The Backpacker

Mules and hilly blues

Why do mules walk on roads? This is a question every tourist to Ooty asks one another. But as a traveler, I seek the answers. Mules walk on roads because there is nowhere else to walk.

It is no laughing matter. Ooty (Udagamandalam), a beautiful hill station perched around a plateau high in the Nilgiri Mountains of Southern India, is run with horses and donkeys (and hence the mules). But that is nothing __wait till you meet with monkeys, cows, geese, ducks and dogs. It is them that made my journey to this marvelous hill station unforgettable. (Every time I see my picture album, a mule’s smiling face or a geese pecking at my ankles appears. Don’t ask me how it got there).

But that is Ooty. From Mysore, sturdy, ancient buses drag you up the hills via Masinagudi (replica of a Texan countryside minus the cowboys) through a nine hour journey. You can get off anywhere you like and lose yourself in the forest, but that option is not popular. So people hold on to the seats and stare at the scenery which consists of thick forests, hills, elephants, deer and other wild animals, glad to be safe inside.

It is a different story once you reach Kalahatti after 32 tightly wound hairpin bends. Here begins a different kind of visual treat. Borders of three Indian states meet near here and agree to live peacefully content to watch the rolling landscape of hills, forests, tea gardens and grasslands all enveloped in a warm, tangy aroma of eucalyptus. At Kalahatti I alighted for tea. The weather was crisp and crackling and the Kalhatti falls were cascading down a height of 122 m. Of course you cannot get down to the water unless you have the knack of melting into the forests and negotiating your way through the dense vegetation to the falls.

So to Ooty I went.

The first thing I met outside the hotel (Blue Hills) was a brown mule nodding his head appreciatively. Shiva, the bell-boy told me later that “the ass had an eye for the ‘extraordinary.’ His giggles clearly gave away what he could not say. He had, I supposed been around a mule for long. Luckily for him I was tired. I slept while Ooty turned chilly and cold.

Day Two: There is no greater comfort than a cup of tea in the morning. Shiva burst in with a steaming cup at 6 am and would have landed with his face in the tea cup had I not grabbed it urgently. (Maybe I should not have been so courteous. I remembered his giggles). I was out in the cold at 6.15 am.

Ooty is best discovered on foot or horse. Even an auto-rickshaw is a cheap way except that it makes rude sounds. The silent, empty town whispered to me as I wandered about in search of tea which I eventually found in a miniscule tea shop with partially open tin door. The owner, a very old man with a woolen scarf tightly wound over his head was a good tea maker.

Rajan, the sleepy jeep driver and I were the first visitors to Dodabetta Peak that morning. Looking around the valley below I understood why Ooty was called the ‘blue mountain.’ Lavender-blue flowers of Strobilanthes covered the hills in floral profusion. I guess it was these funnel-shaped blossoms that give Ooty its pet name.

Rajan suggested a train ride to Conoor. The Blue Mountain Express is the slowest train I have traveled on. This Pull-Push train is so slow that you can hop off at the numerous stations (Love Dale being the best of all), have a leisurely cup of tea and yet clamber back on without hurry. But what was the hurry anyway? Women plucked tea leaves in miles of tea-gardens and stopped to wave at the train as it crawled by.

Conoor was just as beautiful as Ooty and well-known for it’s ‘old schools’ and churches. The hills are another matter altogether. Conoor also has a ‘Hotel Blue Hills’ where I spent the night hoping my meager luggage in its namesake hotel 17 km uphill at Ooty was safe.

Day three: (Back to Ooty): Shiva was surprisingly happy to see me. I spent the day at the Botanical Garden studying various species of trees and plants, before paying a brief visit to the lake and the Sims Park. Three days had gone before I realized I had not trekked. To my delight I discovered the Nilgiris are a trekker's paradise. There are treks and treks in whichever direction you turn and from whichever point you start, varying only in distance and altitudes. That is how I discovered Snowdon and Ketty Valley. What more could I ask for? The names were romantic too!!

Oh, but for a cup of tea!!

Sojourn in the hills

I woke up to a misty dream. Only a dream can have such effect on the senses, sending it into joyous attacks. Then briefly the curtains of mist parted presenting to me the most beautiful sight on earth. I must have bowed in admiration or wept with awe, but I remember telling myself if I ever woke up, I would find my way to the top. Then the mists closed in....

It was the first time the Himalayas had sprung out of books and stretched across hundreds of kilometers, leaving open its beauty for the admiring eye... I am glad I had not planned this travel__ if I had, I would have headed straight to the “must-see” places in Mussorie and missed the magnificent offering of the mountains…. (Mussorie is 2000 m high in the Himalayan foothills.)

I turned blue (the same as the hills--only darker) thinking how lucky Garhwalis (the local people) were for having the waterfalls, mists, cold, pools, mountain ponies at their disposal, with the snow-capped Himalaya looking upon them lovingly.

I proceeded to breakfast before the sun arrived. Ask me not to describe the cauliflower parathas and the mountain tea. Suffice to say that I have never tasted anything better since.

It was the cook who put me up to visiting Kempty Falls, 13 kms away. The bus roared away through dangerous bends to its destination. Personally I thought if the driver had something against us, he might have simply played chess in the backseat. For more than once he appeared determined to drive us over the cliffs and looked disappointed when he was not successful!!

Kempty Falls: Here rocks have disintegrated into sand and formed a natural pool into which water falls from a great height. However the pool was empty that morning and despite being dressed for the water, visitors hung about looking expectantly at each other.

I am a water-person and nothing can keep me from enjoying its goodness and without wasting time, I dashed to the pool. A second before I hit water I realized my mistake. The cold knocked off my breath. My blood froze. My screams evaporated with the last of my warm breath and then… from all over fellows in colorful shorts began jumping in!! Why is danger so appealing? The pool was lost to wriggling bodies.

Two hours in cold water is as much as I can take, so in search of mountain radish and tea I went. As I made my way up the cement steps to the road, (admiring the remains of a jeep that had landed nose down into the valley below) someone grabbed me, screaming in delight. The woman, between laughter and shrieks (and more hugs) conveyed to me her appreciation of my intiating a mass-flow of visitors into the pool. I cannot say I particularly agreed with her theory because the cold caused a headache when I sneezed. (Had she been a careful backpacker, she would have realised that one dosent invite a cold in the head unnecessarily, especially when there much to explore and a leaky nose in not very encouraging!) It took three cups of tea & ten spicy radishes to restore my senses.

As usual, I missed the return bus but had the good fortune of bumping into Rangeela & Rangeela, laughing their way to town. Rangeela, the owner, his reddish hair parted the Garhwali way and Rangeela his brown horse were a pair. They broke their journey and drove me to the Surkhanda Devi temple. However I had to walk uphill with Rangeela while the other Rangeela waited. (The order does not matter!! They were practically identical). Five hours later when we pulled into town, it looked like a sky with million twinkling stars.

Camel Back Road: Walking this road (from Kulri Bazar) is best way to warm up. Much refreshed with the night’s sleep and buttered parathas, I was ready for excitement. From here you have excellent views of the Himalayas and on a clear day, you can see the Kedarnath range. It is easy to walk this road actually. It winds round a bend with interesting bungalows and cottage type houses. A south Indian canteen which appears on this road serves imitation dosa and idli and charges the earth. Ask me, I have been had. The filter coffee cost me half the earth. The rest of it went for the limp, yellow idli.

My decision to walk to Clouds End Bungalow was a result of this. Walking it the best way to kill anger. It took me a good two hours to wlk 6 km from the west of the Library to the place. The bungalow is a hotel now and clouds come here to tea before going away to cover the valley below. It was here I tasted rhododendron juice. It tasted of flowers and mist. It dissolved my anger too.

On day 3 I visited the Municipal Gardens, (with Rangeela), Lal Tibba, where the government has installed telescopes for viewing the mountains. I eagerly applied my eye to the lens. Through it, the snow capped mountains appeared within easy reach.

In the evenings I walked the Mall Road admiring crowds and hoped to meet Ruskin Bond, a writer who lives in Mussorie. I did not see him so instead I ate marble sized apples, shivered in the cable car high above the Gun Hill and ate more parathas.

Next morning, the mists had shifted enough for me to see the mountains one last time.

They must have clouded again for when I looked back, Mussorie had once again disappeared into a dream.

Of beach combing and dolphins

The dusty Mangalore-Madgaon passenger train is perhaps the cheapest way to cover the distance of 395 km (point to point). It is also very spirited when goaded and puts up a lively show for the waving villagers, spewing thick smoke and whistling over bridges and plunging suddenly into dark, wet tunnels and even appearing nonchalant when children run alongside screaming. Then it will let out a greater whistle and chug along merrily. It is the best possible way to travel to Goa from Mangalore. Every inch of distance seen through rusty windows is a revelation. 

The memories of this journey are alive for several reasons. The economy, the destination, merry passengers, bridges, viaducts and tunnels. (The tunnels are an engineering feat and route, known as the Konkan Rail has set many ‘first’ records.) The journey itself is a tourist attraction. Rarely has man’s industry and nature’s abundance blended so well!! 

Add to the above the prospect of lying on the warm, white sands can mean only one thing. Bliss. That destination appeared in the form of a tiny station named Canacona, a vibrant, small sea-side village neighboring Madgaon known for its famous St Xavier’s Church. So here I alighted.

The sun was high and the breeze was stiff. The moment you step onto the tiny platform, you can smell the sea and a particularly sensitive nose can lead you straight to it, past a village full of bright Goans with little to do but woo tourists to their miniscule shops and right up to the Palolem beach. (They, I noticed, lived in a perpetual state of spirits and excitement, the source of which I traced to the numerous watering holes).

Canacona is one of those places which give an appearance of moving on cart wheels and after a fine meal of squids and prawns cooked in the typical Goan style, I headed to the beach for my siesta. Here it is a rule.

The Beach: Palolem Beach is an example of nature’s fondness for Goans. The beach faces a blue sea between two headlands. Miles of sparkling white sands, gentle seas and abundant coves and natural pools make it private even when crowded and sun bathing here is a dream. The little wooded islands on either side are alluring and if you're keen, you can persuade one of the fishermen to ferry you across to watch the dolphins or even speak with them, if you have the inclination.

Beach-combers, of whom there are plenty can make a killing with the numerous exquisite treasure the sea throws up with every turn of the tide. Here’s a word of warning. Stranded starfish and other shellfish appear dead at first, but ensure that they are dead before taking them away. I say this on authority. They raise a fishy-smell if they die in your bags. Even the cats will keep away from you. Swimming in the waters of Canacona is like spending time in your private pool. It is quite, the waves do not rush and roar, the sand does not slip away from underfoot, ferocious sea beings do not nip at your toes and you can floats around without the fear of swimming right into another lover of the sea.

Towards evening I got lucky. Imagine waking up from a siesta straight into a beach party!! Anyone in a swimsuit, sand in the hair and look like they have nothing to do, (in general it describes everyone who comes to Goa) is welcome to join in. You maybe however be required to lend a helping hand to gut fish, roast it over a beach-fire, dance (rolling is a better word), and generally help keep the spirits (!!) high. Once you have had your fill of gorging and rolling under the starry nights, you may be in time to welcome the golden sun. If the cold bothers, simply roll over and snuggle beside a dog, cat (and sometimes cows) that will be glad to lend you the warmth.

Or you could wander about the hills and smell cashew or indulge in something more wasteful. Like shopping. Or go away to the bustling capital city Panjim (70 km) or Margao (40 km) and take a bus tour and even a tame boat ride on the river Mandovi or go beach –hopping. There are enough to keep you on your toes (and my ink flowing.)

Here it is all a part of the game.

Let nature take over

Yes, to begin with you can be forgiven for not having heard of Horsely Hills and also if you have mistakenly thought it was a part of English countryside. Once we have established that, it is only fair to tell you Horsely Hills, though not many would agree, is a nice hill station in Andhra Pradesh, in southern India. It is perched high above the dusty plains of Madanapally a bustling mango and tamarind town.

I was amazed to have heard of this place. Imagine how impressed W D Horsely must have been when he rode his horse right into this place over a century ago!! Well, he was the collector of Chittor then and eventually named this place after him.

In the footsteps of Horsely, the collector chump, I followed to rediscover his paradise.

Make no bones, this place is well connected. But who has heard of a backpacker arriving in style? A bus deposited me at Madanapalli (from Bangalore, 175 km away) and I was left to myself to figure out the best way to reach Horsely Hills. That people took pride in speaking nothing but Telugu was frightening seeing that Telugu is not my language-of- expediency. (Meantime, engaged in the task of seeking information, I failed to see one of the only two buses heading to the hills slip away!!)

The next best thing to do was go half way to the hills. One road takes you to Hyderabad from Madanapalli and after following it for some 10 km it branches off into a smaller, narrow, less used roads which winds up to the hills. I forget the name of the place although you can identify it by its lone tea stall and a dilapidated bus stop facing a field of tomatoes and chilies.

So, through the dusty plains I sped to this fork-in-the-road and alighted in style. The conductor, a cheeky red nosed fellow, raised his cap revealing a bald head and wished me luck. (That explains the cap) Hitchhiking was an option, along with walking and cycling 10 km up the hill. A cycle because the lone-tea wallah had an ancient cycle which he was willing to “loan” me. But after tasting his tea, his cycle lost appeal. I started on foot and inched past obscure villages and mango tree lined ribbon-roads, humming and sometimes even singing. Whistling was beyond me even in the best of times. I spoke to a few pale, brown buffaloes and dogs on the way and munched raw mangoes and got thirstier. Then lo and behold, the sound of an approaching car reached my ears. It was thumbing or walking. I resorted to thumbing.

An old white ambassador car came into view. I stood beside the road respectfully and waved. It passed me by in a cloud of smoke and then stopped. A face appeared out of the window. Taking that as an encouragement I dashed to the car. How nice they looked __ the old couple smiling contentedly and their younger driver looking pleased as though he had led his masters to some secret treasure!!

They even spoke English!!

Off we went like a happy family. Nature suddenly turned kind. With each turn in the road, it changed colors, turning first from light to darker shade of green before bursting into a riot of colors, as though a rainbow had spread itself on the tree tops. We were on the hills. I was surprised to find a school, a hotel and a telephone booth there, although one is required to place an order for a meal two hours in advance. I walked about a bit, feeling the Hills.

Three things I noticed at once. The weather, the sight and the smells. The weather in pleasant, in fact salubrious is the word I like better. It made me want to smile more as it added color to my city-cheeks. Cool breeze blew up the valley kissing the rocks in their upward journey and depositing the fragrance of the plains on the hill top. The place smells of coffee, eucalyptus, sandalwood, mayflowers and bamboo giving it a sweet, tangy mind boggling flavour. I lay under a tree inhaling the smells for a long time.

Then I saw the rocks. There were rocks as far as eyes could see down in the valley, with little pools of water and birds having a time of their lives in it. I watched patiently and was rewarded with the sights of deer drinking from the pools. That sight must have mesmerized me because I did not see a snake crawl over my boots. I saw its tail as it disappear into the bush. Heck, there was no point in screaming either. I stayed the night on the hill. The lodging is fine but usually one must have advance reservation. I was lucky.

The night even more beautiful and haunting. If you are quiet, you can hear the wild dogs, bears and panthers. You are lucky if you see them and VERY lucky if you don’t. The restaurant fellow had told me eerie tales concerning them. One thing about Horsely Hills is that one should not expect anything from it. The whole area can be covered in less than three hours including the time spent staring at the 150-yr old eucalyptus tree with gnarled branches which you cannot climb, alligators in a tiny enclosure, a small park with sad looking birds, a temple hidden under the overgrowth and the museum with a stuffed tiger, a bear and a giant snake.

Here you must let nature take over you. Only then you will be glad to have left behind the cable cars and the discotheques far away. Again in reposed under the blue skies, eating vada and chili fritters and drinking coffee (kaapi) made from buffalo milk and then managing to shoo away the local children and taking their place on the swings. High in the hills, a thing such as a swing made from vines is a blessing.

It allowed me to touch nature.

Luckily I got the last bus back.

Sun, sand and some more…..

Two things one must keep in mind: Never laugh at slow ‘express trains’ and a camel. They are pretty touchy about their speed. But if you really want to, hide by a sand dune and pretend that the dry bush is indeed funny. That way, you are safe from harm.

Consider this: Jaisalmer ‘Express’ took 20 hours to cover 973 km from New Delhi. And later the camel we hired for the safari, took forever to cover for perhaps half a mile (it could be more, but in the desert it is hard to say!!). You see the comparison. I don’t know which is worse. A tired traveler at Jaipur and again at Jodhpur had suggested to the engine-man to put some speed into the train and as a result we had been deliberately delayed. Later, the camel, offended by my smirk, had thrown me off his back. Touchy they were alright.

When we arrived at the sandstone city (that is how I remember Jaisalmer in the northwest India in Rajasthan bordering Pakistan), red-faced and hungry, everything was blowing sand. The tea, parathas and mutton curry were served with generous helpings of sand__ at no extra cost.

My only reason to be here was to take a leisurely camel ride through the desert and sleep under the desert sky. Fortunately several people had the same idea, which made us all the more friendly and it was easier to face the sand that way. Finding a camel was tough, seeing that most of them were expensive or not trustworthy. However we did find one that we could trust. The camel ride would begin the next morning.

The first thing to do was a find a place to sleep. The hotel was nice and clean and without sand, commanding an excellent view of the Jaisalmer Fort, a golden affair, built way back in the 12th century. Despite the heat, I slept. In the evening, I wandered about the city, bumping very often into camel guides and my new friends. Everything was enclosed within a sand structure. Tiny shops selling interesting desert-ware were as intimidating as their grubby owners.

Few places are as beautiful as Jaisalmer at night. It is haunting, it is melodious and the sands that look harmless in the night light make an interesting backdrop against the eerie sand castles. The warm afternoon air loses its attitude and mellows into softness and blows cool upon the tired brows....

Next morning we were driven to the edge of the city through poor villages from where we were to begin our two-day, one night safari. I swear I heard the grains of sands conversing among themselves and in the end welcoming us into their territory. The camels took off only after a small sand hill had completely changed shape to let us pass.

The ship of the desert __ The Camel: My camel, a healthy, young fellow, even loaded with our goods, did not resemble any ship I knew. He developed something against me at first sight and I know he padded over the sands more voilently than he normally would, making it hard to hold down my breakfast. Must have been my trousers. Maybe he did not like blue. We were about seven, including the guides and I fervently hoped our supplies would last till our return, seeing that the young guides frequently groped in the food bag for encouragement.

We made camp.

Night comes with many variations. And while the boys made dinner and my friends settled in their camps, I wandered about. The stars shine brighter here, perhaps making up for the lack of worldly facilities. The moon looked down upon the lovely dunes bathing them in a warm blue light. In sync with the rest of them, a desert breeze picked up and blew gently across without disturbing the sleeping grains of sand.

It was cold. It was beautiful. It made you want to cry.

The smell of frying chappatis carried over the sands and I followed it back to the camp. Then we slept with the crickets and desert creatures with little inclination for mischief. The morning came upon us silently and severely and more chapattis followed.

Then with the headscarves in places, we sailed away against the sun. Unfortunately we did not come across any oasis. I am sure we wold have found them had we been looking for it.

It was after we had dismounted to greet some people following us the camel suddenly decided to sit down and in the process threw me on the sands. (He had been thinking up these tricks last night when I found him staring into my crude tent thoughtfully) Then he looked at me, baring yellow teeth and snorted in glee. The young guide, who loved blue and the many chocolates that melted on his tongue smacked him smartly and apologized to me.

But I was shaken and needed much coaxing to sit on the beasts’ back again.

Never once did I laugh till I reached my hotel in the city late in the evening.

One lesson learnt. The deserts have their music, their charm and their appeal. But here clearly, the Camels call the shots.

However ITDC runs the majestic ‘Palace on Wheels’ to these places and you can arrive without complaining. Interesting places around Jaisalmer: The Desert National Park, Fort, Jain temple, Gadsisar Lake, Wood Fossil Park and many havelis.