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. . .