Goodbye India!

After two months of travelling, I arrived back in Kolkata to collect my excess baggage and meet some of my friends who are working here. I returned at 6am on the train and before long, I was bouncing through the city in a taxi, listening to helium-filled women singing Hindi music. It was good to be back. That night, I went for a meal with the other volunteers. I have never seen so many Irish people in one Indian restaurant. There were a bunch of secondary school students visiting the projects and various other people, most of whom I didn't know. I didn't mind as I hadn't met any Irish people during my eight weeks of travelling. Perhaps I was hanging out in the wrong places. Or perhaps Irish people are afraid of India. I don't know. My advice to anyone considering a trip to India is: go. Go and see how one billion people live in relative harmony together. Travel by train, see the countryside and leave the flying to the busy people. Visit the Taj Mahal but don't stay in Agra for too long. Take a walk along Marine Drive in Mumbai as the sun sets over the Arabian Sea. Find a beach hut in Goa and do as little as possible for a week. Give your bones a good rattling on a jeep safari through the Wayanad Wildlife District in Kerala. Take a scooter through the Western Ghats around Munnar and see what a real tea plantation look like. Darjeeling may be famous for its tea but the plants themselves aren't much to look at. In Munnar, they're as green as Irish grass. Munnar was probably my favourite place in India. The food was fantastic, the beds could be slept on and the mountains scared the small children out of me. But there were times when I said to myself, "what am I doing here?" There were moments when I thought I was never going to get home. But they passed and I stuck with it. For me, that's quite an achievement. Most of the time, I lead a very quiet, boring life. Sometimes, I like it that way. Other times, I just want to do something that makes me go "wow!" I'm glad I did it because India is very rewarding. Apart from the heat. I'm a cold-weather individual. I'm happiest on the side of a mountain with the rain falling sideways and the wind turning my face inside-out. This must have been my first winter where I was able to go swimming in the sea in the middle of January and not succumb to hypothermia. I'm sure it'll still be like winter when I get home but I'll adapt. Nothing that can't be sorted out by a nice cup of tea. I would like to come back to India but I've no idea when that will happen. It's not a question of expense as India is dirt cheap to live in. It is merely a question of time. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. If you don't like it, tough. I had my fun and that's all that matters.

Gorkaland & Sikkim

Gorkaland cannot be found on an official map of India because the Indian Government refuses to recognise it as a separate state. Well, I recognise it because I’m in it. Everywhere I go, signs say, “We Want Gorkaland.” I witnessed a march of thousands through the streets of Darjeeling calling for a separatist state. The only evidence that I’m back in West Bengal is on the number plates of vehicles. I arrived here by jeep. Normally, I avoid those polluting harbingers of destruction but I didn’t have much of an alternative. I had to admire the effectiveness of this form of transport. I’ve seen four people in the front including the driver. Five in the middle, four in the back row and maybe a few people hanging off the tailgate or sitting happily on the roof. One might say it’s a miracle I arrived safely. Well, I don’t believe in miracles. I rely on them. However, it was a minor miracle that I didn’t throw up on the road to Darjeeling. It was going grand until the jeep reached Kurseong, another hill station below Darjeeling. After that, the road turned into a dirt track and there were frequent groans from the passengers. I would’ve have gotten the toy train up to Darjeeling but at eight hours, it was just too damn slow. Initially, Darjeeling didn’t have much going for it. The jeep dropped me off in the center of town. I was tired, hungry and going deaf from all the horns beeping around me. But once I trudged up the hill to the guesthouse I was staying, Darjeeling started to grow on me. That night, I went exploring through the blacked-out streets. When I asked a shopkeeper if blackouts were regular, he sighed and said, “Every day.” The following day, I went to see the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute. It was nestled within the grounds of Darjeeling Zoo. I didn’t have much interest in visiting the zoo but when I turned up at the gate, I discovered I had no choice. The zoo turned out to be a pleasant surprise. I saw an Asiatic Black Bear, separated from the masses by a moat about five foot wide and seven foot deep. He looked cuddly. My favourite animal was the snow leopard, an animal so elusive in the wild; locals refer to it as the phantom leopard. I was disappointed that I couldn’t see any tigers in their ages. The museum was fascinating and it was incredible to see the equipment that Tenzing Norgay used on his successful summit of Mt. Everest with Edmund Hillary in 1953. On my way out, I decided to give the tiger enclosure one last visit and was rewarded by the sight of a Siberian tiger, yowling and prowling within his cage. It wasn’t the Sunderbans but it was good enough.

After spending so much time in the warm south, moving up north gave me a head cold and confined me to bed for an afternoon. It was a good time to get the sniffles as it rained most of Monday afternoon. I was secretly delighted as it cleared the skies somewhat and I got a glimpse of the distant, snow-capped Himalaya. The following morning, I got up around 5.30am to watch the sunrise on Khangchendzonga, the highest mountain in India and the third highest in the world. It would’ve been even better if it wasn’t for the semi-permanent haze. That afternoon, I decided to do something about the view and went and got a permit for Sikkim, the state above Gorkaland. Because Sikkim borders Nepal, Tibet and Bhutan, the Indian Government has always been sensitive about foreigners visiting this tiny state. But it didn’t cost anything and gave me a decent walk through Darjeeling so I can’t complain. The following day, I got into a crowded jeep that took me to the border town of Jorethang. It was a steep descent from Darjeeling but I had faith in my driver. I changed jeeps and after an interminable wait, I was on my way to Pelling. Pelling is a little like Las Vegas in the Himalayas. It is nothing but a 2km strip of hotels. They are there for one reason only: to capitalise on the view of Khangchendzonga. But it is surrounded by Buddhist monasteries and forested mountains. I went for a walk up to one of the monasteries. It was hot and hazy and I was woefully underprepared. I had less than a litre of water and no food. So I decided to wander into the forest and go in search of Rani Dhunga or the Queen’s Rock. It was supposedly the site of an epic battle between Rama and the ten-headed demon Ravana. I don’t make this stuff up; it’s just what The Book told me. The Book also told me to hire a guide, which I didn’t do. As a result, I didn’t find what I was looking for but I did get a good hike in that left me crippled for the evening. No matter, it’ll give me a good incentive to come back at some point in the future and do it again. After the first few days, the weather became overcast and traveller's fatigue set in. So I sat in my room, devouring the books from the hotel's collection. There was little else to do. Before I left, I walked the 3km to the Rabdentse Ruins. It was surprisingly ordered for a site passing itself off as a ruin. It would’ve been even better if I could see the Himalayas in the background but it wasn’t to be.

After a week in Sikkim, I returned to Darjeeling. On Sunday, I took a bicycle through the winding mountain roads around Darjeeling. It had full suspension but the badly-shaped saddle gave me a very sore backside. I made it to a town called Sukhia, about 15km from Darjeeling. The mostly uphill ride nearly killed me as I haven’t ridden a bike since January. The cycle downhill was made all the more thrilling by the fog, which reduced visibility to around fifteen metres. I fly home in a week’s time. My journey is almost over. I have mixed feelings about going home. I’ll be sorry to leave India behind but I am looking forward to eating some food that doesn’t consist of rice. Like potatoes, for instance. Or thick bacon. The list is endless but I'm sure I won't be home long before I go looking for an Indian restaurant. I'll be the snob complaining about how the food is overpriced and couldn't possibly compare to what I've been eating for nearly six months. Oh, the joys of travelling.

Mumbai & Agra

I arrived in Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, Mumbai (try saying that quickly) and promptly got lost. It's an impressive train station built by the British and renamed by the Indians. Locals still refer to it as V.T. which is short for Victoria Terminus. I got into a taxi along with a landscape gardener from Brighton that I met on the train. It was his twelfth time in India. I stuck with him as he seemed to know where he was going. The taxi driver didn't or maybe I just couldn't read a map. Eventually, I found my hotel. It wasn't much to look at but I slept in it so that's all that matters. I did have an issue with the bed as it seemed to have been designed for hobbits.

I got up the next morning and took a walk to the harbour where I got on a ferry to Elephanta Island. It's a place with a series of caves in which there are carvings of Hindu gods. It was strangely dull but I enjoyed the walk to the top of Cannon Hill. I couldn't see much of Mumbai because of the haze but I did see a big cannon. What it was protecting, I don't know. Once I had enough of the heat, I got back on the ferry to the mainland. I spent the afternoon walking through the south part of the city. The breeze off the ocean made the heat bearable. The highlight of my day was walking along Marine Drive as the sun set. It seemed to stretch on forever as it curved from one end of the bay to the other. I ended the day with a delicious pizza.

From Mumbai, I went to Agra to see the Taj Mahal and other attractions. The train was late but I didn't mind. What I did mind were the rickshaw-wallahs hassling me to take their auto and not the one beside him. It was the start of a very aggravating two days. There's a pun in there if you're willing to make the effort. I got up the next morning before 7am to see the mausoleum of Mumtaz Mahal. I had barely walked out of my hotel when I was approached by a guy on a cycle-rickshaw who followed me all the way to the ticket office about 1km down the road. Another one followed me all the way back. It was a beautiful morning and I was going to walk whether they liked it or not. I arrived at the gate and was turned back at security for having in my possession: one minature gold Buddha (a birthday present) and one sachet of tomato ketchup from the train. I returned to my hotel, deposited the sacred items in my hotel room and walked back. This time, I got through. I won't waste words with the Taj Mahal. It's amazing. Shame the city that surrounds it couldn't hope to match up. As the weather wasn't too hot, I walked the 2km along the river to Agra Fort. It was complex and engrossing with a great view of the Taj across the river. Shah Jahan, who built the Taj for his wife after she died, was imprisoned by his own son for eight years in Agra Fort. From his cell, he had a great view of his wife's mausoleum but still, to be imprisoned by your power-hungry son is cruel.

I continued my walking tour of Agra by heading into the city center to get a bus to Fatehpur Sikri, an old city about 40km from Agra. I thought the bus ride would take an hour. What I didn't know was that about a million Hindu pilgrims were walking there as well. The bus arrived two and a half hours later. Once I got out of the bustling bazaar and into the old section of the city, things quietened down a little. The evening sun lit up the red sandstone buildings and I forgot about how long it took to get there. The pilgrimage was still going on after the sun set. Where they were going, I don't know. I was going back to Agra as I had another night to spend there. I loved the sights but I hated the city itself. It's smelly, dirty and annoying. Even the food is awful. I came, I saw and vowed never again to set foot in the massively overpopulated state of Uttar Pradesh.

Munnar

I don't remember how I found Munnar. I was wandering through my Lonely Planet guide when I found a small town at an elevation of 1,500m. I decided it would be a wonderful way to escape the heat of the coast and find more mountains. I spent an afternoon in Fort Cochi to see the Chinese Fishing Nets that are the unofficial emblem of the Keralan backwaters. Which I didn't do because I don't like boats, mosquitoes or heat. After leaving my hotel, I jumped into a auto and asked to be taken to the bus stand. I had barely settled onto the duct-taped seat when the driver asked me if I was going to Munnar. I never said anything about Munnar. It was a very astute guess. I guess my ridiculously over sized hiking boots gave the game away. For the duration of the ride to the bus stand, he tried to convince me to let him take me to Munnar in an auto. He was looking for exorbitant amounts of money for a mode of transport I wouldn't spend more than half an hour in. The trip to Munnar was a minimum of four hours. I finally got on a bus that took me back into the Western Ghats. It was cramped and noisy but I had the wind in my hair and I didn't care. After five hours, I arrived and went in search of the guest house I had booked two days previously. I was directed up the hill to a building that looked to be in the intermediate stages of construction. I was amazed when I discovered that it was the place I had booked and it had no rooms. After spending most of the day on a bus, I was in no mood for excuses from the proprietor. It didn't matter as it looked like a dump anyway. I walked to another place nearby and got a much better room with a balcony. I was sorted for the week.

On Monday morning, I went to the post office to return a book to its owner and send some postcards. While I was there, I met a Liverpudlian named Jonny. He had just arrived in Munnar and like me, had no itinerary. We arranged to meet later and I headed off into the hills to explore some tea plantations. I asked a few locals if it was ok to walk through the area and I got no objections. I was woefully unprepared for my excursion through the hills. I had no suncream, no water and I was wearing flip-flops. I'd be shot for that kind of behaviour back home. It was worth it though.

Myself and Jonny started Tuesday with the best intentions. We were going to hire a motorbike and a scooter to see the countryside. However, the communists had other plans and put the entire town on strike. We sneaked in a furtive breakfast of eggs and paratha before returning to our respective rooms. There was nothing to do. The place was like a ghost town. For some bizarre reason, the only people that weren't on strike were the persistently annoying rickshaw-wallahs. One of them told us that the strike would be over after 6pm so we could get dinner. However, we had no such luck. Indians go out of their way to be helpful, even if the information they give isn't actually very useful. We found a restaurant outside town that was pure vegetarian. It could've been worse. At least it was open and the food was filling.

We went back to the bike hire shop on Wednesday morning only to be told there were no bikes available. Guess one can't take Indians for their word then. This time, we gave the owner 100 Rs. to book the bikes for the following day. We walked back into town with the intention of climbing Anamudi, the highest peak in the area. Before getting into a willing rickshaw, I asked a local if it was possible to climb it. My face fell when he said the peak was off limits because it was a protected area. So, myself and Jonny walked into the Tata Tea Plantation only to be told that that was off limits as well. We made our way back to Munnar and then took a sneaky detour towards the river. Our destination was the mountain on the other side of the valley. After battling with the undergrowth, we crossed the shallow river barefoot. Rather than walk away from the mountain in the direction of town, we walked along the road, looking for a way up. We found a rocky gorge and decided we'd give it a go. It went grand at first until branches and slippery rocks impeded my progress. Jonny seemed to have an easier time of it as he was only wearing trail shoes. I had my bulky hiking boots to contend with. At one point, my bag got stuck on the branches while I was clinging desperately to a little sliver of rock. My legs were shaking, my heart was thumping and I slipped a little bit only to grab onto some roots. I hadn't been that terrified since I climbed Carrauntoohil over two years ago. Once I got past that hurdle, I dragged myself to the top. I felt extremely unfit and the clammy heat didn't help. But I made it with only a few scratches on my hands and knees to show for the first scary part.

Thursday morning gave us an excellent example of Indian bureaucracy. I went to the bike hire shop alone. Jonny locked his keys in his room by accident and had to wait for the manager to show up to open it. After an hour and a half, he showed up and told me there was a key behind the desk the whole time but they "weren't allowed to use it." What are these people afraid of?! We eventually hit the road. I had a scooter, Jonny had a more temperamental motorbike. The day almost ended when Jonny's bike couldn't make it up the first steep hill it encountered. Turns out the owner had given him incorrect instructions on hos to operate the clutch. The roads were smooth and there was tea plantations everywhere. It was magical. Our destination was a place called Top Station, on the border between Kerala and Tamil Nadu. We were promised stunning views of the Western Ghats and they didn't disappoint. I'd put up photos but the internet cafes I use are either too slow to upload photos or won't allow me to. I left Munnar on Friday afternoon. I would've stayed longer but I had a train to catch...

Wayanad District, Kerala.

I entered Kerala by bus. Not the classiest way to enter a beautiful state but I didn’t have many other options. I arrived in Sulthan Bathery one hot afternoon. It took four hours of winding, bumpy roads before I arrived. I didn’t see any signs announcing the transition from Tamil Nadu to Kerala so I wasn’t really sure what state I was in. Eventually, the bus arrived and I peeled my t-shirt from the leather seat. It was hot, damn hot. I was beginning to think I should’ve stayed in the hills. An Irishman’s melting point is approximately 32 degrees Celsius. As most people know, I sweat worse than Robin Williams doing stand up. It was a relief to reach my hotel room and escape the sun. That evening, I met a German named Frank who recommended a few places to go in Kerala. He also told me that it’s even hotter along the coast. On Saturday, I went to see a 700 year old Jain temple. The guide was very interesting but I didn’t understand much of the symbology associated with this religion. That evening, I got on another bus to a nearby town called Kalpetta as the hotel in Sulthan Bathery was booked out. It was a shame as I never even got to use the swimming pool. The towns weren’t much to write about. I was staying here because I wanted to see the Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary.

On Monday morning, I got up at the unearthly hour of 6am to get a jeep to Tholpetty, one of the two sanctuaries. It was foggy but the driver assured me that it would lift once the sun came up. The jeep was a really cool Mahindra something or other than looked like a Land Rover Defender. The windows were made of plastic and the doors had sills that had to be climbed over to gain entry. Once I was in, it was comfortable enough until the roads turned bumpy. The tour took nearly two hours and I saw loads of spotted deer and the swishing tail of an elephant. It was better than no elephant. I also saw enormous spider webs and I had to wonder how big the spiders themselves were. I was then taken to Kuruva Island, which was a forested island surrounded by a river. I was given two choices: take a boat across or walk through the river. Naturally, I chose the latter option. It only went up to my knees and I managed not to fall into the water. I paid an entrance fee and began walking through the forest. I began walking down a side path and quickly left the hoards of Indian tourists behind. I felt completely isolated, which is a wonderful feeling in a country of over one billion people. I did see one raptor that was probably just another black kite but other than that, nothing attacked me. I decided to turn back when the track I was walking on petered out among the trees. On my way back through the water, I was stopped yet again by Indians who wanted to take a photo of me. At this point, it’s gone beyond flattery.

I was up again the following morning to do a hike up Chembra Peak, the highest mountain in the Wayanad District. I was joined in the jeep by a trio of affable Londoners. The walk began just after 8am, an hour I would normally only be getting up for a hike at home. It began at a height of about 800m and ascended to 2,100m. It was hot but there was a cool breeze to offer some relief. After about two hours, we reached the top and had lunch. The terrain of rocks and dry grass reminded me of Connemara. I found going down tougher than going up as the dusty path was steep and covered in loose rocks. The lowlands were obscured by haze but the views of the surrounding mountains were still impressive. I was the only one wearing hiking boots but luckily, there were no injuries. That night, I went to dinner with my fellow walkers. I got more useful tips on where to go next and I also offered them some suggestions on places to see. I decided I had seen enough of my stuffy hotel room and caught a bus to the coast. Where I melted just a little bit more…

Ooty

After spending a night in the Nanda Lodge in Mettupalayam, I got on a bus the next morning for Ooty. It took two and a half hours of winding hairpin bends and psychotic drivers before I arrived at the bus stand. But the views of the forested mountains made up for the sheer abject terror of riding the bus. I don’t like buses but for twenty rupees, I couldn’t complain. Once I emerged into the sunshine, I took a few moments to get my bearings, ignored the wallahs and walked down the road towards the guest house I had booked a day before. I walked in and was hit by the usual fear that there would be no room available. It seems I don’t put much faith in a simple phone call to reserve a room. I was greeted by what I assumed was the woman of the house who welcomed me into the living area. I was asked to wait for my room to be prepared so I started reading a battered book from a café in Goa. Finally, I was shown to my room on the top floor of the guest house. The building is built into the side of the hill and I got a terrific view of the artificial lake below me. Ooty is also known as Ootacamund and Udhagamandalam. The lingua franca of the town is Tamil, a language completely different from Bengali. Not that my few miserable phrases of Bengali would have gotten me far. I have decided to add my own name to the town. I call it: Hooty. I thought I was going into the hills for some peace and quiet. But I reckoned without Indian’s fondness for horns louder than ambulance sirens. It does get a bit trying after a while. But at least the air is a little cleaner, even the vehicles are not. The town is situated approximately 2,240m above sea level. I haven’t been this high since California! On Sunday, I took a long walk through the botanical gardens. They were much more impressive than Bangalore, mostly because it was set on the hillside. I spent over an hour wandering through the forest above the main gardens. It was quiet as most people basked on the lawns near the entrance to the gardens. On my way out, I came across the monkey puzzle tree. I had heard about it before I visited the gardens and knew that it was so called because monkeys couldn’t climb it. The reason became obvious when I saw the bark was covered in sharp thorns. I also saw a fossil tree reputed to be 20 million years old. I’ve seen more impressive trees in the bogs at home.

On Monday, I went in search of the rose garden and the post office, in no particular order. I never made it to the rose garden as I met an Indian named Daniel who advised me that there was nothing to see. The roses don’t flower until May and by then; I will be at home, freezing to death. I did have a good chat with him and learnt that he’s doing an MBA and is going to work in Dubai. I eventually found the post office and had great fun affixing my stamps with dried-out pritt stick. The following afternoon, I walked into the bus station, looking lost as usual. I found the bus I wanted and paid three rupees and fifty paise for the fifteen minute trip up to Doddabetta Junction. Doddabetta is the highest peak in the Nilgiris and is located at the junction of the Eastern and Western Ghats in South India. I was dropped off after a winding road trip through tea plantations and hillside houses. I started walking down a forested path but had no idea where I was going. After about twenty minutes, I came across an eco farm and realised I was going in the wrong direction. I didn’t mind though. I walked back to the junction and laughed when I saw the sign for Doddabatta Peak. Had I looked closer after getting off the bus, I would’ve seen it. I began the uphill 3km trek along a badly paved road. At one point, a jeep beeped at me and the driver asked me if I wanted a lift. I pointed at my boots and said I was walking to it. I enjoyed the walk more than I enjoyed the peak itself. It was full of lazy tourists who drove up and the telescope house was an eyesore. The views weren’t as good as I hoped, thanks to the distant haze. But it felt great to be at a height of 2,634m. I didn’t get the same sense of achievement that I might get after climbing Carrantuohill but it was enough. The highlight of my day was walking back to Ooty. I walked past tea plantations, farmers watering their vegetables and workers making reinforcements along the winding roads. After two hours, I made it back to the guest house. I could barely climb the stairs to my room and consoled myself with the fact that I hadn’t hiked properly since I left Ireland.

On my last day in the hills, I took a bus to a nearby hill station called Coonoor. It’s even busier and more populated than Ooty. However, I wasn’t there for the people as I wanted to see Sim’s Park. As my legs were still crippled from the walk on Tuesday, I got an auto to the park. It was similar to the botanical gardens but it felt smaller somehow. I was amazed at the number of catfish in the lake at the bottom of the park. I kept an eye on my watch because I knew there was a train leaving from Coonoor to Ooty at 1.35pm. I wanted to be on it. I got back into an auto that rolled most of the way down the hill. I made it with ten minutes to spare, paid three rupees for a second class ticket and squeezed myself into the seat. The journey exceeded all my expectations even though the carriages weren’t being pushed uphill by a steam train. I passed through three tunnels, one of which was hewn out of solid rock. I saw endless tea plantations below me, interspersed with small houses. But after an hour, it was all over. For the price of the ticket, I felt like I was robbing Indian Rail.

Bangalore

I arrived in Bangalore airport just after 9am. The weather wasn’t as warm as I expected and then I remembered that I was 900m above sea level. After ignoring countless taxi-wallahs, I got on a bus that took me into the city center. I had a vague idea where I wanted to go so I asked the conductor to drop me off near Mahatma Gandhi Rd. He dropped me on a road adjacent to it. It took me the next two hours to find my hotel after asking numerous locals for directions, all of which were wrong. I eventually acquiesced by asking an auto driver to take me to the hotel. The weight of my bags was becoming too much in the midday sun. The temperature read 28 degrees Celsius but the breeze kept me cool. I spent the first day getting my bearings and looking for a place to eat that wasn’t vegetarian. I found a small restaurant that served pepper steak and bottles of imported Belgian beer. It was my little discovery that no travel guide could bring me to. The following day, I had lunch in a café that served me soup inside a round bread roll with the center hollowed out. It was delicious. Afterwards, I got an auto to the Visvesvaraya Industrial & Technical Museum. I found it fascinating. The mini tornado was very cool. The electronics section was incomprehensible and the science area was being decorated with gaseous paint so I left quickly. I spent my last day in the city wandering through the Lalbagh Botanical Gardens. It was peaceful and I got a great view of the city from a peninsular gneiss reputed to be over three billion years old. For some reason, the locals have begun approaching me and asking me to pose in their photos. I’m slightly flattered but I only hope I don’t end up online as that grinning Irishman surrounded by Indians.


After a strange dinner of minced lamb lathered in pepper sauce, I got an auto to the train station. I don’t remember telling the driver I was in a hurry but he drove that three-wheeled motor as if his life depended on it. I arrived at the station, quivering slightly. I found my train with little difficulty and settled down for a ride that would have me in Coimbatore at 5.30am. I had no accommodation booked for a city that’s described as being the Manchester of India because of its textile industry. I emerged from the station and blinked stupidly at my watch, wondering what all the commotion was about. There were people everywhere. There was also a power cut, which meant I was slightly spooked by the darkness and throngs of swarthy locals. I found the hotel I was looking for, discovered it was booked out and tried my luck at a plush-looking place called the Legend’s Inn. I never got to find out just how legendary that was because it was full as well. At that point, I decided that Coimbatore was a toilet and got out of there as quickly as possible. I got on a bus to Mettupalayam, where I wanted to take a train that I’ve been raving about for ages. It’s a rack railway that ascends the Nilgiris in the Western Ghats to a height of over 2,200m. And it was cancelled. When I asked why, I was told it was due to a landslide caused by heavy rain. At that point, I had already paid for a room across from the bus stands, thinking I’d be able to leave the next morning after 7am. I should’ve stayed on the bus that would’ve eventually brought me to Ooty. But I didn’t.