India and Sri Lanka

A few excerpts from my notebooks:

I was surprised when my call to the coffee plantation was answered by a thick Australian drawl. Les was the last person I expected to meet up there - short brown hair and pale blue eyes, a little off-kilter. He sat and smoked beedies on the porch in a sloppy old sweater vest. He'd lived up the valley on and off for years, in a dirt-floored shack on a farm. One story involved a run-in with the Indian Army in Kashmir. Another involved pulling a knife on some rickshaw drivers, sending them scattering. . .

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The hours hiking between the estate and the main track up Mt Tadiannamol were pure and peaceful, and I'd fallen into a walking meditation. Walking the high ridge and crossing above a waterfall, long views of mountains to the south and nothing but the sere crackle of dry grass in the wind. Far below, thick native forest filled the valleys. And not a soul in sight.

Upon reaching the main track up the peak, my mood soured and I fought a disappointing frustration: Indian tourists. Cigarette butts, trash and bits of plastic littered the trail, and ridiculous, repetitive yelling echoed from every high point. I fought the feeling and cursed under my breath. So much for peace and quiet. . . but it's their country, I told myself, their way of doing things. I kept climbing and was pleased to have the summit to myself, relaxing for a few minutes up top with a view stretching all the way into Kerala.

Picking my way down the rough trail, I heard loud voices and ran into a group of software engineers from Bangalore. We chatted for a minute and they begged me to have lunch with them. Come on, they said, we've got plenty of food. We want to talk to you. I thanked them but explained I had a long way back before sundown. Those huge Indian smiles and their big-hearted generosity made me laugh in spite of myself, and I barely noticed the trailside trash and needless noise on the big path.

It's all about perspective. I imagined spending my whole life in a cramped city, pressed upon day and night by a million bodies, rarely alone, always compressed. Wouldn't I open my mouth and scream with pleasure to be in the mountains, under the blue sky and far away from the gritty dust and diesel smoke? My American notion of individual rights had led me to curse my loss of peace, while they had gained a chance to be free of the crowd, and fill their lungs with fresh grass-scented air. . .

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I followed one cow path, then another, stumbling through thick undergrowth and looking to the sun for direction. I was on the wrong side of the ridge, I knew, but hoping a forested bowl would lead me up and out again. I entered a small clearing in the trees, a seasonal waterhole dried down to a small mud patch. Elephant tracks the size of serving platters were pressed into the dry, cracked earth. I saw no tiger tracks, but looked around reflexively. From the sunlit clearing, the forest was a silent, dark wall. What was watching me?

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The day before I flew to Sri Lanka, I told the gang at Honey Valley how much I looked forward to a day of airports. A chance to swap dusty concrete chai stalls for glass and steel, just for a day. A clean seat, a good cup of coffee and a newspaper. In anticipation of joining the privileged classes for a day, I dressed in jeans and carefully selected a clean t-shirt when I dressed at 6:00am. In clean clothes, in the cool of the morning, I felt fresh and ready.

An hour and a half later, surrounded by suits and briefcases in the check-in line, I stared down in disbelief. A thick, dirty smear ran from left to right, just above the hem across the front of my shirt. What? How? It took a moment until I realized: the seat belt in the taxi! In the entire life of that filthy machine, I was probably the only person to ever use it. It had hung there next to the open window for years, building grimy layers of diesel fumes, dust and trash smoke. I almost laughed out loud. Habit had gotten the better of me, and again India had taught me a lesson.

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I sat with Eloo in the back garden of my guesthouse in Kandy. He worked at the hotel as one of those jack-of-all-trades indispensable to the hospitality industry in India and Sri Lanka. Cooking, cleaning, fetching the boss cigarettes, on duty for seven days at a stretch. He had a wife and two young children in a village two hours away. The oldest had just started school. He missed them, but had to work. I'd had this same conversation so many times, and never knew what to say. He finished, and we sat for a few minutes, not saying anything. A green and blue bird flitted past and a house gecko chirped. Eloo looked down at his hands, then leaned forward to speak.

"So, what about Mike Tyson?"

---

I filled the doorway of Nilushi's Saloon and the old men lifted their eyes to the stranger. The busy barber paused mid-shave and gestured to a bench with his straight razor. One of his feet was bare, the other wore a dirty blue sock. Haircutting, sir? Yes, and a shave. In this 10x10 plywood shack at the edge of the bus stand, there was no fussing and no pretension. Just sharp steel and fast hands. He placed a thick palm on my forehead and pushed my head back, forcing my gaze up to a fixture universal to wherever men congregate: a calendar bearing the name of an auto parts store and a picture of a half-naked woman astride a motorbike. Shaving, sir?

He draped a striped cotton cloth across my chest with a matador's flair and reached for his tools. I barely had time to close my eyes before my face was soaked, slapped, sudsed and scraped. The closest shave I've ever had and a damn fine haircut to boot. The sting of witch hazel was softened by a free neck crack and a 30-second head massage. I thanked him, and as I stood I caught a glimpse of the endless, rolling hills of tea that surround the holy Buddhist peak of Sri Pada. The green leaves reflected the sunlight as clouds swirled around the mountaintop temple. And I'd be marching to God with a clean face.

We shook hands. How much? Two dollars! Sir.

---

At Achinika in Dalhousie, the crafty owner used his knowledge of geography to generate business. He also asked every single foreigner where they were from. A passing couple reluctantly offered their nationality as they strolled by his shopfront, where he lay waiting like a spider. "Ah, England!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. "Lancashire, Birmingham, Bristol, London, Manchester, Queensland -" "No, no, that one's in Australia," said the man. Laughing at this performance, the couple lingered long enough to buy two bars of chocolate.

Smiling with satisfaction, the owner stuffed the notes in his pocket and resumed his place in the plastic chair. He lit a cigarette and hummed a happy tune.

---

After driving my rented scooter into the chaos of Galle, where I spent half an hour searching for a bookstore that turned out to have nothing in English and honking my horn 152 times, I felt like a swim.

I took a book and a towel and rode over to half-hidden Jungle Beach, and parked in the shade under the watchful gaze of a grinning old-timer. I knew with absolute certainty he'd get some money out of me, but anyone capable of sitting motionless on a boulder for days on end deserves either spiritual enlightenment or a 75-cent parking fee.

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In Matara, I saw a young guy at the bus stand wearing a t-shirt stating "BROKE IS THE NEW BLACK." Undoubtedly a popular sentiment in a country with many poor people.

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I sped by the woman on the corner, then turned right around and got off the scooter. She was sitting in the shade of her shopfront with a few coconuts and bananas for sale, and such a radiant smile that I had to pay a visit. She hacked the top off a coconut and I sat down to drink the tasty water. We stared up at the green hillside across the street and watching some dark clouds building up in the East. She told me that business was bad, all the tourists went right to the beach, not stopping at the small businesses along the path. I asked if the bananas were good and she gave me a taste. Her daughter came out front, a fifth-grader just starting to study English. I wanted to do everything I could, so I bought another coconut and a bunch of tiny, sweet, thin-skinned bananas.

OK, she yelled as I drove off, Goodbye my friend!

The Friendliest Town in India

The tea hills of Wayanad

I woke on a Saturday morning in Calicut, a hot, uninspiring city, with no idea what to do. A long, unpleasant train ride the day before had done little to bolster my uncertain mood, and I sat in my hotel room, trying to figure out where I should go. Wayanad was my goal, a rugged, mountainous area of thick forest and tea plantations, where the provinces of Kerala, Karnataka and Tamil Nadu meet. By all accounts a great place to explore, but my guide had almost no information on the area, and I couldn't turn up much on the internet or questioning locals either. I was down to ten days in India, and wanted to make the most of that time. Where should I go? How? I wanted to do some hiking and try to see some elephants, but where? Sitting around was getting me nowhere, so I walked down to the bus station. I knew of a town, Kalpetta, that was more or less in the center of Wayanad. I also had a feeling that it was gritty, hectic town like all the rest, with little character. I bought a ticket and squeezed into a space on the back seat.

It wasn't long before we started to climb, zigzagging our way up the Western Ghats. I'd memorized the few sentences in my guide and went over them in my head. There was a mountain, Chembra Peak. . . it could be climbed from a town called Meppadi. . . set amidst rolling hills and tea estates. But how big was this Meppadi? A wide spot in the road or a town big enough to support a hotel? I questioned the man sitting next to me, who'd been glancing at me the whole trip. He wore a light green shirt over a blue check longhi (a common wrap-around skirt worn by men) and had small gold-rimmed glasses perched on a small noses supported by an enormous mustache. With a few words of English and much gesturing we worked it out. The bus would reach a junction at Chundale, then bear left to Kalpetta. The road to right went to Meppadi and the tea country.

I made my decision and jumped out at Chundale, crossing the road quickly to a tea shop. Drinking the sweet, milky chai outside in the sun, I saw a row of jeeps and a large purple bus with the words Love Birds emblazoned across the top of the windshield. It was filling up with passengers, and I caught the driver's eye. He grinned at me, and that white, toothy smile was so whole-hearted and friendly that I knew I was taking that bus. I paid for my tea and walked over to the driver's window. 'Meppadi?', he asked. I nodded and climbed aboard to the soft wail of a popular love song. Everyone on the bus seemed to get a kick out of the simple fact that I was there on that bus. It was obvious to me that I was getting off the beaten track, and I started to get a good feeling. The bus swung through plantation country: rolling hills covered ion bright green tea bushes, as far as the eye could see. Above it all, a few high ridges and peaks shone in the sun.

Meppadi was a town alright. It stretched for about half a mile along the narrow main road, but was nowhere wider than a hundred yards. A temple, a mosque a church and dozens of shops lining the roads. The small lanes and pathways branching off into the hills hinted at the population beyond. The village strip was a focal point where people living out amongst the tea came to shop, worship eat and gossip. I climbed down from the bus, directly opposite and long row of green and white rickshaws. The brown-shirted drivers stood around in groups or sat in the shady backseats, smoking cigarettes and chatting. One caught my eye and waved. Of slight build, with wavy black hair slicked to one side and a faint mustache dusting his lip. When he smiled his whole face lit up and his dark eyes twinkled.

His name was Shareef, and I spent the next two days with him. A native of Meppadi, a student studying to be a fire safety inspector and a part-time rickshaw driver. With no formal classes, he showed his knack for language through the conversational English picked up over the years. I was still thinking about hiking Chembra Peak, and needed a permit from the local Forest Office. Hardened by the hustle of Calicut, I asked him how much, and his very first words assured me: he smiled, held his palms out, and said 'You say.'

I never climb Chembra, but I saw it every day as Shareef and I cruised around the hills. That first day, after I checked into the New Paris Hotel (the best in town, Shareef assured me) we drove out to a pool scooped out of smooth rock at the base of a waterfall. The cold mountain stream was incredibly refreshing after so many days of sweat and salt water. Four young kids had followed us up and showed off by jumping off a big rock and skipping stones. We stopped by his brother's house unannounced and found his two young children playing in the yard. His brother was laying on a bed, watching TV. If I was him, and my brother walked into my room with a foreign stranger while I was napping, I'd almost certainly react with annoyance. But Shareef's brother smiled immediately, got up and put on a shirt. He rubbed his face to wake up and shook my hand. After a shout toward the back of the house, his shy young wife appeared and gave us tea. The kids made a bis show for me of talking on their little plastic cell phones, which kept breaking in half. They'd hand the phone to me and I'd put it back together for them.

He asked if I wanted to play soccer, and when I said yes he took me by his house to get his shoes. We drove down a little path on the hillside between the chest-high tea bushes. Women in colorful dress filed by with burlap sacks on their heads, workers on the tea plantations on their way home. We parked the rickshaw and Shareef led me down a hill, to a grove of trees where a little stream flowed. Under the forest canopy were coffee and banana trees. Tall plumes of cardamom shot up from the forest floor and peppercorn vines clung to the trunks. The hard-packed earth of the yard was swept clean, and some coffee cherries were laid out to dry. Inside the house, he showed me his room, where a simple bed, a bookcase and a David Beckham poster filled the space. There was no embarrassment in his voice when he indicated that it wasn't much, but as we walked outside I told him there were plenty of city-dwellers from the rich countries of the world who would love to live in a place so fresh and clean.

We left the shade of the wood and walked up to a flat clearing in the tea. Cows grazed to one side as a few enthusiastic locals kicked a ball back and forth. Shareef took his place between the wooden goalposts and we did our best to beat him. Everyone who came to the pasture to play was curious about Shareef's American friend, and whether in English or Malayalam, a lot of encouragement was offered during the game. It was a lot of fun, and there was no arguing about the score, no cries for free kicks and zero aggression. Ayoob, a burly police trainee, called the game when it got to dark. The sun had set behind the wall of mountains to the west, separating Wayanad from the steaming lowlands. As the air cooled and the alpenglow faded, Venus appeared above the tall, knobby summit of Chembra peak. Laughing and shaking hands, goodbyes were shouted as the players struck homeward on different paths.

Meppadi Cricket Club

The rest of the weekend was just as good. A game of cricket was hilarious, as the American tried his hand at batting and bowling while good-natured laughter rang out from all directions. With his friend Shaheel, Shareef took me out to Sunrise Valley, hiking to a cliff overlooking a massive, bowl of jungle devoid of any houses or roads. Shaheel told me he'd seen a tiger there the year before. After meeting a friend on the road, we turned around and ended up at a housewarming party, where the families of neighbors and friends had gathered to wish the young couple well and feats on huge piles of chicken biryani. Several people stopped by our table, to meet me and ask how I'd gotten there. The people were open and curious, and kids ran up to meet me, then run away again to tell their friends.

Back in town we stopped at PeePee's Cool Bar for a glass of spiced almond milk and ran into some of the soccer players from the night before. Everywhere we went in that small town we saw people we knew, and shouts of 'Sky, hello Sky!' came every few minutes (using a nickname much easier to pronounce, and therefore remember, for the average Indian.) Another swim at the waterfall and a few bottles of beer. Another game of soccer and fond goodbyes. I thanked them all for letting me join in and there were handshakes all around. We walked up the hill through the dark tea bushes, the constellation of Orion high above. Back in Meppadi, the smell of incense and chai as people loaded bags of vegetable and rice into rickshaws bound for home.

Shareef and I shared a final tea. He reluctantly accepted some money, 'for the gas' I assured him, and wrote down his address. I promised to send him the photos I'd taken of his friends and family. A few other locals I knew turned up and we said goodbye again, and I walked back to New Paris. I wasn't that hungry, but I leaned over the kitchen wall to see what the cook was up to. This stooped old many had given me a broad, toothless smile every time I came and went from the hotel. Chopping, stirring, reaching for this or that, he grinned again and said, 'Beef chili.' I somehow felt I owed it to him, and when he sent the plate out it was amazing. Sliced chunks of beef dredged in spicy seasoning and fried until crispy, served with a few slices of carrot, cucumber and onion with a lime wedge. I thanked him and he squinted his old eyes with pleasure. This must be the friendliest town in India, I thought as I climbed the stairs to my room. I hadn't climbed Chembra peak or seen one advertised attraction. But I also hadn't seen one other foreigner and knew I'd be welcome back any time. I guess you have to be willing to take the chance. . .

Backwaters

Coconut palms and water hyacinth on the backwaters

Spicy food, shaded waterways, weatherbeaten fishermen and St Joseph's Parish Hall. Born on the bayou? It did feel like Louisiana - until I saw a local taking a bath and brushing his teeth, in the canal. I was definitely still in India, where thousand year old customs collide with the present day, every day. The backwaters of Kerala, India's lush southwest corner, are a beautiful and fascinating geography. Canals, lakes and rice paddies covering an area bigger than the state of Vermont. A vast, watery web of houses, coconut palms, birds and villages. And boats of every shape and size, from slender old half-sunk canoes to public ferries surging dock to dock. Bobbing in the wake is the trade fleet: fishing boats big and small, propane delivery skiffs and wide, shallow barges hauling sand and stone. Hulking old kettuvallum rice boats, converted into luxury houseboats, do a roaring tourist trade in the wide canals near the regional hub of Alleppy.

Life is lived at the water's edge. People bustle back and forth to town while uniformed schoolkids march along the stone-built banks. Coconuts palms and drooping mango trees dominated the skyline while green thickets of water hyacinth choke the narrower channels. Each house has a set of stone steps leading into the water, where bathing and dish washing take place. Communal wells supply drinking and cooking needs. In the backwaters, schools, stores, temples and restaurants face the bank and boats are the only mode of travel. I spent a day on the canals with a couple of other travelers and a cheerfully buoyant local guide named Saidu.


Adi, the ever-smiling owner of our guesthouse in Alleppy, gave a Spanish girl and me a lift on the back of his Honda down to the docks at eight o'clock in the morning, where we met Saidu and jumped on a battered red and white passenger ferry. It wasn't long until we were out of town, across the lake and into the smaller channels. Breakfast and tea at our guide's house and into a canoe with Saidu at the stern. A wooden boat, 20 feet long, one seat behind the other under a canopy. And the soft, rhythmic sploosh. . . sploosh of Saidu's paddle.

It was a mellow day on the water, sunny and serene, as we toured Saidu's old stomping grounds. Women washed, men paddled and the high voices of children called out. We explored a few villages and survived some mild evangelizing when we stopped at church (to use the bathroom). Lunch was tasty and typical - rice and several sauces, vegetables and pickle served on a smooth green banana leaf. Sitting canalside in the sun, I drank a pale, yeasty glass of coconut beer and dug the scene.

Snack break on the backwaters

The afternoon slipped by, and as I laid back on the cushions my mind began to wander back to the night before. I'd found a small food cart on a dark corner by the beach where a solemn old cook served fresh, crispy-fried chilies with chutney and strong ginger tea. . . We'd played the spice game, a ritual practiced all over the world, anywhere foreigners and hot cuisine collide. I gestured for the chilies and he shook his head no, fanning his open mouth to indicate their heat. In turn, I signaled that I knew, and I liked them. As I chewed the peppers (which were damn hot), everyone gathered at the cart stared and waited. Waited for the sweat, the coughing, the tearing eyes, the cries for water. When I calmly finished my plate and asked for more, there was murmuring, laughter and a tiny smile from the cook: the cultural breakthrough. Little did they know that almost two years of eating in South Korea had burned off my taste buds long ago. An unfair advantage?

As the afternoon light softened, we retraced our steps to town and found ourselves saying goodbye to Saidu on the dock in Alleppy. The roaring, belching bus and high, raspy whine of rickshaws made those hours on the placid water all the more precious, and I thanked our guide warmly. With a few good books and a little coconut beer it would be easy to spend weeks, lost in time, in the green and wet of the backwaters. I turned reluctantly from the canal to catch a rickshaw back to the guesthouse, immediately catching the smiling eye of a waiting driver. It wasn't so bad to be on dry land, I thought as we careened through the streets of Alleppy. There was still enough light for a swim at the beach. And the chili cook would be setting up his cart. . .

Backwaters homestead

Madurai Dive Bar

The Green Spot, Madurai

Sometimes I like to play along with a hustle or scam, if the consequences are minimal and outweighed by adventure. That's what happened last night, when I went to a great little 'bar' here in the manic temple town Madurai. At first, I wasn't even going to leave my room for dinner. I'd just gotten back from a long afternoon of visiting Meenakshi Temple, not getting killed in traffic and quality-checking the coffee at three different street stalls. I wasn't that hungry, but after listening to a little ZZ Top on the balcony outside my room I felt like eating meat and drinking beer. I found a tasty chicken biryani in a frantic side street near the hotel and stopped by the 'wine shop' to grab a beer on the way home. Kingfisher, sir? While the guy grabbed a cold bottle from the cooler on the floor, I checked the stock. Five different kinds of brandy and a few cheap whiskeys. Hmm. I paid and we bobbled our heads to conclude the transaction. As so often happens in many parts of India, a smiling young guy with very wavy hair and a red bindi dot on his forehead appeared out of nowhere. Hello friend! Bar, this way! He grabbed my beer and motioned toward a narrow passageway running behind the shelves. I looked at the shopkeeper, who smiled and bobbled his head. I paused for half a second, weighing the options in that filthy, frenetic, fantastic little lane. I could assert myself, take back my beer, and return to my hotel room. Or I could follow this guy down the passage and have some sort of adventure, probably for no more than a few rupees.

I should note that for a country of one billion, there aren't many bars around. Most Muslims and Hindus don't drink, and in general it can be tough to find even a liquor store (not that I look very often.) So to find an actual, authentic little dive is an anthropological goldstrike.

Down the little hallway was a 10 X 15 foot room containing a few tables and plastic stools. The hallway continued, past another little window with more booze to another room. My friend sat me down at one of the tables and asked me what kind of snack I wanted. Aha! As I looked around I realized that this was a kind of hideout, a place where men could drink away from the street, catching a quick buzz before heading off again. Buying a snack was essentially paying a fee to sit and drink out of public view. I didn't want anything to eat, but I said Yeah, sure. Some chicken, whatever. My friend raced away and I sipped my beer, surveying the room. At some point in the distant past, a thick, glossy coat of peach paint had been applied to the concrete walls. This had faded to dirty flesh-tone, where it hadn't peeled away completely. A few flies buzzed under the fans, which weren't doing much to dissipate the heavy heat. The requisite pictures of Hindu dieties hung crookedly in one corner. I shared a head bobble with a gentleman at my table. For some reason he wasn't wearing a shirt or shoes. My smile got wider and wider and I almost started laughing out of pure enjoyment.

The system was this: buy your brandy or maybe a beer out front, come in here, order the mandatory snack, mix your liquor, pound it and scram. Almost everyone that came through had a half-pint bottle of brandy, XXX Shiva and Honiej Day being the most-favored brands. Pour half of the bottle into a plastic cup, fill the rest with water, and don't waste time. Two swallows max. This was no tasting room. You could also be a total badass like another guy at my table, who cut his brandy with beer. Most of the guys looked very unimpressed with the snack they were given, some kind of meat in a unsavory-looking brown sauce. For some reason mine was different - little crispy chunks of something with red onion and lime. It definitely wasn't chicken but I ate a few pieces anyway.

While I sat there drinking in a cloud of bidi smoke, I reminisced about other barsI'd hit on my travels. The crumbling concrete shell in Pondicherry, which looked like an old basketball court with no ceiling, or a possible venue for a steel cage match. The tiny front room in the mountains of Colombia, where I got drunk one afternoon with some local farmers, with a makeshift urinal in the corner of the room behind my chair. The Sealaska Inn, pride of Hyder on the Alaska panhandle, where you can get 'hyderized' by downing a shot of grain alcohol and stumbling around the pool table. And the room tucked away in Quetzaltenango, where upon buying some cheap local firewater, you can save a few pennies by letting the landlady pour it into a plastic bag, saving the bottle fee. Sweet, sweet memories. . .

This post could go on and on but I'll leave it there.