Magic and frustration.

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We had taken a beautifully disheveled local bus from Kalpetta to the small town of Vadavanchal in an attempt to visit what the small dot in the creased fold of my badly drawn, photocopied map of Wayanad District that was marked as Meenmutty waterfall, in reality represented. After a 5km rickshaw ride and a 2km hike we were finally stood at the exact place in actuality that the smudged dot on my sketchy map described. What my scrunched bit of cartographical parcity expertly failed to detail was the large ticket booth and even larger sign that read (in letters probably visible from space with big glasses, or at least from the top of the very large trees that surrounded it): "Entrance fee 300rs". I turned to Anny with a look that said, confusingly; "Bollocks to paying £10 to see some falling water in the company of over excited Indian teenagers playing loud Bollywood film music on their phones and wanting to take pictures of us while getting rained on but what do you think?" Anny's look replied, succinctly and intelligently; "Uber Scheisse, lets go drink some chai."

What annoyed me the most was not the extortionate price of entry, or at least not specifically, but rather the fact that greed and hypocrisy are for Indians such great friends that they'll happily sit arm in arm in the middle of a forest to openly laugh at the poor nature lovers they so blatantly hold to ransom. You see, Indians really don't do nature at all. They just don't seem to appreciate an unadulterated wilderness in quite the same way that people from other countries do. This is, of course, a sweeping generalisation; but if I were to use a slightly smaller brush, and proved to be a little lackadaisical in my work, then the pile of generalisation that I still managed to sweep up would probably, in all likelihood, still generally point to the fact that Indians just don't do nature. If they can't drive there, build chai shops and kitschy souvenir shops there, if they can't gather there in their thousands to shout and sing and litter, or to assimilate it into their pollulating cities, then they just wont visit it. Unless of course a railway happens to run through it, in which case they are more than happy to view it through the window whilst chucking rubbish at it.

In a way this is a good thing, as if the above criteria are not met, then to the wilderness an Indian will simply not go. Untrammeled nature not being reason enough in its own right. But when, as is the case with Meenmutty waterfall, there is a driveable track, a small proliferation of tea and food shops in the vicinity, and where its popularity is such that one will never have to suffer the indignity of solitude, then they will come in their thousands and happily pay for the privilege. We however, were not willing to do so, which proved to be a most excellent decision indeed. You see, upon lending his solicitous ear to my little tale of exploitation and woe, the friendly and understanding Chai shop owner lent over my shoulder and with calloused fingers smoothed a crease from my map, transforming the confusingly marked "Newpoint" into the much more promising sounding "Neelimala Viewpoint". To add luck to revelation we learned that "Neelimala Viewpoint" was but 3km up the road, had views of Meenmutty falls in their entirety and was, best of all, completely free.

In true Indian style, and as opposed to the huge placards marking the track to Meenmutty Falls, the path we needed to take to the free viewpoint was not in any way signed, which therefore necessitated some very protracted, and ultimately mostly fruitless, conversations with sundry locals as to which track of the many available would lead to the viewpoint. Asking for directions in India is, for the average traveller, a frequently occurring and often frustrating necessity. You see, to add stereotype to sweeping generalisation, Indians just don't do directions. Or maps. In fact especially maps, as maps just seem to confuse the hell out of your average Indian. Once, upon presenting a hotel's receptionist with a map of the city and asking him to point out the hotel's location, I observed said receptionist, with a look on his face somewhere between abject terror and benevolent solicitude, repeatedly turn the map in his hands before calling for his colleague who, when he arrived, turned the map over in a hopefully attempt to locate the hotel on its reverse side. Failing to find, as I assume they hoped, their hotel's name written large in red ink somewhere upon this confusing document, and not wanting to give a negative answer, the receptionist pointed to a random street on the map and with a smile and much wobbling of his head, returned to me the map. Anyway, back on the road a few kilometres outside Vadavanchal, we found that this same desire to answer our question with a positive reply (especially when the answer was unknown) caused our interlocutors to confidently gesticulate in varied directions; sending us up many a random path to several different destinations, none of which could in any way be described as a viewpoint. But, more through persistence and good fortune than solicited advice, we did eventually find the fabled viewpoint; and we found it to be a truly magical place.

High in the thickly forested hills an hour along the ill defined and overgrown track I brushed my way through the last of the elephant grass to emerge onto a small grassy plateau, which though not the viewpoint I had for so long been seeking, was none the less a point with a quite mesmeric view. Dropping away below my feet in a perfect parabolic curve before leveling out and stretching away into cloudy infinity was a valley of near mythical perfection. Completely symmetrical and gently curved, the valley's shoulders fell from the clouds to meet in the middle where they were stitched together by the silver ribbon of a river that threaded a meandering course through the endless, unbroken expanse of forest. A river that was, and still is, like the Hindu God Nataraja, an agent of both destruction and creation. Perhaps it was Nataraja who, moments later, destroyed this perfect vista, creating in its place a world entirely different. As, from a point in the distance where the end of the valley met the horizon and as though the cloud that hung there had gained in density and started pouring into the cleft, there came a thickly swirling mass of grey fog that surged up the valley towards me like a swift but silent tsunami. A wave of mist that frothed up the valley's side before breaking over my head to drown me in a shifting sea of white clouds. With the clouds came the magic.

My world had, in seconds, shrank to the size of a just few feet. All colour had been entirely leached away and the cloud smothered all sound. Moisture condensed upon my body causing me to shiver despite the warmth and what was normal a few moments ago became very disconcerting indeed.From out of the shifting miasma trees appeared, their grey-green branches clutching desperately at the smoking void, before shrinking once again from view. A pair of butterflies flew past on crackling, electric wings; a small creature disturbed the grass at my feet. Brown birds with blood red eyes flew up and out of the swirling abyss, circled me once and were gone; emissaries from another world, harbingers of doom. Bushes swayed and moved in the premature dusk, though there was no wind and they made no sound, and a passing crow carried more sinister meaning on its torn and tattered wings than could ever be conveyed in print, by words, by cliche.

Slightly unnerved, I decided to retrace my steps and to take a fork in the path that I had previously passed, a fork that lead downhill and one which I hoped would lead me both out of the cloud and to the mythical viewpoint. After again brushing my way past vegetation that soaked my clothes and spider's webs that veiled my face, I came to the end of the path. I sat down on the smooth, moss covered rock and listened to the low guttural roar of falling water that assailed my ears from out of the fog; a constant, base rumbling and churning, which suggested that I had finally found the viewpoint. But it was only a persuasive suggestion as all about me the fog still hung thick, heavy and dank. The delicate flowers that decorated the primeval foliage about me were strung with glistening pearls, and the moss that covered the rocks where I was sat were beaded with millions of tiny droplets.

After sitting a while mediating to the sound of the falls the heavy , swirling obscuration of mist that surrounded me was pulled apart and blown away in the space of a moment, to reveal, directly in front of me across the nauseous depths of a cavernous cleft, falling in three huge cataracts, the truly magnificent Meenmutty waterfall. Tearing my eyes away from the falls I found that I was standing on a spur of land that jutted out vertiginously from the cliffs behind me and which fell away on three slippery sides into the forest hundreds of feet below. To my left the rocky cliffs that were covered with tenacious trees and ferns curved away and around to meet with the falls, the top of the cliff being way above my eye line, leaving me staring directly at its gnarled face that was still shrouded with wisps and tendrils of mist. While to my right the view opened up and I could see, in the distance, the silver river that snaked its way up the same beautiful valley which I briefly saw earlier before the clouds rendered me blind.

The following day we set off to locate another dot on my map, this one being called Pookot lake. With the previous days magic still fresh in our minds we set off for said lake with very high expectations. When we arrived and were deposited next to a ticket booth with a long queue of tourists our expectations diminished a notch; when we caught sight of the lake that our imaginations had invested with bounteous beauty and misty serenity and found instead a pond on steroids, which was being navigated by several many far too muchly peddlos piloted by shrieking Indians, our expectations tunneled some thousand feet into the ground to hide in a cave and cower. We passed up on the opportunity to join the manic flotilla and instead decided to circumnavigate the gargantuan puddle on foot, with a mind to finding some tangential path that might lead us up into the misty hills and away from the maddening crowds.

Whilst no path was found, or at least one that didn't peter out disappointingly after five minutes of bliss, we did manage to make a discovery of sorts, or rather we were made a discovery of. As, upon lifting my trouser to scratch at an annoying itch on my ankle, I found that I had been found (and Anny found the same) by a small family of leeches. Daddy leech was a slow moving sucker with hugely distended belly, his wife, the worm, was playing away from home as I found her with her dirty lips felating a hairy pustule on my thigh and their kids, the small indisciplined ankle biters, were doing just that above my boots. On the bus back to Kalpetta, on which we had to stand due to a common case of human saturation, Anny shrieked as she felt something fall from above and roll down her thigh. I immediately assumed that she'd done a little poo (a not altogether ridiculous assumption in India - the land where only the brave man farts) but, upon undressing back at the hotel it transpired that one of Daddy leeches fatter cousins had been happily chewing upon her bottom. I sadly admit to having felt a quite inappropriate amount of jealousy.

The next day we decided to change towns and move a little closer to what I hoped to be this regions crowning glory, Muthanga Wildlife Sanctuary. Sultan Bathery was to be our new base; a one road town in the middle of the forest that we immediately fell in loathing with. It took us two hours to procure a room, not because all the hotels that lined the street were full, though that was the reason they gave, but rather because our custom was clearly not wanted. Every hotel stated, most before we had even asked, that they were full and that we should try the Mint Hotel, the only flash place in town and about twenty times above our meager budget. I admit, after the twentieth refusal and whilst pointing to the board of hooks where a whole flock of keys hung like brass bats from a wall, to vociferously challenging one or two establishments about their assertion of fullness; receiving in reply nothing but a smirk and the oft repeated mantra of: "sorry friend, full". I lost my temper, lost face and lost a little bit of love. A room we did manage to find, after finding a reception desk manned by a boy; a boy clearly not yet tainted by the (xenophobic) malaise that had clearly infected this town and who was more than happy to sell us a room for two nights at 250INR a pop. Later that night I was summoned downstairs for an overly rigorous session of passport photocopying, form filling and visa checking by the obviously disgruntled manager. We kept the room, but in the end not for the full two days we had booked.

In the afternoon of the day we arrived we caught a rickshaw to Edakal caves, hoping that a dose of nature would prove an easy restorative. What did we find? A quite stunning view from high up on a rocky escarpment that was compromised by the massed ranks of shouting screaming Indian teenage boys who, in preference to the quite stunning vista they had climbed the several hundred steps to see, all crowded round Anny to stare at her instead, all the while blatantly filming her on their phones whilst laughing and nudging each other. We descended almost as soon as we had summited. It was also at the caves that I found out that my lovely new and quite expensive zoom lens had decided to entirely seize up, not really helping in the afternoons quest for joy. Indian days can often be like this; with any great heights gained often quickly being kicked back down by some cantankerous mountain goat of a low. However, and this point is key, despite India's ability to wildly vacillate between extreme enjoyment and bollocks, each day always ends with a net gain of good. Our rickshaw driver on the way back from the hills, who with a winning combination of gentle wit and good natured ribaldry, and who seemed in some way related to every other three wheeler he passed and briefly conversed with ("my brother..my dad...my uncle...my bearded daughter"), was perhaps the days single biggest contributor to another overall rise on the graph of our happiness.

So, though it was not meant to be, to our last day in Wayanad district. We awoke dangerously early (for anyone in my immediate vicinity) and made our way to Muthanga Wildlife Sanctuary's entrance in a futile attempt to beat the assembled masses we hoped would not be there so early. We heard them before seeing them. I then had to fight with them to gain my rightful place somewhere near the front of the queue - I mean massed brawl - that developed outside the ticket window. I hoped that my700INR that i handed over had bought myself and Anny a one hour jeep safari into the park; it turned out that it had purchased us nothing but disappointment. It seems that as well as nature, Indians just don't do National Parks. Again, I'm caught making use of a massive generalisation for effect, a generalisation I actually know not to be generally true. Six years ago, when I visited Ranthambore National Park in Rajasthan, I was lucky enough to see a wild tiger, amongst sundry other amazing animals in a beautiful, fairly well managed location. So my high expectations regarding Muthanga were arrived at based solely upon this one positive experience. My expectations, though derived from such a narrow source, were actually pretty realistic; in no way did I expect to see a tiger in Muthanga, indeed, due to the high monsoon vegetation and abundant water, I did not expect to see all that much at all. What I did expect, was to be given a fighting chance of seeing anything, something, at least a critter that was not a peacock.

We entered our jeep and joined a convoy of others that farted, shook and rattled their way along a muddy track into the forest. Twenty minutes later, still on the same track, we turned around and returned the exact way we came. I tried to get our driver to deviate from the heavily rutted road but he assured us quite clearly, in fact in the only clear English he had spoken all day (except to repeat, in a flat monotone, the annoying mantra of "sir, peacock"), that "to travel into the forest is no longer possible sir, without the express permission of the Chief Wildlife Warden". So, having seen some deer, so close to the entrance that I think they were fenced in, about thirty peacocks and what I seriously suspected was a stuffed Bison, inside of which I fancied there being some poor lackey sat despondently pulling at ropes to move its head in an attempt by park management to placate and hoodwink angry tourists who came here hoping for wildlife. I mean, how bloody stupid would any animal have to be to decide that the very most lovely, shanti and safe place in the vast emptiness of this huge park in which to live, was twenty yards away from a road that constantly buzzed with the sounds of loud engines and shrieking tourists?

So, on reflection, while it is unfair to state that Indians just don't do national parks, it is entirely fair to state that they definitely don't do Muthanga National Park. If further proof were needed as to the ridiculousness of the situation, it was to be found when sat on the bus that we used, that afternoon, to run as quickly as we could away from Wayanad. You see, the entrance to Muthanga park is located about six yards inside this vast and empty park, and placed right next to the single road that bisects it and which carries an endless stream of trucks and buses between Calicut and Mysore. A road which, as I rolled along it, cut through some quite gorgeous country; country that at any one of the numerous stops along the way, had I been aware and had I wanted to, I could have easily disembarked and made my own safari on foot. An activity that though clearly advertised was, when I made enquiries that morning at park headquarters, apparently strictly not possible. An entirely ridiculous situation that smacked of greed, laziness, stupidity and no doubt corruption.

I have just realised that this overly long blog is mostly a protracted rant at Indians lack of sensitivity towards nature. For this I am sorry. I hate reading negative blogs and am a little surprised to find that I've probably just written one. Surprised because, though certain aspects of the last few days, namely those that I've detailed above, have left me a little annoyed and frustrated, my feelings upon reflection are almost entirely positive. The few major hassles and frustrations that we experienced were easily subsumed by the hundreds of small kindnesses that were shown to us each and every day. India's magic lies not in its grandiosity - of sights, towns, temples gestures or cuisine - but rather in the myriad minutiae that make up its composite whole: India's parts are most definitely greater than its sum.

To end on a happy note I'll briefly detail our return to Mysore. I'll start from when we exited the bus, as to describe the journey there would be to again write of frustration, confusion and ineptitude; most of it, unfortunately, mine. We found ourselves a room with the greatest of ease, via the services of a refreshingly up front tout. He introduced himself as such and said that were we to follow him we'd get a decent cheap room, and he'd get 50INR. I was happy with the deal and he was as good as his word. We spent that afternoon ascending Chamundi hill (by bus) to visit the temple and to act like the tourists we were. We spent an exceptionally engrossing couple of hours sat outside the temple people watching. There was the terrified looking couple, draped in hundreds of garlands posing for their wedding snaps; the curious cows that nuzzled their way through the crowds; the man, with the help of a priest, who was blessing his shiny new car; the assorted merchants, fakirs and fakers, sadhus and don'ts, postcard sellers and pickpockets and the assembled throng of happy devotees. My favourite sight however, and it was one that was to bring a smile to my face for the remainder of that day, was that of a seller of bands and giver of blessings who was sat, with his wares at his feet and whilst still conducting business, stroking the head of a calf that was nuzzled in his lap, with the tenderest of movements and earnestly whispered words of devotion. I was so taken by this man, his gentleness and love, that I went to buy a band from him to receive his blessing. The smile he gave me and the mantra he chanted and his eyes his eyes his eyes, seemed to distill my feelings for India and make them manifest in the simple beauty of his gestures.

On our way down from the temple (this time by the steps) we finally found a Ganesh statue that we not only liked but was in our limited price range. Next to a huge, black granite, marigold garlanded statue of Nandi, we purchased our Ganesha from the eighteen year old artisan himself, Ganesh! He even signed the statue for us; perfect. Later that day we revisited Devaraja Market to meet again with Akmar, the gentle maker of essential oils about whom I wrote in my Mysore blog. He recognised us immediately and bade us sit in his shop whilst sending his nephew to fetch us tea. As we were happily sat there chatting, a triumvirate of English femininity started to peruse his wares. Being the altruist that I am, and not a bit of the perve and eve teaser of which I'm suspected, I let them know that if they were thinking of making any purchases of essential oils or incense that Akmar was their Muslim man, and that I could vouch for both his wares and honesty. They asked me how and I explained that Anny and I had dealt with him previously. It was then that the penny dropped for one third of the trio and she said, "I know you, you're Scott, I read your blogs. I'm Jenniferious." And so she was, not only a fellow traveblogger but also one of my "recommends".

We arranged to meet later that night and we ended up spending a lovely couple of hours in their company (she came with another third of the trio), eating great food at Indra Cafe's Paras and listening to them talk fascinatingly about their experiences working in an Adivasi hospital in the Tamil Nadu hills. At the end of the night after again eating far too much (me) we bade the two thirds our goodbyes at the Indian sweet counter. Anny and I had bought a couple of Burfi, but the last I saw of Jenniferious was her staggering out of the cafe weighed down by a huge, party sized box of Mysore Butter Pak. When, as she was harassing the poor man behind the counter into filling her box quicker and fuller, I asked her why she was ordering so much, she replied, several times and very insistently, that they were not all for her. Me thinks that the lady protested way too much!

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Comments

[Sivakumar]

Wonderful travelogue- But you did generalise a lot..
Hi, I am from Kerala.. I dont agree on what you said.. We do do nature.. :-) We in Kerala do love nature and climatic changes a lot.. Its a part of daily life for us.. Dont expect the places to be squeeky clean as in europe or your place as it would never be.. But in Kerala we do leave nature to be what it is..Pls dont take the rush and greed you see in the tourist places as the value we as a people hold.. it would be a bad thought. As for me,I am a huge fan of unspoiled wilderness.. I do go on treks a lot I liked the way you described the view of the clouds and the river.. magical description.. If you would like to see more go to few fort treks in Maharashtra.. Few places i recomment would be 1. Torna fort trek 2. Lohagad trek Few of the views are just out of this world..

[the Boy who lived]

hi
Who is the photogrpher among you two? This pic is AMMMMMMMAZING!!!!!! Makes me feel really guilty that I eat beef! :(

[Mojo]

wayand
I visited Kerala, Idukki dist, 3 years ago and while yes they do not have the same sprawling National forest like in the US or elsewhere. Bear in mind its a 5000 year old civilization, bursting at the seams. To say they dont do national forests is like saying americans dont do churches. Secondly you are cribbing about paying $7 to enter a park? for crying out loud, we pay $20-25 to enter parks in the US. If we dont apy, how do they maintain these forests or whats left? Remember its a overpopulated, developing country. Its amazing how people here wont complain about paying $5 for a cup of coffee, but will moan about paying a $1 for food in a poor country. http://moalie.blogspot.com/

[scottandanny]

I thought this entry might get a few negative comments! It was not the money I resented at all (one thing you could never say about India is that it is expensive) but rather what that money bought. A drive, with twenty other jeeps, down a single track and back. The location of the park headquarters, the facilities on offer and the hypocrisy of the rules. Also, in response to the other comment, I did have my tongue firmly in my cheek when generalising about Indians and their ability to do nature and national parks. I guess the reason why I've not yet met any Indians who love the wilderness and get nature is because they are in said wilderness, and not with one hundred others at what qualifies as a national park! Also, it was Onam festival and holidays in Kerala at the time which greatly swelled the number of tourists at the park. Not that I really need to mention this but... I really love India, its people and its wildlife.

[deleted_172116]

Indians dont use western lenses !
Great Blog ......this is one of the reasons why I enjoy reading non-Indian bloggers. When I had been to the UK, I couldnt pay 15 pounds to watch really bad wax replicas of Bollywood stars. I can see why a european wouldnt find a 'bang for the buck' to pay 10 pounds without amenities that he/she would find in a western 'wilderness' area, including clean toilet facilities, clear map and well-laid out trail directions, clean and concrete laden camping facilities close to water sources. I love camping in western countries but can hardly call that 'wilderness'. Seeking order out of chaos in India like seeking a dog with a straight tail. It is in the nature of India to be a chaotic mix of greatness and sloppiness. You can either enjoy the experience for what it is, tolerate it or hate it - I doubt if it will change and in fact, that's what I love India for. It takes me away from the boring western world order. I hope it stays that way for the most part. I would certainly like a more environmentally freindly and 'greener'/ cleaner India, but thats a distant third priority after poverty elevation and education.