Spectacular. The views from the mountaintops above Munnar are simply spectacular. The cool mountain air carries the sweet smell of fresh tea from the local plantations and fluffs it like a blanket over the quaint, quiet, communist (like red hammer and sickle communist) towns.
Munnar is an unsettled blend of Alice's rabbit holes, Dorothy's brick roads (the yellow ones), and Marx's manifesto. Its landscape is a dream. Bright pinks, greens, blues and golds roll over into one another as the earth literally touches the sky. Think about being a kid and drawing those far off, imaginative lands with your finger paints, the kinds you find in "Once upon a time..." stories. This is Munnar. Only, it actually exists. You can imagine my delight, strolling graciously into town about 24 hours after our most horrendous travel experience to date the night before: three-hour traffic jams, late taxis, missed flights, and general hopelessness. In short, Nolan and I missed our flight to Delhi. We scheduled a cab to come get us from the B2 office after work on Friday. My assumption is that when we said, "come promptly at six, because we have a flight at 8:50 and we want plenty of time to check in", the cab company heard, "send someone whenever you get around to it, maybe before eight and preferably sober". Well, when the cabbie finally did show up an hour late, he was sober, so I really can't fault them there. Of course, Nolan and I were on edge as the check-in window inched closer and closer to the point of no return. Our driver reassured us that everything would be fine and to his credit, he did speed when possible and honked his horn in one endless, mind numbing beep the entire time we were driving. It was of no use though. As far as I can tell, there is one road to the airport. And then one road to that road. And then one to that, and so on. These roads would be great if they weren't being used by eleventy billion cars, a zillion rickshaws, 8 million cows, a partridge, a pear tree, and the occasional clinically insane bicycler all at the exact same time. Nothing moves at all. Everyone just sits and honks. Honking. So much honking. I have nightmares now about being locked in a room with nothing but a car horn. People don't use their horns here the way they do in the states. In the states, we use the horn when we're angry or in emergency "oh shit" situations. Here, people use their horns for any possible emotion felt when driving. They make up situations to use the car horn, just so they can use it even more. Having a great day? Honk your horn. Having a not so great day? Honk your horn. Someone cut you off? Honk your horn. That old lady crossing the road get too close to the rick's new paint job? Honk at her. How about those school children up in the distance? Is there even a remote chance they may impede your progress in any way? Perfect! Honk continuously until you pass them, no matter how far. To the Indian driver, the car horn is a loyal companion, a strident mechanism who's mastery may only be obtained by the most devoted follower. To the American, the horn, it's scream having long ago strained and altered the western mind, becomes a demon. It is the voice of the devil. We arrived at the airport twelve minutes before our flight was set to take off. Just like in Home Alone, Nolan and I jumped from the cab and set off running. Smiles on our faces, packs on our backs, we knew we still had a chance. All we had to do was get to the check in desk and explain the situation. They'd see that this wasn't our fault, kindly give us our boarding passes and usher us speedily through security to catch our flight to the one and only Taj Mahal.
Bwaahahahahahahhahahahahaha.
That's hilarious. Now back to real life. We approached the desk and they were already shaking their heads and laughing at us. Not a chance in hell. Very sorry sir. Very late. Very sorry.
We were doomed. We went from airline to airline asking for any availability at all to Delhi. Not a single seat was available to go to Delhi for what seemed like the next week. We even made sure we asked each clerk twice. Maybe an indirect flight? Nothing. The realiziation slowly creeped in that we wouldn't be going anywhere but back to the diamond district that night. Hopeless, we grabbed a cab for the (of course) smooth, traffic-free ride back. Nolan and I spoke in the cab. It was our second to last weekend in India and it was a three-day weekend. We knew what had to be done. We decided to scour the Internet all night until we arranged something different for the next few days, knowing that the following weekend we could still manage to see the Taj when passing through Jaipur.
With the assistance of our always helpful Indian roommates, we considered many possibilities. North? South? Kashmir? Kulkatta? Finally, Sandeep mentioned a place called Keralla, a communist state on India's southwest shore. After some browsing of the web and drinking of the rum, we thought maybe this place would be doable. It's a mountainous region, so it presented a landscape we hadn't seen before. Plus, it was cheap and there was actually some flight availability. We decided to go for it. The next afternoon we reached the airport (in plenty of time) and took off for Cochin, the beach town from where we would start our ascent into Munnar, one of Keralla's highest hill towns.
The following evening, we landed in Cochin and met our driver. His name was Krishna. A nice enough guy, but like many of the folks here who do daily commerce with foreigners, he was looking to make his cut. For example, we told him that we booked a hostel in Munnar, which he promptly tried to talk us out of in exchange for his friends' "really nice, cheap place". And then when we arrived in Munnar after a 150km climb into the mountains, instead of taking us to our place, he just took us to his friends'. We realized that Krishna simply already had his mind made up about where we were going. We bit our tongues and went along for the ride.
Over the next thirty or so hours, we just explored the place. We rode elephants, went on a tour of a spice plantation, took pictures of waterfalls, went to a tea museum and drank tea that had been hand picked just the day before. I'm bringing home about a half-ton of the stuff. It was delicious. We drove to a number of amazing lookout points and took pictures. We went from shop to shop, bartering for food and souvenirs. We went to a place called echo point where, well, you yell and there's a really loud echo. We even rented a paddle boat on which, in the most heterosexual way two dudes can, Nolan and I watched the sunset over the mountains, holding one another closely.
The food in Keralla was a bit different from the food we were exposed to in Bangalore. A lot of different types of rice dishes we noticed, and not so much curry. The dress was a bit different as well. I understand Bangalore now, and maybe I’m wrong, to be a much more metropolitan place than many others I've seen so far in India. For example, in Bangalore, men wear suits. In Kerrala, men wear towels that often breeze freely and openly in the wind. Towel falling down? Simply readjust. In public. For everyone to see. It seemed like every single guy, young and old, was wearing one of these towel things. I can't say I blame them. They seemed comfortable enough. I bought a couple to begin wearing to client sites back in the states. Hey guys, sorry I'm late. Andrea left my towel at cleaners.
As I mentioned previously, it wasn't long before Nolan and I realized that Kerrala was a bit different politically as well. There's a vibrant communist party in Munnar. And they make themselves known. Strewn about the town are political portraits with men's faces on them, red hammer and sickle posters, party slogans written in Hindi, etc. Seeing these images was surprising. I've always associated them with a thing of the past, especially outside of Russia and the former Soviet Union. I guess some of the Asian states are still communist, but I don't think those particular symbols are any longer used to represent the states themselves, nor the ideology. I guess I was just taken aback by the fact that this type of thing was active in this part of the world.
This next bit may have been related to the political views of a particular village or it may not have. I still can't tell. Nonetheless, it was in a small, red, obviously, outwardly communist village that I met some of what seemed to be the first real hostility directed toward me in India. The whole experience was ridiculous. Krishna decided to drop us off in the rain at the foot of this small mountain. We were pretty high up. We had already driven 6 km up the mountain road before going on foot. He told us that if we trekked two more km up the path, there would be a great lookout point waiting for us, from which we could take great photos. Sounded good at the time. We set out on foot.
Then, as if in a suspense novel, the rain seemed to worsen. Cars and rickshaws were zooming past us along the narrow road. They kept coming from both directions. We kept climbing. Everything was slippery and wet. Water was beginning to flow down the mountain. Finally after an hour or so of this climbing, we reached what seemed to be the summit. I wasn't sure though. I still hadn't seen any lookouts and I was sure that we had been walking for longer than two km. As the rain moved away, the fog moved in. It got to the point where we were basically just walking in a cloud. Everywhere you looked was this white haze. Even looking out over the cliff on the side of the road, one could see nothing.
The next part was when it started to get a little more bizarre. So at the moment, we're just continuing to walk up thus mountain, in search of a lookout point that we were sure we'd already passed. In the distance, there is this music. It was vey faint to begin with, but as we walked along the path, it began to get louder and louder. I remember thinking about the odyssey. These were sirens. They were enticing me further out to sea in an effort to turn me to stone. Seriously, this is what it was like. The music was really nice. We were having an awesome time just strolling through the clouds, curious about what we'd find. At one point the music was really loud, but the fog was still so dense that we could see nothing. The first sign of life? A giant red banner imprinted with the same communist symbols mentioned before, strung between two trees, hanging ominously over the path as we walked blindly by. Still the music was getting louder and still we could see nothing. We walked for another thirty yards in the mist before the hazy outlines of a town began to emerge. The first thing I noticed was the tall steeple of a catholic church. Ironic? Maybe. We found the source of the music. Two 16 inch speakers at the town's gates. As we walked in, there were ten or fifteen men starring directly at us. This really isn't that out of the ordinary, and I understood why these folks might be surprised to see a couple Midwestern white boys at their communist party in magic tea land above the clouds. It’s not as if folks that look like us are just gallivanting around the place on a regular basis. As we passed the men, the animals in the town must have sensed evil. All the dogs began barking and growling at us. It was unpleasant at best. Now, everyone knew we were here. And remember that wonderful music that led us to this little shindig? Yeah, they turned it off. Like completely off. Record-scratch off. Now I didn't see it personally (like a good tourist, I had my camera out already), but Nolan was startled by what he says was a stone thrown at him by one of the local men. I was up on a ledge when he grabbed me and said, " I really think we need to get out of here". I had to agree. There was something strange about this particular village. I couldn't help feeling that I was led here and I really didn't want to stick around to find out why. The people in town starring at us were definitely not smiling. We quickly turned back and walked along the road opposite the men. I didn't make any eye contact, preferring to take pictures of the church instead. I was just trying to come off as naive and non-hostile as possible. Sure enough, we made it out of sight back into the fog. And sure enough, the music was switched right back on after we were gone.
That night, thankful we made it back to our hostel in one piece, Nolan and I celebrated with a few beers we picked up from the town's only liquor store. The evening sort of slid by. There was no tv, no internet, no foosball, nothing really but us and the stars. At around 2am I wondered outside to use the restroom. In the distance, I could hear the loud screams of men out in the woods. To the best of my knowledge, this was a tribal ritual of some sort. I could hear chants, songs and screaming...at 2:30 am in a forest in the middle of nowhere above the clouds under a full moon in India. I listened for a bit. Then, shaking the images of me as the main course in some Commi-Cannibal ritual, I went to bed. Holding a sword. And garlic.
The next morning may have been the best of the trip thus far. The owner of the hostel we were staying in promised to lead us up the backside of one of the nearby mountains to watch the sunrise. He may or may not have been drunk when he said this, because he surely had no idea why I was waking him up at 5:30am. What? You want me to where? I was just laughing. Dude, this was totally your idea. I think our conversation ended with, "ok, I go to mountain". I laced up my hiking boots and zipped my raincoat. He slipped on his sandals and put on his towel. He lead Nolan and I up into the mountains for what ended up being a spectacular sunrise view. At the summit, I had some cool experiences. It was like we were sitting on a rock looking out over the whole world maybe as it looked before humans came along. You could just see forever...mountains, waterfalls, forests, etc. No buildings, no roads, no homes…just the forests and mountains. Near our rock, we spotted some old graves, marked at the highest point with a cross. It was interesting to be sitting next to a cross on one side, endless earth on another, and our guide on the other who, at the moment the sun began to show over the ridge, began to pray to Allah. A very intimate experience, surreal in many ways. The three of us sat up there for quite some time. We spoke about the serenity of nature, about politics, religion, work and family. I couldn't help but laugh to think that just a couple nights before, everything was going so wrong, and yet, with some serious web savvy and a relentless passion to explore, I managed to land myself most completely in the middle of nowhere. It just so happened that this middle of nowhere was one of the best things I've seen.
Only a week or so left in India. It’s been amazing, but I am anxious to get home to see Andrea and my friends and family. Finishing strong though. We’ve got a big push to production coming this week and I trust my PM responsibilities will only intensify. I’m looking forward to it, though.
Next week, Diwali in Jaipur. Then the Taj Mahal. The the week after - Chicago. Comin’ home soon.
