Ten Sunny Days

It was like a scene out of an old sepia tinted movie. Just outside an abandoned railway station, a dust covered traveller steps out of a bus with just a bag on his back. The bus leaves in a cloud of dust, and every face turns around to watch the new arrival. But that's where the movie switches back to colour.

To the people of Kallidaikurichi, a chinese face is a rarity. Rare? I don't think they'd seen one in the flesh until I stepped off the bus. They have, however, seen Jackie Chan in Tamil dubbed movies sitting on mounds of sand in their open air theatres. And so, for ten days, I was Jackie, and expected to teach little kids kung-fu.

But that wasn't why I was in this sun-scorched village in south India. Abhi was looking for someone to help with her survey of waterbirds in the tanks on the border of Kalakkad Mundanthurai Tiger Reserve, and I wasn't about to let such an opportunity pass me by. And so we visited the tanks and counted birds by the hundreds - egrets, herons, storks, moorhens, jacanas and kingfishers. The birds that were the highlight of my stay though were the Cinnamon Bitterns and a Red Collared Dove. And the Ashy Woodswallows chattering animatedly in the Palmyra trees silhouetted by the sunset.

There were Bark Geckos and the Fan-throated Lizards aplenty, and a walk by the canal showed us a few baby Checkered keelbacks.

The heat prevented us from venturing out most of the day, and so I spent a lot of time in the nursery helping Ruthamma with the saplings. It's a joy communicating with someone without words. We spoke sans words about butterflies and trees and slugs and mosquitoes.

It was fascinating to hear the story of the tilted lingam of the 1200 year old Thirupudaimaruthur Temple from one of the priests. The temple is named because the lingam was found in the hollow of an Ashoka tree by the king who built the temple. Legend has it that a sage was coming from a long way for a darshan, and found the river near the temple in spate. Unable to get to the temple, he prayed and the water subsided. When he got there, he found the lingam tilted to one side and he asked god why, and the god replied that he had tilted his head to hear his call. And that's the story of the idol in the temple.

Atree, the organization that was playing host to me, has various programmes to get the local people involved in conservation. One of them is the flying fox census that the kids of the village participate in. And so, one evening we set off to this temple compound with huge trees where the bats roost and waited for them to take off to their feeding grounds and then counted them as they flew by. The kids have been doing this once a month for the last two years for this particular population of 2000-3000 bats.

Ten days went by in a flash washed in sunshine and lemon juice. Ten days of eating breakfast, lunch and dinner off banana leaves with my hands. Ten days of trying not to spoil Jackie Chan's name. Ten days of birds. Ten days of stalking the insects and frogs in the garden with the 105mm. Ten days of stories that would fill volumes!

And then it was time to say goodbye and time to get Ruthamma to smile for the camera.



More photos...

Bridges and Tunnels

Yedakumari.

Five years ago, we had trekked along this unused railway track that wound its way through tunnels and over bridges in the Western Ghats from Donigal to Edukumeri. The plan had been to spend the night at the railway station and trek onward to Kukke Subramanya, but exhaustion got the better of a couple of us, and we had hitched a ride back to civilisation and come back to Bangalore. A feeling of incompleteness has nagged me ever since, especially since someone told me that the trek beyond Edukumeri is far more scenic.

And so I set off again with tent and sleeping bag and enthusiastic company. The Mangalore KSRTC bus dropped us at Manjarabad Fort in a chaotic deadlock of vehicles at 5:30 am. It was four kilometres on the tarmac before we found the path onto the tracks. From there, the just past monsoon ensured that the "green route" lived up to its name. The flowering grasses waving in the breeze and screeching Racket-tailed Drongos accompanied us on the eighteen kilometres from there to the station at Edukumeri. The grass seeds attracted many Black-throated Munias. Noticeably missing were the thousands of bats that had lived in the thirty-five tunnels the last time I walked the track - yes, the same ones that had pissed on us - what a waste of the cap I bought to shelter my head from the unwanted conditioning! The butterflies were present in large numbers - Common Bluebottles, Lemon Pansies, Chocolate Pansies, Eggflies, Common Lascars, Common Sailers, Blue Mormons, Southern Birdwings were the ones I could identify. A few goods trains passed languidly by giving us ample time to get out of the way. Just a little before Yedakumari, we decided to cool our heels, literally, in one of the many streams that cross below the tracks. Then, as we picked up our tired bodies to make the final push towards our destination for the day, I spotted a scaly pattern on one of the rocks. The beautiful Malabar Pit Viper made our day, posing unmoving as we took our photographs.

I was surprised to see the station sign saying Yedakumari and not Edukumeri. I tried to translate it into English, and what I got amused me plenty: Yeda Kumari = Mad Maiden. I wonder what it really means though. The blogs had warned us that we would not be allowed to pitch tent at the station, so we hiked on looking for a spot to camp for the night. We had spent twelve hours on our feet when we finally settled down near a stream next to our tent with jam, cheese and bread. I must admit, it wasn't the most comfortable night I've ever spent. The pebbles beneath the tent made my fidgety sleeping quite painful. Still, it was a pretty night with stars peeking through the strangler fig under which we slept.

Scarlet minivets watched as I brushed my teeth in the stream in the morning. The Malabar Whistling Thrushes sang their happy songs and bright Yellow-browed bulbuls picked the fruit from the trees above.

The linesmen on the tracks had given us a target of the 80/400 marker as the spot from which we should turn off the railway line onto the forest path that would take us to Gundiya and a bus back to Bangalore. Armed with this information, which turned out to be 300 metres off, we set off knowing that we would have plenty of time to make our destination over the remaining bridges. To our right, for this entire stretch was a magnificent view of the shola forests of the western ghats. I spent much time wondering if one of the hills was Kumaraparvatha which is said to be the toughest trek in Karnataka. I will find out some day.

With a little difficulty, we found the path down to Gundiya, marked by some helpful soul in the moss with a stick - "GUNDY ->", and down we went. A sweaty, oily, uncouth, vest-clad trekker passed us by and turned around to ask me where I'm from and was extremely disappointed to hear "Bangalore". The group he was walking with made their noisy way past us, destroying many plants along the way. A little further, he turned around and asked if I had a lighter or matches - to light a fire! And then a little further, he came back to say, "Do you have some food? We're all very hungry. We have money but didn't find any shops." What I thought of this intrusion has been censored! Anyway, this caused us to take a detour which led to us getting a few leech bites (just one for me) and a far more interesting walk through the forest down to the town.

The buses to Bangalore were packed and we exhaustedly stood the three hours to Hassan before we got seats.

Here's some information that would have made the trek a little less interesting:

1. Take the 11:15 pm bus heading to Mangalore from Bangalore and request to get off approximately 4 kilometres after Donigal. If the conductor doesn't agree to that, then Donigal/Manjarabad Fort is the place to get off (usually some time between 4:30 am and 5:30 am). It may not be possible to book tickets to Donigal, so Uppinangadi should do.

2. The trains are not a problem. And no one tries to stop you from trekking on the track.

3. Definitely carry a torch. We switched off the torches in the middle of one of the tunnels and I couldn't see my palm 2 inches from my face (and people will tell you that I practically glow in the dark!)

4. You get on the track around the 50/400 marker and Yedamukari is just past the 68km mark. The turn off to Gundiya is at the 80/100 marker just after tunnel no. 35 and just before a bridge.

And so, five years in the doing, it is done.

Till The Rhododendron Turned Into Shrubs

Mcleodganj to Kareri Lake.

Is a perfect holiday the one in which every little thing goes according to plan? Nah! That would be a perfectly boring holiday. Perhaps that's why life throws all these problems at us, to keep us on our toes and alive! Ah, but that's a discussion for another day and another campfire in the mountains.

The fun began when the cab to the Old Delhi Railway Station broke down in Daryaganj in the middle of heavy traffic - living in Bangalore, I do not use that phrase lightly! The thought that I was paying the cabbie (too much, I might add) to push his cab through a stream of honking Delhi cars bounced around in my head. A gleeful autodriver saw me waving ridiculously on the divider and made hay, taking us and our backpacks for a ride to the station. And so, we were on our way.

We got to the Dalai Lama's monastery only to learn that the last of his series of lectures to the public had ended a couple of hours before. Soooo, that's why all those people were headed in the other direction! Oh, but wait, the security guard says, he's giving another talk to a group visiting from Taiwan, so you can sit upstairs and catch a glimpse of him on his way to the prayer hall. And so, we waited with the Buddhist faithful, watching them twirl prayer wheels and murmur prayers inaudibly. We sat for close to an hour on the stairs and all this time, a Tibetan lady bowed towards the prayer hall in a manner akin to doing pushups, stopping only to wipe the sweat off her brow. Faith can move mountains?

From Mcleodganj back to the hotel is a short walk on the hillside, and after my first glimpse of a Nobel prize-winner and lunch, I decided to take this path. Of course, a walk is not worth taking note of unless it pours. The rest of the gang decided to catch a taxi back to the hotel, leaving just Anjali and me to splash through the puddles looking for the way back. The directions said that we would reach a field which we would have to cross to get to Dal Lake and from there, it would be simple. The field turned out to be a school playfield on a very washed-out Sports Day with the viewing galleries filled to the rafters with students and onlookers. Casting aside my stage-fright, I plopped across the field with my trousers rolled up above my knees looking like I was wearing nothing but my newly acquired rain poncho-like-thingy. Oh yes, we even stopped for directions. Dal Lake was duly found and in our relief at being out of the spotlight, we promptly headed up the wrong road. The chinese features did seem to bring more greetings than usual. Anyway, someone pointed us in the correct direction and we were soon back at Dal Lake sipping tea by the roadside watching the kids from the school running the marathon in the pouring rain.

The next day dawned bright and shiny, and forecast of our guide was, "It's good it rained yesterday - now the trek should stay dry." With most of our baggage on pack-mules in true sahib-adventurer style, we set off towards Kareri Village. The first break, after a steep downhill walk, was at Ghera and after a cup of tea we were on our way across the bridge and up the hill accompanied by the constant chirruping of cicadas. Lunch was a welcome break near a small settlement as we crested a ridge. The village kids stopped their games and watched us shyly from a distance.

The climb continued after lunch through rhododendron, oak and pine, with many breaks to look at butterflies and spiders and wildflowers, or at least that was the excuse.

We set up camp a little below Kareri Village by a small stream on a grass field occupied mostly by grazing sheep. The calling birds drew me towards the village, and while the rest of the group washed in the water, I clambered up the hill. Sitting on a boulder, I heard with joy the sound of life without motors. Suddenly, "Thump!" A stone the size of an orange landed in the mud a few feet away. And then a scream, "Yaaaaa!" A boy from the village was chasing the horses off his farm, and had come within a few inches of seeing the inside of my skull. I hastened out from the rocks and made my presence known. As my pulse settled down again, Subhash came up behind me and says, "Sir!" My skin stayed behind while the rest of me leapt into the massive oak trees, before sheepishly creeping back. After carrying our lunch the entire morning, he was headed to his home in the village to get us some firewood and मक्की की रोटी. And so I was invited home and treated to walnuts from the tree outside, introduced to his children and told stories about life in Kareri - the struggle with the black bears, the snow in the winter, the planting of trees for the forest department and school for the kids. Then, supplied, we raced down the hill in the dusk to camp.

We sat by the fire and sang songs for our audience of sheep. After the others had turned in, two boys emerged out of the darkness and asked, with a wink, if I would like some "ककडी" since they were going to get supplies. They grinned and pointed in the direction of one of the farms. I declined, and they disappeared cheerfully back into the dark. I'm sure the cucumber they 'borrowed' tasted a lot sweeter!

The second day was supposed to be a long climb all the way up to Kareri Lake. But after spotting a Crested Pied Kingfisher and a Spotted Forktail, the rains came again, in buckets. The decision was to split the second day trek into two days and camp somewhere halfway up. The sky cleared, and in retrospect, it was very fortunate that we shortened the second day because a couple of us really struggled on the climb. The view was breathtaking.
Himalayan Griffons and Lammergeiers studied us from above as we made our way to our second campsite, wondering if one of us would thoughtfully keel over and provide them with a meal. The tents were set up by the side of a stream with White-capped Water Redstarts and Plumbeous Water Redstarts flitting from boulder to boulder. The Grey Wagtails just wouldn't sit still for the cameras.

The next day, we followed the stream up towards it's source, following the path used by the Gaddi shepherds. The slopes on either side were littered with huge boulders probably deposited there by long-disappeared galciers. Raptors flew overhead thoroughly exposing my lack of skill at identifying them. Pheasants called raucously from the trees on either side.

And suddenly we were part of the idyllic scene that is Kareri Lake. The lake is considered sacred because of the Shiva temple on its shore. The rock-strewn Minkiani Pass rose from the edge of the lake towards a sky of the deepest blue. Sheep grazed on the emerald green banks lit by a sun on the way down. Rosy Pipits shot into the sky from their hiding places as I walked through the rocks at the base of the pass. Past the shepherd huts, the land drops away into a deep valley before rising back up in another ridge. As I watched, the clouds drifted slowly through the valley and climbed up over the lake.

My restless feet led me up the path to the ridge on the right of the valley we'd hiked up. The sun went behind the mountains, and the sky turned a deeper blue. An almost full moon was already in the sky, giving the mist an eerie glow as it curled around the oak trunks. And then I noticed that the shrubs all around were rhododendron. Unexpectedly, this silly dream of mine had come true - from the time I had learnt that rhododendron trees became shrubs at higher altitudes, I had wanted to see this.

A rather heavy shower had me checking my tent for leaks in the wee hours of the morning. My neighbours, being more paranoid than me, packed their bags and got into their raingear in preparation for the collapse of their tent! When we clambered out of our tents to greet the daylight, we saw the hailstones by the tents, and the snow on Minkiani Pass. I wish it had snowed.

And so we said goodbye to Kareri Lake and set off on the long trek back down the mountain, back to where the rhododendron were still trees. Coming down is hard on the knees as we all learnt, and when we finally got to Brrlay, our final camp site, we were all exhausted.

The next day, we hiked back to concrete and glass and bathrooms.

It's more than two weeks now since I unpacked my bag, and there's still so much I remember that hasn't found place in this post. And with my memory, that's saying something! Every time I looked up, there was a spectacular view that burned itself into my memory. Every time I looked in the grass, there was a butterfly, a grasshopper, a flower, something I hadn't seen before. So many birds flitted through the view of my binoculars. The people everywhere greeted us with an honesty that sometimes had me blinking that watery stuff away from my eyes.

And that, I guess, is what will remain.... that bag full of memories.

Of Clouds and Leeches

Agumbe.

I'm pretty glad Siddharth made it to the bus seconds before we left. So much would have been lost in translation had he missed the bus. Reminder to self - learn Kannada.

I was a little sceptical when Kasturi Akka told me over the phone, in a mixture of Kannada, Hindi and English, that all I had to do to find the house was to ask for where Kasturi stays. But Dodda Mane was exactly that easy to find. Just around the corner from the bus stand, and everyone knows Kasturi Akka.

Stepping into the house is almost like stepping through a window in time. A hundred and ten years, the house has stood; stone, supported on ornate wooden pillars, built in the traditional style of the people of the ghats. In the middle, the courtyard that once had been the place where the head of the village had dispensed his justice was being pounded by the monsoon. We were directed to a large room upstairs with windows that seemed to glow with the emerald green of the rainforest.

After a breakfast of Neer Dosas and too-spicy chutney, we headed off to Jogigundi: "find electric pole 67 and turn right off the road and follow the path. And watch for the leeches." The road wound through the greenest green accompanied by butterflies fluttering whimsically from flower to flower. The rain stopped and started, drizzling sometimes, pouring sometimes. The birds took every pause in the rain to break into song, teasing us by flitting about in the leaves, just out of sight. Frogs, toads and grasshoppers leapt joyfully by the side of the road. The unfortunate ones had been run over by the overnight traffic. We saw a malabar pit viper, a checkered keelback, two caecilians and hundreds of frogs dead on the road.

A little way down the road, Nisha snorted disgustedly at what looked like fruit packing on the side of the road. As she bent over to pick up the litter, her expression changed to wonder. It was the most amazing mushroom any of us had ever seen; a peach-pink lantern on the forest floor. As we walked along we caught little glimpses into what must exist deep within the rainforest; the beautiful purple plant parasite, the yellow succulent flower, the wood-ear mushrooms, the orchids in the trees.

And then we were at electric pole no. 67. The path to the right was there, leading invitingly into the forest. My research before the trip had taught me that insect repellents do keep leeches away, so we smeared some on our feet and stepped in. The first thing to greet us was a bicolored frog, confident in its camouflage sitting on the forest floor. And then there were leeches everywhere. Stopping only to pull the leeches off our ankles we were very quickly at the waterfall. The water falls through large boulders on the side of a wall of rock into a pool from where it continues down to where I know not. We spent an hour exploring the rocks around the waterfall and a little way downstream. On the way back, Rohan and I saw a Malabar Trogon, one of the birds on our wish-list. There were so many birds in that one place that we decided to come back there if we could; electric pole 42.

We slept through the afternoon and then went to the edge of the Someshwar Ghat to watch the sunset. There wasn't a sunset in the way of a traditional sunset, but the view was breathtaking . The clouds looked like they were pouring down the ghats on our right into the valley below. Little clouds between the trees on the forest floor looked like puffs of smoke. And this green and white carpet spread out before us as far as we could see. A bright red crab sat on the rock with us as we watched the light fade behind the clouds.

Undeterred by the lack of a sun in the sunset, we set out early the next morning to see the sunrise. The Jain temple on top of the hill had been built of stones quarried from the rock it stood on. One of the pools that had formed was full of huge bull frogs croaking their hearts out. The clouds swirled around us and the rain beat down heavily. The sun must have risen behind all that. There's an indescribable peace standing on top of that hill in the pouring rain

Nisha and Siddharth went to Sringeri to see the temples there while Rohan and I decided to go back to the electric poles to see if we could spot some birds. And spot some, we did! Racket-tailed drongos, scarlet minivets, pompadour green pigeons, white-bellied treepies, black bulbuls, black headed bulbuls, dark-fronted babblers, malabar parakeets, malabar gray hornbills, hill mynahs were the highlights. There were so many others which we didn't identify because we couldn't keep up with them. I finally saw the malabar whistling thrush which has been teasing me with it's schoolboy whistle through so many forest hikes. And we saw the malabar trogon again! On the way back, we had to take shelter from the rain in a cowshed. The owner of the place saw us standing under the eaves and invited us in. They were a most jolly family, thoroughly amused at our inability to understand a word they said (learn Kannada). On the way back, we were startled by a barking deer and our third malabar giant squirrel. My good deed of the day was to pick up a pill millipede off the road and put it back in the leaf litter.

Lunch was special - mango curry, bamboo shoot curry and a snack made of acacia leaves wrapped around something I can't remember. Rohan's appetite wasn't tickled.

Onaki Abbe was our final destination. The path was a carpet of leeches. We moved swiftly through the forest till the path disappeared in the undergrowth. It was getting dark when we finally turned around. By then, we had surrendered to the leeches and were letting them have their way with us. Back on the road, a truck driver saw the blood on my feet and stopped to tell me to put salt. 'Uppu Illa' I told him and asked for a ride into the village, and so we rode atop a sand truck to the nearest restaurant where I asked for salt and watched as the bloated leeches dropped off my feet. We walked barefoot back to Dodda Mane, stood outside and washed the blood off our feet. Tissue paper served to stop the bleeding. There were so many leeches in Nisha's shoes that she decided to leave them behind.

We said goodbye to Kasturi Akka and headed to the bus stand, just in time to catch the bus back to Bangalore. I broke out in rashes because of my allergy to leech-bites, making me look rather scary, but that subsided halfway back to Bangalore. And I found a last couple of leeches; one on my ankle and one on my arm.

The infection from the leech-bites has gone away now after a heavy dose of antibiotics and the wounds have almost healed. It was quite an adventure, and methinks it's time to plan a trip back there. I still have to visit Onaki Abbe and Barkhana.