Ten Minutes Too Late, Part I

December 22, 2009

Picture Coimbatore. It is Tamil Nadu's second city, a cement scar on South India's red dust plains. It is a textile town, fed by the cotton that grows in the state. Increasingly, though, it is also a tech town. Old villas are pounded to dust to make way for cement and plastic office buildings. The sewers have almost all been sunk below ground, and the impromptu garbage dumps that once dotted the city are now regularly toted out to Ukkadam for sweepers' children to scrounge on. Picture Coimbatore Airport. It is nothing but a smallish hangar with 1970s linoleum floors. Two Xray machines sit in the middle of the departure area. The room is ringed with checkin counters, temporary structures that can easily be moved. No one has bothered to put in any paneling. The walls are raw and grey. There is no belt to transport the luggage out to the waiting trucks and planes. Instead, blue-uniformed men move the bags with startling speed and energy. They look too skinny to sling suitcases around so easily, but the constant exercise keeps them strong and thin.

Holidaymakers and honeymooners mill about, dressed in party brights. Among them are politicians, in white from head to toe and wearing their traditional lunghis, long cloths tied around the waist, in lieu of trousers. Businessmen wear shirts and pants, and could go to Munich or Cleveland and fit right in. And me. I'm there too.

I wear an ankle-length linen skirt and a long-sleeved blouse, nothing Indian, but modest. It's a look that says, I'm a lady, leave me alone. Or it would, if I were sitting down reading my book as I ought to be.

Instead, I am pacing. My SpiceJet flight, the one that was supposed to get me from Coimbatore to Chennai, is over two hours late. No one had announced the delay, or offered any excuse. The flight number and departure time stay on the board, unchanging, as the minutes tick by. I ask the man at the checkin desk when my plane will board, and ask again.

“It will come!” is his singularly Indian reply. He offers no details, is baffled by my explanation of why it is important (a connecting flight in Chennai, an international one, for which I need enough time to clear security and immigration), and is increasingly annoyed in the face of my nervousness.

The possible delay of my next flight, an Air India one, is really my only hope. When I made my reservations, I allowed for a possible two-hour delay on my flight to Chennai, but no more than that. Chennai airport is smelly and mosquito-infested, with an appalling lack of facilities. There isn't even a Coffee Day. I did not, and do not, want to spend a long layover there.

Coimbatore airport, much smaller, less odorous, but with more than enough mosquitos, has a Coffee Day. I had a cappuccino there after I checked in and now it has mixed with my unease and is causing me pain. I look at the board, helpless. The expected departure time for my flight is still frozen in the past. People are checking in for the Jet Airways flight to Chennai that I had ruled out as departing too late when making my plans.

At the Jet counter, the kind young woman assures me that the flight is on time, and that they have a seat for me. My plan, newly hatched and ill thought out, is to have a boarding pass for both flights, just in case the original one takes off first. The SpiceJet man is having none of it, though. Affronted at my lack of faith, he rips up my boarding pass and shoves my suitcase at me. It doesn't matter. The Jet flight takes off on time, while the SpiceJet passengers wait.

It is too late, though.

Continued.

Durga Puja 2010

15-17 October, 2010

The car drives past just one Durga Puja site along the road on the way to the airport. It looks like any wedding or "function" site, slightly decorated and full of placid, orderly people. I have the faintest twinge of regret that I will not be able to see the puja firsthand, but it is fleeting. It would have been nice to tell my father that I'd seen a Durga Puja in India, if nothing else. But I would much rather be in Mumbai than in dusty old Tamil Nadu. The the cab speeds towards the airport.

Coimbatore's new terminal is not changed enough that I really notice the renovations, but I am still not used Mumbai's new terminals. They are such an improvement that they seem almost unreal; they might any moment melt away, leaving the old, dingy rooms built of yellow linoleum and stained walls behind. Outside the airport, though, Mumbai is smelly and grubby and humid, just as it has been for the last 25 years, 250 years, 2500 years. I take deep breaths of city air and am glad.

But tonight Mumbai is different. There are lights, and a golden yellow gateway with an image of Durga on it. I peer down the alley as best I can, catching a glimpse of crowds and flowers, but not the idol. Too bad. I am far from my hotel. There can be no coming back to see the celebration. But we drive past another awning, and another. Fairy lights are everywhere. Occasionally I hear drums. There are pujas on every street, down every alley. At one intersection, there are lights all around, a dizzying golden circle more reminiscent of Vegas than anywhere in India. As the cab approaches Colaba, the tiny lights dwindle and fade away. The streets are too narrow, the real estate is too expensive. Publicly making room for Durga is not the province of the wealthy.

The next day I find a puja site, though, just north of Colaba, near the fishing village slum. It is not so very far from where I'm staying, but it still doesn't seem likely that I'll get to go. After all, I'm traveling with someone who has gotten tickets to the first ever Mumbai Oktoberfest. The German wheat-idol and the Bengali overcomer of obstacles seem hardly likely to meet.

But fate smiles, if only for a moment. Hunting for an after hours bar after the Oktoberfest closes (not my idea), we come upon a festival. There's music, and at one end of a cement yard surrounded by a very low wall sits a large, vaguely Asian-looking idol. With her pink skin and averted eyes, and she looks more like Mary than Durga to me. Still, she is beautiful. We have stumbled into a slum, though I suppose one of Mumbai's better slums. The people live in little box apartments in buildings somewhere between doll house and house of cards. The front of each building is completely open, so there is no privacy at all. It looks as if the two-story constructions could cave in on themselves at any moment. But they don't. Old people perch at the appartments' edges, cuddling their grandchildren and watching the dancing. Mostly young people dance, and there are plently of children making the rounds. The outer circle of dancers goes clockwise, the inner counterclockwise. A dancer meets her partner, taps his stick with hers right, left, taps her own together once, one more right tap, and on to the next partner. (I say her and his, but it's completely mixed.) They go round and round, sweating and mostly smiling. Everyone wears bright new clothes, but the two girls scheduled for marriage this year are immediately visible. Some expense has been taken to dress them. Both wear red and green skirts and tops decorated with plenty of gold foil and rhinestone jewelry. But one is much prettier than the other, and they both know it. The wide-faced, doe-eyed beauty laughs and smiles as she whirls round and round, carefree youth incarnate. The other does not smile once. Does she know the boy she's in love with is promised to her rival?

It is easier to watch the much younger girl in a black dress trimmed with silver foil. She is thin, nearly scrawny, with a long, narrow face, and might never grow into a beauty. Nevertheless, I cannot help feeling better when I look at her. She dances with attack and abandon, every ballet teacher's dream. Surely such energy and determination can only meet with success. And who could resist the two young teenage girls, dressed in their best but not overdone, giggling at the private jokes they exchange with their eyes. A single word from one to the other produces gales of laughter, but they never miss a step. A much older woman dressed in a rust chiffon and gold foil sari dances past. Surely she is a chaperone, but she looks as happy as the kids. Joy makes their lives beautiful if only for a night or two.

All are not so joyful, though. A tall, thin young family appears. The woman holds her baby in her arms, her husband follows behind. They join the dancing but are are grim, tapping their sticks listlessly, never giving a hint of a smile. They make two or three rounds and retreat to an apartment to watch the dancing in silence. Even the baby is solemn and quiet.

My companion and I lean on the wall around the compound. About twenty young men keep us company. After a few minutes, we are invited to join the dancing. I would love to, but I don't know the rules and fear of showing disrespect holds me back. They are still dancing when we leave. Probably they go on all night.

The party isn't over even then. The next night on the road between the domestic and the international aiport, the streets are blocked with trucks carrying young men and Durga idols. Boys throw fireworks and shout. The driver, a Muslim, gazes grimly around him, inching forward against all odds. My progress is so slow that I fear I might miss my flight. The driver is determined, though. We gradually leave the joyful noise behind.

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.