A Round-the-World Journey to Find a New Home #24

Mysore, Ooty and then into Kerala

Mysore has to win hands down for being the unfriendliest town in India we’ve been to, and comes close to the top for hassling rickshaw drivers. It has, though, a nice atmosphere once you get past all that but it does detract from the enjoyment factor of the city. And that is what it is, a busy, polluted, large city with all the attributes that normally accompany big cities.

Park Lane, where we stayed, was a welcome relief. Polite, if not friendly, and a nice place to hang out with a great garden restaurant, but as soon as we left their enclave… “Rickshaw sir, madam, where you going, rickshaw, rickshaw, very cheap, palace, sandalwood factory blah blah blah, etc etc etc” The weather was really hot and dry and light clothing was in order, which allowed red areas to grow around my neck outlining white strap marks from my singlet. Very becoming.

One saving grace in Mysore is the amount of places you can get a cold beer. In fact, there are so many foreign liquor stores and wine shops (that don’t sell wine), most with bars attached, ranging from very grubby, dark, windowless places where drunks hang off tables to quite nice places with open air rooftop restaurants and drinking areas. It’s rare to be able to find one so easily in India and usually requires a rickshaw driver to take us to a shop to buy some take-aways. Good food was consumed in Mysore, and quite a few alcoholic beverages too!

Sometimes when you arrive in a new place, say around midday, it’s hot and you are immediately hassled as you disembark your mode of transport. By the time you find somewhere to lay your head and you’ve unpacked, sorted out the washing to be done and had a shower you get a bit disorientated. Most of the day has evaporated and you can’t quite get into gear. Plans to do something are blurred and you feel that to get going you need to start at the beginning of the next day. So what to do? It’s too late to go and visit somewhere (and you’re too bloody knackered anyway) and too early to find a reasonable place to eat. We invariably end up wandering the streets trying to get a handle on what it’s all about. It’s a new place, and you don’t know your way around yet. To add to that, while you are trying to work out where you are on the totally inadequate map, you have every rickshaw driver in town converging on you like flies to an open wound, stopping and interrupting, asking the same old questions in that teeth grindingly irritating manner.

It’s something that I never did quite understand, the mentality of a rickshaw driver. If you walk past a row of them, let’s say parked at the kerbside waiting for a fare, how each and every one will ask you if indeed you are requiring the services of a rickshaw, even though you have just said no to all the previous offers that preceded them in their full view. Do they think that having declined the very kind offer to the five previous inquiries that suddenly I will change my mind because this guy is so different from all the rest and looks sincere and helpful that I will go with him to wherever he might want to take me? It’s all very trying, especially when you are trying to converse with your lovely wife and keep being interrupted with the same inane questions. So there you have it, on one side, irritation beyond belief late afternoon in the searing heat, or, an ice cold beer on a roof top away from rickshaw drivers but with a nice view of the city without getting out of one’s seat. Hard one, eh?

Quite a while later, after three quarters of a bottle of whiskey (you can buy it by the ¼ bottle, which is quite convenient) and several beers, some chicken masala and aloo gobi just to ease the flow of alcohol, we emerged quite refreshed, quite drunk, and quite unbothered by the rickshaw drivers that we just laughed at every time they approached us. Unfortunately, we also missed the impressive (apparently) lighting up of the palace with a few thousand light bulbs like a Christmas tree, and it only occurs on a Sunday. Oh well, never mind.

The palace itself is a pleasing and non-pocket denting 15 Rs per person regardless of nationality, which makes a change, and is totally worth every Rupee. You have to put your shoes into storage for the duration of your palace wanderings, which consists of many huge hall-like rooms oozing opulence and grandeur. The walls are painted with detailed frescoes of oil, depicting ceremonial scenes of time gone by with royal elephants and stallions in very theatrical cloth and gilt garb. Each painting has below it a little outline drawing with each person labelled and named. Hundreds of miniature portraits rolled together into one extravagant masterpiece, a moment caught in time and each person named, ranked and remembered. Other rooms were flanked with huge mirrors all around, and I thought that either the occupants of such a place were very vain or somewhat perverted. I preferred the latter as it made me smile trying to imagine what went on in these rooms and were the servants present? Halls with great glass domes, floors in detailed mosaic patterns and huge crystal chandeliers. I’ve never been to Buck House but I bet it wouldn’t impress me as much as this place did. Yup, all in all I was very pleased with it all, and at only 15 Rs, it was a bargain!

In fact, Mysore was the top spot for cheapy things to do. We were left to wander freely (and for free) the grounds and shop floor of the Mysore Silk Weaving Company where we witnessed hundreds of threads been “thrown”, being wound onto spools and then woven into yards and yards of silken patterns on hundreds of noisy, click clacking electric looms that all looked like painted robots doing a neverending dance in perfect unison. Eddie got a bit scared when tea break was called and a hundred sweaty, bare chested men converged on us as we were entering a weaving hall, all desperately wanting to get to the tea urn first…

Next stop, the Sandalwood factory; this was also free, but in contrast a quiet and almost deserted place. A Sergeant Major type fellow with an air force “jolly decent chap” moustache and a pressed uniform with almost straight creases showed us around in shoes that shone and clicked as he walked. He walked us around the dilapidated looking plant pointing to the various apparatus with a shiny wooden stick and showed us where the wood was split, where it was chopped and where it was ground into a powder. All the machines were museum pieces, but well greased and well maintained and pretty dammed old as well. One cast-iron plaque dated the manufacture to almost a century ago, and I can well believe it. But still they toil on. Asia has a knack at making things last by hook or by crook, with twine and with wire, a hammer here a spanner there and it’s ready for another decade of serviceable use. Mr Sergeant Major also showed us where the ground sandalwood is pressurized, and had steam forced through it in huge vats that towered to the ceiling in a large hall, and next door where the re-condensed steam is collecting and the water drawn off leaving the precious oil collected in a drum that is removed twice daily. Rich, aromatic, and therapeutic I might add, oil which sold at 400Rs for 10 ml at the tourist shop outside we were reliably informed by the kind but orderly Mr Sergeant Major… Oh really?

So in the shop we inquired about the oil, under the watchful gaze of our guide.

“Oh dear, out of stock, how terrible, and when might there be some more so that we might come back to purchase some at a later time? Waiting for the plant to extract some more? How inconvenient, perhaps you should employ a few more people then, it did seem rather lacking in the labour department in there, what?” (Chuff, chuff)

With the danger of becoming a guidebook, which I really don’t want, the last place we visited was Saint Philomena’s Cathedral, which Eddie’s mother would have loved. 165 meters to the top of each of the twin towers at the front and 165 meters long, it is a formidable Gothic-style structure that I thought would fit right into Gotham City from the Batman films. Eddie’s biggest sister is a Philomena so we had to go see this namesake, Eddie lit a couple of candles and said a prayer and I looked at the crypt, and learned something new about churches (it’s a secret though…), and then we took a quick look at the gift emporium across the road. Very quick actually, we left promptly after a horde of bored salespeople descended on us almost immediately. I’m sure that they could have been quicker if they hadn’t been snoozing on the showcases.

We finished our day with a walk around the colourful and bustling Devaraja Market that was full of fruits and flower garlands, and sandalwood oil sellers…

That evening we gorged on succulent dishes of chicken and vegetables in spicy sauces in the garden atmosphere of the Park Lane’s restaurant, a very popular place and largely patroned by the educated Indian class. A nice touch was that each table had a little red light suspended above with a pull string. You clicked the light on when you wanted service that was always prompt, which is a saving grace in India. I really liked that little touch in a city that on the face is so unfriendly and hostile.

“Ooty is only a very short way from here, only 3½ hours, sir,” the man said when he sold us the VIP Express minibus ticket, ha, ha. So the bus lolls up languidly, half an hour late at our hotel, which wasn’t bad, considering. Then we drove around for an hour seemingly trying to locate some other passengers that might have got lost somewhere. We hung out on a road corner for a bit while the driver cleaned his nails, and then a bit more a hundred yards down the road. Eventually a few more people arrived and we decided to go. The trip took just over 4½ hours and included two stops, a trip through Bandipur National Park and Mudunali Wildlife Sanctuary where we saw deer (wow) and black faced monkeys (double wow) which the man on the bus called “The Indian Michael Jackson” which I still don’t quite understand.

The long climb up the winding roads that snaked lazily back and forth, unlike the driver who was racing another bus to the top I’m sure, made the arrival at Ooty quite promising. Little colourful hamlets of pastel shades were nestled into the slopes on steps cut out of the hillside. Lush emeralds of cultivated squares, also stepped into the slopes like their concrete cousins. Little bridges that crossed dry river rock beds that would flow with icy fresh water in the rainy season. As we crested a hill we came across a sprawling town and a calm green lake fringed with trees. This was Ooty, visually pretty and aesthetically pleasing, old in places, colonial, largely Christian and home of rich people’s houses in the hills.

We found a place with a view and a balcony, overlooking the lake. Very nice, lovely jubbly in fact, and set off for our usual first day “don’t quite know what else to do after just arriving today” walk around town. Ooty turns out to be quite the Indian holiday spot, either for a few days or on a daytrip. Coaches arrive constantly throughout the morning and depart late afternoon. Others stop for a few days to escape the heat of the lowlands (at 2203 meters it gets rather cool in the evenings and you can really see your breath in the morning time as you go to get a bucket of hot water for the morning wash). They all seem to be irresistibly drawn to the lakeside boating cum Mini Theme Railway cum Play Park, like kids to a circus, just the way we would all be if we weren’t so reserved.

This seems to be the highlight of Ooty – stuff the walks and views and wildlife, let’s go play on the trains and boats and the bumper cars! Ooty is a place of more churches, winding lanes, hill walks and really bad restaurants. Saint Stephen’s church was old and wooden and immaculately looked after, highly polished and traditional feeling. Brass plaques shone and remembered past lives with love and reverence, most of the names being English sounding dating from the time when the British favoured Ooty. Eddie sat and spoke to the Big Man while I browsed the shiny memorials of Captain this and Sir that…

Karnataka as a state, along with Kerala, boasts a large Christian population, and a number of well preserved and much used, beautiful churches. Ooty is no different. I’ve always had a thing about wandering around churches and graveyards, although I am not a religious man in the slightest. Another church we visited, Saint Joseph’s, brought home to me the absolute dedication of Indian Christians, their devotion in complete, almost in an obsessive way. They come to sit, stare at the altar and maybe cock their heads to one side in thought, communicating with their eyes. Then a long spell on his or her knees followed by the touching of every single statue and deity in the place. It becomes a ritual. While I was sitting there I watched half a dozen or so people come in and perform this, spending quite a while in quiet prayer and thought and then paying respect to each and every figure. Masses are held in three or four different languages in some places every day, the minister must be knackered. The community boards are always full of up-to-date notices about things going on and letters received from bishops and deacons etc, it all seems like a very strong community spirit. There is evidently a strong belief here and a strong dedication to that belief which shows so defiantly in these churches. Much more so than in my home country where Christianity is probably the most followed religion.

After all that, Ooty, I have to say, doesn’t do it for me. It’s all very nice and all that but there is a severe lack of stuff to do and a severe lack of good grub which always scores a place down in my book. It’s just quite a nice place to go, and I’m sure many people will disagree with me, however these are my ramblings and I will say what I feel. A trip to the botanical gardens which were very nice and well kept turned out to be a place where Indians want to have their picture taken with you which was a little aggravating when you are trying to have a snooze in the sun. The best thing we did was a leisurely walk around the lake, it was peaceful and the path was romantically sun dappled through the trees above.

We took the well spoken of mini-train down from Ooty to Metupalaiyam, three and a half hours down (five and a half up) on a cute, narrow gauge train. This was nice; we wound slowly through tea plantations and eucalyptus trees that carpeted the hillside, through picturesque village stations with bright flowers in white pots, little communities with colourful houses. Fields of rice and babbling streams, a kind of fairytale landscape from a mythical land. You know the type of stuff, hazy mountains with clouds tipping the summits, a light breeze rustling the leaves and fresh air rushing at you, invigorating the soul…

Until we switched to the steam engine for the steeper part of the descent, when the air became ash filled and black, especially in the tunnels. It was fun though – when do you get to travel on public transport and a steam train at the same time? Not often, is what I say. We travelled first class in memory of our mini train trip up to Shimla but it didn’t have the same luxury about it all. Just padded seats in a small section away from the “other” class (where I would have preferred to be actually) and a bit cramped in. A far cry from the separate velvet armchairs and waiter service and free tea and bikkies that we experienced on our Shimla trip.

A short overnight stop is required in Coimbature before jumping on a train south to Cochin (or Kochi as it’s sometimes called) in Kerala, the southern most state we reach before turning back north. Home to the backwaters and palm fringed beaches and sunshine.