Having fallen into a rhythm for the 10km hike, it was abruptly shattered when the guide, who had been walking ahead, suddenly turned back and fled past us. Without a word, he rushed of into the jungle. Mindful of his earlier warning, we turned in pursuit, frantically trying to keep up with him. He cleared a ledge and dashed into the thicket. ”Down, down, quick!” he urged. Obeying his orders, we huddled into the tall grass, not saying a word. Nervous, but excited we sat there, wondering what we were hiding from. After a few moments he spoke. ”It’s okay now. They’re gone,” he gasped, struggling to get his breath back. ”What was it?” asked Garry. The guide shook his head, still panting. “A tiger?” Another shake of the head. “A bear?” “No,” he gasped. ”Park rangers.” The three of us looked at each other in relief and were tempted to giggle, but this fear was all too real for our guide. It could have meant losing his livelihood. ”We have to go back the long way now,” he told us. So, pushing on quietly with our eyes peeled, we were led off the path, through the forest.
When we reached a river which was too wide to cross, the guide haggled with the lone skipper of a bamboo raft. He turned to us and said, “He want too much money. We must walk.” ”We don’t mind paying,” said Maeve, now tiring and ready to put her feet up. She pulled an agonised face, and I knew how she felt. It was hot and we had been walking for hours. A shortcut home would have eased the pain. ”I have already said no. He wants to much.” The guide was adamant. I think it would have hurt his pride to pay the raft owner his price, so that was that. We trudged on until the river narrowed and waded across, getting soaked. It was about 1pm by now, and the midday heat was getting more and more intense. Initially cooled by our paddle, we were dried off too quickly by the heat of the sun. The detour had added another two hours onto the walk. Getting hotter and dehydrated, we were relieved to finally see the road that runs through the park. We had made it back without getting seen by rangers or attacked by elephants or tigers. We paid our guide a good month’s wage - he had after all taken a big risk- and wished him well. It had been a wonderful day-truly unforgettable!
We were by now in tea and coffee country. The best of Indian tea is grown in the more northern Indian states from where such fine teas such Assam and Darjeeling come. Kerala is more of a PG Tips producer, but abundant in plantations nonetheless. The next day, Maeve, Garry and I hired a rickshaw and a guide to show us the tea coffee and spice plantations set on the hills around Kumily. Our first stop was a small family-run farm of no more than about two acres, where we were welcomed with warm smiles by the woman of the house. Both she and the guide walked us through the neatly laid out garden, abundant with plants bearing herbs, spices, fruit, tea and coffee. She had little English, but the guide translated and told us that the couple had farmed all their lives and were reasonably successful. Clearly they were not rich but neither were they greedy. They lived in beautiful, peaceful surroundings and were content with what they had. Her husband invited us into a tiny outhouse to show us their produce, while she went and made some freshly ground coffee.
After buying some peppercorns and papayas from them, we headed to a tea- processing factory not far away. Outside the large stone building, carpenters were making intricate tea chests. Inside about 20 people were going about the process of sifting the leaves, after which they were stuffed through antique-looking machines to dry. There was no ventilation, very little light and a constant noise. Health and safety regulations were non-existent here. Worst of all was the dust, and I wondered about the eventual effect on the lungs of these workers. They told us they worked ten hours a day, six days a week to earn 1000 rupees a month, the equivalent of around £25. ”How much you earn in your country?” one of the workers was keen to know. Our answer, even though on the conservative side, led to wide-eyed stares, and looks of disbelief. ”You very, very rich,” he said. We quickly went on to explain to them how much more expensive the cost of living was in our part of the world. ”250 rupees for one packet of cigarettes,” said Garry “Only 10 rupees here,” he said looking a lot happier. Despite the long hours and the poor conditions, the men were content; they were the lucky ones, they had a job. Our guide now took us to a viewing point overlooking the state of Tamil Nadu, which borders Kerala. We sat, munching our papaya, and the driver began telling us a story. Indians love to tell stories. They love romances, epics, and tragedies. ”Not long ago, young woman throw herself off rocks right here,” he began. This woman had an affair with a local man, and had became pregnant. She pleaded with him to marry her, but he refused. Knowing her family would disown her, she took her own life by jumping off the very cliff where we were sitting.
Kumily had been wonderful, but it was time to move on. Maeve had planned to do a two-week yoga and meditation course in Trivandrum and was heading back that way. We both knew we wouldn’t be seeing each other for a good while and saying goodbye is never easy. I would greatly miss her companionship and good humour, and there were tearful hugs as we parted. Back down to two again, we packed up the faithful Enfield, and headed for the Tamil Nadu border, and our next destination, Kodaikanal. It was a hard day’s drive and we passed some of the poorest, most run down villages we had yet encountered. Little shacks, constructed from bamboo and dried woven palm leaves, were the mode of housing. It happened to be washday in one of these tiny settlements. From the bridge, where we stopped, we could see maybe fifty women and children at the foot of a small group of waterfalls, thrashing the dirt from their clothes, whacking them over the rocks. They were already well into the task and the small islands in the river were covered in vibrantly coloured, wet fabrics, strewn out to dry.
Washday is a social occasion as well as a chore. As the women chattered constantly while they worked, the children splashed about happily in the shallows. I couldn’t help thinking that, hard as the work may seem, they wouldn’t thank you for a washing machine. The day at the river gives the women a chance to get out and socialise, not something they get to do too often. Eventually, when we were spotted, the chatter began to cease. We felt we were intruding. Moving on, we began the ascent up to Kodai stopping frequently to admire the view over waterfalls and misty rocky outcrops. Surrounded by thickly wooded slopes and spectacular views, the hill station of Kodaikanal was established during the Raj. American missionaries set up a school for European children during the 1840s, which still has the reputation of being one of the most prestigious schools in India. The drop in temperature moving up from the valley was noticeable, but we were surprised to see the locals wrapped up in scarves and gloves. It wasn’t that cold. The absence of mosquitoes was a welcome change, and for a few days, we enjoyed this lovely cool climate.
Making our way down the mountain again, temperatures quickly rising to above thirty degrees, we made an overnight stop in Coimbatore, an ugly, industrial town. The heat of the valley was oppressive after the cool climes in Kodai. A few days at another hill station was not going to go amiss. To get there we faced another 2000m climb, through sharp winding roads. Dark clouds began to form as we approached the top. ”I don’t think we’re going to make it without getting soaked,” I said. “We’d better get our rain gear on.” Garry pulled the bike into the roadside and began searching for the rain gear. “Here we go, right at the bottom” he said pulling clothes from the bag. We didn’t expect rain for another few months at least and we certainly didn’t expect hail. Our waterproofs were no match for the deluge that followed. The rain and hail came down in sheets. We were still an hour from Ooty and with the temperature dropping around every corner, we arrived soaked and chilled to the bone. ”Who’s idea was it to come to another stupid hill station?” I said to Garry, shivering. He glared at me. ”Don’t even start…!” Stopping at the first hotel we could find, we quickly checked in, only to be told there would be no hot water until the next morning. Oh boy!
The city of Ooty is sometimes labeled “snooty Ooty.” Like Kodai it has a number of prestigious schools, where the children of wealthy Indian families are sent to board. These were founded during the British Empire and teach English as a first language. There’s quite a large western population here, most of whom would be teachers at the various schools. It was actually too cold here, so after two