Thursday, November 06, 2003
The hairpin ghat road up to Kodaikanal is, reputedly one of the most beautiful drives in India. Not that we had much occasion to enjoy it. Indian drivers are normally nuts, but our minibus man was in a league of his own. Comparing him to an ordinary poor driver would be like comparing Fred West to a bloke who once beat someone up outside a pub. Every other bend had a sign saying ‘It is dangerous to overtake on curves.’ Our chap took this as a challenge, not a warning. Why yes it is. Now watch me do while a petrol tanker is coming the other way.
After innumerable stops (50% of any Indian bus journey is stops – tea, toilet, tiffin, elevenses, lunch, coffee, etc.) the air cooled and the forest closed in. Our last halt was at the Kodaikanal museum, one of those dusty little places that tries to collect something of everything. Actually this one excelled itself: it’s more outré exhibits included a 14 foot python’s spinal column (squeals from Jane) and a pickled baby (squeals from both of us).
Having marveled at junior in a jam jar we arrived in Kodai and checked into our hotel which, with its rather charming gardens felt like the offspring of a Raj plantation and a 1950s American motel. Later, we went for a walk and felt as if we’d come to the lake district. At 2100 m, Kodai is a cool, place of mellow mists whose month is ever October. Many of the houses (built by Brits) are in the English vernacular and the buildings include ersatz Saxon churches and Victorian gingerbread architecture. In fact, Kodai was founded by the Americans (high enough to stop their missionaries dying of malaria) but the Brits couldn’t have someone else building a hill station so pretty soon they muscled in on the act.
By the first afternoon though, our hilly idyll was resembling England in another more meaningful way: it was pissing with rain. So, for supper, we went to the best hotel in town which resembles a 70s ski lodge and ate remarkably crap food in remarkably stylish surroundings, reproving my theory that Indian food is something that decreases in quality as it goes up in price.
As Kodai nestles in the highest hills (twice the height of Ben Nevis) in peninsula India, we decided to go walking. This is when we realized that Kodai is a place that caters largely for Indian tourists. Like the Japanese, they like to be driven everywhere in large groups to well marked attractions, preferably with a nice concrete platform and a sign saying “THE VIEW IS HERE”. Then they take plenty of pictures and drop as much rubbish as possible. Of course it is their country and they should feel free to cover it with garbage, but saying that India has a bit of a litter problem is like saying Harold Shipman was kind of weird. If you want to find an Indian beauty spot, you need only look for a pile of trash.
Trying to explain our desire to go walking to the taxi driver who was driving us to get a walking permit was an interesting clash of cultures. ‘I can drive you to dolphin’s nose. You make one kilometer trekking. Very nice.’ There really is no intelligible way to explain that you want to walk more than 1km; people just think you’re a freak.
Nor was the local chief of forestry particularly understanding. It was not possible to walk to the lake, he explained, because a government minister was somewhere within a 100km radius. Besides, it was dangerous to walk in the woods. Presumably you risked building up leg muscles and what would that do for the local rickshaw industry? But maybe we could get a permit tomorrow. The next day we arrived bright and early at 7am to be told we could get a special permit to take a taxi to the lake, but on no account could we walk. Our taxi driver gave us a ‘what did you expect?’ shrug.
Eventually we just went for a walk by ourselves and very nice it was too. All in all we hiked about 25km; the views were stunning, the air fragrant and there were no people, there was little litter and some stylish wildlife. We hitched back with a jeep full of locals who, when we told them we’d walked that far just shook their heads and started asking us about what we did.
After a couple of very pleasant days walking whenever we felt like it – and often publicly – we headed back down to Madhurai. Having learnt our lesson, we decided to stay just outside town at the Taj Retreat, the Taj being India’s most blingin’ chain of hotels. This sits on its own mini-gaht about 300 m about Madhurai, just enough to lift it above the brown fug of mosquitoes and exhaust fumes that passes for air locally.
The grounds were impressively manicured and the pool limpidly lovely. There were very few guests – just us, an Austrian couple, an Australian woman and a pair of Indian businessmen. The Austrian bloke – in his sixties, I’d guess – had mad professor hair, and was in astonishing shape for a sexagenarian He could do back flips into the pool and swim lengths underwater; she was less different. But neither of them would give any clue whatsoever as to what they did for a living. None: every question was deftly batted away.
The Australian woman was more straightforward: in her fifties, she was very personable, and but she’d come via a package tour of Afghanistan. She kept telling us that ‘It’s lovely - not at all like you see in the media.’ I resisted the urge to tell her that the bits that her extreme tourmeisters had taken her too were probably not entirely representative of the country either.
The Indian guys found it very strange that the Austrian and I should want to swim lengths underwater. Or indeed swim at all.
That evening Jane and I watched the Deepwali fireworks over Madurai, which went on until the city was wreathed in smoke and even our rarified eyrie had a whiff of gunpowder about it. The next day we left, having thoroughly enjoyed our second stay in Madhurai: compared to our first it was a dream. The lesson, clearly, is that to enjoy an Indian city, all you have to do is find the most expensive hotel and then never leave it.
After innumerable stops (50% of any Indian bus journey is stops – tea, toilet, tiffin, elevenses, lunch, coffee, etc.) the air cooled and the forest closed in. Our last halt was at the Kodaikanal museum, one of those dusty little places that tries to collect something of everything. Actually this one excelled itself: it’s more outré exhibits included a 14 foot python’s spinal column (squeals from Jane) and a pickled baby (squeals from both of us).
Having marveled at junior in a jam jar we arrived in Kodai and checked into our hotel which, with its rather charming gardens felt like the offspring of a Raj plantation and a 1950s American motel. Later, we went for a walk and felt as if we’d come to the lake district. At 2100 m, Kodai is a cool, place of mellow mists whose month is ever October. Many of the houses (built by Brits) are in the English vernacular and the buildings include ersatz Saxon churches and Victorian gingerbread architecture. In fact, Kodai was founded by the Americans (high enough to stop their missionaries dying of malaria) but the Brits couldn’t have someone else building a hill station so pretty soon they muscled in on the act.
By the first afternoon though, our hilly idyll was resembling England in another more meaningful way: it was pissing with rain. So, for supper, we went to the best hotel in town which resembles a 70s ski lodge and ate remarkably crap food in remarkably stylish surroundings, reproving my theory that Indian food is something that decreases in quality as it goes up in price.
As Kodai nestles in the highest hills (twice the height of Ben Nevis) in peninsula India, we decided to go walking. This is when we realized that Kodai is a place that caters largely for Indian tourists. Like the Japanese, they like to be driven everywhere in large groups to well marked attractions, preferably with a nice concrete platform and a sign saying “THE VIEW IS HERE”. Then they take plenty of pictures and drop as much rubbish as possible. Of course it is their country and they should feel free to cover it with garbage, but saying that India has a bit of a litter problem is like saying Harold Shipman was kind of weird. If you want to find an Indian beauty spot, you need only look for a pile of trash.
Trying to explain our desire to go walking to the taxi driver who was driving us to get a walking permit was an interesting clash of cultures. ‘I can drive you to dolphin’s nose. You make one kilometer trekking. Very nice.’ There really is no intelligible way to explain that you want to walk more than 1km; people just think you’re a freak.
Nor was the local chief of forestry particularly understanding. It was not possible to walk to the lake, he explained, because a government minister was somewhere within a 100km radius. Besides, it was dangerous to walk in the woods. Presumably you risked building up leg muscles and what would that do for the local rickshaw industry? But maybe we could get a permit tomorrow. The next day we arrived bright and early at 7am to be told we could get a special permit to take a taxi to the lake, but on no account could we walk. Our taxi driver gave us a ‘what did you expect?’ shrug.
Eventually we just went for a walk by ourselves and very nice it was too. All in all we hiked about 25km; the views were stunning, the air fragrant and there were no people, there was little litter and some stylish wildlife. We hitched back with a jeep full of locals who, when we told them we’d walked that far just shook their heads and started asking us about what we did.
After a couple of very pleasant days walking whenever we felt like it – and often publicly – we headed back down to Madhurai. Having learnt our lesson, we decided to stay just outside town at the Taj Retreat, the Taj being India’s most blingin’ chain of hotels. This sits on its own mini-gaht about 300 m about Madhurai, just enough to lift it above the brown fug of mosquitoes and exhaust fumes that passes for air locally.
The grounds were impressively manicured and the pool limpidly lovely. There were very few guests – just us, an Austrian couple, an Australian woman and a pair of Indian businessmen. The Austrian bloke – in his sixties, I’d guess – had mad professor hair, and was in astonishing shape for a sexagenarian He could do back flips into the pool and swim lengths underwater; she was less different. But neither of them would give any clue whatsoever as to what they did for a living. None: every question was deftly batted away.
The Australian woman was more straightforward: in her fifties, she was very personable, and but she’d come via a package tour of Afghanistan. She kept telling us that ‘It’s lovely - not at all like you see in the media.’ I resisted the urge to tell her that the bits that her extreme tourmeisters had taken her too were probably not entirely representative of the country either.
The Indian guys found it very strange that the Austrian and I should want to swim lengths underwater. Or indeed swim at all.
That evening Jane and I watched the Deepwali fireworks over Madurai, which went on until the city was wreathed in smoke and even our rarified eyrie had a whiff of gunpowder about it. The next day we left, having thoroughly enjoyed our second stay in Madhurai: compared to our first it was a dream. The lesson, clearly, is that to enjoy an Indian city, all you have to do is find the most expensive hotel and then never leave it.
The hairpin ghat road up to Kodaikanal is, reputedly one of the most beautiful drives in India. Not that we had much occasion to enjoy it. Indian drivers are normally nuts, but our minibus man was in a league of his own. Comparing him to an ordinary poor driver would be like comparing Fred West to a bloke who once beat someone up outside a pub. Every other bend had a sign saying ŌIt is dangerous to overtake on curves.Õ Our chap took this as a challenge, not a warning. Why yes it is. Now watch me do while a petrol tanker is coming the other way.
After innumerable stops (50% of any Indian bus journey is stops Š tea, toilet, tiffin, elevenses, lunch, coffee, etc.) the air cooled and the forest closed in. Our last halt was at the Kodaikanal museum, one of those dusty little places that tries to collect something of everything. Actually this one excelled itself: itÕs more outrˇ exhibits included a 14 foot pythonÕs spinal column (squeals from Jane) and a pickled baby (squeals from both of us).
Having marveled at junior in a jam jar we arrived in Kodai and checked into our hotel which, with its rather charming gardens felt like the offspring of a Raj plantation and a 1950s American motel. Later, we went for a walk and felt as if weÕd come to the lake district. At 2100 m, Kodai is a cool, place of mellow mists whose month is ever October. Many of the houses (built by Brits) are in the English vernacular and the buildings include ersatz Saxon churches and Victorian gingerbread architecture. In fact, Kodai was founded by the Americans (high enough to stop their missionaries dying of malaria) but the Brits couldnÕt have someone else building a hill station so pretty soon they muscled in on the act.
By the first afternoon though, our hilly idyll was resembling England in another more meaningful way: it was pissing with rain. So, for supper, we went to the best hotel in town which resembles a 70s ski lodge and ate remarkably crap food in remarkably stylish surroundings, reproving my theory that Indian food is something that decreases in quality as it goes up in price.
As Kodai nestles in the highest hills (twice the height of Ben Nevis) in peninsula India, we decided to go walking. This is when we realized that Kodai is a place that caters largely for Indian tourists. Like the Japanese, they like to be driven everywhere in large groups to well marked attractions, preferably with a nice concrete platform and a sign saying ŅTHE VIEW IS HEREÓ. Then they take plenty of pictures and drop as much rubbish as possible. Of course it is their country and they should feel free to cover it with garbage, but saying that India has a bit of a litter problem is like saying Harold Shipman was kind of weird. If you want to find an Indian beauty spot, you need only look for a pile of trash.
Trying to explain our desire to go walking to the taxi driver who was driving us to get a walking permit was an interesting clash of cultures. ŌI can drive you to dolphinÕs nose. You make one kilometer trekking. Very nice.Õ There really is no intelligible way to explain that you want to walk more than 1km; people just think youÕre a freak.
Nor was the local chief of forestry particularly understanding. It was not possible to walk to the lake, he explained, because a government minister was somewhere within a 100km radius. Besides, it was dangerous to walk in the woods. Presumably you risked building up leg muscles and what would that do for the local rickshaw industry? But maybe we could get a permit tomorrow. The next day we arrived bright and early at 7am to be told we could get a special permit to take a taxi to the lake, but on no account could we walk. Our taxi driver gave us a Ōwhat did you expect?Õ shrug.
Eventually we just went for a walk by ourselves and very nice it was too. All in all we hiked about 25km; the views were stunning, the air fragrant and there were no people, there was little litter and some stylish wildlife. We hitched back with a jeep full of locals who, when we told them weÕd walked that far just shook their heads and started asking us about what we did.
After a couple of very pleasant days walking whenever we felt like it Š and often publicly Š we headed back down to Madhurai. Having learnt our lesson, we decided to stay just outside town at the Taj Retreat, the Taj being IndiaÕs most blinginÕ chain of hotels. This sits on its own mini-gaht about 300 m about Madhurai, just enough to lift it above the brown fug of mosquitoes and exhaust fumes that passes for air locally.
The grounds were impressively manicured and the pool limpidly lovely. There were very few guests Š just us, an Austrian couple, an Australian woman and a pair of Indian businessmen. The Austrian bloke Š in his sixties, IÕd guess Š had mad professor hair, and was in astonishing shape for a sexagenarian He could do back flips into the pool and swim lengths underwater; she was less different. But neither of them would give any clue whatsoever as to what they did for a living. None: every question was deftly batted away.
The Australian woman was more straightforward: in her fifties, she was very personable, and but sheÕd come via a package tour of Afghanistan. She kept telling us that ŌItÕs lovely - not at all like you see in the media.Õ I resisted the urge to tell her that the bits that her extreme tourmeisters had taken her too were probably not entirely representative of the country either.
The Indian guys found it very strange that the Austrian and I should want to swim lengths underwater. Or indeed swim at all.
That evening Jane and I watched the Deepwali fireworks over Madurai, which went on until the city was wreathed in smoke and even our rarified eyrie had a whiff of gunpowder about it. The next day we left, having thoroughly enjoyed our second stay in Madhurai: compared to our first it was a dream. The lesson, clearly, is that to enjoy an Indian city, all you have to do is find the most expensive hotel and then never leave it.
After innumerable stops (50% of any Indian bus journey is stops Š tea, toilet, tiffin, elevenses, lunch, coffee, etc.) the air cooled and the forest closed in. Our last halt was at the Kodaikanal museum, one of those dusty little places that tries to collect something of everything. Actually this one excelled itself: itÕs more outrˇ exhibits included a 14 foot pythonÕs spinal column (squeals from Jane) and a pickled baby (squeals from both of us).
Having marveled at junior in a jam jar we arrived in Kodai and checked into our hotel which, with its rather charming gardens felt like the offspring of a Raj plantation and a 1950s American motel. Later, we went for a walk and felt as if weÕd come to the lake district. At 2100 m, Kodai is a cool, place of mellow mists whose month is ever October. Many of the houses (built by Brits) are in the English vernacular and the buildings include ersatz Saxon churches and Victorian gingerbread architecture. In fact, Kodai was founded by the Americans (high enough to stop their missionaries dying of malaria) but the Brits couldnÕt have someone else building a hill station so pretty soon they muscled in on the act.
By the first afternoon though, our hilly idyll was resembling England in another more meaningful way: it was pissing with rain. So, for supper, we went to the best hotel in town which resembles a 70s ski lodge and ate remarkably crap food in remarkably stylish surroundings, reproving my theory that Indian food is something that decreases in quality as it goes up in price.
As Kodai nestles in the highest hills (twice the height of Ben Nevis) in peninsula India, we decided to go walking. This is when we realized that Kodai is a place that caters largely for Indian tourists. Like the Japanese, they like to be driven everywhere in large groups to well marked attractions, preferably with a nice concrete platform and a sign saying ŅTHE VIEW IS HEREÓ. Then they take plenty of pictures and drop as much rubbish as possible. Of course it is their country and they should feel free to cover it with garbage, but saying that India has a bit of a litter problem is like saying Harold Shipman was kind of weird. If you want to find an Indian beauty spot, you need only look for a pile of trash.
Trying to explain our desire to go walking to the taxi driver who was driving us to get a walking permit was an interesting clash of cultures. ŌI can drive you to dolphinÕs nose. You make one kilometer trekking. Very nice.Õ There really is no intelligible way to explain that you want to walk more than 1km; people just think youÕre a freak.
Nor was the local chief of forestry particularly understanding. It was not possible to walk to the lake, he explained, because a government minister was somewhere within a 100km radius. Besides, it was dangerous to walk in the woods. Presumably you risked building up leg muscles and what would that do for the local rickshaw industry? But maybe we could get a permit tomorrow. The next day we arrived bright and early at 7am to be told we could get a special permit to take a taxi to the lake, but on no account could we walk. Our taxi driver gave us a Ōwhat did you expect?Õ shrug.
Eventually we just went for a walk by ourselves and very nice it was too. All in all we hiked about 25km; the views were stunning, the air fragrant and there were no people, there was little litter and some stylish wildlife. We hitched back with a jeep full of locals who, when we told them weÕd walked that far just shook their heads and started asking us about what we did.
After a couple of very pleasant days walking whenever we felt like it Š and often publicly Š we headed back down to Madhurai. Having learnt our lesson, we decided to stay just outside town at the Taj Retreat, the Taj being IndiaÕs most blinginÕ chain of hotels. This sits on its own mini-gaht about 300 m about Madhurai, just enough to lift it above the brown fug of mosquitoes and exhaust fumes that passes for air locally.
The grounds were impressively manicured and the pool limpidly lovely. There were very few guests Š just us, an Austrian couple, an Australian woman and a pair of Indian businessmen. The Austrian bloke Š in his sixties, IÕd guess Š had mad professor hair, and was in astonishing shape for a sexagenarian He could do back flips into the pool and swim lengths underwater; she was less different. But neither of them would give any clue whatsoever as to what they did for a living. None: every question was deftly batted away.
The Australian woman was more straightforward: in her fifties, she was very personable, and but sheÕd come via a package tour of Afghanistan. She kept telling us that ŌItÕs lovely - not at all like you see in the media.Õ I resisted the urge to tell her that the bits that her extreme tourmeisters had taken her too were probably not entirely representative of the country either.
The Indian guys found it very strange that the Austrian and I should want to swim lengths underwater. Or indeed swim at all.
That evening Jane and I watched the Deepwali fireworks over Madurai, which went on until the city was wreathed in smoke and even our rarified eyrie had a whiff of gunpowder about it. The next day we left, having thoroughly enjoyed our second stay in Madhurai: compared to our first it was a dream. The lesson, clearly, is that to enjoy an Indian city, all you have to do is find the most expensive hotel and then never leave it.
Sunday, November 02, 2003
Madhurai: a temple in a swamp
Madhurai at the end of the monsoon is not a pleasant place to be. Actually I am not sure Madhurai is ever a particularly pleasant place to be, but it does have a large and spectacular temple which is worth a gander.
Driving into the town, a seldom-used adjective came to mind: febrile. Yes, Madhurai has malaria written all over it. The town seems to be situated in a swamp and has untold acres of stagnant standing water. Practically every vacant lot is a foetid pond three inches deep, a potential mosquito nursery.
We found a hotel of bluntly functional design, which is pretty much the norm in pilgrim towns. Although it did distinguish itself with a restaurant which was visited by a bored looking elephant twice a day. This (vegetarian, natch) eaterie could also rustle up a dish that tasted exactly like beef, although I'm sure this is not what the Hindu chefs had in mind. Curious, I asked the head waiter what the dish contained; I asked the chef what the dish contained; I asked the man on the next table what the dish contained, but nobody could tell me. Perhaps it was beef.
After eating we went to the temple, which, as billed, is pretty spectatcular. It has over a dozen of those pyramidal diety adorned towers favoured by Hindus, one of which is meant to be older than time itself, although radiocarbon dating had yet to confirm this. In the temple's outer chambers - for it covers innumerable acres - are arcades of shops, like mini souks, where almost everything from clay gods to gold is sold. The combination of cool temple stone and devotional kitsch is an agreeable one.
I also liked the sign on the way out, an appeal to pilgrims for, what else, cash. "Give money generously," it said, "and receive the blessings of God." I was rather taken by this upfront 'market forces' attitude to religion. After all, poor people are generally reckoned to be pretty good, whereas the rich, who, understandably are too busy to be pious (camels, needles, etc.), have more money and more sin. Why not give them the chance to buy down their badness? I shoved a medium denomination note in the box and scored some blessings, a happy supply side sinner.
Guidebooks gush that Madhurai is a vibrant and colourful place - when applied to Indian cities, these adjectives tend to be, well, euphemistic.When we went for a pootle round the city, we discovered that the only thing that keeps the mosquito population down to something approaching tolerable levels is the air pollution. We had met a Danish bloke at our hotel who had developed a respiratory complaint (a hypochondriac, he thought it could be malaria; I told him his symptoms were more consistent with dengue fever). But soon I had it too and it has everything to with the city's atmosphere, which is the worst I have ever breathed.
We enjoyed some respite as the tail end of the monsoon freshened up things - briefly - before the drains overflowed and the place became an open sewer. I think it was as I stepped into a cow pat, with one foot and an overflowing drain with the other, while a beggar hassled me and a rickshaw driver demanded twice the originally quoted fare, that I realised there was no point in trying. Madhurai and I were never going to be friends.
Fortunately the American missionaries who had rather unsuccessfully tried to spread the word here in the 19th century had the same idea. Malaria claimed six of their number before they realized that Madhurai sucked. So they built a hill station 150 km away 2100m up in the Western Ghats. Figuring it was only a matter of time before we shared the missionaries' fate (and without God on our side too) we headed for the hills.
Madhurai at the end of the monsoon is not a pleasant place to be. Actually I am not sure Madhurai is ever a particularly pleasant place to be, but it does have a large and spectacular temple which is worth a gander.
Driving into the town, a seldom-used adjective came to mind: febrile. Yes, Madhurai has malaria written all over it. The town seems to be situated in a swamp and has untold acres of stagnant standing water. Practically every vacant lot is a foetid pond three inches deep, a potential mosquito nursery.
We found a hotel of bluntly functional design, which is pretty much the norm in pilgrim towns. Although it did distinguish itself with a restaurant which was visited by a bored looking elephant twice a day. This (vegetarian, natch) eaterie could also rustle up a dish that tasted exactly like beef, although I'm sure this is not what the Hindu chefs had in mind. Curious, I asked the head waiter what the dish contained; I asked the chef what the dish contained; I asked the man on the next table what the dish contained, but nobody could tell me. Perhaps it was beef.
After eating we went to the temple, which, as billed, is pretty spectatcular. It has over a dozen of those pyramidal diety adorned towers favoured by Hindus, one of which is meant to be older than time itself, although radiocarbon dating had yet to confirm this. In the temple's outer chambers - for it covers innumerable acres - are arcades of shops, like mini souks, where almost everything from clay gods to gold is sold. The combination of cool temple stone and devotional kitsch is an agreeable one.
I also liked the sign on the way out, an appeal to pilgrims for, what else, cash. "Give money generously," it said, "and receive the blessings of God." I was rather taken by this upfront 'market forces' attitude to religion. After all, poor people are generally reckoned to be pretty good, whereas the rich, who, understandably are too busy to be pious (camels, needles, etc.), have more money and more sin. Why not give them the chance to buy down their badness? I shoved a medium denomination note in the box and scored some blessings, a happy supply side sinner.
Guidebooks gush that Madhurai is a vibrant and colourful place - when applied to Indian cities, these adjectives tend to be, well, euphemistic.When we went for a pootle round the city, we discovered that the only thing that keeps the mosquito population down to something approaching tolerable levels is the air pollution. We had met a Danish bloke at our hotel who had developed a respiratory complaint (a hypochondriac, he thought it could be malaria; I told him his symptoms were more consistent with dengue fever). But soon I had it too and it has everything to with the city's atmosphere, which is the worst I have ever breathed.
We enjoyed some respite as the tail end of the monsoon freshened up things - briefly - before the drains overflowed and the place became an open sewer. I think it was as I stepped into a cow pat, with one foot and an overflowing drain with the other, while a beggar hassled me and a rickshaw driver demanded twice the originally quoted fare, that I realised there was no point in trying. Madhurai and I were never going to be friends.
Fortunately the American missionaries who had rather unsuccessfully tried to spread the word here in the 19th century had the same idea. Malaria claimed six of their number before they realized that Madhurai sucked. So they built a hill station 150 km away 2100m up in the Western Ghats. Figuring it was only a matter of time before we shared the missionaries' fate (and without God on our side too) we headed for the hills.
