WHEN IT RAINS, IT MONSOONS

Friday, December 26th at 20:27

Kevin:

It has been an emotional week. We just returned to our hotel room here in Bangalore after saying our goodbyes and sending off Peter and Julia. They will continue their journey and fly off to New Zealand this evening. It is hard to believe that we have spent virtually every day together for the last four weeks. No squabbles, arguments or disagreements, just pure fun and enjoyment. A spontaneous friendship that started at the back of a bus and is sure to last a lifetime. And as the title of their post says, “Good Friends Can Never Be Separated”. We also celebrated a different kind of Christmas this year. One where friends and family were at the far end of a Skype call. With the company of our traveling mates, we did our best to conjure up feelings of home by ordering Punjabi Pizza and drinking beer. Tomorrow makes one week that we have been without our camera. After one of the most memorable days in India, our camera slipped out of my pocket and into the back seat of the rickshaw. By the time I noticed it was missing, the driver was gone and so were three months of photographic memories. No backups and more than likely, no chance of getting them back. It has all been very sobering and has taken its toll on our emotions. We still try hard to remember that we are incredibly fortunate to be where we are and to be doing what we are doing. We also remind ourselves that both friends and memories stay forever in our hearts.

December 27th at 18:26

Kevin:

The Nilgiri Blue Mountain Railway



We are currently sitting in a “Cafe Coffee Day”, India's equivalent of Starbuck's. When we left you in our last post, we were leaving the small beach town of Varkala in the south of Kerala. Having been separated from Peter and Julia for three days, we were anxious to once again reunite and continue our travels through the south of India. We left our comfortable cliff side beach hut early in the morning to catch a train at Varkala's train station, perhaps the cleanest, quietest and most organized train station that we had visited yet. Our reunion with our traveling buds would be in the industrial city of Coimbatore. We would not spend more than a night there and would use the city as our jump off point for a train to the small town of Mettupalayam which we would catch at 5:30 in the morning. After a one hour train ride, we would then switch trains. The train we would be transferring to is referred to as a “toy train” and was constructed by the British to provide access to the tea plantations in the high and hard to reach areas of the Nilgiri mountains. The toy train rides on a narrow gauge track and was designed by the Swiss. It is powered by a steam engine which attaches at the rear of the small coaches and pushes them through steep terrain into the mountain range by use of a gear that engages with the track and must stop on occasion to build steam back up to the required pressure of 15psi. It is a slow ride, taking approximately six hours, but passes through some of the most breathtaking and pristine wilderness. There is also a solar fence (electrified) in some areas to keep the local elephant population from camping out on the tracks. When it is all said and done, you arrive in a small town, colonized originally by the British tea plantation owners, known as Udhagamandalam, or Ooty for short. It was referred to as “Snooty Ooty” when still occupied by the British, who have all but vanished leaving a bustling mountain top village complete with a lakeside carnival, horse racing track and rose garden.

The city of Ooty itself is nothing great to behold and in fact a bit crowded and noisy and Ooty Lake is said to be completely polluted with sewage. However, a quick bus ride out of town and you are in some of the most beautiful and untouched reaches of nature. That is, until you reach the top of the highest peak in the region, and Karnataka for that matter, know as Dodabetta Peak. After hiking 4Km to the top, we were flabbergasted to find a paved road, parking lot, vendors selling everything from souvenir photos to spicy roasted peanuts, and an admission booth, and all situated right on the peak of the mountain. Not what we expected to find after hiking through hard wood forests strewn with wildflowers and animal tracks. In the spirit of “if you can't beat them, join them”, we disregarded our expectations and settled in to enjoy some hot chai and chilli bajji from the mountain top vendor.





Not wanting to resign to the idea that all Ooty had to offer was a mountain top carnival, we decided to head out from the peak on a small marked trail and see if we could find our way back to town by foot. Probably the wisest decision we could have made. After a fairly long jaunt through wilderness, we eventually came through a clearing and saw a small village at the end of the trail. We began our descent and were a bit concerned upon hearing the bark of dogs that appeared to be getting closer and closer and then a woman working in a rice field running towards us with a large knife. Pushing our fears aside, we pressed on, only to find that the dogs were not as interested as the locals who, though not speaking a word of English, were delighted to try and talk to us, laugh at us a bit and then point us in the direction of Ooty after understanding Peter's best sign language. We continued through town and were approached by smiling children playing in the streets who were ecstatic to have their pictures taken, woman carrying the day's load of firewood on their heads and whole families presumably heading to or back from social gatherings with friends and family. Truly a highlight or our short two day stay in Ooty. That night, we would settle into our surprisingly frigid accommodations at the local YWCA with some locally made chocolate, a bottle of locally made Old Monk rum and an attempt to try and light a fire in the fire place that would smoke us out of the room thanks to the unnoticed plug that had been placed in the flute stack.

Madikeri and the Tibetan settlements






As is customary, we would wake up early, gather our things and head back to the main bus stand to head out to our next destination, Madikeri. As mentioned before, every bus ride in India is an adventure. This one would prove to be no different. Aside from being an unusually bumpy ride, we would also be treated to a jaunt through the Mudumalai Wildlife Sanctuary where we would see spotted deer, monkeys and bison all along the side of the single lane, roughly paved road that passed right through the middle of the park, and then be delayed for half an hour as a demonstration (strike) in a local village would result from a large gathering of men sitting in the intersection and waving banners in a language that gave us no chance at understanding the source of their frustration. We eventually, nine hours later, arrived in Madikeri where we immediately began searching for accommodations.

At first, all the hotels located adjacent to the bus station were ether completely full or more than we were willing to pay. Not being dissuaded, we pushed on until we had the great fortune of finding a fully furnished, two bedroom apartment at the “Green Stay” home stay. It was almost like being at home with a kitchen, living room, television and balcony overlooking the local river, also known as the sewer system. Having developed a heavy cough and pounding headache, I decided to stay back while Peter, Julia and Idalis went out to make final arrangements for our three day trek and, to my surprise, bring back a dinner of fresh tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, olives, fresh parota, spicy peanuts, chutney, and our new favorite, mango juice and Old Monk rum. We ate around the coffee table while listening to music and having great conversation, which also consisted of planning our next few days in Madikeri.

Due to my not feeling too well, we decided to postpone our three day trek for one day and take advantage by visiting the adjacent city of Kushalnagar. In a bizarre twist of fate, we would fill our free day with two activities that I think greatly impacted everyone, and would definitely be a day that I would not soon forget. Our first stop was the Golden Temple, a mirage of sorts, which is a Tibetan Village stuck right smack dab in the middle of southern India's most beautiful landscape. A working monastery complete with four Buddhist Temples and a hand full of Tibetan Monks ranging in age from very young to very old. Open to the public, you are invited into the heart of their compound, urged to join in their meditations and made to feel an incredible sense of warmth by their smiling faces, which seem to hide all the secrets of the world in their peaceful stares. We all walked clockwise around the inside of the temples, as is customary, and admired the intricate wall paintings depicting the stories of Buddhism and marveled at the gold statues towering nearly sixty feet overhead. Not having enough, we decided to walk a few kilometers to the adjacent Sera Village, named after the largest monastery in Tibet, and housing approximately 5000 Tibetan monks. We were quite impressed by the simplistic lives undertaken by the inhabitants of the village and were equally baffled by the juxtaposition of tranquil Buddhism living amongst the cacophonous and chaotic buzz of rickshaws tearing down the peaceful streets. A matter that seemed to only bother us and not have any effect on the monks who had settled here generations ago after India granted them asylum from their mother land of Tibet, after the Chinese invasion, and was kind enough to grant them homesteads which they have since turned into fertile land for both the harvest of the body, the mind and the spirit. We even had the pleasure of speaking to a monk named Pema, which means lotus in Tibetan, that urged us to not only undertake our external adventures and travels but to also promise to spend some time cultivating our internal journeys to find true happiness and true self. A promise that we plan to keep!

After a full day enjoying what can only be referred to as absolute peace, tranquility and spiritual bliss, it was not long before we were back into a loud, gas guzzling, exhaust spouting rickshaw heading back into the chaos of an Indian city and a moment that would define the next few days for me. In what can only be defined as a serious lapse in my judgment, habit and compulsion, I exited the rickshaw without checking my pockets or the seat to ensure that all of my possessions were still, in fact, in my possession. By the time I noticed that the camera was not in its proper place, my left pocket, it was too late and the rickshaw and driver were completely out of site. At first, a wave of heat passed over my head, I panicked, and then quickly tried to pull myself back together and grabbed the next rickshaw I could find to chase down the driver. I told Idalis, Peter and Julia to wait for me at the bus station and I set out on the most impossible task of trying to identify a driver whose head I had only seen from the back. Desperately searching a sea of black and yellow rickshaws and retracing all of our steps, I was amazed that we actually found the rickshaw and driver about an hour later. Feeling a bit relieved, but not yet satisfied, I pleaded with him to allow me to search the rickshaw and when my search turned up nothing I inquired with him as to whether or not he had been fortunate enough to find the camera or knew if any of his patrons had. He stated to be unaware of its existence and at that moment I felt my heart drop to the bottom of my chest. At this point, there was not much more that I could do. The driver had enough time to transport several passengers, if he actually had the camera I could not prove it and it was late, getting dark and everyone was back at the bus station waiting for me. In a moment of defeat, I hung my head, got back into the rickshaw and spent the next forty minutes recapturing all of the photos I had lost in my head. It felt as if I had lost a friend or favorite pet. The camera was the least of my concerns. The one gigabyte memory card that held about four thousands photos of Spain, Italy, Greece, Turkey and India was all I could think about for the next few days. It is a lesson in life that I will learn the hard way. Always have a back up, do not give value to material things, the best day of your life could also be your worst, true memories are best stored in your heart and head, etc. Even one week later I still battle with my oversight and carelessness. I reached out to the local police and put up fliers offering a reward, but in my heart I am trying desperately to just let go. I feel selfish at times for hanging on too much. If anything, I should have learned that day that material possessions are not what is important, but rather the inner journeys!

It was not all about loss that day. On the bus ride back to Madakeri, where we were staying, we were corralled from one bus to another due to a flat tire. An obvious tourist that was sitting in the front row of the first bus, ended up having to sit next to us in the rear of the replacement bus. In fact, we had seen him laboring with his backpack and knew the feeling all too well. So, we invited him back to sit with us and save one seat for him and one for his bag. He ended up being Tomaj, originally from Iran but living in Sweden. He also ended up having dinner with us that night, and to our surprise, sitting in the tour operators office signing up for two of the three days of our trek. A pleasant surprise and a great guy to spend some time with as well as learn a bit about m middle east politics from someone who works as a political analyst right in the thick of it all.

Trekking through the Kodagu mountains



Idalis:

Thanks to the German efficiency of Peter and Julia, they had already set us up for a three day trek through the Kodagu mountains, which is part of the Western Ghats. We would climb and descend three different peaks in three days, and stay in two different villages, one night camping in a tent and the next night staying with a local family.

Our young guide on our first day, Leraj, joined us on the bumpy public bus (the only kind there is in India!) from Madikeri to the tiny Vanachalu Village, where we started our first hike. Kevin, Peter, Julia, Leraj, our new friend Tomaj and I all chatted along the way, discussing politics in Iran, education in India, while sampling the cardamom pods growing along the trail. It was beautiful, and despite Leraj's speed tour to the top, we were able to view rugged mountain terrain and coffee plantations along the way. When we reached Nishani Peak, at a height of 1270 meters, we looked out over the green, green hills and gave a silent thank you for being able to see this side of India. We were breathless, simultaneously because of the beautiful sight and very fast pace!

We arrived in the village of Talatmane after a short (and bumpy!) bus ride. We were greeted by our hosts and then had our welcoming beverage outside the home of the family which would be our cooks. We were served hot chai outside their simple hut, where a young calf was tied to a pillar. We sat down on the wooden bench and tried to avoid the cow poop on the floor, and ignored the weird taste of the tea. When no one was looking, I pretended to be interested at the clucking chickens and through mine out!

That night, after dinner (which turned out to be surprisingly delicious!), we made a fire close to our tent. The five of us warmed ourselves close to the flames, talked and laughed and talked some more, and passed around a flask of Old Monk rum. When we were all good and tired, we retired to our simple tents, which were freezing cold and whose sheets smelled like what I imagine to be horse urine. We wore all of our clothes in layers, and still only barely escaped frostbite! Several days later, Peter and Julia would develop a nasty rash (complete with insects under the skin) from those pee-perfumed sheets!

Day two found us taking a bus from Talatmane to the town of Kopathi Kundi, where we started and finished our trek. Our guide was a gem, Mr. Raja, owner of the tour company we used for the trek, and a walking encyclopedia of all things botanical. We were joined by a young and modern Indian couple, Rajeev and Shruti, whom we took the opportunity to question about all things Indian, and became instant friends! Rajeev is a military man and hails from Punjab, while Shruti is a native Mumbian and art director. The were friendly, extremely intelligent, and patiently explained anything we wanted to know about Indian culture. We reached Kopathi peak, at 1375 meters up, and triumphantly devoured our packed lunches! Once finishing our descent, we were greeted by our seemingly tipsy host and given a ride by his increasingly obvious inebriated friend, where nine of us stuffed into a small Tata car and prayed for our safe arrival to our destination. Once arriving, Rajeev and Shruti came to our rescue and bravely chastised the owner of the home stay for allowing a careless person to drive us, something we would not have had the guts to do ourselves. That night, though, we were witness to a rare treat: we were able to enter the village's local temple and participate (albeit confusingly) in a Hindu puja ceremony. We just followed whatever Shruti did, which involved a lot of clasping of hands, standing before a loud clanging bell, and bringing smoke from a small fire to our faces.

Day 3's hike was in the village of Kakkabe. Our guide, Suresh, pointed out local plants on our way up to the peak, which was our highest yet at 1850 meters. It was a steep climb to the top and the last hour proved to be the most challenging, with crumbling rock and stiff winds. Our hard work was rewarded with a beautiful view from the top of rolling grassy mountains and a peaceful, serene feeling we hadn't felt in a very long time. That night, back in Madikeri, we met up with Rajeev and Shruti for dinner and the six of us had a feast (and a few congratulatory Kingfishers) before getting on our overnight bus to Bangalore.

Christmas in Bangalore



For the first time in the history of Indian transportation, our bus actually arrived EARLY to its destination, a whole two hours early, which meant being kicked off the bus into the dark, busy streets of Bangalore at 4am. We knew we'd have to find a place to relax in before checking into our hotel later on, but this proved to be a difficult task. As soon as the four of us stepped off the bus, a crowd of touts and rickshaw drivers began to envelop us with promises of cheap rooms and short rides. It was IMPOSSIBLE to get away from them, and any time we turned a corner, there were more there to annoy and exasperate you. We finally found a “resting room” close to the bus station, and paid 40 rupees each to sit in hard, uncomfortable chairs for two hours, away from (most of) the noise and chaos. What a way to start our Christmas Eve!

When we finally got to our hotel room at the Ashley Inn, I broke down in front of Kevin. Losing the camera, three nights of no sleep, our unwelcoming start in Bangalore, and seeing the state of our too-expensive “deluxe room” proved to be just too much for me. I started crying, and crying, and crying, while Kevin consoled me, dried my tears, and said some encouraging words (“It's a nice room, MumMum. The bathtub isn't THAT dirty!).

Christmas in Bangalore turned out to be great, even though it contained none of the traditions any of us were used to. We did some very un-Christmaslike things, like going to the Hard Rock Cafe on Christmas Eve, ordering pizza on Christmas Day, and watching Shrek 3. We went shopping, walked along MG Road, and blocked out the noise of the million tuk-tuk drivers. Bangalore is a hip, modern city, though still full of India's famous juxtapositions. Young IT professionals in their new Mercedes Benz pull up to traffic lights while little girls with beautiful but dirty faces beg for rupees in the congested, fume-filled streets. Our time in Bangalore was bittersweet, as have been most of our experiences in India, since we were able to spend Christmas with our dear friends Julia and Peter, but also had to say good-bye to them the day after. A range of emotions were felt in this last week, from highs of joy to lows of sadness, just like the title reflects: when it rains in India, it monsoons.