Baden-Baden on a Shoestring

The average age of the Baden-Baden visitor is high, as is the price tag for an overnight stay, but that shouldn't stop you from visiting. If you enjoy spa culture or Russian history, Baden-Baden may be just the place for you. It's on the train line that runs from Hamburg to Basel, as well as the one from Frankfurt to Lyon, so this city and its thermal waters can be worked into many a European trip.

Surgical strike 

Make Baden-Baden a day stop between two overnight trains or pause for a little pampering on the way to Frankfurt for your flight out. Leave your luggage in one of the train station lockers for between two and five Euros. Just bring a change of underwear or clothes, a comb, and your minimal makeup and face cream, if you have any. The bus stop is to your right as you exit the train station, and about two Euros will get you downtown. Get off at Leopoldplatz and follow the signs to Caracalla or Friedrichsbad.

How to choose your bath

Baden-Baden has two thermal baths, Friedrichsbad and Caracalla, old and new, respectively. Both are lovely, but the two offer very distinct bathing experiences.

Friedrichsbad

If you're interested in history or have read a lot of literature that mentions Baden-Baden, you might prefer Friedrichsbad. Don't be put off by the nude mixed bathing (the central pools are mixed even on the “separate”bating days). There is ZERO pickup scene. This is the bath to choose if you're looking for quiet, relaxation, introspection, or searching for your inner child. Massages are pleasant but short, so if you're on a strict budget opt out and spend your time steaming and soaking. Friedrichsbad also has free lockers for large luggage that can be used while you bathe, if you don't trust the train station.

Friedrichsbad tips

* Don't be unnerved by the Russian-accented attendants or the timetable posted on the wall in the room with the heated floor. You are free to set your own pace and move from pool to poll and back again at your leisure.

* If you think you might want to return to the sauna, take your seat pad with you and store it on one of the plastic shelves in the pool area. (The burly brush-masseuse is in charge of seat pads. She will probably give you a second one if you ask, but you might not want to.)

* The recommended treatment ends with a nap, which I suggest you take. It's especially heavenly if your last sleep was on an overnight train.

Friedrichsbad particulars

Friedrichsbad is open Monday through Sunday, 9:00-22:00 (10:00 pm). It's completely closed on Christmas Eve and Day, and closes early, at 20:00 (8:00 pm), on new Year's Eve. Last entrance is always two hours before closing time. The baths are fully mixed on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays and holidays. Monday, Thursday, and Saturday, bathing is single-sex except in the two central pools. Four hours with no massage is 23 euros and includes towels, soap, and moisturizer. The full packet with brush massage and cream massage is 43 euros.

Caracalla

If you want to spend a romantic afternoon with your traveling companion or are looking to meet new people, this is the place for you. Caracalla has a much younger, hipper crowd and beautiful modern facilities. The sauna is dimly lit by a very pretty simulated starry ceiling and the outdoor pools are especially lovely on a sunny afternoon. For additional fees, this bathhouse offers a range of spa services such as massages and pedicures. Book at the front desk when you pay your entrance fee.

Caracalla tips:

* Caracalla is a little less expensive than Friedrichsbad, but has fewer extras included. Bring your own soap and moisturizer.

* A bathing suits is mandatory, so add that and something towel-like to your list. 

* Bring a cup to sample the spring waters from the drinking fountains on the way out.

Caracalla particulars

Caracalla is open Monday through Sunday, 8:00-22:00 (10:00 pm). It's completely closed on Christmas Eve and Day, and closes early, at 20:00 (8:00 pm), on new Year's Eve. Last entrance is always two hours before closing time. Twenty euros gets you a four-hour wristband, no extras.

What else?

After your bath, stroll down to the area below Friedrichsbad and peek through the plexiglass at the ruins of the Roman baths. Don't pay to go in; the exhibit area is small enough that you can see everything from the outside. Then walk up the stairs past the Kirche der Klosterschule vom Heiligen Grab. If you have a cup with you, stop at this plaza and sample the hot, metallic-tasting spring water from the drinking fountain. This is also a nice spot for a little picnic if you've brought food with you. Up another flight of stairs is a lovely view of the city, and the maintenance entrance to the hot springs. The tourist office is in the old Trinkhalle, across the Oosbach. They will give you a free map better than the Falk version, and help you locate the Russian church, the expensive but interesting Faberge museum, or whatever other sight you might want to see. Foodwise, there are no bargains. Plan a splurge, bring a picnic with, or sate yourself at a snack bar/Imbiss.

All photos and tips by Shyamali Ghosh. For more Baden-Baden pictures, visit http://www.flickr.com/photos/70781501@N05/sets/72157628177346325/. 

The Citadel, Hanoi, 13 December 2010

It's better to travel on Mondays. Big cities are always quiet and over-industrious at the beginning of the week, compensating for the riotous weekend. The shops along Hang Ngang are open, but there are no shoppers.

Left along a street lined with sewing supply vendors, things are a bit more lively, but only a bit.

A patisserie decorated for Christmas.

A temple on the corner.

Bird market.

Past the coffin maker, and a funeral.

Further down the street, railroad tracks run right past houses. Around the corner and down the street a little further is another set of tracks.

They are used, but perhaps not much.

At the Army Museum, across from Lenin's statue, the guard at the entrance gate shakes his finger. It's closed, of course. Monday. The Highlands Coffee wedged into the edge of the complex seems unappealing, so I walk on.

Up the street and right onto a wide, busy street lined with beautiful old trees, wondering what to do...but there are airplanes over there, across a walled courtyard. Will a finger-shaking guard appear? No, nor does anyone else.

There's also a stone and gold-washed building on the other side of the grassy square.

It's the gateway to the former Forbidden City where Hanoi's royalty once lived.

A shrine upstairs.

A dragon on the roof.

The steep stairs down.

On the other side of the Doan Mon relic, the signs for tourists are in place.

A symbol of Hanoi's imperial rulers, at the place where the nation's sacred spirits are supposed to converge.

Little is blocked off. Steep staircases lead to more little rooms with shrines, surrounded by large balconies.

But there's little hint of what these buildings once were. The blue signs are cumbersome to read in both English and French, and though the buildings are beautiful they evoke little. It's difficult to picure mandarins dressed in silk moving with grace from one building to the next, or a king's children at play. The Citadel is empty.

Hanoi, 10-13 December 2010

Hanoi in December: At Le Thai To temple, on the west side of Hoan Kiem Lake, December 9 2010. It's quiet, though the temple is small and the street outside is busy. Smoke rises from incense coils, one in front of each stone guardian cat. Other than that, nothing stirs at all.

Outside, the gold-painted buildings should glow in the sun, but there isn't any.

Hang Dao shopping street.

Under the canopy of electrical wires along Hang Bo.

It rains on and off, a dull, chilly drizzle. The roaming doughnut vendors needn't bother to try keep their baskets dry in the rain. The greasy, sugared balls of dough they sell are inedible anyway, a mere pretence used to extract money from hungry drunken foreigners. The baguette vendors on the corner work twice as hard as usual, though, trying to keep their product dry. They are the only ones who seem to mind the rain. The flower vendors are better off. Their sheaves of roses and gladioli ride the backs of their bicycles, fresh and colorful from morning until night. The fruit vendors trot the streets of the old quarter dressed in plastic rain ponchos, pausing at each shop door to sell the workers an afternoon snack.

A woman selling plastic ponchos and cheap little umbrellas chases a couple of European boys down the street, teasing them into buying an umbrella. The jacket vendors on Hang Ngang have extra customers, all hoping to keep warm. The pho shops and Bia Hoi stands do a roaring business all over town.

Fried tofu and frog's legs with bamboo shoots in a Bia Hoi near Hoi Tay. There are four men at the neighboring table. They've been drinking vodka, from all appearances for a long time, for their table is solid with empty plates. One realized that their are foreigners at the next table, and speaks in broken German. After a time, he remembers that he has an appointment and weaves off down the street. Two men remain, peeling little tangerines quietly.

In the Botanical Garden or around Hoan Kiem Lake, bridal couples make the rounds, getting photographed in spite of the gloom. When the skies open, they retreat to the nearest cafe still in full dress to smoke until the shower passes. They spend more time waiting than getting their pictures taken, so that the photograpers are still shooting at dusk.

Christmas decorations twinkle in the darkness, and not just in the tourist district. There's no Santa Claus in the mall, but parents have brought their dressed-up babies along to photograph them under the shopping center's Christmas trees.

A Christmas tree outside a cinema on Hang Bai.

A cotton snowman near the north end of Hoan Kiem.

On Monday, museums are closed. The Citadel is deserted, and it's not even clear that it's open.

The gateway to the former Forbidden City.

The shrine in the gateway's upper story.

A dragon on the roof.

The steep staircase.

On the other side of the Doan Mon relic, the signs for tourists are in place.

A symbol of Hanoi's imperial rulers, at the place where the nation's sacred spirits are supposed to converge.

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.

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.