Turbulent Sohra

Sunday Deccan Herald travel section carried an edited version of this piece here

We stand on the southern edge of the plateau, looking down on Bangladesh from a height of over 800 m, as if from the parapet of a gigantic fort. The plains of Sylhet stretch out in front of us, a vast canvas in shades of green, streaked with the silver of winding streams and wetlands, in colors muted by the afternoon haze.

For a few moments, we watch a Khasi boy and girl patiently dangling improvised fishing rods into a placid pool framed by rocks. The overflow from the pool falls over the edge, heading for the plains.

    

View from Khoh Ramhah

In the near distance, a mountain stream that has just reached the flats forms a vast sandy delta, emerging from it further on as a meandering river and forking into two. The right fork of the river soon skirts the town of Companygunj, now lost in the haze. Directly below us, a road cuts through thick jungle heading for the border village of Shella.

Satiated with the visual feast, we make our way to our guesthouse in the town now called Sohra, but certainly better known by its former name, Cherrapunjee. Sohra has regained its original Khasi name a few years ago on popular local demand, but it will be some time before it gains the same recognition as Cherrapunji.

Our arrival on the Sohra plateau this morning is announced by a dramatic change in the landscape. Lush green hills rifted with deep valleys give way to a vast undulating grassy plain with scant tree cover. We stop where the road nears the edge of the plateau to marvel at the sheer granite cliffs lined with waterfalls plunging into the depths.

Pappan Paul our cab driver is keen to get started on the tourist circuit - the Ramakrishna Mission, the limestone caves, eco parks, waterfalls. The faster we can get through the circuit, the earlier he will be able to get to bed in Shillong.

Pappan turns out to be an interesting character. After a chance encounter three days back in Shillong, he has become our guide and driver. Pappan is a Bengali but speaks Khasi and Hindi fluently and knows all the locals at every roadside stop. We learn from him that his mother lives in the border village of Shella and that he has relatives in Bangladesh. He has been into Bangladesh – apparently without a passport - to attend a marriage in the family, “many years back”, he is quick to add.

Rat-hole mine on the road to Nohkalikai

 A visit to the Nohkalikai falls is the highlight of the morning. As we drive through a deserted part of the plateau, we pass a ‘rat hole’ coalmine – a small tunnel dug into the side of a hillock to access the coal-bearing seam. The tunnel is not high enough to allow the average person to stand erect. A lone man working the mine runs into the tunnel bent behind a wheelbarrow and disappears from sight. There are piles of coal and red earth outside.

Getting closer to the western edge of the plateau, the weather turns turbulent. Clouds have suddenly appeared, blotting out the blue sky. We seem to be out of luck as thick fog completely hides the rock face where the water falls. A plaque describing the falls reads like English but is actually Khasi in English script. An English translation on the other side acquaints us with the legend of Nohkalikai. Likai, a young woman, leaps from this cliff, grief stricken on learning that her husband has killed her daughter of an earlier marriage. ‘Noh ka Likai’ in Khasi means the ‘Leap of Likai’.

The Moors at the Nohkalikai viewpoint

We take a long walk along the edge of the plateau, in rolling hills covered with sparse grass.  The landscape is reminiscent of the English Moors, with the fog constantly shifting the limits of visibility. The fog lifts briefly and Nohkalikai is visible plunging over the opposite rock face. Cloud and fog far from dampening have actually accentuated the beauty of these surroundings.

Our guesthouse is the former residence of a well to do Khasi family, as we gather from the tasteful furnishings, photographs on the walls and the old artifacts on display. We decide to take a walk around town before it gets dark. The streets have a newly washed look. We walk past an imposing building – the St John Bosco Shrine – to chance upon a beautiful open country of low hills and shallow valleys with clumps of trees amidst the heather. A cemetery spreads out from one of the valleys in this picturesque setting.

Open country behind the Don Bosco shrine

I am curious about the how a Khasi village named Sohra came to be called Cherrapunjee in the colonial period. History, as I discover later, records a story something like this.

After annexing present day Assam in the early nineteenth century, the East India Company sent its Political agent David Scott to open a direct route from the Bramhaputra valley to its outposts in Sylhet. The road selected by Scott passed naturally through Sohra, for Sohra was already connected to Companygunj in the Sylhet plains through a thriving trade in export of limestone mined in the hills. It was not long before the British dug in their heels and established a settlement in the punjee ( the Bangla term for Khasi villages) of Churra (as the British pronounced the name), morphing the name eventually to Cherrapunjee. Scott died soon and was buried in Cherrapunjee. Cherrapunjee remained the colonial capital of the northeast region until 1866 when it yielded this place to Shillong.

Back at the guesthouse, we enjoy a magnificent view of a granite cliff glinting in the setting sun from the balcony. That night, we enjoy a dinner of Chicken curry, vegetable and rice cooked in the Khasi way.

Bridges that grow stronger by the year

We have planned a second day in the Sohra area, this time in a resort near the village of Laitkynsew. The village lies down the road descending from the Sohra plateau to Shella and the Bangladesh border. The resort is run by David, a Tamilian from Madurai. The staff are all Khasi’s from the neighboring villages, well trained in hospitality. David and his charming daughter Angela are the perfect hosts – taking care of our every need and providing us all the information we need to enjoy our stay. After breakfasting on an excellent suji upma (yes, you read right) made by the Khasi cook, I am all charged up to take on the arduous trek to what has been billed as the ‘Double Decker living root bridge’. To top it all, David is also able to persuade C who had initially baulked at the thought of a 6-7 hrs trek to go with me.

Armed with long bamboo poles we set out with Batskem, a local schoolteacher, who will be our guide today. The walk starts down a gradually sloping path that soon becomes a steep stone stairway. At one place where the path turns sharply, the staircase looks as if it is suspended in space far above the green valley floor. We are accompanied by the sound of falling water, the ringing of crickets and the occasional cock crowing in a distant village. We pause to let a villager pass. Though small and compact of build, he is carrying a block of wood on his back, certainly taller and weighing much more than he does. Batskem explains that selling the wood from their land is one of the few sources of income for villagers in these parts.

Passing through a village at the end of the staircase, we encounter a beautiful red-faced bird with colors of blue, black and white - a Kalij pheasant. The bird quickly scampers into the safety of the undergrowth before turning around to stare at us. We are now near the bottom of a valley that carries several streams. The path is slippery and passes through thick tropical vegetation. The air is humid. We cross a fast flowing stream on a makeshift bridge of steel wire ropes that swings with each step and then reach another stream, this time carrying the waters from Nohkalikai, the waters aquamarine. Our guide informs us that a certain algae in the riverbed here is responsible for the color. After another scary rope bridge crossing, we arrive at Nongriat village. A helpful sign points the way to the Umshiang double decker root bridge.

The living root bridge at Nongriat

We investigate each layer of this remarkable bridge. A gigantic rubber tree rests on a bolder on one side of the stream. Secondary roots have been trained by the villagers to span the stream and have penetrated the sloping earth on the other side. The roots take the place of steel ropes. Rocks placed between roots have embedded themselves to form a solid footing for the bridge. In fact, we find that the root bridge is much more stable than the rope bridges we crossed earlier. By the side of the bridge is a natural pool and C decides that this is a perfect place to take a dip. Though we are near the village, our privacy is undisturbed. We eat our packed lunch and laze around until it is time to head back.

We stop by at a Nongriat villagers home to have tea and pick up some oranges from his field. I start counting the number of steps as the ascent begins on this ‘stairway to heaven’; it helps me to stay focussed on taking at least 20 to 30 steps before each pause. We pass betel wines, jackfruit, and Areca nut and Bay leaf trees. A passing cloud brings showers while the sun continues to shine and we take pleasure in getting wet. Looking over our shoulders, we spot a beautiful double rainbow, a rare treat. When we reach the top, I have counted 2040 steps!

Walking towards the resort, we come across a moving plaque in the village of Tyrna. The plaque records the “loving remembrance of 100 years of shifting of the village of Tyrna”. The old Tyrna village along with other villages built on these hillsides suffered irreparable damage in the great Assam earthquake of 1897, having its epicenter in present day Meghalaya not far from where we stand. It is believed to be one of the most powerful earthquakes to hit the Indian subcontinent.

The next morning, we take a farewell walk on Laitkynsew hill to see the Sylhet plains one last time. Our precious takeaway is a photo I take of a Khasi boy protectively closing his arms around his two younger sisters on seeing two strangers walking by.

Gentle flows the Kapila

Deccan Herald carried an edited version of the following piece on a few days spent in rural Karnataka in its Tuesday supplement, 'Spectrum'

I get up early and enjoy the morning air in the garden, cool, fresh, and invigorating, while waiting for my friends to step out. We walk down to the roundabout that marks the entrance to the town and then take the road heading out.

A few paces on, we come to a bridge that crosses a pretty river. We have not seen anyone else on the road, but there are the proverbial early birds for company – a black and white wagtail perched on the railing of the bridge, a snow-white egret, breeding plumes showing, wading close to the weeds on the riverbank. Crossing the river, the road 

cuts a straight path through fields. Day is yet to break and land, river, and sky appear in muted colors.

We walk through a vast flat expanse of green marked by strips of brown. It is mid March and green is the color of the just transplanted paddy, brown earth marking the borders. A light mist veils the line of trees near the skyline in the far distance, awaiting the heat of the sun to be dispelled. Occasionally, we pass a field that is flooded, reflecting mirror like, the trees standing beyond, in the dim and diffuse light.

Presently, we see a group of women and girls, in colorful dress drawn up to their knees, planting paddy. In the far distance, a farmer is walking his pair of bullocks harnessed to a plough. Paddy field birds abound - Cattle Egrets, Pond Heron’s, Black, and White Ibis. A flock of noisy Rosy Pastors has made a roadside tree with berries their temporary home. By and by, there is more activity on the road with farmers on cycles and the occasional motorized two-wheeler. The pale orange globe of the sun is just visible over the line of trees, as we retrace our path to the guesthouse.

We are in rural Karnataka, in the small town of Suttur, about 30 kms South East of Mysore. The river flowing by the town is the Kabini, more commonly called by the beautiful name Kapila in these parts. Suttur is chiefly known for the Mutt of Jagatguru Sri Shivarathreeshwara, a Veerashaiva saint and the annual jathra organized by the Mutt, and visited by lakhs of farmers. While the work that has brought us here is with the local Krishi Vigyan Kendra, the Mutt has graciously accommodated us in its beautiful guesthouse.

Last evening, after getting here, our first foray outside was to the ghat on the Kapila, just five minutes away. The walk took us through paddy fields with standing water stretching all the way close to the river. Stone steps then led down to the river and we sat down to enjoy the view. Swallows were lined up in a row on an overhead electricity line, biding their time to swoop down and catch flying insects. A flock of Cormorants, looking out into the flowing water, occupied a large boulder jutting out from the river. The Kapila had a gentle flow and looked ever so peaceful reflecting the setting sun that was forcing itself, though weakly, through the clouds.

This evening, having finished with our meetings, we take a walk on the road through the fields. The sun disappears and lights up the western sky in magnificent colors – with brush strokes of yellow orange red and every shade in between, while above us, the sky is still blue. The water in the paddy fields turns pink holding a mirror to the sky. Evenings and mornings are truly to be savored here.

Our stay in Suttur extends over several days and we get the time to explore. We visit the shrine of Shri Shivarathreshwara and enjoy a free lunch along with scores of others at the Dasoha Bhavana run by the Mutt.

Hathinaru Kere

Learning of our interest in birds, the manager of the guesthouse tells us about a lake nearby that attracts local and migratory birds. The kere (lake) is next to Hadinaru village, about 10 kms from Suttur on the Nanjangud road. After a pleasant afternoon drive, we come upon the lake, a sizable water body with an irregular shape, the far corners not even visible. 

A villager helpfully guides us away from the metal bund road, along a cart track towards the opposite shore where we can get a closer look at the birds. After covering some distance on the track, we get on to a small path and then eventually make our own way through the vegetation to get near the lake.

A large flock of what seem to be mainly Glossy Ibis – glistening black birds with slender curved bills - is standing in the shallow waters. I badly miss my binoculars. As we get closer, an awkward looking Grey Pelican senses our presence and starts to move away. Another few steps and the Ibis take flight filling the sky with wings.

Little reedy islands stick out of the lake. On one, there is a clutch of Cormorants looking inward, seemingly engaged in their own Panchayat. I can see large flocks gathered in the further reaches of the lake, but it is too late to walk any further. The sun is going down and we start making our way back.

Across the metal road from the bund, there is a canal and beyond that, fields in different shades of green, extending as far as the eye can see – restful for tired eyes. This is rich farmland, well irrigated. I turn towards the lake and spot a cluster of colorful birds resembling ducks - with a broad white stripe above the eye and blue in their wings. I later identify these as Garganey, winter visitors, which Salim Ali informs, fly all the way from Northern Europe, and other similar latitudes to escape the harsh winters.

The sun has now become a disc of fire behind a tree. We have barely sampled the rich variety of birds that the lake hosts and it is time to leave. In Hadinaru Kere, we have chanced upon a quiet haven for the serious bird watcher, free of the noise and bustle of tourists who throng its illustrious neighbor, Ranganathittu.

Dewara Mara

On another day, we make a stop on the roadside near the town of Chikkahalli on our way to Mysore on the T. Narsipura road. Crossing a living fence, we enter a large plain field, in the middle of which stands this gigantic banyan tree, which the local residents refer to as the Dewara Mara (Gods Tree). The tree is believed to be over 200 years old and covers an area more than an acre. Dewara Mara has a pleasant symmetry about it, its trunks look stolid and its leaves glow with health, though old it maybe. I have seen other giant trees but none as beautiful as this.

Looking back on our trip to Suttur, I think of the many places that we could not visit – the ancient Shiva temple at Nanjangud, the confluence of the Kapila and Kaveri at Narasipura, the sands of Talakad with their buried treasures. And the many questions that we did not ask - like who decided to shorten the beautiful name Tirumakudalu to T in T. Narasipura. All this of course means that we will come to see the Kapila again.

A cottage in the hills - Oct 2011

Deccan Herald has published an edited version of this piece in its Sunday Travel section. The original is reproduced below.

I wake up to the song of a Whistling Thrush and open my eyes to see the faint light of dawn coming in through the large picture window that I have left partly uncovered. Time is of the essence. I do not want to miss the sun rising over the hills in the distance. In a few minutes, I step out of my cottage, warmly dressed, camera ready, with a hot cup of tea in my hand.

The October mountain air is cold, crisp, and clear and carries the faint scent of pine. Jungle crows have now joined with their hoarse cawing.

In front of my cottage, a paved stone path meanders its way down into the valley far below. On one side of the path, the hill is terraced with fruit trees, the Orange and Lemon trees laden with fruit. The other side borders a pine forest.

Warmed up with the tea, I walk towards the orchard, now teeming with activity. Hooded Shrikes, natty Tits, imperious Bulbuls, elegant Sparrows and tiny frenetic Munias, White Eyes and Flycatchers are flitting about the fruit trees making it difficult for me to focus my camera.

Towards the north, I see a snow-white chisel edged form sticking out above the trees on a distant hill, too regular and straight edged to be a cloud. I climb up above the cottage until I can get an unobstructed view and see a line of snow-covered peaks come into view, far above the green ranges, golden tipped peaks of the Greater Himalayas reflecting the morning sun. The chisel edge, it turns out, is the peak of Nanda Kot (Nanda’s fortress).

To its west connected by a long ridge appear the unmistakable twin peaks of Nanda Devi. Nanda Devi at 7816 m is the tallest mountain entirely within India. (Kanchenjunga is taller, but on the India-Nepal boundary)  In subsequent days, I slowly begin to realize the enormous hold that Nanda Devi exercises over the people of this region.

Nanda Devi at dawn (Almora)

As the morning progresses, the bird activity subsides and I am quite content to pull out my chair into the gentle warm sun in the small patch of green outside my cottage and delve into a book.

Birds may have become quiet, but not the cicadas and crickets who keep up their chirping throughout the day. I hear a tapping sound from the pinewood adjacent to my cottage.

Needing a break from my reading, I head in the direction of the noise, treading softly. I am soon rewarded with the sight of a Brown-fronted Woodpecker, a Himalayan resident. Towards mid-afternoon, the sun disappears over the top of the ridge and it rapidly starts to cool down. It is the right time for some physical activity.

I am in Almora, a former capital of the Chand rulers of Kumaon, which dates back over five hundred years. I have not come here with sightseeing in mind, but to escape the terrible air and sound pollution that is usual in the megapolis where I live at this time of the year.

Almora is quite unlike the ‘hill stations’ established by the British which now mainly cater to tourists. It has a large permanent population and has several old market places and temples. However, my cottage is not located in the city, but on a ridge overlooking it, well away from the crowds and traffic. 

In fact, to get to the nearest road, I have to walk through a stretch of pine forest, a stiff climb that invariably leaves me gasping for breath. The cottage comes with a kitchen, but the easier option is to eat food cooked by Gopal (who manages this place along with his father) in his restaurant.

It is from Gopal that I find out about several half day treks from the cottage  on ‘pag dandi’s’ ( unpaved foot paths or trails) – to the famous Chitai Temple along a path that skirts a ridge leading to the east; to the stream at the bottom of the valley and so on.

This afternoon, I decide to stick to the paved road and walk to the ancient Kasar Devi temple. It is a pleasant walk all along the top of the ridge, now bathed in the afternoon sun. I climb the hill to the temple and rest for a while absorbing the panoramic view of Almora from a height. As I return, it gets dark and it seems that every dwelling wears a garland of colored and blinking lights. Almora, all decked up for Deepawali is a beautiful sight.

A walk to the stream (with no name)

On another day, I venture forth into the valley. I start on a paved path winding downwards. Some way on, I come across Sundar – a boy who helps Gopal run the place - filling drinking water from a natural spring coming out of the mountainside.

Further down, the paved path gives way to an uneven trail leading down through tiny villages with a handful of houses. The pine trees here look positively comical with stacks of hay clear off the ground tied high up to their trunks – to preserve the fodder through the harsh coming winter.

At the outskirts of the village is a neat little temple with its pyramidal roof painted a bright pink. I see some movement on the trunk of a pine tree. A little bird with a long curved beak, its skin the color and texture of the bark, is creeping rapidly up the tree in mouse like fashion. I later find out that this Himalayan bird has a most appropriate name, Bar-tailed Tree Creeper.

Balta Village

As I approach the bottom of the valley, a larger village comes into sight, perched on a hillside. From a distance, it looks neat and planned, with houses set in rows at different levels. They are large two storied structures with several rooms, tiled sloping roofs, doors and windows painted in bright colors – sky blue and green.

I encounter a woman with a sickle sitting by the path. She asks me where I am going and points to the villages in the vicinity – Vintola and Balta. She is from the village, Bhuluda. She then starts to unburden herself.

Three months back she bought a cow and yesterday was the first day that she let it out to graze by itself. The cow did not return home and she has been searching for it since early this morning. Wiping involuntary tears from her eyes, she says she will be satisfied even if she comes across its carcass, but finds it hard to accept that the cow has simply disappeared.

I wonder aloud if someone could have stolen it and she dismisses my thought. I am at a loss on how to comfort her. As we part, she requests me to spread the word about her lost cow to people I meet on the way.

A little while later, I reach my destination. A bright pink little Shiva temple stands between two mountain streams that merge. It is a beautiful setting for a temple, gushing water on two sides and the pretty village of Balta perched behind on a hill. A pedestrian bridge, freshly painted in ochre and white vertical stripes crosses the stream into the village of Vimtola.

I strongly feel like a cup of tea, but Vimtola does not have a chai shop as I find out from a villager grazing his cows and goats. He graciously offers to make tea for me at his house, but he lives some distance away from the spot and I do not want to put him out. He speculates that the missing cow could have been killed by a leopard (yes there are leopards in the forests here), but dismisses the thought that the cow could have been stolen.

The way back to my cottage is one long uphill grind for an hour and a half and I am pleasantly exhausted by the time I reach my cottage. I think about the children of Vimtola who have to walk this route every school day to get to their high school in Almora.

Nanda Devi above the clouds (Binsar)

Nanda Devi Folklore

Yet another day, I spend the morning walking the trails in the Binsar bird sanctuary, an hour’s drive from my cottage. From a gap between trees, Nanda Devi appears ethereal, floating above the clouds. The southern wall of high peaks and ridges that ring the main Nanda Devi peak forming the almost impenetrable Nanda Devi inner sanctuary is also discernible.

I wander into the Forest rest house complex and the caretaker offers me some tea brewed from fresh oregano leaves he collects in front of me in water from a nearby mountain spring. He tells me that there is no water shortage in Binsar because of the Oak (banj) forest. When we talk about Pine forests, he explains that Pine’s suck the earth dry and it is difficult to find water in them.

I am mentally transported to an evening I spent a couple of days back with a renowned archaeologist and scientist who lives in Almora. Over tea, he explains to me how local folklore in the hills captures and transmits practical knowledge and tells me a folklore related to Nanda Devi.

Almora - Khairna road stretch

Nanda is a goddess, but in folklore, also a simple village girl who pines for her mait (maternal home) just as every other girl.

On her way to her mait, she rests under a chir (pine) and asks the tree how far it is to her home. The chir gives a rude reply and is roundly cursed by Nanda, ‘No plants will grow under you, no animals will eat your leaves, no birds will build nests on your branches and no bees will ever make their hives in them’.

When she stops under a banj (oak) tree, it welcomes her and asks her to treat its canopy as her own home. Nanda blesses the oak, ‘You will always remain green, birds and bees will make their homes on your branches, water springs will always be nearby your shade’.

A week passes in no time and I must return – but I could stay on indefinitely here in this charming place with its gentle people.

Romancing the monsoon in Kerala

Deccan Herald sunday travel section published an edited version of this account of a weeks driving trip in Kerala, under the grip of the monsoon, here 


Is Kerala good for a driving holiday in the monsoon? With a week’s time on our hands, a copy of the ‘Lonely Planet’ guide and our decade old car serviced and ready, we decide to find out for ourselves.

There is a certain charm in traveling without a fixed plan. You decide where you want to get to each day, and, when you get there, choose your roof for the night. On some whim or fancy, you change your destination midway. If you like a place, you stay longer; else, you move on.

Aralam River near Iritty

Normally, this freedom and flexibility comes at a cost. You are not certain when you get to a place that you will find decent accommodation, that you will not be overcharged. Traveling with your family, you will not want to take the risk of getting the run around in a strange city.

Here is where traveling “off season” – as we are now doing in Kerala in mid June – is different. There is no need to bother about advance reservations; hotel rooms are available in plenty and you as the customer can even drive a bargain.

So here we are, driving towards Kannur on a wet morning after resting the night in Madikeri. A conscientious hotelier has advised us that a stopover in Wynad will not be much fun in this period. Our plan is to travel the coastal route through northern and central Kerala. The narrow newly carpeted road cuts through the lush

  

Kannur coastline with the lighthouse

forest of the Western Ghats in a steep and continuous descent down to the coastal plain of Kerala. A thick fog cutting down visibility to a few car lengths makes it a nerve tingling drive. We stop by a swollen tributary of the Valapattanam River near Iritty to take in the monsoon view – the swiftly flowing muddy waters, the green bushes and coconut fronds on either side, and the sky laden with thick clouds.

We reach Kannur and head for the Kerala Government Guest house. The parking lot is empty and the hotel deserted. The hotel staff - when we finally locate them -appears surprised to see us. We are brusquely informed that all the rooms are full. This is the only place during this week of travel in Kerala where we are turned away. 

A private hotel nearby is friendly and welcoming and ready to throw in a discount to boot; we take a delightful room overlooking the sea. Looking out from our window, we can see the curve of the coast and the bright red lighthouse. The sea is just a shade darker than the monsoon sky.

That evening we drive to the Muthappan temple in Parassinikadavu, a short distance from Kannur, to witness a Theyyam. The receptionist at our hotel informs us that this is the only place where we can get to see a Theyyam at this time of the year. The temple is located on the banks of the broad expanse of the Valapattanam River.

Payyambalam beach

Waiting for the performance to begin, we are surprised to see a dog stretched out in front of the idol of the presiding deity of the temple. We also notice bronze statues of dogs at the entrance to the temple and a set of giant Kuttivalakkus inside all crowned with the figure of a dog. Dogs are considered sacred here, it appears.

A large but orderly crowd has gathered for the evening performance. The Theyyam dancer, dressed in a grand costume and fantastic makeup, carrying a drawn sword and holding a shield, holds the crowd in rapt attention with his stylized ritualistic dance. At some point in the ritual, the waiting dogs are tossed the prasad, which they eagerly swallow. It is pouring when we leave the Muthappan temple – luckily, we have not left behind the umbrellas.

Maradona, the Sarathi

The next morning, we get to enjoy the vast expanse of the pristine Payyambalam beach. At its far end, the clouds, sea, and sand all take on the same hues. Later, we take a relaxed tour of the Arakkal Kettu, the residence of the former Muslim ruling family of Kannur and St. Angelo’s Fort – originally Portuguese, later rebuilt by the Dutch - overlooking the Mappila bay harbor, crowded with fishing vessels.

We hit the road heading for Kochi, stopping only for the night’s rest at a quaint clubhouse turned budget hotel in Kozhikode, resuming our journey early next morning. We drive on the coastal National Highway, which is a narrow road in these parts, intimate with villages and small towns on its way. The drive is slow but full of interesting sights. We pass a squad of geese goose-stepping on one side of the road, with a man walking behind holding a white flag on a pole. 

It is the season of the world cup and football is literally in the air. Huge billboards in every village and at every prominent intersection, even posters on the back of autos, celebrate the team that is the local fancy. Argentina seem the favorites from the number of posters one sees for them. One striking poster shows Maradona sitting on a chariot holding the reigns of 11 horses.

Mussel fishermen on Vembanad Lake

We enter Ernakulam, conveniently at lunchtime, and head straight for an eatery named Fry’s, a local favorite, to eat what else but sumptuous fried fish. Driving to Fort Kochi, we inspect ‘home stays’, calling in first to enquire on the price. We settle for a cozy room in a nice house overlooking the parade ground. 

There is a slight drizzle, as we step out to explore Fort Kochi. Unmindful of the drizzle, the boys of the Rufous football club are in the thick of their game in the field. We walk around in the rain doing a little shopping, inspecting the Chinese fishing nets, discovering a good place for dinner and it is actually fun. We like the place and next morning inform our host that we will stay another day.

That morning, we decide to take a cruise in the backwaters in and around Vembanad Lake. The clouds disperse showing a deep blue sky as we start on the cruise. Fishermen are out in numbers propelling their small boats with long poles, dredging the lake floor for mussels. The clouds have dispersed showing a deep blue sky.  We stop on an island to taste a mussel dish. It is a perfect day for the outdoors.

Chinese fishing nets in Fort Kochi

The next morning, we drive our car into a ferry that will get us quickly and cheaply to the mainland from Fort Kochi Island. We already have the experience of taking the circuitous road and bridge across the channel. We glide past the giant Chinese fishing nets dotting the Fort Kochi shores that are now drawn up. After disembarking, we stop at a roadside hotel for breakfast. The food – puttu with egg curry – is hot, tasty, and inexpensive. 

We head in the direction of Thrisur. On the way, we decide to take a diversion and visit the Athirapally falls on the Chalakudy River. After Chalakudy town, the road heads up into the Western Ghats and we pass through serene plantations of rubber and jaggery palm.

Athirapally Falls

We walk up to the river just before the falls. The sky is heavy with monsoon clouds. The falls present a truly majestic sight. Nothing like the monsoon, it seems, to bring rivers and falls to life! It has certainly been worthwhile to take this diversion.

Our last halt in Kerala is with family in Ottapalam in the warmth of an old taravad house. With thoughts now on getting back quickly, we choose the road via Salem to return to Bangalore – monotonous in the extreme but fast. 

It has been a short but satisfying holiday.


Afterword 


My thanks to the Indiamike community for all the help extended in planning this trip

The virgin snows of Munsiyari

Sunday Deccan Herald carried an edited version of this article here


Getting to Munsiyari, a small town in the far corner of Uttarakhand bordering both Tibet and Nepal, is the difficult part. For 12 hours, you must hold body and soul together, in a jolting jarring vehicle, on roads left ravaged by the last monsoon, as its makes its way up from the railhead at Kathgodam.

It is already dusk as we reach the pass at Kalamuni temple, the highest point in today’s road journey at over 9000 ft and Munsiyari is still another nine kms. The roads are icy up here from the heavy snowfall of 3 weeks ago and I notice the driver quickly pulling out the MUV from a skid at least a couple of times. From here on, it is a descent to Munsiyari located at the entrance of the valley of the Goriganga, whose glacial waters eventually join the Ganga.

Khalia Top in late January

A warm meal and the refreshing cool air of Munsiyari dissipates the weariness of the journey and we venture for an after dinner walk skirting the town. The night sky is visible in its entire splendor. We reclaim childhood memories of stars and constellations, recognize Orion, and argue over the Great Bear and the Pole Star. The Milky Way shows up clearly across a sky that does not suffer from the light and dust pollution of the metro. However, we have not come here for the night sky so much as for trekking in snow. That will be tomorrow when we begin the 4500 ft ascent to Khalia Top a prominent ridge overlooking Munsiyari.  This is what has brought nine of us coming from the far-flung metros of Mumbai, Bangalore, and Delhi together here.

Next morning, after limbering up with some essential stretching exercises to prevent cramps and injuries, we follow a well laid out path paved with stones. It is not long before we come across snow – just a few inches at first and crunchy but forcing us to walk more carefully, digging in toes to avoid slipping. The lovely terraced fields of Munsiyari are visible far below. As we go higher, the snow is more copious, sometimes a foot deep. The path is completely blanked out by snow in some places. The danger now is of sinking into the snow rather than slipping.  Prudence lies in following in the footsteps of the person ahead, literally! Every step up the steep incline covered in white is an effort of will power. Late afternoon, we reach the forest department shelter at Bhujani, exhausted to the core. 

Panchachuli peaks at sunset

The camping area is under several feet of snow here – so the shelter, though still under construction and incomplete, is a better bet than tents for this night. Warming up and drying our shoes around a fire in the verandah of the shelter, we are treated to a grandstand view of the magnificent Panchachuli range to the northeast. Local legend has it that the Pandavas while on their final journey to leave the earth camped  in these parts of the Himalayas and set up their chulas. The five prominent peaks of the Panchachuli range represent the chulas of the five brothers. At sunset, the Panchachuli range turns to gold. The temperature begins to drop rapidly and we are not particularly averse to being crowded in a room just big enough to spread out our sleeping bags. Tomorrow we will climb Khalia.

Panchachuli range and the shelter at Bhujani

The next day dawns beautiful and we set out early. The tree line has been left behind and the only greenery visible is stunted rhododendron poking out from the snow-covered hillside. The path is now invisible and we have to make our way plodding through knee-deep snow. Our guide painstakingly checks out for solid ground underneath before every step and beats the snow down. We follow step on beaten step - one false step can mean sinking waist deep in the snow or worse still falling into a deep hole. A pair of Monals fly by and disappear around a bulge in the hillside, too quickly for me to react. High up, a lone Lammergeier is testing the currents. The snow is virgin – not yet tramped upon by man or beast. Well, not quite. I see a line of arrow shaped prints made by some large bird – a Monal perhaps? The bird is known to search for things to eat below the snow.  

Snow and rhododendron

There are also the pug marks of a four-legged creature to be seen – our guides tell us these are prints of a snow leopard rather than the fox. The deep blue of the sky contrasts with the brilliant white of the snow that has covered the land in sensuous shapes and curves, hiding all imperfections. The shadows of the rhododendron on the snow make for beautiful patterns. It is an altogether enchanting sight. 


Climbing higher we enter what would be a grassland in summer but is now a field of snow with an odd boulder sticking out here and there. We have reached Khaliya ridge, though not its highest point. Towards the South, are row upon row of hills in various hues of grey and blue – the Shivaliks and the lesser Himalayan range that we have driven through for 12 hours the day before yesterday. To the East and  North East is the grand panorama of the

South view from Khaliya

Panchachuli. And right in front is a vast level snowfield, inviting as the softest of beds. We dive into the snow with childlike abandon, the tiredness of the climb forgotten.

Up along the ridge, the view unfolds towards the North and North West. Clouds are descending on the greater Himalayan range but we have just time to get a view of the great Nanda Devi – the second highest peak in India. I take a few pictures with the beautiful outline of the mountain just about discernable. A co-trekker sits on a large boulder with a commanding view and slips into deep meditation. A small sparrow like bird doing short hops from rock to rock surprises me. What is it doing in this no doubt beautiful but certainly desolate spot, I wonder.  

Moments alone in communion with nature

Back home, I determine with the help of a photo I took that this is an Alpine Accentor, resident in the Himalayas in “open stony slopes and rocky pastures” as per my bird guide book. What an amazing bird to reside through the winter in these inhospitable climes!

On the way back, we stop at an outcrop of rocks where there is a small shrine so typical of these hill areas - triangular shaped bits of marble and stones are piled on the rocks, two large poles stick out to provide sighting from a distance and strips of cloth in many colors and a few bells make the adornments. The Kumaoni, sure footed as he is on the mountains, always offers his thanksgiving for safe passage on passing a shrine. As the oldest member of the group, I have the honor of breaking

Shrine on Khaliya ridge

the coconut, which we have carried with us in anticipation.


The return journey to the camp is enjoyable. By now, we have lost all fear of snow. We slide on our backs and plough throw snow, occasionally taking a tumble or getting caught waste deep and needing to be rescued by our local guides. Once back, I reach into my coat pocket for my precious camera only to find it completely packaged in snow. It turns out that it is too cold for the snow to melt and wet the camera – so all ends well.

Afterword


This trek would not have been have as much fun as it was, but for the warmth, caring and bonhomie in the group. My Hats off to a great team !


The trek was organized by Rakesh and Sandeep (standing second and first from left) of Trek The Himalayas 

At Khaliya Top

Himalayan Trek 3, Jan 2011