Paul in India

Jungle Fever

I arrived in Mysore last night, so far the most beautiful place I have seen in India. I have seen some incredible things here, but the first time my jaw has physically dropped open was driving past the Maharaja’s palace last night in an auto rickshaw. Mysore is much more like what I’d expected from a modern Indian city. This is the first place where I have seen something like a motorway, traffic lights, and people wearing helmets on scooters. In the west end of the city, there are boutiques and glass fronted shops that suggest this in an affluent town. I’m not saying this is a good thing; just that this is what I had expected to see more of.  All of this was strangely absent in Mumbai, or at least, the parts that I saw. I haven’t ventured far out of my hotel today as I was getting over a flu that I picked up whilst camping that had really knocked me out. Last night when I arrived though, I took an autorickshaw, a ‘tuk tuk’ through the town.  A tuk tuk is a three wheeled vehicle with no doors, usually with a hindu shrine and garlands on the dash board. You are in constant danger of falling out as it weaves through traffic, and you are open to all the elements of the city, not least the stares of all the other motorbike riders that pull up beside you. Last night, in a paracetamol induced haze, I decided that a taxi journey around an Indian city is the most exciting thing in the world.

I had gotten a slight cold at the weekend. My flatmate Ole had had it first, and had felt pretty rough. On Monday we went camping, and I knew that I probably shouldn’t have gone, but it was all paid for and organised, so I went anyway. We travelled to an estate in the mountains, some 2000m high, as part of a coffee and spice plantation. The camping was fantastic- we slept in tents that had been pitched for us in open fronted shacks at the edge of the jungle. We went on an amazing trek through the jungle with our guide, Wassu to a large waterfall, which we had to abseil down a gulley to reach. More than a few of our party came back with leeches- I was so jealous. (Leeches mean business- a leech was pulled from a girl’s ankle, and the blood poured out. Great!) About halfway to the waterfall, in the rain and the cool mountain air, I started to feel properly feverish. I started to consider the possibilty that I might pass out, and have to be carried back to the camp like a wet knob. However, of all the ways I had considered dying in India ( there were quite a few ), this had to be the coolest- ‘ Succumbed to fever whilst trekking in the mountains’. Wasn’t that how Alexander the Great died? That’ll do me. Consoled by this glorious vision of my own demise, I carried on walking, sobbing gently to myself. I felt pretty rough for the next few days, and today I decided to start taking my emergency anti-biotics that Marty had given me. I was saving these for flesh eating skin bugs, but with 10 days solid (!) of the runs, and the flu, I gave in. India 1, Paul 0.

Apart from feeling poorly, the two days in the mountains were unbelievable. The spice plantation was beautiful, and run by a family who took great care of us, and provided amazing food. The cook, Boja, was a one eyed man who insisted on carrying my bag everywhere for me. Even the girls were carrying their own bags, so I made some feeble attemps to protest, but then let him fire away. I didn’t want to offend him. On Monday night we had a barbeque around a bonfire at the edge of the jungle. I couldn’t get over the sheer noise of life that came from the jungle. Insects and birds combined to create a shrill wall of sound that was almost deafening. The fact that this only happens at night in the pitch black only made it more dramatic, and confusing.  On the tuesday morning, the old man who owned the land and ran the camp took the group around the plantation, to view the coffee, cardemom and ginger plants. I gave this a miss, as I was feeling rough, and just lay in a hammock reading. However, I wish I’d gone. It was these spices that first brought Roman traders to India, and linked it with the West. I would have loved to see how they were grown. I spoke to the old man later, and he told me how it was harder and harder to get labourers for the farms. Everyone wants to work in the cities he said. For the first time this year they had to stop harvesting cardemom, because they didn’t have the manpower. This is a problem all over India apparently.

In the afternoon we went to see a Tibetan colony given to Tibetan refugees by the Indian Government. They follow Tibetan Law, and the place is full of Monks and beautiful temples, one of which houses three 60 foot gold statues of Buddha, as well as paintings carried all the way from Tibet. A really special place. It was one of the highlights of my trip so far. Next we went to an elephant sanctuary, where I got to wash an Elephant. Now, your man the Elephant is one of natures more peaceful creatures, as long as there’s no carry on thats liable to leave him in what is called an agitated state of mind. I think he got a bit perturbed as there were fifteen of us, and so it was decided we wouldn’t try to ride it, which was a shame. It was actually a little uncomfortable to watch this magnificent animal in chains, being gently persuaded to move or stop with repeated blows to the skull with a stick. Having said that, it probably lives a better life than some of the street kids in Manipal.

As I’m on my way to Bangalore, the minibus dropped me off in a small town to catch a bus to Mysore for the night. As I got on the bus, I got a quick rush to be travelling by myself again. As I am ten years older than most of the other interns, I sometimes feel this age gap a little when we are on group outings. I am more inclined now to want to look at things and ponder, and less inclined to want to climb them and jump off. Spending time in Manipal and meeting these people has been great, but there is something about travelling on your own that is rewarding. There can be no distractions from India this way.

I arrived in Mysore at around nine o clock, and booked myself into a nice hotel as I really needed a night’s sleep and a warm shower. Green’s Hotel was a former palace, and is exactly how you would imagine an Indian luxury hotel to be. High roofs with fans, flowers everywhere, magnificent tiled floors and furniture, and staff on hand in high buttoned uniforms. It was beautiful, cheaper than Da Vincis, and all profits go to charity. The clerk behind the counter talked to me excitedly when I went to check in. His name was Shiva Patel, and he seemed just grateful to be speaking to someone. He started to tell me about a film he’d seen recently. He explained the plot, sub plots and characters in great detail. Minutes passed with my hand held awkwardly an inch above the sign in sheet trying to write down my passport number without looking away from him and hurting his feelings. I was enthralled by his enthusiasm, but I was tired, and I could feel my head cocking to one side as I concentrated ever harder on what the fuck any of this had to do with me. It turns out there was an Irishman in the film. He finished by saying rather sweetly, ‘You see, I don’t know a lot about World, but I am learning’. He had to be convinced that Scotland was in Europe, and that Ireland wasn’t Scotland.

I had an awesome experience in a temple on Sunday before we went camping. I was passing by the local Krishna temple in Manipal, and heard the most amazing sounds of trumpets, bells, clanging gongs, animals squawking and people chanting. I had my camera with me, and decided to chance my arm taking photos from outside looking in. A man in ragged trousers passed, and I asked him if it would be ok if I came inside. He assured me that it was, as long as I took my shoes off ( Walking in a temple in bare feet is an amazing experience. It automatically makes you feel humble and respectful. I’m going to suggest this on my return to Father Cargan as a means to keep the noise down in Steelstown chapel). I entered the temple and hung around the outskirts trying not to be too intrusive, and trying to take some photos. After a few minutes, my friend with the ragged trousers came over to me and said, ‘Come, come. They want you’. This was a disaster. What could ‘they’ want with ‘me’? (I had visions of ‘The Temple of Doom’, and being lowered into molten lava strapped to an iron cage. I reasoned that this too would would be a good way to die, so I reluctantly followed, whispering ‘Kah-li-ma, Kah-li-ma’ softly to myself ). He led me to the back of a small alter where a ceremony was going on that involved blessing leaves. No one seemed to take any real notice of me, and the priest just wanted me to get a better view. It was a real privelage, and I wanted to thank the priest personally, but I picked the best moment I could to run away instead.

My favourite person that I have met so far is Ole, my Norwegian flatmate. He constantly wears a look of forlorn heartbreak, and has a slight victim complex, although he has had some terrible luck since being here. He has the kind of face that just seems to attract misfortune. He is allergic to cheese. Cheese is often put on the food in our school canteen. As he mumbles when he talks, when he says ‘no cheese’ to the waiters, the only thing that even I hear is ‘Cheese, cheese, cheese’. The broken look on his furrowed face every day as his food arrives under an inch of melted cheddar gets funnier and funnier, and was worth travelling 5000 miles for alone. 

Everywhere I have been in India I have seen signs for ‘Ayurvedic Massage’. Its a holistic all body massage that is a cure for all ills and stresses. I had planned to give this a try before leaving India, and I thought my hotel spa in Mysore was as good a place as any. Also, I thought it might help my flu, and I had planned not leave the hotel today but to rest instead. It is conducted by a man for men, and woman for women, which was fine by me- I have had lots of experiences with male physios, acupunturists and chiropractors, but as these are all slightly painful experiences, there is no need for confliction or discomfort, as there is no intimacy. Ayurvedic massage, as I found out, is a much more sensuous affair. There is lots of stroking and gentle rubbing, the type of contact I have previously only had with girlfriends and animals. As the young man with a moustache who called himself Daniel produced the hot oils and started to softly carress me, I realised it was not the kind of thing I was used to. After about five minutes, a knock came to the door, and to my horror, another man with a moustache entered, and joined in. My first threesome was not how I’d imagined it. For fifty minutes these young men played with my body like a greasy barbie doll, and more than once I had to open my eyes and stare firmly at their moustaches. They worked one half of my body each, sliding up and down in rhythm like synchronised Olympic divers. It was, rather than a relaxing hour, quite a distressing experience. In short, I’d rather have the flu.