Candy from strangers

On our way down the hills of Kodaikanal, we stop to take more photos of the vista that’s like postcards of Santorini, but much more colourful. The homes dotted all over the hillside are an impressive sight. A man walks out of a house we’re standing by, and invites us to climb on top of the garage in front, to get an even better view. He tells us a bit more about Kodai, and then insists we come into his home. 

It’s like an episode of Julian and Camilla’s World Odyssey, my favourite Travel Channel programme about two Kiwis on an OE. People rave about those ‘real life’ experiences of being welcomed into strangers’ homes, and now I’ve finally got my chance. The man is called Haizer, and he introduces us to his mother and sister-in-law – two of the many family members who live here. The women immediately set to making us coffee and bringing us biscuits, which we accept, even though we can barely move after our embarrassingly extravagant breakfast. The women tell us we’re the very first guests into the newly refurbished home – the place has been in the family for years but they’ve recently spruced it up.

Haizer had spotted my Canon and brings out his own Nikon D3000 and an impressive array of lenses – one longer than my finger tips to elbow. He’s a technician who worked in Bahrain and Abu Dhabi until he had to return home to his dying father. Haizer now runs the family electronics business with his brother, but he’d love to return overseas and tells us he’s applying for jobs in the States. He loves photography and is a total whiz with cameras – something passed on from his father many moons ago, so we look at some of the photos he’s taken of wildlife in the area and he then brings out his sister’s wedding album. Pete must have missed the part where Haizer said it was his sister’s wedding, as he enquires as to where Haizer’s wedding had taken place. Haizer replies, “I am unmarried. By the grace of God, my two younger sisters and brother are married, but I am not.” I sense it’s a bit of a sore point. 

He tells us about the work he does – mainly fixing tourists’ expensive cameras. He says the tourists are often surprised at how cheap it is to get work done here; he recently fixed a camera for Rs 2800, and the tourist had said he got a quote back in the UK for the equivalent of Rs 12,000. “I fix a lot of old cameras. It would be cheaper for them to buy new ones, you know, but a lot of the time it’s sentimental. They want to keep using a camera that’s special to them. And I understand that – my own father gifted me this camera and it’s very precious to me,” he says.

Haizer talks to us about our lives back in New Zealand, and asks if we’re Christian. We say we are and he smiles approvingly. He tells me he grew up a Catholic, but has since converted to Pentecostal. He starts a spiel about Jesus’ second coming in India, and we patiently listen, nodding and making false promises to start reading the bible every day. On that note, we graciously thank Haizer for the hospitality and take our leave, making a more truthful promise to visit him in his electronics store before we leave Kodaikanal.

At sunset, after a much-needed nap and a late afternoon lunch of thali, we meander along Coaker’s Walk, a stunning path around one of the highest hills. I have to pay an extra 30 rupees to get my camera in, but the battery dies after one or two shots; the landscape is too wide and too incredible to be captured on film anyway, so it’s a memory to be etched only in our heads. As we walk, Indian tourists keep approaching us wanting photos of themselves with us in them too. I’m not sure if it’s Pete’s height, or simply our white skin – whatever it is, we are a huge deal here. The sign at the end of Coaker’s Walk says, “Come back after 6.30pm to see the evening jewel box” – referring to the lights of the city by night. It’s getting darker, but we don’t wait around, instead pressing on to tick off all the must-sees in Kodai.

We make our way to the eponymous Bryant Park, landscaped and stocked by a British officer; we haven’t brought our jerseys with us and it’s getting chilly, so we pay 100 rupees each for second-hand, David Bain-style woollen ones from a stall by the lake – mine a bright purple and cream zig-zag, Barn’s decorated with sparkly Christmas wreathes and baubles. He looks very Colin Firth in Bridget Jones' Diary. Interestingly, no-one seems to want photos with us anymore; “Incognito,” Barn reckons.

Our third travel companion, the Lonely Planet, says, “If you’re sappy in love like a bad Bollywood song, the thing to do in Kodai is to rent a pedal boat (Rs 50 per half-hour) or row boat (Rs 120).” It goes on to say, “Screechy crooning to your significant other is entirely optional.” We’re neither sappy in love, nor each other’s significant other, but here in India everyone thinks we are – so we decide we may as well just go for the boat ride. We see other insignificant others doing the same – groups of guys in their early twenties hooning around on honeymoon boats and cheering in Tamil. Apparently a lot of the university students come here – I gather it's a bit like the Queenstown of Otago. I don’t know how the man rowing our boat takes us seriously in these outfits, let alone how he remains so polite. He ends everything with ‘sir’ or ‘madam’ – almost to the point of irritation; “Yes, Madam. No, madam. Certainly, madam. Madam, madam.” I’ve never been called a madam so much in my life. 

After our late lunch, we skip dinner and crash early, glad we didn’t wait around for the evening jewel box, as there’s a power cut in the city – not a jewel to be seen tonight. We head out the next morning on a tour of the hills, and our driver warns us, “Bad luck today. Thick fog.” We visit Silent Valley, which is not at all silent (with all the Indian tourists around), and the fog is relentless – a total repeat of the weather when I visited Jungfrau, the highest mountain in Europe, a few years back. Bugger. We can’t see a thing, but according to the pictures on the signs, the view is excellent. Back in the car, our driver asks us how long it takes to fly from New Zealand to India. 

“About twenty hours,” Barn says. “But worth it.”
“Wife?” our driver replies, not understanding “worth it”.
“Ahhh, worth the long flight, to get to India?” Barn says, more slowly.
“Long flight, wife, India?”

Here we go again.

We continue on to Caps Valley, at an altitude of 2350m, and finally to Berajim Lake, before going back to Kodai to work on our itinerary, which is getting exceedingly more difficult to plan, with the Indian Railways overnighters being booked up weeks in advance, not to mention with us changing our minds on an hourly basis.

After reading an article in the Air Asia in-flight magazine about Makar Sankranti, the Indian national kite festival, we immediately want to change our travel plans. Visions of an Indian version of Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner flood our imaginations, and we talk to locals in Kodai about whether or not we should try and get there. A man in a bag shop describes the experience in Ahmedabad as “unforgettable”. “If you go to Makar Sankranti, you will remember it always. It is just magical; thousands of colourful kites filling the sky. The biggest ones two hundred, three hundred…five hundred metres wide!” he enthuses. “The smallest ones, just tiny! Tiny!”

Haizer working by candlelight

We look at each other and nod. We must get to Ahmedabad. We spend the afternoon rearranging travel plans, and trying a host of Indian lunch dishes like dosai, gobi and paneer panatha, chani masala and dahi puri. Before dinner that night, we make good on our promise to Haizer to visit the family business, Robert Electronics. When we arrive, Haizer is working by candlelight fixing a Nikon camera, as the power has been cut once again. I get the feeling I should come to expect this of India. In his shop, Haizer tells us more about his business and the AV equipment he hires out for conferences, as well as the photography services he provides for large group events. He also tells us more about his plans to go overseas again, and asks our opinion on a cover letter he has drafted. Attached is a brief CV, which he has headed up “Bio-data”.

As nicely as possible, we suggest this may be better received in countries like New Zealand and Australia if called a Curriculum Vitae, and as we walk out the door, Pete says, “When I saw ‘bio-data’ I half expected a tissue sample to be attached.” After a brief joke, we discuss how hard it must be for those with English as a second language to get a job in a Western country, and I suddenly feel bad for laughing, and for all the previous times I’ve done the same. We’ve seen that Haizer is an absolute guru, but if I’d been the recruiter on the receiving end of a bio-data, it would have probably been binned at first glance. In atonement, I promise myself I’ll keep an eye out for camera technician roles in New Zealand and to email Haizer if any come up.

Regrettably, we leave Kodai early the next day after waking up to yet another picture-perfect sunrise view from bed. As we wind down the hills in the morning sun, we pass Rattail Falls, the impressive agricultural Manjaralu Dam, and endless plantations of coconut trees and mango trees. I think about the highlight of Kodai – being welcomed into Haizer’s home – and think that sometimes it’s not all that bad to take candy from strangers.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

On the climb up to the hill station of Kodaikanal, the temperature drops considerably. We’ve come from the sweltering heat of Thailand and Malaysia, and then Chennai, Mamallapuram and Pondicherry in India, and now goosebumps are appearing. The Icebreakers that were exiled to the bottom of my bag when we arrived in Asia are now incredibly appealing, and the pain in my shoulders from my heavy pack suddenly disappears.

As we wind through the hills, our driver, Mr Sidiqque, commentates. "This road was opened in 1826 for the England people," he informs. "Till now, not even damage to this road. We have cyclones and still no damage – it is very good road." He asks about our travel plans, and tells us about the best house boats to stay on in Kerala next week. Pete enquires about Berajim Lake in Kodaikanal, and the surrounding sholas (forest) area. “Ahh yes, I know this lake. You get ID and permit. This is no problem, we arrange this for you,” he kindly says.

Kodai, as the locals call it, is 79% forest, and lies in the lush mountains of the Western Ghats of India. Apparently, it’s small, misty, intimate and mountainous. It sounds like a divine respite from the heat-soaked plains we’ve just left. Lonely Planet says the area contains “an incredible array of endemic wildlife”, and Mr Sidiqque further confirms this. "A lot of bison, elephant and deer. Big forest, so they not come to road a lot, but you might see them. A lot of cheetah too. And 22 tigers, total. A lot of snakes. The python, many hill snake – very big and long. Too long,” he cautions. “They have a lot of vegetables, potatoes, 22 varieties of beans, carrots, cauliflower, organic fruits. Orange, avocado, passionfruit. Spices too. Good food in Kodai, and very good peoples.”

Mr Sidiqque says a lot of important people live in Kodai: “The DFO [District Forest Officer], the university vice chancellor, police.” There’s a “100 years old museum, owned by the Roman Catholics”, as well as a lot of schools and colleges. Apparently, 75% of the people are Christian, 15% Hindu, and 20% Muslim. A quick calculation tells me Mr Sidiqque wasn’t in the top maths stream at school, but he continuously checks that we're comfortable along the way, and is a very cautious driver. ”Much better than death-wish, crazed maniacs we had before,” Pete remarks.

Mr Sidiqque says a religious festival takes place on the 14th of August every year, and that a lot of international visitors come. I smile and tell him that August 14 is my birthdate, clearly a great day for festivities of any kind, and he says I must be very lucky. I certainly feel very lucky to be here right now.

As we wind even further up into the hills, the air cools some more and Mr Sidiqque says the temperature here is around 7 degrees at night, and 22 in the day. “Very cold,” he says. "It sounds very pleasant," Pete replies. The streets are filled with Night Queen flowers, like lilies, but they only open at night, so we're driving through at the perfect time to see them in full bloom.

We learn that nanri means ‘thank you’ in Tamil, and hear about the three lakes in the area. “No autos [autorickshaws] here and not a single factory is allowed. Only three years new vehicle, and then you must change vehicle or otherwise get big fine. And no fertiliser. Very clean here,” he boasts.

Arriving in Kodai at dawn

And rightly so. We get to the top of the hill station at 6.15am and it is beautiful. The most incredible multi-coloured sunrise greets us; I'm getting quite used to these. Birds are chirping, while prayers and chanting waft from temples. Mr Sidiqque pulls into the brand new – actually still under construction – Hotel Kurunjimeridian, with a marble staircase in the entranceway. It's perched on a hill overlooking the lakes, town and forests, and we’re the first guests to ever stay in the ‘super deluxe’ room we take. Brand new bedding and cosy woollen duvets – talk about rags to riches.

Even though we’re exhausted from the journey here, it would be cruel to waste a day in Kodai in bed, so we shower and head out into the hills in search of food, yesterday’s thali lunch now seeming like a very long time ago.

Stuffing ourselves in style

Not much is open until 10.30am, so we decide to try a hotel, and find our way to the Kodai Lake. Towering over the lake is the elegant Carlton, and we head straight for the all-you-can-eat breakfast bar. We sit in the sun overlooking the lake, filling up on pastries, cereal, fruit, toast, eggs and (on Pete’s part) some traditional Indian cuisine. After the lack of dinner the previous evening in transit, we’re ravenous and unashamedly eat to the point of explosion. We pay the extortionate price, in terms of rupees, which is a little under NZD $10, and wander the hills, trying to walk off our breakfast binge.

We come across a turkey the size of a large pig, which provides entertainment for a few minutes, and then we continue on our way – pinching ourselves as we go, and keeping a close eye out for lions and tigers and bears.

Move over, Mojo

Indian Railways GA

Our first Indian train ride is a General class metal bench-seat style carriage for the 50-minute journey to Villupuram Junction, and it costs us just 6 Rupees each – about 15 cents. On the way, we meet a tall, young Indian whose name we can’t quite catch through his thick Tamil accent. He’s traveling all the way up to Ahmedabad in the north-west to compete in the Indian National Athletics Championships in the high jumping event. I try to imagine New Zealand’s national athletes travelling like this, and remind myself for the umpteenth time how good we have it back home.

At Villupuram, we have a four-and-a-half hour wait, and there’s not much to do but read, write and avoid making eye contact with beggars. I take photos of the sun sinking behind pink clouds, and the train tracks disappearing into the horizon both north and south. Pete surveys the rest of the station and finds out which platform our next train departs from. When he returns, he tells me he's just been mobbed. “What do you mean? What kind of mobbing?” I enquire. “General whooping, hurraying and handshaking from a group of boys,” he says. “Some women surrounded me, too, but stood at a distance.” At six-foot-something (and white), he does stand out.

In the first class waiting area, another lovely Tamil man befriends us and helps us with the language barrier when a short-tempered lady checking tickets doesn’t approve of our e-ticket via iPhone. The man asks what Pete does for a living, and then looks at me, asking Pete, “Is madam a lawyer, too?” I smile, bemused. It’s a question I get asked all the time in New Zealand, as well, with 90% of my friends being lawyers. “No, she works in a bank.” Pete replies. Like Geoffrey, the Malaysian friend I made last week, it turns out that this man works in a bank as well. “The main bank in India,” he proudly tells us. I consider one-upping him and saying that my bank creates truly unbeatable shopping experiences for its customers.

The Tamil Nadu contingent of the Peter Barnett Fan Club

As we board, we see the whooping, handshaking boys of about 12 or 13. Safety in numbers, they come over to chat to us again – Pete and I being an attraction as the only European people in sight. “Where are you from?” the ringleader enquires in his best English. “Ahh, New Zealand?” Pete replies, wondering if they’ve heard of it before. Their faces light up. “Cricket! Daniel Vettori!” they cheer. “You are the captain! You are Daniel Vetorri!”

The boys tell Pete they’re a hockey team, also off to the nationals, and then they look at me. “Are you two married?” I tell them we’re not, and shake my head, laughing. They’re confused and wonder why we’re travelling together if we’re not married. “Ahh, soon to be married.” Pete lies. I grin and hide my left hand, which clearly has no engagement ring on it, and make a mental note to purchase a fake diamond.

The train itself is pretty horrendous. We’re in a first class cabin with two Indian men, one of whom starts yelling in Tamil in the dark – possibly on his phone, or possibly in his sleep. The other makes noises of another kind, resulting in one of the worst stenches I’ve been exposed to so far in India – and there have been some pretty ghastly ones. There’s a poster outside the train’s toilet door advertising the Mamallapuram Dance Festival, set to take the area by storm on January 7, 1994. Bugger, we’re just 18 years too late. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the last time these train toilets were cleaned either.

We arrive at 3am to an eerie Villupuram Junction. Waving goodbye to the hockey team, our new biggest fans, we sidestep people sleeping in heaps everywhere we turn. On the platforms, in waiting rooms, outside on the streets. Our driver, Mr Sidiqque of Kodai Cabs is nowhere to be seen. Pete gets on his phone and battles the operator who thinks we want to make a new booking. Autorickshaw drivers corner us, and small men swathed in white cloth, nappy-like pants and with white paint smeared across their foreheads approach us. Thank God I’m not alone. Taxi drivers offer us rides in their Ambassador Classics – they’re everywhere in India, but our trusty Lonely Planet says they’re slow and to steer clear. On second thoughts, slow might not be such a bad thing on these roads.

The car Mr Sidiqque is supposed to be meeting us in is a newer, more reliable Indycar, a bit like a Suzuki Swift. Ahead of us is a three-hour journey by night to the hill station of Kodaikanal, advertised as “the Switzerland of India”, but there's still no sign of Mr Sidiqque. Half an hour later, he answers his phone, apologising profusely. He’d been napping in the car park and didn’t hear our calls. We pile our stuff into his car and before we set off, I ask if there are seatbelts. To my surprise, Mr Sidiqque says there are. He gets out, piles all of our gear out of the boot and fumbles around for the belt clips, eventually feeding them through the back seats.

We set off in the pitch black, through beautiful tree-lined streets, and we pass hives of activity along the way. Countless groups of people in matching costume march along the streets. Some carry big bags on their heads, others carry sparkly shrines on their shoulders. It’s 4.15am – what are they doing chanting and singing at this hour, we ask Mr Sidiqque. “They’re walking 120 kilometre to Palani, the most famous temple in India, miss,” he tells me. “They will walk it 20 days, 15 days.”

Tamil Nadu street coffee - a treat for the tastebuds and eyes

There are throngs of people sitting around drinking chai and standing in the doorways of bakeries and shops. Mr Sidiqque pulls the car over and asks if we’d like tea or coffee. Having not had dinner the night before, we gladly oblige and witness the most incredible coffee-making stunts known to man. I capture it all on film and the Tamil street barista laps up the attention, pouring and mixing the coffee from jug to jug like he’s competing in the 42 Below world champs. One jug above his head, one below his knees, coffee flowing from vessel to vessel. He’s more interested in smiling for my camera than looking at the coffee, yet he doesn’t miss a drop.

Pete and I look at each other, jaws dropping once again. This is much more impressive than the fern or love-heart I get on top of my trim flat whites in Wellington. Move over, Mojo, I think we have a new favourite coffee shop. The coffee is served in tiny paper cups and is sweet and delicious. It provides just the caffeine hit we need for the next stint of the car ride – a climb to the Kodaikanal Hill Station, 2100m above sea level.

As we turn off the busy main road, with its midnight marchers, chai drinkers, and shoppers, I’m amazed at how much activity goes on throughout the night here. If New York is the city that never sleeps, India is certainly the country that doesn’t. And I love it.