Saturday, October 2, 2010
There was blood at first sight. The first time I saw the leeches, blood streamed from every one of them. I had been walking in the rainforest for the past two minutes with my brother, a surly local guide, and a false sense of security. "I don't need gaiters," I recalled saying at the forest department hut after finding out they would cost me sixty cents; "I've been to Nepal, the country of leeches. During the monsoon. Didn't get bitten once. Porters there wear jandals - just flick them off their legs before they can attach themselves."
"That's so interesting," replied the Swiss girl two months earlier at a rooftop cafe in Mamallapuram. "Yes," I agreed. As was the surreal, Edvard Munchian short-haired family selling beads at the crossroads below me. It was a particularly hot day on the Tamil Nadu coast so most of the locals sat in the shade of their shops, gloomily gazing as I did at the sweating sightseers passing through the crossroads on their way from cheap hotels to a cave painting or Israeli restaurant. The beadsellers approached every one of them, and watching the various hateful reactions of the tourists was pretty interesting too. "Yeah..." sighed the Swiss girl, shutting her moist, languid eyes. "I can't believe this pizza is only one hundred rupees. I can't believe you're here for nine months by yourself!" she smiled with her mouth. She was here for three weeks on a honeymoon with an unhappy overworked husband, who was still at their hotel lying in bed. We sat in silence for a while. I thought of the smiling old lonely man who bought ten kilograms of rice for the beadsellers earlier that day. What a stupid old man! who does he think he is, playing the benevolent condescending missionary, flying to "the third world" and bestowing gifts on the suffering helpless natives; reinforcing the image of westerners as weak-minded money bags with large, self-satisfying egos. And yet, what a simple, kind, good-hearted old man - out of a hundred travellers only he retains enough unquestioning human sympathy to actually do something, to actually give food to the hungry, instead of writing disjointed and long-winded complainist blog posts. As usual, cold, calculating cynicism formed a blindfold over my soul, hiding from myself the simple, theoryless love that is inherent in everybody, that would mean heaven on earth but for the cold, calculating human brain.
Happiness reigned on the bus to Pondicherry. My diary entry for that day, the first day of August: "Bus to Pondicherry, very good - it's nice when things go well. Walked up on board with big bag, had to stand dangerously on stairs but helped by really nice guy (bus was full). Put bag in good place, didn't fall over, eventually given seat, everyone smiling - the small things in life! Arrived knowing that the sun sets in the west and that I had to go east, but due to brain explosion walked 3km west anyway - 8km total walk in sun with bag. Couldn't take Rs. 30 rickshaw because too expensive (later spent Rs. 140 on iced chocolate). Pondy is ok, lots of people actually speak French, bakeries sell croissants, great value quiche and French sticks. Friendly place it seems. Might have to move to more expensive room tomorrow (this one is crazily hot, heat seems to eminate from the bed itself)"
In Trichy I saw the Rock Fort and a massive temple complex, and after good luck in meeting the right people, taking the right buses, and staying at the right place, decided that it was a very underrated city. After being patted on the head by an elephant at the incredible, bustling, barefeet-dirtying Sree Meenakshi temple complex in Madurai, I changed the initial tone of my blog completely and bused up to Kodaikanal in the misty pine forests of the Western Ghats! The deck of Greenlands Youth Hostel overlooks the eastern plains, and from here I spent my time failing to read about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, because a distant horizon is a surprisingly moving distraction from words.
Sitting in an icecream shop. A voice: "I want icecream bro, not meltcream." I had encountered another rare, special Kiwi. Dan, 32, from Whakatane, was pretty stoked to see me but gutted that he got icecream and shit on his Mint Chicks shirt.
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Everything was confusion in Mysore, on the seventeenth day of August. A small boy had just been hit by a motorbike on Gandhi Square, and the mother, screaming, was running through swerving traffic towards his small body. The father sat cross-legged on the road and tore at his own hair. An immense, crushing circle of onlookers quickly formed, makeshift bandages of cloth were applied to small, bleeding limbs. Screaming gave way to wailing, but the mother's despair was barely audible above the hostile chaos around the fallen biker. The father tore off his shirt, pain creased his face. Emotions were raw, unrestrained, honest and unforgiving. An ambulance came, perhaps too late for the small boy, perhaps just in time for the scared, surrounded biker. Voices made themselves heard even after the ambulance had gone, but, reluctantly, the crowd began to disperse. Life continued, and futility weighed tragically on my soul.
I slapped madly at my ankles, but the first wave of leeches clung on valiantly. Thunder claps roused the monkeys above us to screaming pitch, lightning illuminated the surrounding forest, and a great rain began to fall, faster, faster even than the downpour that hit me upon my arrival in Hampi. During that latter downpour my Parisian friends and I took shelter with a ubiquitous cackling old lady under some leaky temple ruins, and hailed a rickshaw.
But when the sun rose the next morning, I realised that Hampi was magical, and it became one of the most memorable places of my trip. My diary entry on the 20th of August: "Drenched again by sudden rain after registering at police station built into temple ruins & columns. Long main street some distance from hotel, beginning with large Madurai-style temple and extending to the rock-strewn hills. Climbed a rocky mountain with the others, impressive views for km either side. Will easily spend a week here. Great place. Classically India - big monkeys fighting in the ruins with mangy dogs; orange lizards; rocky desert; parrots by day, bats by night; cows and goats; Indian people. Played French card game at night on rooftop, luckily it was 'scum'. Earlier had googled the Dreyfus Affair to impress French people, luckily forgot"
A sleeper bus from Hampi, overnight to Mangalore. I only stopped there in order to break up the long journey to Trivandrum in the far south, but ended up staying a few days. Its cleanliness and unusually flawless western ways were pleasing to my sanity, though my spirit rebelled against the place. I watched Inception and Toy Story 3 here at one of many flash shopping mall cinemas, and realised the degree to which I had been removed from my usual Nelson life these past six months.
Trivandrum was not up to much at all, so I quickly took another bus with some Irish guys to Kovalam beach. 4/9/10 - "I'm essentially staying in a homestay, with a sweet Italian-Indian woman who lives nearby. Sat around for a few hours on the porch with her and a French yoga-karate guy, who is here for six months studying Keralan martial arts. Temperature perfect for being otuside - hot sun cool breeze. The Italian told me about a good place for a Keralan thali near the small general store where I met the tout who took me here. And it was amazing food for Rs. 40 - banana, beetroot, mock potato curries with fat white rice grown in Kerala and, instead of dal, some soupy cheesy veg mixture. Ecstatic reading On The Road, googling the actual people, rediscovering Bob Dylan, discovering Janis Joplin - Cry Baby!! - getting totally into, in awe of, that whole era. Then as I walk through the little alleyways behind the beach, shaded by bananas and palms, I am filled with happiness. Also played football at night with local guys on the black sand at dusk"
Another short bus ride to Varkala, where I had some intense chai-chats with the Kashmiris, Tibetans, Nepalis, and Karnatakan gypsies who own most of the shops, and then a train back north to Kochi. I spent one night in transit there, bused to Munnar for a few days, lost my wallet, cancelled all of my ATM cards, found my wallet again. And then back to Kochi, this time to spend a few days in the Dutch-Portuguese fort area as I awaited my brother's arrival in India.
We often spoke later of this fact: that although the lightning flash was undoubtedly the brightest either of us had ever experienced, and although the simultaneous thunder clap was definitely the most defeaning we had heard; the most frightening aspect of our experience lay not in either of these truths. It is easy and tempting to talk slightingly of the fight-or-flight response while in the comfort of a home. But when your stern, unflinching local army guide, who causes leeches to drop from his clothes with nothing but a look - when this guide drops his walking stick, screams, and bolts back the way you came - when he does this because of an apocalyptic lightning blast that sends butterflies of death into your heart - only then do you understand fight-or-flight. James turned with terror written all over his face, I covered my head and dropped to the ground. I cannot exaggerate the size and proximity of this shit. One minute later, after we recovered, we walked past a tree which had fallen across the path, the only visible victim of the unrelenting blitzkrieg - for now.
Leeches, leeches. As we finally made it back to the hut two hours later, our relief was short-lived. Leeches. They never cease to remind you of their humble presence. Another two hours in the hut surrounded by - this worried me more than anything - genuinely concerned park rangers. Leeches produce an anaesthetic, so their bites are painless, but they also produce a chemical which prevents your blood from clotting. Six hours and two rolls of toilet paper later all of my bites were still bleeding. I was stoked, this is entertainment!
I did other things with my brother. We played football with the locals in Fort Cochin, rode elephants and boats at Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary, and, in what will prove to be one of the highlights of my time here, OD'd on scenery and culture on various boat/canoe rides through the Keralan backwaters. We also learned why Indian men wear moustaches. But generally we had a good time, it was nice to see a familiar face after seven long months.
After a Jimmy-esque mad rush to the airport in Kochi, I took a train to Goa, from where I am typing this very word...
Goats in Mamallapuram
One of many people sleeping around the rocks, noontime at Mamallapuram
Trichy Rock Fort
Sri Ranganathaswamy Temple, Trichy
Inside the Sree Meenakshi temple in Madurai
Madurai temple elephant taking donations and giving rewards
The three guys on the left asked for a photo, the one on the right is a notorious Indian photobomber
One of the seven towers at Sree Meenakshi temple
Sree Meenakshi temple, Madurai
A tea plantation near Ooty
Kids at the tea plantation
Near the tea plantation
Mysore Palace
Sad elephants in Mysore Palace gardens
Benoit, Alix, Florian and Solveig at the top of the mountain in Hampi
Part of the ruins spread all over Hampi, taken from the mountaintop
Banana plantations, ruins, winding paths, snakes - Hampi
The river in Hampi after it flooded overnight
Alleyways behind Kovalam beach
Varkala
A houseboat on the Keralan backwaters
This guy was riding the local ferry service with a fridge. No one batted an eyelid of course
Schoolgirls onboard the local ferry
Not a big photography fan
Backwaters
James and a long string of fishing nets
Backwaters
Backwaters
Transprting fish on the backwaters
Loving it
Backwaters
Backwaters
Backwaters
Backwaters
Backwaters
Backwaters
Backwaters
Backwaters
Backwaters
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Leech bites
