No matter how well you plan...

...you can't plan for everything.

I have a lovely, quiet morning at the Queen's Gallery and Loha Prasat, and exactly the lunch that I want at the cute Chinese chain restaurant on the corner. It is passion fruit juice, pork roasted, fried and in sausage with cucumbers and plenty of chilies, plus coconut ice cream. The flecks of coconut are dyed pink and pale green for gaiety, but the flavor is rich, slightly smoky, and sublime.

But success like that can only breed arrogance, I guess. I think I'll finally see the Grand Palace, and perhaps take a look at Wat Phra Kaew along the way. Even the Wat defeats me. I pause outside to pull on my little nylon shrug, a gesture of politeness, I think, to cover my almost bare shoulders. A man on his way out gestures at me impatiently with his stick of meatballs, an early afternoon snack. "Go in," he urges. "It's free!" (In retrospect I am sure he meant well.) My heart sinks. I trot forward, still struggling with my jacket. A little further on I pause to adjust a sleeve. A man sitting near pipes up. "Go in, go in! To your left! It's free!" He is an older man, a little plump and quite contented-looking. He shows no sign of wishing to get up. But I scurry away, hoping to escape. Foolish. A bright-eyed woman in front of me turns and waves. All Thailand can't be focused on luring me into one temple, can they? But the lady is. She insists that I follow her, does not allow me to hang back, and demands to know where I am going next, right where we are, plopped down at the feet of the Buddha in the temple. She scolds me for booking tours through my hotel, points out the cheaper tourist office on my map, and then derides my plan to go to the Grand Palace. I will wait for a ticket for at least an hour, and then have no time to see anything. Bad idea! Have I seen the standing Buddha?

Yes, I say lamely, unfolding the map further to show her where. No, no. That isn't the right one. She points out a Wat near Dusit, shows me her holy card of the place, and then points out two others. One, the Golden Mount, I saw years ago, the victim of a convincing tout. It is next door to the places I had visited early in the day, but I had skipped it. Why relive bad memories?

I thank her as graciously as I can, but deflect her questions about where I might go next. After a moment she turns to say her prayers, and I run.

I run out a different door than the one we came in. I turn left, taking a path through an amulet market, skipping over dogs and sucking in my breath to get around monks, who must not be touched, however accidentally. I dodge soldiers with equal care. All hard eyes and hard abs, they should be the opposite of the monks, but are not. Untouchables, all. Or I am, at any rate.

At last, the amulets are behind me. It is no less crowded. Flowers to one side, food to the other. But I can't stop here. I slip through an opening, hoping to look at my map and come up with a plan, but it's impossible. A tuk-tuk driver with a fake American accent rushes to my side. Probably a foreign woman alone is an easy mark. Most days, that is. Not today. He outlines the same program as the lady in the temple, failing to mention the craft shop he will insist that I visit along the way.

I thank him sweetly and assure him that I now know where I am--he has pulled out his own map, as mine is sadly tattered--and re-enter the market the way I came.

Before me sits a man stringing those little white flowers into tiny garlands. I don't know what the flowers are. They are not jasmine, and have an odd shape. I have never seen them in India, but in Southeast Asia they are auspicious, and form the standard collar for a bottle of Fanta offered at a little spirit house. But they are not what stop me. Before him sits a bucket of plastic-wrapped bouquets of gardenias. Only one flower shows on many a bunch, and some look a bit brown. But others do not. The gentleman names his price, 20 baht for one bunch, in a disapproving tone that tells me this is high. Not to me! I gesture at a bunch that has a fresh flower facing upwards, and pay. I run to the pier, half intending to get the boat to pier 15 and walk to the temple where everyone seems to want me to go today. But as I dig for change, I see the cross-river ferry pull up, and remember the pretty white Wat and the coffee shop across the way. I toss three baht at the fare collector and run to the boat. She pays no attention, does not mind what the stupid foreigner does. In this case it's what all the Thais do, so why bother?

Now I've made the right decision. I loosen my bouquet as we float across and see more than three fresh flowers. (In the end there are more than six. My room smells like heaven!)

On the other side, I skip over sandbags, trying to keep my toes dry. A beautiful Thai woman sells me an iced coffee, and I join the drinking, snacking throngs going about their business. The temple is full. The moment to make merit is at hand. In the two foreshrines, people are gilding the Buddahs and offering orchids and marigolds. I would buy a leaf of gold if I could figure out how, but I can't. And I daren't offer a gardenia. I have never seen it done, and my flowers may be inauspicious. (White!)

So I catch the ferry up with all my flowers. I have decided to go to the big Buddha, if I can. He is not all that easy to find. But I do it, passing two disgruntled Russians on the way. They have ditched their cheating tuk-tuk driver at the temple and are arguing about whose fault it was they got swindled. I don't understand a word, but I know that's what they're saying. There is no other reason for a foreigner, a tourist, to be walking on this particularly grey Bangkok street. And I've done the same myself, after all.

As I find the temple a tuk-tuk passes me. The couple inside looks grim. On the way in, they whisper together, arguing about what they ought to do. I hang back, and wait for them to move on. I edge up to the shoe-leaving area, drop my sandals, and move forward. I edge back and forth, hoping to see the spot for my flower. Two Korean boys come forward, equally frightened of being disrespectful. But they take photos, and I watch a cat claw the rug near Buddha's left toe. When the boys are done, I slide down to the left side, and kneel. I salute the cat, place my freshest gardenia in the most humble place, between the Buddha's smallest left toes, and brush my fingertips on his little toe.

The Korean boys have been watching. They comment on what I have done before they go, but I cannot measure what they say. I stand, and look back uncertainly. I have seen people photographing the leaf of gold or offering they gave. But a voice says leave it, let it go. So I do. I look back and see my gardenia, beautiful against the gold. And then I go on. It's finished.

Eggs really do grow on trees

Bangkok, 22 October 2010, somewhere between Hua Lamphong station and the foot of Yaowarat road.

Bayern, somewhere near the Czech border, Easter 2010.

Topslip

October 2-3, 2010
Most tourists pass through Coimbatore on the train, or perhaps get off to only change trains and while away a few hours at the KR Bakes across the street from the station. Though it's among Tamil Nadu's largest cities, it's just a mill town. There's not much to see. Coimbatore is, however, a good starting point for a trip to a nature reserve. So we set off, more than 10 ill-assorted foreigners crammed into three cars. Our goal is Topslip in the Anamalai mountains, 800 feet above sea level and a self-proclaimed biodiversity hotspot.

The drive from Coimbatore to Pollachi is not particularly scenic, and the drive through Pollachi is nightmarish. The driver tries different streets in vain. All are blocked, and we end up stuck in a banana market, hemmed in by autorickshaws and mini trucks, waiting for a truck somewhere in front of us to be loaded with bananas. On the other side of the town, things improve. Plantations and forests line the road, so that the car drives under a green canopy.

The dining area at Cotsvilla.

We arrive at our hotel, Cotsvilla, which turns out to be at the foot of the mountains and not in them. It is lunchtime. We lounge over our meal even though it is just adequate. Rice, biriyani, rasam, fried chicken, some sliced tomatoes and carrots, and a banana for dessert are perfectly fine but neither enough nor good enough to justify the 250 INR per head price tag.

A spider on the wall in the outdoor restaurant.

By the time we're done, it's too late to drive up to the Topslip preserve, so we're sent towards Valparai. At first, the drive is scenic. We pass a cocoa plantation and a pond of pink lotuses. A goatherd with a bushy white beard drives his flock along the roadside. Later, we catch a glimpse of two giant stone horses painted ice blue, village guardians according the slender young guide the hotel sent with us.

An hour later, we come to the Sholaiyar dam. The guide would like us to join the throngs of tourists in the park and on the dam, but we decline and drive on to Monkey Falls. Monkey Falls has a pond for swimming, but this is no secluded nook. Throngs of tourists wade in the water or stand under the falls. The water, we learn from more than one fellow tourist, has ayurvedic properties, so dousing yourself here is supposed to promote general heath and well-being. There is no changing area, though. Most people go in fully dressed and drip in the car on the way home.

Across from the entrance to the waterfall is a path that leads to a wildlife sanctuary, but come early if you'd like to go for a walk in the forest. The guard only lets a certain number of people enter each day, and we are far too late to be allowed in.
Frustrated, we tell the guide we will stop at the dam on the way back after all. The sky is dark, but our legs are cramped. For four rupees plus a little more for a camera--bringing a video camera in runs 200 INR but a still camera was only 10 or 20--we are allowed in the park. I don't count the steps up, but there are many. The reservoir is surrounded by hills and quite pretty, especially once the pouring rain has chased the rest of the tourists away.

The park below the reservoir.

Soaked, we buy peanuts and cookies from the vendors that line the road back to where we parked and climb into our cars. The way back to the hotel in the rain and dark is no joke, but we make it to Cotsvilla alive.
Unfortunately, the roof to one of the cottages has leaked all over part of our group's luggage and the hotel can't offer them another room. The rest of us accommodate the unfortunate ones in our rooms, and no one receives a discount for the inconvenience. The waiters do, however, agree to bring our dinner to the shared living room. This means they are trudging through the pouring rain and mud, not us. They do bring it, a little at a time. Fried chicken is the starter. It's more bones than chicken, and most of us give up after pricking our tongues on shards of chopped-up bone. Chapatis, flat, whole-wheat bread, and a rich chicken curry with clove-scented sauce appear. Sadly, it is also bristling with bones. Curd rice, yogurt mixed with rice and a few mild spices, the standard finish to any South Indian meal, shows up before the fried cauliflower, which really ought to have been a starter. A bucket of soupy vegetarian sauce and more bananas finish the meal. The bucket is the same as the ones from which waiters in busy meals-ready restaurants serve vegetables, but sitting on the dinner table it's unappealing enough that even our token vegetarian ignores it. It's Gandhi's birthday, a dry day, so we don't get to test Cotsvilla's bar. The young waiters were good enough to store the beer we brought with us in the kitchen fridge when we arrived, and they bring it at the beginning of the meal.
The next morning dawns clear and sunny, though those of us used to hill stations know better than to trust the weather. We should get straight into our cars and drive up to Topslip, but instead we hang around drinking thimblefuls of coffee and hoping for breakfast, lingering over appams and vegetable curry, and waiting yet longer for omelets.
The ride up the winding road to Topslip is scenic, but not recommended for those prone to car sickness. At the first barrier, buy entry tickets and check them carefully. It's 30 INR for two people, more for each camera and car. The ticket office is another stretch of long, winding road away from the reception area, and no tickets are sold at the entry point. Those whose tickets and parties don't match are sent down the hill to rectify the situation.
Buses leave the entry point periodically, taking visitors around the park and to the elephant riding trek. But we've just missed a bus and cannot wait for the next one; evening flights out of Coimbatore can't be missed.

One of many monkeys at the entrance to the preserve.

Some lengthy discussion later, we learn that we can hire guides to take us into the park on foot. One guide is 500 INR for two hours and can accompany up to five people. The guides are slim, dark youths with scant English and no park ranger uniforms. One has a machete, used for hacking through brush, not fending off tigers, even though the board in the reception office shows that the last tiger sighting in the reserve was yesterday. Nevertheless, tigers are unlikely to be interested in our large, noisy group. It's elephants we should worry about.
Actually we are not particularly worried about elephants, either. We anticipate an Indian walk over pavement and through aisles of snack and souvenir shops, not an actual trek. It doesn't even occur to us to be worried about sandals on slippery ground.

But we are wrong. A little ways into the park, we slip and slide over a little stream, up a hill, through the forest and up another hill to an elevated, grassy clearing. “Shhhh....” whispers the guide. “Elephant!” He points to a spot on the hillside opposite us.
We are silent. I hear crunching and rustling, and after a moment an elephant's trunk pops up above a clump of bushes to pull leaves from a tree. A loud rustling in some trees far to our right distracts the guide. “Nilgiri langur!” he announces. Perhaps. I see the branches moving violently as something swings through the trees, but the monkey is too clever to be seen. I turn back to the elephant, which is still throwing its trunk above the bushes to pick leaves. It is wonderful to see, but I can't possibly get a photo at this distance. One of the guides watches me zip my camera back into its bag.
He hushes us and leads the way towards the trees where the monkeys are playing. We follow as he hacks through the brush, then slide after him down one horribly muddy hill and up another. He hushes us again and gestures us to stay back while he tiptoes on. After a minute, he waves us forward and, also with gestures, asks for my camera. I inch up until I see what he sees. We're on the other side of the elephants we saw earlier, but are now much nearer, probably closer to the creatures than is really advisable. The guide takes my camera closer yet, and snaps pictures until he gets one of its face.

The women in the group hang back and whisper about the French tourist who was killed by an elephant last year. Apparently elephants cannot bear a camera's flash. The men move forward, anxious to show that they're brave and to get the most out of the experience, but none moves as close as the guide. After a few more minutes, the guides hurry us away.
We move further up the hill, but that is a mistake. It starts to rain, and quickly to pour. We huddle under a tree and drip. One guide tries to tell us about a guesthouse further up the hill, but we cannot all agree to move until the rain abates, and by then it is too late to go further. We slide down the hill, stepping over elephant scat all the way. The paved road is in sight when we hear rustling overhead. It is a Malabar squirrel, the guide informs us. It is huge, like a monkey-squirrel hybrid, and it leaps from branch to branch high above us with casual grace, ignoring the intruders on the ground.
At the pavement's edge, we stop to pick leeches off our feet. We all have at least three, and those wearing shoes and socks are not spared.
Soaked and muddy, we slog back to our cars and make our long, wet way back to Coimbatore in time for the plane out.