Periyar to Kovallam

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We forgot to add that at the end of our backwater trip we learned that Mr Old was 72!

Off to the bus station to catch a bus to Periyar Animal Sanctuary, a bus that, having glass in front and rear screens, had none elsewhere. Fine for the breeze but not so for the fine dust. At the bus stand (station to us) a very helpful chap with crutch and wonky leg was selling lottery tickets. Not that we needed the lottery tickets but his advice as to which bus was helpful as the writing on the bus was not written with our alphabet. Refusing his tip we got on to standing room only when we started chatting to a young couple from Birmingham who told us they were going to Trivandrum. Trivandrum! Oops! Wrong direction! Perhaps he wasn’t as helpful as we had thought, as it was later confirmed by the conductor who, taking our 16Rs fare, kindly advised us to get off. We crossed the road when, like the underground, another bus going the opposite direction arrived in seconds, so another 16Rs and back to square one. An experience all the same. The correct bus arrived and off we set, this time at least with a seat. A one and half hour journey standing was not a happy prospect, then a four hour one to Periyar. Up through the lush green tea plantations we went where, once again, we arrived to hassle. Standing and looking, a chap arrived on a motor cycle requesting us to move as that was where he was going to park. If he was a tout he was very good and very friendly and offered to take us to his friend’s hotel which was next to the one we had anticipated at least with a promise that if we didn’t like it we could also revert to our original choice. Although 1000Rs and not the anticipated 500-600Rs, it was exceptionally good, on the third floor with a balcony overlooking a meadow in the sanctuary. We agreed 900Rs and with a pair of breakfasts, 100 0 all in.

That evening we sat on the balcony where, once more, a storm was watched, though this one silent as it was too far away to be heard, save for the odd gentle rumble now and then. The lightning however was spectacular, dipping, diving and dancing across the sky, reaching its climax with strokes at a rate of more than one per second.

Still not too good, we lazed for the morning then ventured into the nature reserve on foot, walking to the boat for the four o’clock, and last of the day, trip on the lake. There were a fair number of people and we didn’t want a bum seat so, despite the heat, sauntered to the water’s edge and, waiting, scanned the area and did a rekey of how the boat would collect its sight-seers of which we had become part. The boat hailed into view, or rather five of them. Hmm, how would they dock and where? I gauged the position but regretted making the choice as a group headed by a tour guide headed off a little further on. He should know. We stood our ground as 4 of the 5 boats moored and then we noticed that our ticket had a vessel’s name written on it, the fifth one. The other four moored, gunwale to gunwale, necessitating all passengers from the outer moored boats to step on the other three inner ones to disembark etc. The fifth , however, came right alongside where we were standing and, being the second on, I zoomed and grabbed 2 of the 3 seats on the bow where we sat and watched the sight-seers boarding the four in front.

There was a mass of people, young and old, all jostling for pole position for the one, not gangplank, but step onto the first boat, as they leapt, stepped or jumped onto the bouncing deck, dependent upon their level of agility. Some chose to gain an advantage by clambering around the outside railings to gain a better seat as we smugly sat and watched. There was chatter and babble which unfortunately didn’t stop as the engine started and we burbled up the lake. Any chance of seeing timid wild life diminished by the continuous nattering of the punters. We saw more wild life on our walk to and subsequently from the boat, certainly no elephants, though there was one on one of the boats.

I wrote before of the Porcine Polska, well this was the Rolling Russka. In Nepal and folk festivals alike they sell and wear trousers with the crotch level with the mid-calf, like voluminous inverted jumpers without a hole for the head sort of design. Well the RR was wearing some but hers were figure hugging. The bow of the boat rose as she stepped onto the stern. With her orange top she could have passed for the life boat, which was a better bet than the half dozen faded life rings slung up in some over head racking.

Our balcony, on the other hand, was perfect as barking deer, wild boar, buffalo and mongoose wandered down to the meadow and as the light faded to black, fireflies flitted up and up to become indistinguishable amongst the flickering stars crowding the tar-black sky, home to a finger nail crescent of a setting moon.

Now both starting to feel better ,the following day we wandered into town where our first lunch, a thali, for some days, was eaten, without knife and fork ,off a half banana palm leaf. Excellent flavours and food and, including water and tea, all for a quid.

After breakfast we set off on another bus trip, one that left the stand at 8.45 and was to arrive a 16.45. Unfortunately part of the route was backtracking our incoming one but viewed on the opposite direction makes things look different. Besides, the earlier part of the day with a lower sun highlighted the millions of neatly tended tea shrubs giving a green uniform to acre upon acre and hill upon hill as we zigzagged up, through and over them. And then there are the bus stands, a whole village within themselves with shops and stalls, dust, lottery ticket sales men, beggars, dust and the bus vendors. Depending on the length of the moment the bus remains at the stand, the vendors will either rush the bus externally and sell their wares through the glassless windows or come aboard where, thrusting their wares at each passenger, they say exactly the same to each. Apart from one. During one of the two fifteen minute stops (note ½ hour rest for the driver in 8 hours) a chap boarded and recited at breakneck speed, five minutes of sales patter prior to approaching each of the 10 or so passengers to make his sales - or not as was usually the case. After all, any one really wanting this stuff can just get off the bus and walk 20 paces to any number of stall to buy that and more. Apart from one man sitting behind three piles of shredded vegetables demonstrating the fantastic use of his hand held vegetable shredder. And then along the whole route, as ever, cattle and men alike, pissing on the sides of the road, oblivious to our fleeting presence.

We arrived as scheduled where once again, and maybe for the last time, we were subjected to the rush of incoming crows around a discarded piece of food. The tuc tuc drivers. Where you going? What you want? “No we don’t want your friend’s hotel”. Eventually settling on one and agreeing the price, a 12 Km trip out to Lighthouse Bay at Kovalam, aptly named as it is a bay with a lighthouse. Dropped off at the end of a narrow passage, we were told it was a short cut to the Moon Valley Cottages we were looking for. Short only means short by way of direct. The narrow passages, often just wide enough for a single person and none obese at that, we, well, got hopelessly lost as different people helpfully gave us different directions. After nine hours of dusty travel, with our bags and with the heat we gave up and approached a rather fancy looking hotel (well it was my birthday) and asked if they had rooms. No, but over the way come and look where, for 500 Rs a first floor room with large open balcony overlooking the rooftops of the beach fronting restaurants and shops looking out to the surf laden blue Arabian sea. Did we think about it? …….

And for the close of the trip, here we rested, an end-of-season touristy fishing village where traditional fishing happens on a daily basis. A boat will be rowed out about a quarter of a mile into the bay, curve back and beach further along. Then with about 12 men hauling each end of the net, to their chanting, it is slowly hauled to shore as 3 fishermen, standing waist deep in the sea, splash and shout, keeping the fish in the net. Eventually it is all hauled in and the catch distributed amongst all those who had helped, as we sat and had breakfast on the seafront.

The water is the temperature that, after about an hour, one’s fingertips look like white prunes. And it’s clean. And you can buy mangos and pineapples and just nip back to the room to prepare them so that they can be eaten without sand in them. And this IS holiday. One observation made is that travellers walk around carrying the “Lonely Planet”, holiday makers carry a novel and suntan lotion. Which, after six weeks,,is novel to us.

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