In Praise of the Dosa

In South India, dosas are the staff of life. Breakfast, dinner, snacktime, even for a light lunch, the dosa is always served. People say it's a pancake, but a true dosa bears no resemblance to your standard buttermilk, nor even to a slim French crepe. Properly made, a dosa is translucent, golden and crisp, bendable only at the moment it slides off the pan. This is not takeout food, nor anything to serve at a sociable gathering, at least not one for the cook to take part in. It's perfect the moment it's made, and gets a little less good with every passing minute.

Preparation sounds simple. Blend rice (some recipes call for a mixture of rice and black lentils, but in South India home cooks and restaurants use only rice) with enough water to make a smooth paste, let it ferment at room temperature overnight, and fry. Sounds simple, but don’t be fooled. Cooking dosas is best left to a professional. A good dosa’s perfect, thin smoothness and slightly ridged interior are only achieved through years of practice. Sliding one off the pan without breaking or wrinkling it is a feat, not to mention rolling it into a loose cylinder before it hardens.

Eat a dosa with your fingers. Break off a piece, dip it in the pale, pureed coconut chutney always served alongside, and enjoy the crispness, the oddly substantial cheweyness, the caramelized, subtle nuttiness, of a perfect dosa.

Palolem, Goa: Beach and Food

Palolem is a little capsule, buffered from the rest of India. Not all Goa is like this. I've been on beaches where wearing a bikini would have been a death wish. Not here, though. The Russian grannies and the French students lie in the sun in their suits. Few look twice—why should they?—except a group of young Indians who have come especially to gawk. They keep their distance, though.

The beach is lined with hotels and restaurants from one edge of the sandy crescent to the other. One hotel is much the same as the other. Cracked tile, a bit of mildew, sandy tiles, some mosquito net. Nothing fancy, but at the beach you don't need much. A roof to keep the sun off and someone to bring cold drinks seems enough.

The restaurants are also much the same. They serve grilled fish, fresh, but a little overcooked, alongside a few Goan dishes. I try ambotik, xacutti, vindaloo, and Goan sausage. They are good enough for me, but a Goan auntie would likely complain.

Each table comes with its own dog to provide company, and, if needed, clean up any scraps that fall. The morning dog rivalry resumes after dark. One evening as we sip aperitif, a smallish white dog comes trotting along, following a plump, unhappy lady. All the dogs around us rise up, barking, even snarling, until the intruder has run away. Our dog for the evening is a female, a mother. She barks briefly, for form's sake, it seems, and then lies down to sleep on our toes. We debate giving her a bit of fish, but fear the consequences of bones. And where are the cats? Surely with this much fish about, cats should be prowling?

Later I find them, skinny and sand-colored, above our heads, living on the roofs. They must jump down once in while to scavenge, but they are very quick. In the week I am there, I never see one on the ground.

Palolem, Goa: Morning

I walk early in the morning, leaving my room just before dawn. By six thirty, the sky is just light and the air is still cool enough that I am glad to be wearing sleeves. The beach is far from empty, though. Hung-over tourists trudge across the sand, regretting the boat trips they booked the day before. Boatmen cast about for more passengers. Women with men's shirts over their saris pick up bottles and smooth the sand in front of their hotels. It's the hour of the dogs, who wake and stretch, greet their favorite friends, and bark at the non grata. Further down the beach, a group of North Indian men do calisthenics in preparation for a football game, enjoying an hour of freedom before their long workday. The waves lap closer, tickling my toes, wetting my cuffs. Everything is covered with sand, and no one seems to mind.

Picturing India: The Darjeeling Limited

The Grand Budapest Hotel's elegiac nostalgia left me wanting more. Cue The Darjeeling Limited, Wes Anderson's “precious” 2007 release, which is not a film about India. It is American. The main characters are so self-centered, yet they manage, by the end, to shed their baggage and love each other. The fairy-tale setting is hardly needed. It's beautiful, though. I love to watch the opening sequence. It's unreal, just off-kilter enough to make us believe it might be true, and then remind us that it isn't. Look past Bill Murray’s grandfatherly worry and mad dash at the still, clean, imaginary India. The sun-bleached buildings, the colors of the clothes are right. Yet there are no hooting buses, no “Horn OK Please” trucks, no crowds, at least not by Indian standards. The immaculate cream-colored bullock stands stock-still. There is no scrap of trash in the gutters, Murray's taxi races past no open sewer. The railway station — spotless. But it’s almost India. It's a film that lets you dream about how India could be, if only.

Palolem, Goa: Arrival

The flight from Banaglore arrives at little old Dabolim Airport just before dusk. The baggage claim area is disorganized, ill-suited for a very mixed crowd hoping for relaxation. People mill about, uncertain where, or if, their luggage will appear. Mine does, but it seems others on my flight are not so lucky.

I negotiate a ride from the pre-paid taxi window in the baggage claim area, and a driver appears. I follow his plaid back, struggling to keep up, jostled by slender men pushing carts stacked high with bags. They do not care whose ankles they bruise along the way. The driver glances back at me. Stuck in a crowd of trollies, I cast him a dirty look. When I finally break free, he takes the handle to wheel my luggage around a corner, then leaves me to wait while he gets the car.

Our drive to Palolem is long and dark. Snack stands and barber shops stand out, beacons of light in the night. Mostly, though, the road is unpopulated, and barely lit. The air carries hints of what might be seen, were it light: sewer canals, salt flats where fish dry, and, once, a fragrant forest. But perhaps it's best that it's too dark to see. The heat of the day is past, and Goa's black air is soft and cool, mysterious. When we turn for Palolem, the roadside bursts to life. A man is getting a shave in a pink-painted barber shop. A group clusters around a stand, drinking tea. Vendor's stalls loom, full of T-shirts, brass trinkets, silver earrings, and mounds of fake spices and teas.

As we approach the arch that leads to the beach, touts crowd around the car. They hope I want a room, but are disappointed. Already booked. They point me in the right direction and leave me to tote my bags down the beach alone. I am in Goa.

Advanced Bangalore: A Trip to Raja Market

Raja Market is at the heart of a busy, chaotic neighborhood. It’s hard to find, making it a potentially challenging outing even for those with solid India experience. This market is worth the effort, though, especially for anyone in the market for silver or costume jewelry, Raja Market’s specialties. There are gold shops, too, but these are narrow and modest, barely noticeable among the bright displays of colored beads, fancy fabric trimmings, fake hair, and gold-fill costume jewelry. Raja Market is a costume designer’s dream, and a must-visit for Bangalorean brides to be. It’s also a truly authentic Indian experience.

The main challenge is getting there. Many of the streets around Raja Market are closed to traffic (don’t expect them to be anything but packed, though) and others are so narrow and busy that auto drivers often refuse to drive on them. Beyond that, about half of all auto drivers know nothing about Raja Market. Guys just don’t go there to shop, especially guys as short of cash as these. So, ask an auto driver to take you to the intersection of Chickpete Road and Avenue Road. He'll most likely drop you at a busy intersection on Chickpete and point you towards Avenue Road. Walk along Chickpete, dodging between fruit carts and men carrying bundles bigger than they are on their backs. Touts from the fabric stores—this is one of Bangalore’s better known shopping areas for cloth and clothing—will call out to you. Ignore them, unless you want half a dozen bright polyester saris. If you’re looking for some cotton cloth, this is not a bad place to get it. Check the more modest shops and stalls for southern plaids and light-colored shirt-weight material.

Keep just half an eye on the muddy gutters under your feet and look up at the vibrant multicolored displays of saris and cloth for salwar suits. Advertising banners hang overhead. Street signs are nonexistant, so check the addresses on the stores’ signs at each intersection to see if you’ve come to Avenue Road. When you do, take a moment to look around. Where, exactly, the market is will depend on where your driver chose to drop you. Stores selling jewelry and accessories rather than fabric are a clue, and there’s a marked entrance on each side of the market.

Don’t hesitate to step inside. There are always plenty of shoppers, but the atmosphere is markedly less hectic than outside. Most stores are busy enough that they don’t need an outdoor tout, and foreigners are never their best customers. Stop to admire the henna artist’s designs, marvel at the man braiding beads onto string for necklaces while he holds the cord taut between his toes, and get a closer look at the silver bowls made for temple offerings. If you’re interested in sewing or planning to get some Indian clothes made, step further into the market towards the “fancy” stalls that sell colorful ribbons and lamé edgings.

If you want a new ring or a necklace, go upstairs to Chitalia Brothers. Their sign says silver jewelry, gold, and diamonds, but except for a small selection of gold fill for brides and dancers, it’s a place for silver. Ask for earrings, bangles, or pendants and an assistant will pour a heap of them from a plastic tub onto the counter. All are on cards marked with the price—no bargaining here—and wrapped in protective plastic. You’ll be given a velvet-lined tray to hold anything you think you might be interested in, and can make your choice after everything you didn't like is back in the box. The service is pleasant and attentive and though they do clearly hope to sell you more than you planned to buy, their suggestions are more helpful than not, and rarely pushy. The jewelry is well-made, durable enough to wear every day, but Indian silver isn’t sterling and the semiprecious stones are of dubious quality. At these prices, though—the most elaborate earrings cost around $25—you’re getting your money’s worth. One note of caution: neither Chitalia nor any of their neighbors sizes rings, nor do American jewelers. The exact combination of metals isn’t always known, which is apparently critical to getting good results, so don’t buy rings unless they fit well enough for you to wear them comfortably.

Once you’re done shopping and have see the sights, exit the market through the hall to your left if you’ve come in on Avenue Road. If it’s a relatively quiet time of day, take a moment to check out the fruit and snack carts. Treats like fresh figs and guavas are often for sale at prices far below those on busier streets. Remember to rinse with bottled water before eating. More likely, though, you’ll be ready to take one of the autos that congregate there to your next stop.

Additional destinations in the neighborhood include Tipu Sultan’s summer palace and Lalbagh gardens, both relatively peaceful.

Ten Minutes Too Late, Part V

December 23, 2009

The departure lounge is not much of an improvement on the holding area. I have a seat, at least, but here the updates on our delay cease, and time stretches on. I begin to feel uneasy about my onward flight from Bangkok, but I am too cold, too tired, too hungry to worry. I realize that I have had nothing to eat for 24 hours and go to the snack bar, but the display case is crawling with roaches, so I return to my seat to shiver and wait.

I start to listen to the announcements. A man's voice, elegantly accented and beautifully clear, announces the departure of a Jet Airways flight. Another, equally lovely, informs us of a Sri Lankan flight, and a woman calls passengers for Singapore. Then there is a harsh squawk from the PA system. It is a man's voice, an irritated, harassed man, and one who did not do well in English class. “Air India” he barks, and … his message is unintelligible. It is not my picky foreign ears. People all over the lounge are looking around, baffled, asking each other what he said, but nobody has caught a word.

The plane takes off eventually, and I am on it, but later I will remember nothing about it. I sleep. My eyes shut the moment I am tucked into my seat, and do not open again until the announcement of our imminent landing.

A flight attendant, hurrying past to check that our seatbelts are fastened, asks me if she can bring me a cup of tea, even though orders to collect all service items have long ago been given. There is concern in her voice, and her eyes. I realize that she had tried to wake me for the meal, and failed. (The directive to make sure all passengers are served is taken quite literally on Air India. Declining a meal is, as a rule, nearly impossible.) I tell her thank you, but no. My next task will be to see if I am too late to get on the flight I booked the night before, nearly at midnight, and at great expense. I know the chances are slim. My stomach feels heavy. It's full of worry and frustration, nothing more nourishing. Tea would stimulate this ache to a full-fledged pain, so no, no tea. The lady leaves me, but not without a reproachful glance over her shoulder. I have failed at being served.

Continued.

Ten Minutes Too Late, Part II

December 22, 2009

At the baggage claim in Chennai, my suitcase comes off first, as promised. With it, I run outside and along the sidewalk towards the International departures entrance, dodging picnicking families who sit on the pavement, waiting for their loved ones to arrive. It is serious business, for them. Anyone being welcomed by one of these groups is probably the family's main means of support. At minimum he is a joy to them, expensively educated and clever enough to get a foreign job. But I cannot stop to inventory the bright saris and homemade snacks. I push through the crowds saying please, sorry, please, sorry. No one pays attention or really minds. A little pushing in a crowd is just a part of any day in India. I get to the guard at the terminal door. He taps the departure time on my ticket disapprovingly, but lets me in.

Inside the airport, things are no better. The lines are so long and so disorderly that there seems to be a single crowd advancing on the unreinforced checkin counters. I push my way forward, and find an Air India employee. He is impassive, unsympathetic, but waves me towards the end of the counters, around the back to the Air India office. It is a set of three ugly little rooms paneled in red plastic. There are heaps of paper on all surfaces. I am made to sit in the anteroom. My heart sinks. Waiting in a dingy little office is clearly not a step towards being rushed onto the plane.

The officer in charge informs me that the gates have closed and there is nothing he can do. I am ten minutes too late. “You will go tomorrow,” he says, tonelessly. I let loose a flood of words about the flight that will be missed, about my family, unreachable in Cambodia and waiting for me. He is unmoved, and informs me, in his flat way, that it is my own fault. Then he writes out a ticket and tells me to come back tomorrow. He has put me on a morning flight, and I had better arrive early.

I know he is right. SpiceJet cannot help its inefficiency and complete lack of customer service plan. I, on the other hand, could very well have allowed four hours between flights. It is my fault.

Continued.

What is Coffee Day?

Once in a while someone asks, and I say, “It’s a chain of coffee shops, kind of like Starbuck’s, but Indian.” The answer never seems satisfactory, which must be my own fault. I suppose it’s the way I say the words Coffee Day, the way a person might say knight in shining armor or beloved or at least hot fudge sundae, depending on preferences.

Coffee Day has rescued me in many a city, places where a woman should never sit down alone or where every business locks up for hours in the afternoon. Its sign is a red beacon, visible from blocks away, that says “Come. Sit. We'll take care of you.”

Not that it’s all that special inside. A Coffee Day usually has a clean to cleanish (it is India, after all), modern interior, with little square tables and reasonably comfortable chairs. The cappuccino is milky, with a heart swirled into the foam. Drinking water comes in little plastic bottles. Sandwiches, if needed, may be chicken, paneer, or spinach and corn. Sweets are mostly chocolate colored, but with only the mildest, if any, chocolate flavor.

Though the majority of customers are always men, it is the sort of place where ladies meet for coffee. Schoolgirls can be trusted to come on their own to share a slice of cake for a treat. In some places, clusters of students appear in the afternoon, boys at one table and girls at another. The important thing is that I can sit undisturbed, sip a coffee and check my map, read, or daydream.

What Foreigners Like

In a Subway sandwich shop in Tamil Nadu, I ordered a salad with everything on it, until we came to the dressing. I said I didn't care for any. The man making my sandwich took a slice of cucumber, squeezed a bead of mayonnaise onto it, and handed it to me. I must have looked puzzled.
"Honey mustard!" he said. "Foreigners like honey mustard!"
It was honey mustard, more or less. I still didn't care for any. I was pleased, though, to know what foreigners like.

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.

Bet you didn't know that Asterix speaks Tamil!

Roses

There's a bus stop down the street and around the corner. It's in front of the kidney center, which is surrounded by a moat of raw sewage. I wait there about once a week for the bus to the main bus stand, holding my breath and hoping to see the number five speed into view.
Last week when I stepped out onto the main street, I saw confetti in the road. There's no sidewalk, just a paved road for the cars and a smelly, dusty shoulder for anyone unfortunate enough to be walking. And that day, the road was covered with bright pinky-red and white confetti. No, the red was rose petals. I peered down at my feet as I trotted along. The white bits were long and thin, and for a moment I thought they might be jasmine petals. But they were puffed rice. I looked up. The street was still covered with rose petals and puffed rice, and a few whole roses lay in the road as well. I pictured a wedding car strewing flowers and rice as it passed. It didn't seem likely, though. Weddings are so common, and I've never seen such a thing before.
I remembered seeing a funeral procession long ago, my first year in India. The man pushing the wheeled bier kept reaching up to the garlands that hung just above his forehead to pull off a few petals and drop them along his path. But those were marigolds. Today's carpet of flowers was not for a funeral.
As I turned the corner, I smelled roses over the ordinary myriad of odors. Perhaps they had poured out rose water as well. How else could the fragrance of roses compete with reek of an open drain? But the road was strewn with petals far as the eye could see. I remembered the Ganesh temple down the way just out of sight, and imagined an open cart with a silver statue of the god inside. Perhaps it had moved slowly up the street as priests and devotees showered the god with roses and rice.
Who knew? Probably everyone else in town, but not I. I was just grateful as I waited for the bus and smelled the flowers.