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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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