February 19, 2009: The goal today is Kodiakanal, a hill station town at an elevation of 2000 meters located a few hours from Madurai. From Rameswaram I go back to Madurai, where I stay one last night. In the morning I manage to have the absolute worst meal I can recall in India--forgetful, slow service all for the joy of tasting spoiled cheese and lousy dosai. The search for protein (egg, cheese) should, sometimes, take a back seat to eating at tried-and-proven restaurants. I take the bus up to Kodiakanal, about a 4 hour trip. It's a relatively pleasant ride with nice views as we ascend from the lower plains into the mountains, arriving at an altitude of 2000 m.

To describe this in more detail, I will try, as we start the climb up the Ghat mountains. It is hot on the plains. I sit on the left side and have a good view as we ascend. It is approximately midday. There is a haze, mostly particulate polution I surmise. The valley has a grey-auburn color to it, the color of a dry field of dirt. We drive along a two-lane road up through a low-standing dry forest, grasses between the not dense and not sparse trees. The trees are green with some dust covering them. The bus bumps and lurches along. The seats are vinyl, as is typical for these buses, and what suspension there was wore away long ago. The seats are always too narrow, so that if the seat appears to be made for two it really has room for 1.5--either the outside person's butt will hang off the edge or the shoulders of both will be compressed uncomfortably. A seat for 3 is really enough for 2.2 people. As the overhead carriage is always too narrow, my backpack goes beneath the seat when possible, and I am always glad if a small boy or thin woman sits next to me, rather than a large man, as it means my shoulders will have room. Back to the drive. The road is not overly bumpy or particulaly smooth. Along the way we pass a jeep that lost a wheel, sitting askew in the middle of the road, black blood, oil, leaking from some inner component, its owner passing the time by directing traffic around his once conveyance, now obstruction. We stop for a break at a rest stop, brightly adorned with a red Vodaphone advertisement and green coconuts for sale, a chai stall. Monkeys, a dog, other travelers, a lookout tower. The men pee along the roadside. We continue on the winding road up the hill.

Arriving in Kodiakanal, the room search commences and an hour later I settle for the Kodaai Star for inr$400 a night. My protein search continues without luck, as most options are veg only. I console myself with a tomato onion uthapam--a pizza lacking only the cheese--and chocolates. Perhaps as a legacy of the British, the town is filled with small shops selling locally-made chocolates. I wouldn't say they're up to European gourmet standards but they're still fun to eat. Wandering randomly, the true forte of any unprepared traveler, I stumble into a little alley containing the local vegetable market. Lots of green peppers and other delights. Here I meet Joseph, whose English is enough to convey his name and that he's Christian and proud of it. With his turban and simple clothes I nearly imagine him wandering some biblical landscape. Several cows are tied up at the end of a row of disused shops. Joseph follows me over and points out various landmarks visible on a neighboring hill, including a church. There are lots of churches in this region of India. Then I ask what the cows are tied up for. He makes the universal sign for killing, drawing his hand across his neck, and says mutton (mutton is the generic term for red meat, not just sheep meat). I'm incredulous: but these are cows and this is India! But he insists. I try to ask about the religion part of it but language barriers prevent any deeper discourse, though he manages to point out a Muslim man walking by.

Joseph goes back to selling vegetables and I hang around to take some pictures. An old woman is sitting in a corner, apparently doing nothing, or perhaps guarding the cows and a basket of old vegetables. A bull and a cow come trudging up on a mission. The bull starts bullying--literally--its hapless kin who are tied up and in no position to do anything about it. One Brahmin receives the brunt of the shoving and harassment, but it can't retreat or raise its horns in proper defense. Concerned this could get out of hand if the animals break free of their ropes, I edge up to what looks like the place least likely to attract a cow (there is no good exit strategy). The old woman makes feeble attempts to get the interlopers to leave, but they just settle down to munching on the basket of vegetables.

A most unexpected, if brief, conversation occured later at dinner. I went up to a corner food stall to get some parotha (greasy bread) and an omelette (scrambled egg with onion and salt). A customer, a young man, started the standard conversation (native place, what doing, profession, etc.) when I said I was a biologist--which usually ends things right there--he asked what kind, then what I was studying. Turns out he works in chennai in immunotherapy. He studies rotifers, slices them very thin on a cryostat, examines them in an electron microscope, and looks for drugs to stop their growth. His english isn't good enough to find out more about his work, but I assume rotifers must cause some disease and he is engaged in finding a treatment.

February 21, 2009: in the morning I check out Coker's Walk, a short paved stroll with views of the valley below, or, in my case, views of fog. My search for protein enters its 4th or so day with further setbacks, this time a fried chicken leg is fried only on the outside--on the inside it is pink and raw. Oh, visions of salmonela. Explaining this to the proprietor, he stares at me blankly and says the full price. Ok, I'll spell it out. "Look (waving the semi-raw chicken leg), if you had cooked this chicken leg I'd happily eat it, but since you couldn't manage to cook it I'm not going to pay for it". Ok, that worked better, and it made me feel a smidgeon better, if still protein starved. In consolation I walk around the little artifical lake in town. Grown Indian men peddle boats sporting Mickey Mouse statues on the front. It could almost pass for an American deity adorning a vehicle: who's your god? Shiva? Oh, that's nice, mine's Mickey Mouse, I pray to him to shut up the kids and bring wealth and happiness to Disney shareholders. Finally, in the evening, I find Tavas, which, incredibely, has quite good food. I've never been so excited by beans, peas and rice! Local students chat, in English, about their future: medical school options, others.

February 22, 2009: Seeing as Kodiakanal was packed with so much adventure and delightful food, my plan is to move on to Munnar, another hill station town, from which I would be able to access a couple of wildlife parks before continuing west to the coast. The map shows a direct road linking the two towns. There is, however, no direct bus. This makes the journey far more complicated and time consuming. Turns out you can either go north, to Palani, catch another bus to some other intermediate town, before getting on a third bus to Munnar. Alternately, you can go south to Thane (tan-ee) and take a second bus to Munnar. By the time I figure out my options I've missed the morning bus to Thane.

This is all too frustrating, so I decide to stay in Kodiakanal another day, which means finding a new room. Fun. To cut things short, I actually let a tout lead me to a place he says is inr$250. He takes me to the Methodist church adjacent to the International School. There are no signs indicating they have guest rooms, but turns out there is an old stone cottage fitted with several pleasant and basic rooms. These should be about inr$150 for a single person. The host is a pleasant young man who lives in one of the rooms in the cottage. There's even a room with a fireplace but the room, and fireplace, were sorely in need of a cleaning. A portrait of Jesus, as envisioned by the artist, adorns my room. Thick stone walls, a couple of spare beds, and a desk. On the desk is a periodical in French with a blue Star of David constructed of bones--those Europeans are so subtle. An adjoining toilet is equipped with a (non-functioning) flush reservoir; the maker's mark is an elephant and it looks to be as old as the cottage. For hot water, just request a bucket at the desired time and the host will bring it over. I quite like staying in the church cottage, it has far more character than the hotel.

Room settled, I go for a walk to Pillar Rock, a popular viewpoint about 7 km out of town. On the way I run into a couple sitting on a step, their backpacks beside them, covered in grime, thumbing through their guidebook--obviously, looking for a room. I suggest the church as a good option, at which they perk up. An Indian-looking girl with a British accent shows up and also contributes her knowledge of 5 or 6 dormitory options, rolling them off like it was a list of state capitals. I walk on to pillar rock, where large numbers of Indians crowd against a metal fence to get a better view. The view is lovely, if marred by particulate haze from pollution and scraps of trash below the viewpoint. An enthusiastic group of off-duty policemen have their picture taken with a funny looking tourist (that would be me--they love my hat I tell you). I get very very close to an Indian tiger--a stuffed tiger, that is, who seems as artificial as the whole get up. Another viewpoint, formerly called Suicide Point, would now be more aptly be named "monkey-dont-let-you-take-picture" point. Here, macaque monkeys, otherwise known as cheeky bastards, confront any tourist foolish enough to approach the high metal fence guarding the valley from the polluting splatters of any falling bodies. Returning to town, the same forlorn couple are seated on the same stone step, this time sipping beer and bereft of their bags. Either they were robbed or they found a room--yes, they took a room at the church, and I feel a small twinge of satisfaction at having led lost sheep to the fold, at least of a comfortable room. At the church I run into the only person from Croatia that I've met on my travels. He gives some travel tips and mentions a nearby town that some go to in preference to Kodiakanal; alas, too late for my plans. That night I shiver in the chill.

To summarize Kodiakanal: so-so chocolates; no decent nonveg food; Tava's is the best place to eat; the overpriced 60 rs/hr internet shop is no faster than the adjacent 30 rs/hr shop; the Methodist church next to the International School is a good, cheap place to stay; Pillar Rock is a pleasant 7 km walk each way; heed the advice of fellow travelers and go to the nearby town.

February 23, 2009: Today, finally, I will make it to Munnar. The bus leaves at 11:45, so there's a morning to use up, for which the Internet and India Post are eminently well suited and I spend the time setting up a new server for my web site and sending a package. At the station I'm joined by Glen, a British traveler, also on his way to Munnar. Off we go. Some 3 hours later we arrive in Thane. An hour later we get the 5 pm bus to Munnar. Along the way we drive through some wonderful scenery, with mountains rising up from the plains. A woman stands on a berm, walking toward a man, she wears a bright-red sari. The golden light of the setting sun illuminates her and the mountains behind--I nearly want to jump out and take a picture, damned be this endless bus ride, which takes 4 hours to arrive in Munnar, the last 2 of which are spent in the dark on twisty winding roads climbing through tea plantations briefly illuminated by the bus' headlamps. Along the way, Monica, a Spanyard, switches from brooding to talking, but sitting behind us it is no aid to my developing car sickness.

We struggle off the bus, grab dinner, and settle into the nearest hotel. The hotel is fine. It's the street outside that's a problem. Just below is a rickshaw stand. The bored drivers are noisy. They fight. They argue. They blast music. They light a bonfire of burning plastic at 05:30 in the morning. Trucks barrel around using their engine brakes, revving their engines, trundling. Basically, I don't sleep. Hoping to catch some pretty morning light, I'm out by 0630 and snarl at rickshaw drivers when they offer me a ride. The chutzpah!

February 24, 2009: The rest of the morning is much better. A town wakes up. A schoolteacher unlocks a school gate. Workers gather at a tea plantation. The sun illuminates green tea plants, a small temple, a little shrine. What little mists there are dissipate early, replaced by a less alluring haze. Friendly children demand pictures, one so excited she can't hold still, jumping up and down. I find a different place to stay, the main attraction being its high likelihood of being quieter. We--Glen, myself, and the Spanish girls--grab a rickshaw up to some of the tourist attractions. Everyone in town will give you a list of things you can see. Well, pretty much 80% of the things are a bust and the others are boring. There's an agricultural research station that you can't enter. There's a "shooting place", which is Indian English for "bollywood movies are shot here" and has nothing to do with guns. There's a dam with trinket stalls--mildly interesting. There's a spot you can feed a couple of elephants, which was fun, their trunks are mesmerizing and I fed one a whole piece of corn (leaves and all). One elephant was 25, the other 15, they can live to 35, if I remember correctly; getting more information was hampered by language difficulties. At least the elephants are not alone and are fed real elephant food. The "elephant viewing" place is a joke: power boats zoom up and down non-stop. Any elephants are not likely to hang around for long, but some elephant poo is present on the banks so they must come sometimes, perhaps very early in the morning or at night, if the poo was from wild elephants. On the positive side, the Munnar area has very picturesque tea plantations. An early morning (pre-dawn) rickshaw ride 10-20 km out on the road toward Chinnar could afford some good photos.

The Jews secretly control Munnar and much of south India. See, there's all these Christians here. And they have quotations all over the place from the bible. For instance, Olivia's, an Internet shop in town, has a mixture of quotations from the bible, such as Genesis, and the New Testament. The owner will ply you with sweets to get you to stop by. You can even get good shakshuka and a tasty shawarma, though the schwarma has a slight tuna-fish flavor, giving new meaning to that brand phrase "chicken of the sea". The best food is in Raspy's, where I can recommend the fried tomato, fried chicken, rice, and banana lassi as a good filling combination, or try their shakshuka and chapatti for breakfast. It was the most satisfying food I'd had in some time. Don't expect your alcoholic dreams to be fulfilled, though, in town. The one bar closes at 10, is dingy, dark, and serves dreadful beer (or so I am led to understand). To top it off, the urinals are placed near the entrance (huh?) and the locals can't hold their liquor, they'd as soon pick a fight with eachother as drink a beer.

February 25, 2009: Glen and I plan to check out Chinnar National Park, the original reason for my visit to Munnar. Eravikulam national park, just a few kilometers from Munnar, is, unfortunately, closed for the dry season. At Chinnar there's a chance to see wild elephants, deer, and other native wildlife. The park ranges from about 400 meters to over 2000 meters, though the main visitors area is in the lower-reaches of the park. I just want to get into nature and away from the endless crowded cities of India. We go by the forest department office and make a reservation to stay in a forest treehouse for about inr$1300 for two. We're told this includes a couple of guided hikes and dinner and breakfast, but we need to be there by 1500 and the bus leaves at 1130--we rush back, pack up, and hop on the bus, arriving around 1430. We have a basic thali lunch at the canteen and wait for our guides to walk us out to the treehouse. We're joined by 4 irish who will be staying in a cottage. We walk the 2.5 km to the treehouse. Being so clever, I'm carrying all of my gear, an entirely unnecessary load.

We walk along a very pleasant stream. It is hard to describe the contrast with the city--here is a place that appears natural, without plastic trash and burning mounds or rickshaw drivers bugging you for your business. Instead, it's a stream, with trees, and boulders, and you could be anywhere but the hectic world of India. Hah. When we get to the tree house it's overrun by some 40 teenage students, a mess of boys and girls wading in the water (fully dressed in their saris) or climbing up and down the tree house. They clear out a bit before sunset and the place assumes a much more serene feeling. A few local tribespeople come down to the water to fish. The treehouse is located at the confluence of two rivers, the Pambar and Chinnar rivers which join to form the Kuttar river ("ar" means river). The waters seem a little low, as would be expected during the dry season. Boulders rise up from the stream bed and tree line the banks. It instantly becomes one of my favorite places in India, and Glen remarks that for this I could have stayed home in the US!

The biggest problem with Chinnar is the poor communication of the staff with tourists. The guides do not speak English and know only the names of a few animals like "elephant" or "deer". Nothing was properly explained to us when we checked in. Something was said about hikes, but it was not very clearly conveyed when they would be or if the guides would actually tell us what was on the agenda. So there we are, getting settled in to the tree house, when finally it turns out the guides were waiting for us to go for a walk. Well that was helpful. So we run around after the guide, moving through the scrub forest. The higher peaks in Chinnar loom up, and Glen remarks that some of them look like mountains (was it half-dome?) in Yosemite National Park in the US. Just before twilight, in the failing light, our guide points out some elephants moving on a hillside across a valley. They make a kind of chirping call--not what I expected elephants to sound like. It takes some effort but I finally make out one elephant, slowly moving along. As if the soil itself were walking, and a little cloud of dust were moving too. Then we run back to the treehouse. Dinner is 3 oily parothas and a bit of sauce, which we eat sitting on rocks by the water, though I suggest bringing your own food if you want proper nourishment.

Glen decides to head off to find the Irish and tries to explain his intent to the guides. By now it's completely dark. Some twenty minutes later the guides come up to the treehouse and seem quite animated about Glen having gone away. They want me to come with them to find him--conveyed in so much urgent tones and sign language. The main guide runs off down the trail with us in tow, pointing out shoeprints along the way. I try to explain that Glen would have gone along the river to find the Irish, but the tracker-guide only turns around when he runs out of prints in the soft earth. Later, Glen explains that he had gone up the wrong path by mistake and then turned back. The guides are very concerned due to the wild animals--especially the elephants, but also wild boar, who come down to the water at night. They don't want Glen being trampled to death. We rush along the stream, finally catching up with him at the hut where he's happily having a sip of rum and coke. I explain the situation and we walk back to the treehouse. Along the way the tracker-guide points out elephant marks where they come down to the water. Again, a bit of communication on the part of the staff at Chinnar would have prevented this from happening.

February 26, 2009: We were supposed to go on an early morning walk at 6 am. Well, we slept in and the guides didn't do much to wake us up, and a bit clearer advance instructions would have been helpful. We have a sip of tea and crackers--thinking this is breakfast--and head out around 7 am. It is a very pleasant place to walk. The guides keep up a good pace and it doesn't take long to feel warm in the morning sun. We see some spotted deer (samba), a few birds, an eagle, and hear elephants trumpeting. We basically walk around a little hill, the guides trying to find the elephants for us. Then we pick up our stuff and go back to the headquarters where we have breakfast--a few idly--and wait for the bus back to Munnar.

To summarize my experience at Chinnar: the treehouse is a fun place to stay, plenty of room for 2 people and you could squeeze in a third. Bedding and clean linnen are provided and the door can be locked to deter curious teenage students. The treehouse is located in a beautiful place at the confluence of two streams. The forest is magnificent. When we were there it was during the dry season. Ideally stay more than one night to have enough time to see the wildlife. The park should improve communication with tourists. If hiring guides who speak English is not possible, then at least they could provide handouts with rules for overnight stays ("don't walk without a guide at night or you might end up looking like elephant poo") and clearer instructions on the itinerary. Parks in India are not generally set up for independent hiking--there are no trail maps, so you really do need to hire a guide. In Chinnar there is a site with neolithic dolmens, but it was a separate 5 km walk and I did not fancy doing it in the midday heat. Consider bringing some of your own food to supplement the meager offerings on site, especially if you plan to stay several days. You can buy bottled water at the canteen and I recommend taking plenty with you--I personally can drink over 6 liters on a hot day without even being particularly active (it can go up to 12 liters if I am active, at which point I would rely on a water purifier). The dormitory is probably your best bet for a cheaper long-term stay. This is equipped with basic military-style cots, 4 to a room, and costs only inr$80 per night. Arriving during the cooler months might also improve your enjoyment of the park. In conclusion, I would recommend Chinnar to anyone who wants to see a bit of natural India, keeping in mind some of the above reservations.

February 27, 2009: Today I head to Periyar National Park. At first this sounded like it would be too Disney-land like, but looking at a map, it made the most sense to travel via Periyar to get to Alleppey on the coast. In the end, I am glad I saw Periyar. The ride takes about 5.5 hours. It is, like all these long bus rides, boring. But this tedium is ameliorated by magnificent scenery. The drive down from Munnar passes through tea plantations fringed by steep rocky mountains rising hundreds of meters above the plantations. We pass through little plantation "towns", for lack of a better term, a few huts, a chai stall, workers, a bus stop. Then we head into spice-growing land par excellence. Kilometers of spice plantations line the road. You would hardly even notice that they were plantations, if you expect the sort of monocultures common in the West. Instead, the spice plants replace the forests' understory, while tall trees rise up 20-30 meters interspersed with smaller saplings and trees. The trees are magnificent, cleared of the dense understory you can see their tall slender shapes ending in spreading crowns, shapes and bark and colored leaves or flowers unlike those I am familiar with from North America. Mostly I think they grow cardamom, but also pepper, tamarind, and several other spices. The bus arrives around 4 pm in Kumily, a small town outside the entrance to Periyar. I check into Thekkady lodge, which is adjacent to a church, but around 0430 the church bells ring so I switch to a different place later that day (it is not Sunday, don't ask me why church bells have to ring so early in the morning).

The aroma of spices is clear throughout town, coming from the various restaurants (called "hotels" in south India) and many stores selling spices. I find a shop crowded with locals on a tea break--a good sign of a place to stop for a snack. The friendly waiter brings me the local variant of a thali: rice, various dishes with sauces. The food here is aromatic to the extreme. One doesn't have spices with one's food, one has food with one's spices. Chunks of star anise, cardamom seeds, tamarind, pepper, and surely other spices that have been ground to powder, flavour the food. This truly is spice country and each bite evokes visions of towering trees, shade, spice plants gently shaking their leaves in the breeze.

February 28th, 2009: By 7 am there's a line waiting to get in to the park. At the ecotourism office you can find out about options to explore the park, which range from inr$500 for 5 people to go for a 3 hour walk to inr$5000 for a 2-night stay in the park. It costs inr$300 for a day's entrance pass for a foreigner. I join two Austrians, a mother and her daughter, for a 3 hour guided walk. The LP guidebook says walks start at 7 am, but a sign by the ticket counter says walks start at 0630--it probably starts when they have enough people to leave. The guide speaks English, which makes the hike much more enjoyable than the dashing about in Chinnar.

We take a short rickshaw ride to a separate entrance and then walk in along a dirt road. We pass a native village and the guide explains that two tribes live in the area, the Periyan and Manan (I'm guessing "an" means tribe or something similar). At night they go fishing with small nets. The only fish whose name I remember is tilapia but the guide said they catch several kinds of fish. Mist lifts from low hills along our route. We stop along the way and watch and listen to Nilgiri langurs, a species of monkey, clambering up in some very tall trees. We spot a white-breasted kingfisher, its wings blue irridescence. A Malabar wood pigeon, a large dove, calls in the forest. The guide explains that 46 tigers were counted in the park in the last census. The census is taken over 3 days during the wet season. Plaster casts are made of prints and then analyzed on computer to distinguish individuals. Each tiger uses a 25 km2 territory.

We pass trees with red flowers, then a kind of leaf-like plant that grows out of the trunk of a white tree. Our guide explains that the wood is good for making furniture and that the white trunk stands out strongly in moonlight. The trees furnish the forest, but in mens' minds they are molded, until, touched and carved, in a dark room, one stumbles across their planar shape. In a depression between hills we pass along a stand of wild lillies. We stop and see wild buffalo (the guide calls them bison), who take the first opportunity to flee deeper into the woods, away from things that men imagine. Then the guide points out a massive tiger-claw mark carved into the trunk of a tree, this type of tree being preferred by the tigers for its soft bark. Parrots and other birds flit around and call in the forest, mixed with the hoots of langur. Elephant poo litters the ground, giant balls the size of small mellons made of undigested roughage. As we head back, crunching through fallen leaves, a few spotted deer bound away.

A popular activity in the park is to go out in a boat to tour an artificial lake. This doesn't sound very appealing to me. Instead, I use my day's entrance ticket to enter a second time in the afternoon and walk down to the boat ramp, which takes about 40 minutes (say 4 km) from the entrance. Some people live in the park and along the way I pass people fishing and doing their washing along a canal. The water level in the lake seems low. A line of tourists disembarking from the boats make their way back along a concrete path. Rickshaw drivers sit around waiting for their victims. Several langur monkeys are up in a tree, the setting sun catches the white tuft on their heads as they pick leaves to eat.

Tomorrow I will take the bus to Alleppey, a coastal city from which the backwaters of Kerala are easily accessable.