We left for Munnar on a very rickety looking bus. The seats very worn vinyl over steel seats. There were no windows, and in case of rain sheets of corrugated metal slide down from the roof. We all had seats and watched the country side slide by. Past the rice plantations and the land began to rise into hills. The bus drove for about an hour when it stopped at a bus petrol station. We were informed that we would be there quite a while. There was a cement building about 400 sq. ft. with one wooden desk and a few benches lining the walls.
It was Barbara that noticed they were transporting petrol from a hole in the roof of a tanker and putting it into the gas tank with liter bottles. Hmmm—yes, it could take a while. It was about 45 minutes before we took off again for another 4 ½ hours, the road steeper and the gears grinding we rose p into the chilly hills of Munnar. It wasn’t the cold that took our breath away but the sights of the lush and sculptured tea plantations.
A young man on the bus called a hotel ahead, the Adair and yes, they had one large room with 4 beds and a hot shower—right next to the bus station. It was about 65 degrees. When we got off of the bus, people had woolen hats, down coats, scarfs, blankets, rags tied around them to keep them warm in this frigid country. Walking the very steep road up to the inn warmed us up. We off loaded our gear, exchanged greetings and head off for a bite to eat before we went to bed.
The morning offered us a stunning view of the surrounding hills shrouded in early morning mist. We planned to take a local tour in a van as the sights of Munnar are all spread out. WE headed off to find that each stop had street lined stalls that sold trinkets of Munnar to the tourists, except for us who were Indian. We stopped first at a beautiful lake surrounded by forest. The most tranquil natural scene I had yet witnessed—Except for the sellers, there were no people or houses in view—government land. The road was blocked off and armed guards let cars and buses through. Upon asking, we found out it was to stop poachers from poaching sandalwood. There was a lot of cutting of wood there none-the –less. We rounded a corner to see a person riding on an elephant. Domestic. We went higher in the mountain past waterfalls gushing out of the rock faces. Flowers growing abundantly, yellows and pinks. Spots of color in the virdent green. Even the bougainvillea have thorns growing on them here. Tough flowers to withstand the environment. On the road we were stopped by a local to look down the hill where 4 wild elephants strolled eating the lush vegetation. Delightful. They are protected by the forest rangers.
In the afternoon our tour took us to the Eravikulam National Park home to the rare but almost tame Nilgiri Tahr. At the entrance of the park we waited in line to buy tickets with hoards of highschool groups draped in beautifully embroidered Kashmir shawls. The kids were like groups of kids anywhere, fooling with their phones, taking pictures with them, wearing headsets and showing off for each other. The difference is that the boys and girls stay in separate groups. To enter the park we had to board a bus that belched further into the forest and up the hill. It dumped us all at a clearing where we could look into the mist of Tamil Nadu. The Nilgiri Hills. Everyone got off the bus and headed up the paved path into the hills. “Stay on the Paths!” the signs instructed. We entered into the “pristine” wilderness with the pack of people as you would only find in India. Everyone laughing and yelling and talking loudly—so much for animal sightings! In any regards it felt liberating to be away from towns and housing and we dutifully followed the switchback upwards for 2 K. where the path was blocked off by private property. We photographed the tahr, and the other tourists photographed us, another exotic and rare species in the Nilgiri Hills. A crowd of beautiful young girls crowded around Erin to talk to her which was more interesting to them than the park.
That evening we went into the town of Munnar, the spice capitol of Kerela. We shopped, and ate in a small café and then poked about. I was asking someone where I could buy a flag of Kerela (the communist flag) and was over heard by a tall thin man in a ragged sweater. “Can I be of assistance,” he offered. I explained my quest. “Come with me, I know where you can get one. Not at these stores.” As I started to follow him he said, we’ll just go to my house.”
“Wait a minute,” I said slowing mu step. I’ve got to check with my friend. Barbara was intent in the buying of spices, and I asked her. “Barbara, this guy says he will take me to his house. I’m not sure that’s a good idea—what do you think?” And we both laughed. “ I’ll take someone with me”—and fetched Erin, who readily agreed. We followed at a fast pace through winding alleys behind ‘John.’
“A short rickshaw ride, and then we’ll go to my house.” We giggled. It was a short rickshaw ride up a hill. We got out and literally went underground down a ramp to a series of well lit offices—The Communist party headquarters. There were many men in white shirts reading papers and sitting chatting in the sparse rooms. John proudly introduced us around. His new friends.
“What is the party doing for the tea workers?” I asked. The tea plantations are owned by Tata, and they make 100r./day. (About $2.00) The work is grueling and there is no way out once they take the job. “I owe my soul to the company store,” I heard Tenessee Earnie Ford sing in my mind. The schools provided for their children and their housing is very crowded and substandard.
“Oh course, it is the primary concern of the people in the hills. The only hand to feed also keeps the people hungry. It is a very complex issue.” No argument there. What is with Tata though? They own most of India, the auto industry, the communication, the cable TV satellites, the tourism. . .I have to investigate this more. I had a dream of starting a great school there for the tea workers children.
Erin and I were given flags, and John turned and left quickly. Passing through a lane of shops he stopped a beautiful woman. “My wife!” he introduced. Somehow that was calming news.
His house was up a winding street with very old homes built into the sides of hill. We climbed steep steps to a door. John’s mother answered the door. We went in and had a seat on the couch while John went to make us tea. His mother was a slight woman with white hair and an elegant posture. “My name is Margaret Julia,” she introduced herself.
“Oh, and my youngest daughter is Julia Margaret,” I answered.
“That is no coincidence,” she affirmed. John returned with scalding tea and we all sat with our knees almost touching in the little room. “Do you like poor people?” she asked me leaning closer.
“Why, yes I do.” I answered, and as I said this it set off a series of queries into my mind. What is that I find alluring about the poor? Why am I more attracted to sitting in this room that a well lit comfortable room? My favorite moments of India are such.
“I can tell,” she said.
Her husband Abraham came out of his meditation room in a lungi. “In five days we will know the outcome of your election which could change the world. We hold our breath for Obama.” So do I. I wonder how many Americans know anything of Indian politics. Every where I go here people ask and revere Obama and the America that would honor and trust and elevate a man of color.
We had to leave, although I could have sat there all evening, because we left Melissa and Barbara in the town. They were dutifully, and annoyedly waiting for us, but forgiving when they heard our great adventure.
We wrapped ourselves in blankets and memories and anticipation as we went to bed. Dreaming of the last leg of our trip—Kochi.
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