on the motorbike along with a guy carrying a bottle of gas and a welding torch (this is all on the same motorbike) and a couple of minutes later were busy welding the thing back together. I would have loved to have got photos of this but I was squished into my seat making movement impossible, and even if I was able to get out there was now a thick circle of men (each of whom thought he personally knew the best way of welding the thing back on, and was very loudly offering instructions) overseeing the operation. With the bus fixed and the men back in their seats we continued on our journey, arriving in Mysore only 10 mins later than scheduled. I cant help but ask myself if this had happened in Europe how long it would have taken to get fixed and back on the road again.
Once the summer retreat of India’s elite and still the residence of the current maharaja, Mysore is a beautiful city that prides itself on its heritage and is keen to see that it’s preserved. Finding a place to stay here was difficult as we were now just days away from Diwali (Hindu New Year) for which Mysore is a popular destination for holidaying Indian families. Having hunted around and finally found a room at a reasonable rate I set off to look after priority number 2, food.
Although the Diwali period is a peak Indian tourist season mid-November is a little early for the Westerner tourist season so after the backpacker communities of Goa I was now very much in a minority. It was with pleasure then that another Western girl entered the restaurant and asked if she could join me. Kim, from New Zealand but now living in London, had also just arrived in Mysore where she would be staying for a month in order to study Yoga with one of the local masters. Having traveled in India and Asia before she was used to the constant attention that you get being a single female here, however we both knew that if we were to walk around town together the hassle factor would be significantly reduced, and any attention we would attract would be much more easily ignored.
After lunch we set off to explore the city and I was stuck by the care and attention that was paid, not only to the palace and its grounds but also to the other significant buildings; Government house which is a large and very stately building not far from the palace, a 1920 statue of the Maharaja stood resplendent in gold in the centre of one of the traffic circles and just a short walk on the 1927 Silver Jubilee clock tower looked in very good condition, and appeared to be keeping time perfectly. None of these things may sound overly impressive but when you consider that in other cities and states buildings and surroundings are often in a very bad state of repair Mysore's monuments stood out from the crowd.
Keen to escape the massing throngs of Indian tourists Kim and I jumped on to a local bus for the 20-minute journey up to the Chamundi Hills. Towering more than 1,000m above Mysore Chamundi Hill (one of the eight sacred hills in Southern India) is the site of the Sri Chamundeswari temple, topped off with a stunning seven-storey, 40m high gopuram (staggered pyramid-like roof heavily adorned with deities and beasts). Following the example of the other visitors we slipped off our shoes and slowly proceed inside, being careful to enter not to take a wrong turn and end up entering on the left (a heinous crime given that you must always proceed through and around a temple in a clockwise direction).
The inside was suitably adorned in gold leaf with incense weighing heavily in the air and gifts and offerings to the gods stacked before the various effigies. The group of Indians we'd tagged on to were now approaching a pair of temple guardians who were accepting offerings in return for a small flower. As we got to the guardians we noticed it was money they were collecting, and neither Kim nor I had our wallets out ready… Bowing politely we ducked past guardian and swung through the door out into the sticky afternoon air, into what can only be described as a cage. Yes we were now caged in, or more accurately out, from the rooms to the side of the temple, where a mafia-like scene was taking place. Literally piled on the tables in each of these 3 rooms we passed were mountains of banknotes with 6 to 8 guys huddled around collecting up bundles and running them though counting machines. On the floor beneath and around them sat gangs of men and young boys stacking piles of coins, then bagging them up in cloth moneybags. And who says religion’s not a cash cow? Somewhat shocked Kim and I left the building wondering just what the thousand of devout Hindus who’d made long pilgrimages in order to make an offering to a god and pray for a cause made of this scene, however no one seemed to take the slightest bit of notice.
We had originally planned to walk down the hill and back into town however the temperature was now up in the high 30s and neither of us felt quite up to the task, so we hopped back on a local bus and in no time at all were back having a quiet drink at a roadside juice stall. Only it wasn’t really that quiet. Diwali is supposed to be the festival of light with often hundreds of thousands of small oil lamps being floated down rivers and in lakes and strings of lights being draped around houses and businesses, however it seems that fireworks have taken over from the small lamps with the emphasis being on the sound of the explosion rather than the light produced. And no one was waiting for Diwali to start to see just how much noise their firecrackers could produce. Literally hundreds of metres of stalls and roadside stands had popped up over the last 24hrs selling all manner of explosives and each child was now the proud owner of a cap gun, ensuring that as foreigners we now not only got the usual grilling: ‘Hi, What’s your name? Where are you from? 10 Rupees? You give me 10 Rupees?’ but we were now gunned down in the process.
In an attempt to escape both the heat on the streets (in every sense) Kim and I ducked into a nearby cinema just in time for the afternoon showing of another Bollywood release; Ultimate Force.
I’ve seen a handful of Bollywood films recently, the storyline of each is pretty much the same (only the songs and costumes change). However Ultimate Force (we should have guessed by the title) was a pretty violent movie, taking the usual pitch of good verses evil and spicing it up with a few Kung-Fu fight scenes and lots of Matrix style special effects and lots of fake blood. Perhaps not the best way to kill a couple of hours but at least the violence drowned out the noise outside.
Leaving the cinema was what I imagine it would be like to step out onto the streets of Falluja. Rockets shot overhead, explosions ricocheted off buildings and strings of firecrackers set up across the streets were regularly ignited to ambush a passing rickshaw or holy cow. We managed to find solace in the shape of a rooftop restaurant and sat back with a couple of coconut juices to watch the mayhem below.
Sleep wasn’t easy that night. The explosions continued and just as things started to quiet down the mosque next door cranked up the call to prayer at 5am and the whole thing started over again. I wasn’t overly concerned though as I was leaving town early to catch a bus up to the hill station of Ooty, about 5 hours away in the Western Ghats.
I’d decided to pay for a tourist bus given that there were no direct local busses and the volume of Indian tourists now traveling for Diwali was insane (8 women were killed yesterday at Delhi railway station in a stampede to get on a train reported the Times of India). After a tour of the hotels in town we stopped at a rather expensive looking place and picked up a couple of Australians who were somewhat reluctant to get on our rickety minibus. ‘No’ the guy kept saying, ‘We are booked on the luxury coach to Ooty, this is not a luxury bus!’. I stuck my head out the window to tell him this was the ‘luxury’ bus and could he and his wife get on please so we could all leave. We were already 1.5hrs late.
Mr and Mrs Oz and their bags loaded on to the bus, we set off at breakneck speed, with the co-pilot stood shouting what appeared to be an itinerary for the day. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I said, ‘I was told this was a direct bus to Ooty.’ I asked, ‘Yes, direct bus’ he confirmed, ‘but they (pointing to the Australians) have paid extra money to tour Bandipar National park so now we all go to Bandipar’ he announced.
Bandipar, once the private hunting ground of the maharaja, is now an 875sq km park that along with Mudumali park straddles the boarder between Southern Karnaraka and Tamil Nadu. I’d read about the beauty of the park and its evergreen forests and woodlands but also the rarity of seeing any of the resident wildlife; tigers, panthers, deer and elephants. I was stupidly excited then when the bus careered off to the left and parked up just 50m from a herd of elephants, busy pulling branches down and scratching up against trees. Once again I was in the wrong place and so only managed top get photos of elephant bums, however the sight was spectacular and one that I’m very grateful to Mr & Mrs Oz for the opportunity.
Leaving the elephants to trundle off through their jungle we continued on to see deer and monkeys, some of which were bold enough to hop in through bus windows and doors causing quite a stir in our packed little bus. From here we started to climb up into the Western Ghats, surrounded by lush green hills and getting ever closer to the clouds that obscured the mountains from sight.
Sometime later we emerged through the tops of the clouds into brilliant sunshine and Ooty, the small town surrounded by terraced fields and situated alongside quite a substantial lake. After the heat, dirt and noise of your average Indian city Ooty had a refreshing clean and calmness about it which appealed immediately. Feeling good about the next couple of days I sat myself down in a small café to get some lunch and pour over my Lonely Planet to see about organizing treks and a guide. I’d had my head in my book for probably the best part of an hour when I looked up and out to a very different Ooty. The clouds had come down and rain was thundering down. The streets were rivers of boiling mud and it didn’t look like it was going to stop anytime soon. I ordered another chai and went back to my book.
Two hours later and the rain hadn’t stopped. It was dark now, I’d drunk enough chai to last a lifetime and the café looked like it was shutting up shop. No option but to put my head down, my collar up and run. Within seconds I was soaked and my faithful Coq Sportif sneakers were no match for the rivers of rain. It took me a good 10 minutes to walk back and I arrived very cold, very wet and pretty miserable. I like to travel light so for this trip I’d brought 2 pairs of trousers, 2 T-shirts, 1 long skirt, 1 fleece jumper, a waterproof jacket, a bikini, my sneakers and my hiking boots. As the temperature was now about 5°C and I had no sleeping bag I put on my one remaining set of dry clothes and went to bed. It was 7pm.
The night was very long and very cold and the next morning the weather was no better so I put back on my cold wet clothes, cold wet shoes and stepped out into the rain to look for hot food and drink. A couple of hours later the weather had improved a little, I’d warmed up slightly and so headed off to climb the hills behind the town, passing thorough the well-manicured botanical gardens en route. The going was incredibly difficult though as the ground was slick red mud and I had no desire to fall or risk hurting myself. Instead I headed back to town to see about finding a guide in the hope of arranging trekking for the next day. I found a guide no problems, however it seemed I was the only tourist in town and he wasn’t keen to put something up together just for me, especially as the weather forecast for the next 24hrs was continuous rain. Just my luck to head up to the mountains when a cyclone hits. Disheartened I decided I didn’t want to spend any more time in Ooty and headed for the railway station to see about getting across to Kodaikanal, another hill station in Tamil Nadu, in the hope that the weather would be better.
The station master was obviously very proud of his station. After giving me the full guided tour (he’d latched on to me as the only tourist in town) he politely informed me that no, there weren’t any trains going anywhere. After the heavy rainfall countless landslides had washed the tracks up the steep slopes away and it would probably be months before the next departure or arrival. With my morale dropping further I headed down to the bus station knowing that with the 6hrs train ride no longer an option I’d be facing a 9hr bus ride. At this point I decided to sod the expense and book a tourist coach rather than take the local bus.
300Rs later (bear in mind I’ve been paying 100-150Rs for a nights accommodation and 25Rs for a meal) I had a ticket for the next morning. I crawled back to my room, changed back into my remaining dry set of clothes and got back into bed, where it was slightly warmer than outside. It wasn’t all doom and gloom though. On my way back to my room just after I’d passed the row of firework stalls one of them quite literally exploded in a crazy impromptu display that lasted a good 10 minutes. Needless to say the children loved this, the stall holders around about though freaked and tens of men ran backwards and forwards between their stock and safety in order to avoid the whole street going up in smoke.
Next morning I made the decision to travel in my dry set of clothes and we set off down the mountain. The rains had reeked havoc with rocks, trees and landslides blocking the roads every 50 metres and the already treacherous switchbacks now became a dodgem course with busses and cars weaving their way around them.
My 300Rs had bought me the very last seat in the bus, which also happened to be the very first seat. I was sat on the opposite side from the driver, just inches from the windscreen, which meant that when he swung the bus round those tight bends for 2 or 3 seconds there was nothing between me and the sheer drop beneath me.
Jesus bus-driving H. Christ, we’re all gonna die! If I’d had something to hold on to I would have had white knuckles. Instead I just tried not to look down, or at the cowering passengers in the seats behind me. I concentrated on the driver who seemed to be taking everything in his stride.
The state of the roads meant that we were now well behind schedule and it wasn't until after 9hr of route that we started the climb up to Kodaikanal.
At just over 2,500m there are 38miles of twisty switchback roads up to the only hill station that the Americans established in India. Averaging 10 miles an hour it was a grueling 4hrs in the dark and we finally arrived in the pouring rain just after 11pm. I’d not booked a room for the night but the driver was kind enough to drop me at a budget guesthouse the guidebook recommended, however by the time I’d dashed the 10m to the door my second set of clothes and shoes were soaked. Thoroughly miserable I took their cheapest room (an outrageous 300Rs) and it wasn't until after I'd undressed and was about to fall into bed that I noticed there was no glass in the window. I jammed my backpack into the window frame in an attempt to block the wind and rain and buried myself under the bedsheets.
Another morning of wet clothes, wet shoes and wet weather. Desperately in need of food I set out to try and find a good breakfast to lift my spirits. The clouds hadn’t lifted at all and at times visibility wasn’t more than 5m which meant navigating my way around the unmarked roads very difficult, however slowly though the mist in front of me formed a familiar logo. Kodaikanal had a Baskin Robbins! Not letting the excitement get the better of me, I wandered in expecting a Indian ice-cream shop, only to be presented with an array of fresh pastries, sweets, coffees and milkshakes. I ordered a mountain of food and set about rebuilding my strength and morale. Whilst I was eating a guy walked in selling that day’s paper and I picked up a copy of the Times of India and Indian Express to pass the time.
Often while traveling it’s difficult to find out what’s going on locally due to the language barrier but with India having 3 or 4 excellent English language papers with national, international and regional news, picking up a paper in the morning had become part of my day’s routine. Whereas Arafat’s death had dominated the front pages for the last couple of days floods were now making headline news. With the torrential rainfall over the last couple of days and more forecast in the next 48hrs, Tamil Nadu, which for the past 3 years had not had its usual rainfall, was now faced with flash floods destroying homes, crops and lives, and the state’s principle dam was fit to burst. Damn, this cyclone was really getting on my nerves; I had no warm or dry clothes and no intention of continuing to pay 300Rs for another night’s frozen accommodation. More miserable than ever, I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to get to see or enjoy the Western Ghats in their full glory and went back to the guesthouse to squash everything back into my soggy backpack, and plan my next steps.
Knowing that the temperature would rise as I dropped in altitude I’d set my sights on Madurai which is one of India’s seven holy cities in Southern Tamil Nadu. Having no intention of spending another 300Rs on a tourist bus I pulled my pack on to the government bus (48Rs) and we set off at the usual break neck speed down those treacherous mountain roads. This time I was sat near the back of the bus and was pleased to be blissfully unaware of the gaping chasms and voids that awaited us at every bend. After a couple of changes of bus I arrived safely in Madurai, and with the temperature now closer to 25° than 5° my feet were slowly starting to dry out. The journey to Madurai had taken quite a while and it was late by the time I found a hotel. Despite being hungry and tired I had only one goal: to wash every item of clothing in my backpack so that tomorrow morning I could for the first time in 3 days put on dry, clean clothes.
Having already experienced a handful of India cities I was expecting Madurai to be pretty much the same; huge amounts of hustle, hassle, squalor and filth. Sure there was an element of that in Madurai, however the city seemed to move at a slower more relaxed pace, and although the roads and paths were broken there weren’t the usual pools of fetid water or rotting waste, which meant that after just a couple of hours in the city I was feeling pretty relaxed. A far cry for the cold, damp misery of Kodaikanal. One of the great things about traveling in India is that there is no shortage of English language local press. There are a number of national papers; The Times of India, the Indian Express, The Hindu, all of which publish local sections as well as national and international news. Over the past weeks I’d made a point of trying to find a paper each day and along with the book I’d been given to read, India in slow motion, by Mark Tully, I was able to build up a good picture of the current events and how they affected life around me. For example I learnt of the threat to increase fuel prices which resulted in there being a transport strike, that the rains I’d experienced in the Western Ghats had caused flooding and huge amounts of crop damage in Tamil Nadu, and I learnt all about the elephant retreat.
Each year after Diwali all the temple elephants in Southern India are sent away for a break to an elephant holiday/health farm where they can roam free, get medical attention and do whatever else elephants do to relax. On my first morning in Madurai the paper announced the elephant from the temple would be loaded that evening and of course there would be the usual celebrations, prayers and offering to the gods to ensure the elephant (they refer to them in the papers as dumbos) would have a safe trip, an opportunity not to be missed.
Just as with all Indian celebrations this one included a parade through the streets of the statue of a god, offerings of flowers, food and cash and huge amounts of noise and firecrackers. The crowd that had gathered was enormous and pretty soon we were so crushed that I couldn’t get my backpack off my back to get my camera out. Needless to say the elephant was scared out of its wits by all this, and the very last thing it wanted to do was get into the truck that they were backing up towards it.
Up until now I’d been trying to push my way to the front, now as the elephant roared and stamped I was pleased there were 4 or 5 people forming a human shield in front of me. After much cajoling and what seemed endless beatings with sticks the dumbo finally relented and thundered up the ramp. The tailgate was slammed shut behind it and the last I saw was a glimpse of its trunk reaching out of the truck for a branch as, with its horn blaring, the truck sped off round a corner. Poor elephant, I hope his holiday was more relaxing than his send off.
Given that I’d gotten into the swing of Madurai I’d decided to base myself there for a couple of days in order to stay in the same place for a couple of nights and plan properly where I was going next. The days therefore fell into a regular routine. Up early (call to prayer at 5am in the mosque next to the hotel…), breakfast of idly and vadai with plenty of chai stretched out with a read of the papers, wander round town trying to get lost and exploring the markets and stalls (a bit of shopping), long lunch in order to escape the midday sun then each afternoon I would head over to the temple in order to discover another part of the huge compound and people-watch as the sun set.
It was these final hours that I really looked forward to as there would invariably be a ceremony going on somewhere that would make for fascinating viewing and there were usually a couple of inquisitive Indians nearby who were ready to explain what was going on and make general conversation. It was with some reluctance then that after 3 days I dragged my rucksack off to the railway retiring rooms in order to sleep for a couple of hours and catch the 4am train to Trivandrum.
Originally from Madurai I’d planned to head South East to Rameswaren, a temple town on the most Eastern tip of India, which is commonly refered to as the Varanasi of the South. The cyclone that had destroyed my trekking plans in the Ghats had played havoc on the Tamil plains and with the rail services suspended due to floods I decided against risking the 10hr bus journey and to save Rameswaren for my next Indian adventure. This had meant I could chill out in Madurai for the 3 days and now continue with my journey up the Keralan coast back towards Mumbai.
Trivandrum is almost at the very tip of India, but apart from being a transport and business hub there’s not much to see or do. I therefore hopped straight from the train on to a bus about 40Km North to a small temple town called Varkala, on the cliffs above the coast.
Varkala is only a small place but it’s known for 2 things: its Ayervedic medical centres and its temple explosions. I should have remembered this before I took a room just a couple of hundred metres from the temple crossroads.
After my early start I spent a great relaxing afternoon on the beach, soaking up the sunshine, playing in the surf and catching up on the day’s newspapers so I was pretty tired when I fell into bed around 10pm. When I travel I tend to get into the rhythm of getting up early and getting to bed early, but 4am when the music and huge explosions started was a little too early for me. I’d just get back to sleep when ‘BOOOOM’ and the window glass would rattle and shake in its frame. I dug out the Air France travel kit, rammed the ear plugs in and buried my head under the pillow until 6ish when I decided I could take it no more. I wandered up to the temple where hundreds of worshippers crowded around waiting to enter and get their blessing, whilst outside in the town’s tank what looked like baptisms were taking place. I wanted to take photos of this but a couple of stern looks when I got my camera out persuaded me otherwise. A nearby Indian woman took time out from her pilgrimage to the temple to explain that the explosions were to wake up the gods and draw their attention to the prayers and offerings that were being made. After an hour or so of watching and learning I set off towards the beach and breakfast, which Varkala being a bit of a backpacker spot was the backpacker standard, banana porridge and fresh fruit salad. Fantastic!
After a couple of days in Varkala taking some great walks along the coastal cliffs and hours watching the local fishermen bring in their catch I hopped on another early morning train up to Kollam, the gateway to the Kerelan backwaters.
Much of the coastline over the next 100Km is a network of seawater channels and islands, hidden amongst which are countless villages, supporting themselves from fishing and farming. I wanted to rent a small boat and organize a day exploring these villages, however in my 2 days in Varkala I’d found no one wanting to share the expense with me. I found no one in Kollam either, so I bought a ticket for the standard tourist cruise up the coast to Appeley. I was a little nervous about this as one of the guys I’d spoken with had told me the boat he took was noisy and belched out black smoke, however the boat we clambered onto (about 6 Westerns and 15 Indian tourists) was in pretty good shape and chugged away quietly as we started up the channels. Traveling by water is usually pretty relaxing and after 2.5 weeks of adrenalin-charged road transport and longwinded train journeys, being able to watch the beautiful scenery slip by without dust, pollution or continuous horns was blissful.
Around lunchtime we pulled alongside a floating restaurant and had a quick thalis with fantastic fresh pineapple and coconuts for desert. Over lunch I got talking to a guy from New Zealand and over the remaining 5 hours of our trip we hung out in the shade of the lower deck and swapped travel stories and India view and experiences. We’d been to quite a few similar places and were both headed in the same direction so when we got ashore as the sunset at Appeley we decided to split our expenses and share a rickshaw to the train station. One of the joys of traveling independently is that you can be totally spontaneous, and selfish, deciding to go where you want when you want. However solo travel is hard work. You can’t leave your pack for 5 seconds to go and explore (or go pee) and as a woman the hassle factor can be exhausting so I was more than happy to have Jon’s company for a while. We arrived in Ernakulm, the capital of Kerela, just before 11pm and deciding to continue splitting our costs we found a guest house with a twin room and crashed for the night.
As I’ve explained I’ve been used to waking, or being woken, up early, so I was pretty surprised when I looked at my watch to see it was almost 9am. On the other side of the room Jon was fast asleep and outside it was eerily quiet. Either something was very wrong or we’d just found the quietest guest house in India! Knowing that we could both get night trains out to our next destinations the night after we decided to book ourselves in for a 2nd good night’s sleep and set off by ferry across Ernakulum’s harbour to explore Fort Cochin.
Ernakulum used to be the major trading port for spices with the Middle East, Far East, Africa and Europe and the influences of these cultures as left its mark with colonial architecture and various churches and communities. India is criss-crossed with religions and divisions of religions, however Fort Cochin is pretty unique in that it’s home to a small Jewish community along with their own synagogue. The area, known as Jew Town, is surrounded by spice markets and traders along with the usual tourist stores and hawkers. After a quick look around the synagogue and a couple of fantastic samosas from a roadside food stall we headed to the outskirts of Jew Town to the Dutch Palace, so called as the building was renovated by the Dutch in 1663. The building, which was originally constructed by the Portuguese in 1555 and presented to the raja of Kochin (in exchange for securing trading privileges) is more of a large house than palace, however the murals that adorn the many rooms and chambers are exquisite, depicting in incredibly fine detail scenes from the Ramayana, Mahabharata and Puranic legends. From the outside the palace hadn't looked like it'd take more than an hour to explore but the murals had us transfixed and I'm sure that if the palace hadn't kicked us out for lunchtime closing we would have spent the whole day admiring the walls.
I've never been very good at handling large amounts of sunshine and with John being ginger-haired and fair-skinned we were both suffering within minutes of finding ourselves in the searing midday sun. We jumped into a rickshaw back towards central Kochin and having picked up the day's papers and another snack from a food stall we hid ourselves in the shade of the waterfront buildings and watched the water traffic coming and going between Kochin and Ernakulum.
Fort Kochin turned out to be much smaller than we imagined and despite our best attempts at getting lost in its small network of streets and lanes we found we'd quickly covered the majority of the area and set off back across the harbour to our quiet hotel neighbourhood. Although the Palace was amazing, Kochin didn't seem to warrant more than a day or two’s visiting and so we stopped off at the railway station on the way back to book the next legs of our journey.
With John heading to Mysore he was able to get a midday train out the next day, however as I was headed North back to Goa I had to wait until 7pm for the next direct train. Not that this proved a problem though, I was engulfed in an excellent book and I relished the thought of a couple of hours to myself in which to crack on and maybe finish it. Having seen John off at the station I strolled outside only to be bowled over by the throngs of rickshaw drivers and taxi men trying to persuade me to choose their vehicle over one of the hundred others. Of course having been traveling with a guy for the last 48hrs (and especially a 6ft tall crazy red-headed one) as a women I'd become invisible, or untouchable. In the last 2 days of calm I'd let my guard slip, and instead of walking briskly out of the station intent on my direction I'd ambled out slowly and was now surrounded. Damn. With my head down and elbows up I cleared a path through the mass of males and beat a hasty retreat to my book and hotel room.
Why was I headed back to Goa when there was so much more of Southern India yet to explore? Simple, this was supposed to be a holiday and although solo travel opens up an amazing world of experiences and adventures, it’s anything but relaxing. With now 3.5 weeks of travel under my belt and only a few days before I was due to fly back to Paris I wanted to plant my backpack in a place for more than 48hrs and take time to kick back and reflect on everything I'd experienced.
Not wanting to return to Palolem this time I opted for Benalium, just 20km or so North, but a lot more relaxed and less packed, so under-populated in fact that I could walk for a good hour on the beach in either direction and not see another soul. This was my idea of a perfect Indian Ocean getaway. I spent the last 3 days of my vacation getting up early, walking as far down the beach as possible, larking about in the sea and lounging about in the sun. I finally got to catch up on the month’s worth of reading I'd been carrying with me and a chance to put together my thoughts and plans for my return to Paris and the coming months. Not wanting to have to lose 24hrs vacation travelling and to avoid another night in Bombay, one of the first decisions I made was to book a flight direct from Goa to Bombay. The remaining 3 days blur into a lazy haze of sun and great seafood.
The flight back to Bombay was easy and as we came in low over the city the enormous sun slipped below the horizon giving me the best sunset of my vacation, and a natural end to my journey. The travelling was only just starting though. The flight back to Paris was smooth this time and I had the good fortune to wake up as we were flying over the Arabian states and on a beautiful bright moonless night look down upon the deserts, which were dotted with the occasional settlement. We landed in Paris as the sun rose on a clear winter’s morning and just an hour or so later I was sat on my terrace in the warm sunshine with a much needed and much missed cup of real coffee and croissant. I was glad to be home, no doubt about it, but the chance to relax was brief. Four hours later I was back in the Air France lounge and back in European business women work mode waiting for a flight to the UK. In just 48hrs I'd moved from backpacker digs in Goa to high-class hotels in London. My body was in culture shock; my brain was already planning my return to India.