by Frank Kusy
The hill-station of KodaiKanal lies some 2,500 feet above sea level. In the days of the Raj, it was a favourite haunt of British officers eager to escape from the summer heat of the plains below. The tortuous ascent up narrow, winding and crumbling mountain roads left us wondering how any of them ever reached it.
The principal hazards on this dizzying ascent were not, however, the regular knife-edge bends and curves in the dust-track road, but the cautionary road signs. The most dangerous one had been stuck on the very edge of a diving precipice. ‘Beware!’ it stated. ‘Distracting View!’ Our driver was so distracted (by the sign, not the view) that he nearly plunged the bus off the cliff.
This peril passed, the rest of the journey up to Kodai was very pretty indeed. Particularly charming were the small rural villages along the route. The inhabitants themselves were simple people, with an inexhaustible supply of good humour and hospitality. They were not, however, above having a laugh at the expense of visiting tourists. At one village we stopped at, a party of smiling schoolboys appeared and began waving cheerily at us. It was only when we drew away that I noticed that every one of them had their trousers down. They had all been spraying the side of the bus!
Shortly after this ‘water stop’, we came to the top of the hill-range. The views from here were magnificent – wide, deep gorges, rushing waterfalls, thick forests of towering pines and rugged mountain crags. Reaching KodaiKanal itself, and booking ourselves into the Greenlands Youth Hostel in Koaker’s Walk, we found ourselves overlooking the most spectacular views of all. Below the lodge, an unsurpassable panorama of mountains, valleys and plains stretched out before our eyes.
We gazed out upon this marvellous vista for some minutes, and then I broke our respectful silence by challenging Kevin to put his feelings about it into words. He pondered a moment, and then offered ‘Nice!’ When it comes to nature, Kevin can be awfully plebeian sometimes. He has no soul.
We found the Greenlands lodge very quiet and pleasant. The dormitory accommodation was very cheap (Rs7.50, or 50 pence, a night), it had good kitchen facilities, and the lovely little sun-veranda overlooked a pretty flower-border, verdant meadows and a series of calm mountain peaks. In stark contrast to the heat and dust of Madurai, the air was clear, fresh and very invigorating. It gave us the energy to go walking immediately after dropping our bags.
The small, bustling town of Kodai is full of amazing signs. First we were drawn into the Tibetan Brothers restaurant by an intriguing sign saying: ‘Sir! Here enjoy Soup!’ Then we came across another one which read: ‘Indian Handy Crafts and Curious.’ Finally, best of all, we saw the billboard for the Hotel Jai. This read: ‘Be our COSY GUEST tonight, and WAKE UP GAY in the morning!’
I was just lazing by the side of Kodai’s famous boating lake, watching parties of rich Indian tourists arrive (they came on Disco Buses, played Michael Jackson incessantly on their Walkmans, and greeted each other with loud Americanisms like ‘Hey! My man!’) when a local tout offered me some magic mushrooms. He gave me twelve tiny, wizened examples of this hallucinatory fungus, and told me I would see some very strange things. I told him I had already seen some pretty strange things, but took the mushrooms anyway. Nothing happened. Except that I later ended up in hysterics under a table at the Tibetan Brothers with a French girl who was trying to teach me goat-language. Jeanette spoke fluent goat. Back home in France, she was a goat-herder.
KodaiKanal had a large tourist population of hippies. They hung out generally at a place called Israel’s, which is famous for its banana cake and custard. Everyone sat round on the floor of this dark ‘restaurant’ smoking cannabis, eating magic mushrooms and playing psychedelic music on Spanish guitars. Nobody spoke. They were all solid gone.
Time passed very slowly in Israel’s. I returned to Greenlands convinced it was past midnight. It was actually only 9.30pm. I entered the lodge to find the landlord in heated argument with a Californian girl named Sunita. He had just given her a letter telling her, and her three fellow girl-travellers, to vacate the premises. They had apparently broken his ‘rule’ requiring them to be off the streets and back in the lodge by 9pm every night.
Sunita couldn’t comprehend this rule. Her wide, independent features were set in an angry frown. She demanded that the landlord explain himself. But he was a retired colonel of the Indian army, and his squat walnut-brown face displayed an arrogant, patronising sneer which showed him unaccustomed to being opposed. Especially by women. The colonel had some very odd ideas about women. ‘I am responsible man!’ he declared hotly. ‘You girls are like my daughters. Not proper you stay out late!’
Sunita’s eyes rolled heavenward. ‘I do not believe this!’ she howled. Whereupon, I offered to arbitrate the dispute. The colonel’s arguments were so ridiculous, however, that I was soon struggling to keep a straight face.
‘What is cause for humour?’ commanded the colonel, his dignity threatened. I pointed at Sunita, who had just seen the funny side of things and had vanished under the table, unable to contain her mirth.
The colonel decided the time had come to justify his position fully. He brought the conversation round to Napoleon Bonaparte. He was a big fan of Napoleon. And there was one particular speech of Napoleon’s which he particularly favoured. He was determined to recite it to us.
‘During this marathon period...’ he began. But was interrupted by Sunita diving back under the table in hysterics. He shot her a black look, and started again.
‘During this marathon period – Napoleon he is saying in speech given in 1942...’
But now I interrupted. ‘Hold on!’ I said. ‘Napoleon wasn’t around in 1942!’
The colonel fixed me with a steely gaze. ‘During this marathon period, Napoleon is saying in 1942...’
Again I protested. ‘No, no! Not possible! Napoleon, he is dead in 1942. He is being dead for many, many years. How possible he is making speeches from six feet under?’
I now had a very angry colonel on my hands. ‘You know Napoleon Bonaparte?’ he enquired icily.
‘Not personally,’ I replied. This was enough for the colonel. He dismissed my objections without further ado.
‘Ah! Precisely!’ he said. ‘During this marathon period... (brief flash of eyes defying us to interrupt again)...I have given my blood, sweat and toil in reciprocity for the good of the nation!’
His marathon quotation finished at last, the colonel gave a long sigh of relief.
‘That is what Napoleon is saying in 1942, that is why I am feeling responsible, and that is why I am requesting you girls to be leaving!’
‘What you mean,’ summed up Sunita, ‘is that you request us to leave, but if we don’t obey this request, you’ll kick us out anyway?’
‘This is correct!’ said the colonel, pleased at being understood. ‘This is reciprocity!’
He was so grateful he’d got the message across that he followed me into the dormitory to shake my hand.
January 30th
Kevin and I arose at 5.30am to witness an awesome sunrise from the foot of the lodge. Wrapped in sleeping bags and blankets, we watched the sun blaze over the horizon like a fiery phoenix, illuminating the vast landscape below to a distance of some 60 kilometres. The previous day’s clouds had settled on the mountain peaks like thick whipped cream. Driven up by the heat of the sun, the vaporous mist now rapidly disintegrated, breaking off into rolling streamers which gave the appearance of slow-motion waves smashing against the nearby cliffs.
We returned to the lodge and met Anthony, the cook. Anthony was a cheerful, grinning monkey of a man, another curious relic of the Raj, with appalling taste in clothes (he was wearing a purple-flowered shirt and a moth-eaten green jersey) but a superlative gift for cooking.
‘What do you want for supper?’ he addressed Kevin in perfect English.
‘Well, what have you got?’ replied Kevin, fully expecting a choice between thali and nothing else.
Anthony’s head waggled furiou
sly back and forth. ‘No, no, no!’ he protested. ‘It is not a matter of what I have got. What do you want?’
Kevin’s eyebrows soared with surprise; he gave the matter quick consideration. ‘What I want is steak and kidney pud!’ he decided. ‘But I don’t expect you...’
Anthony cut him short. ‘I will make it!’ he announced. ‘I will also make lemon meringue pie.’
Kevin’s mouth began to work agitatedly. ‘With custard?’ his voice quivered.
‘Certainly with custard!’ stated Anthony.
Tears of gratitude sprang into Kevin’s eyes. He choked down a sob of emotion, and spent the rest of the day singing Anthony’s praises.
To get Kevin’s mind off supper, I took him off to play golf. Kodai has a very large and famous golf course. It is set on a series of undulating hills and forests, and is kept in constant peak condition. Which is odd, since hardly anybody comes here to play. Only in the single month of May, when the 300 or so club members roll up from all over India for the annual meet, is the course’s vast potential fully exploited.
We had played just nine holes when thick banks of mountain mist rolled over the course, obscuring the herds of cows employed to keep the grass down and making further play impossible. Despite the fog, Kevin could still look back – on the walk home – on the incredible variety of different views Kodai had offered on the 7-kilometre outward journey. Here one can look out or on to magnificent cliffs and mountains, tranquil river, rushing waterfalls, rustic farm-scenes, charming cottages and churches, busy streets, wide sunlit lakes, and lush fields, meadows and parks. In amongst all this variety however, the unifying colour of Kodai is green – a deep, luscious, fecund green of peaceful serenity.
We returned to the Greenlands Lodge minutes before it too was claimed by the fog. Even as we crossed the veranda, eerie, ectoplasmic fingers of swirling mist clutched at our ankles before prising their way under door and window frames and penetrating the building itself. The temperature fell rapidly. It became very cold.
Kevin tried fruitlessly to light a stack of green logs in the fireplace. The handyman passed him a can of kerosene, neglecting to tell him what was in it. Kevin cheerfully heaved half a can of the stuff into the struggling fire. The blinding blowback of flame which resulted instantly singed his virgin beard back to stubble again. He only recovered from the shock when Anthony produced supper. And what a supper it was! Steak and kidney pie, with mashed potatoes and green beans! Followed by a delicious banana custard. Everybody at the table was so overcome by this unexpected feast that conversation, for much of the rest of the evening, was desultory and quiet. Full stomachs and satiated appetites drove us all shortly to our beds.
January 31st
Returning from an enjoyable hour boating on Kodai’s beautiful lake, I ran into Sunita, Jeanette and the other two girls in their party. They had finally been ejected from Greenlands by the colonel. They were all sitting on a low knoll on the roadside, eating magic mushrooms. A local monkey on an empty leash joined the company, and attached itself to Jeanette. First it savaged her rucksack, and then it vanished down the front of her T-shirt. A lively mongrel, drawn by this activity, also tried to climb down the front of her T-shirt. The monkey clambered out, and jumped up and down on Jeanette’s head while the dog swung back and forth on her shoulders, trying to get at it.
Two young Indian men appeared. They were also very interested in her T-shirt, or rather in what lay beneath it. The liberated, independent behaviour of Western women in this country attracts a lot of salacious interest from Indian men – many of them seem to expect young female tourists to leap into bed with them at the drop of a hat. This particular couple must have been in their early to mid 30s, but were giggling and pointing furtively at Jeanette like a pair of schoolboys. One of them finally sidled up to her. He put his hand in his pocket, and withdrew...a contraceptive sheath. He waved the limp rubber right under her nose, and announced loudly: ‘I wonder where I’ll get to put this?’ Jeanette told him.
Supper tonight was steak and kidney pie again, followed by rhubarb crumble. Andrew, Kevin and I gave Anthony a rousing cheer after we had finished. He had been standing next to us, wearing a proud, proprietary air and a bizarre shirt (this one had luminous orange and green roses growing all over it) throughout the entire meal, anxiously awaiting a verdict.
Kevin then enlivened proceedings by wearing his new hat. It looked like a dead racoon. Andrew and I told him it was hideous, but the Indians liked it. It had a soft, furry brown border and a little black fur bobble which they found irresistible. The handyman, Anthony and even the colonel, took turns to slip up behind Kevin and lovingly stroke it. The resident cat was ignored all evening. Later on, when all was quiet and Kevin had gone to bed, the cat snuck on the hat and jealously pissed in it.
February 1st
The new month started on a very cold note. It was absolutely freezing, and everyone was huddled round the only warm spot in the lodge – Anthony’s cooking stove. The colonel was doing a roaring trade, hiring out extra blankets at a rupee apiece. They were all ex-army issue.
Over breakfast I met Sally, an English girl, who was still recovering from her experience on a train coming into Delhi a few weeks back, in the wake of Mrs Gandhi’s assassination by the Sikhs. Ten miles north of the city, a mob of angry Hindus had stopped the train, boarded it, dragged every Sikh passenger (about 200 in all) outside, and promptly beheaded every one of them by the side of the rails, while Sally looked on in horror.
The cold blanket of mist had buried the lodge completely by the time we had taken breakfast. The damp, chill air didn’t agree with me at all. I retired to my bunk with a slight fever. So did Kevin. He had the same fever, but with the added complication of diarrhoea. Both of us sat around miserably this evening watching the others tuck into Anthony’s speciality dish of the day – steak and chips, followed by lemon meringue pie. We were too ill to eat any of it. Kevin took off his furry hat in mourning for his lost meal, and made to weep into it. That was when he discovered what the cat had done in it last night.
February 2nd
When we woke this morning, I was feeling a good deal better and Kevin a good deal worse. He managed to struggle out of bed, but then, on every occasion that I turned to say something to him, he had vanished into the toilet. I took a brief look out of the window to check the weather: it was still damp, misty and cold, and looked like staying so for the rest of the day. I therefore made the decision that, for the good of our health, we should return to Madurai without delay.
We took the bus down to the hot, dry plains again in the company of Sunita (who had never quite managed to achieve ‘reciprocity’ with the colonel) and with a quiet, wry-humoured Dutch girl called Maryke. The journey was once again very bumpy and dangerous. The only light relief came from the bus’s ticket collector, with his periodic cries of: ‘We stop now! Five minutes for tea and urine!’
Back in the heat and dust of Madurai, I collapsed back into the New Modern Cafe, while Kevin took Maryke off to tour the Shree Meenakshi Temple. The three of us met up again for supper at the Amutham restaurant, which had the following proud boast on its menu cover:
It is the mythological belief that Devas and Asuras churned the ocean of Milk using a big hill as the churner and a huge snake as the rope to get AMBROSIA. Amutham Restaurant has derived the idea from this to leave no stone unturned to produce delicious and wholesome food just for you.
An admirable sentiment, this, but my BOEING 747 SANDAE still took an hour to arrive. And this dessert came before – not after – my main dish of SLICKED CHICKEN AND VEGETABLES. Though neither Kevin nor I had much appetite tonight. Maryke had been telling us where Anthony had got the meat for his steak and kidney pies. It explained why we’d seen so few stray dogs in Kodai.
Later that night, as Maryke and I whispered away about Indian philosophy in the privacy of her room, there was a strange, shuffling sound outside the door. Then something was slid under it.
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br /> It was one of Kevin’s ninety-two contraceptives.
February 3rd
We started the day by trying to book bus tickets for Kanya Kumari (the southern tip of India) in Madurai’s chaotic bus station. This was a remarkably complicated procedure. Things went wrong from the start, with us being directed to the wrong reservation counter and buying two tickets for the wrong bus.
Discovering our mistake, we went to the right reservation counter and tried to buy two tickets on the right bus. We were told that we should have to cancel the two wrong tickets first. Well, that sounded reasonable, but then we were sent away to a special ‘cancellation counter’, which sent us away to a special ‘cancellation form counter’. Well, we filled out our cancellation forms, returned them to the cancellation counter, went back to the reservation counter, and at last had our cancelled ticket money reimbursed. But then we were sent away again, to another counter which issued ‘reservation forms, before being allowed to come back to the reservation counter and obtain our desired tickets for tomorrow’s bus.
Kevin was feeling much better today. I knew he was feeling better, because his appetite had returned. Immediately we’d got the bus tickets, he dragged me into the nearby Taj Restaurant, intent on eating large helpings of food.
‘What can you offer me that’s quick?’ he collared the waiter.
‘Everything is quick!’ came the grinning reply.
‘Okay,’ persisted Kevin. ‘But what have you got that’s quicker than anything else?’
The waiter considered a moment, and then replied ‘Chips.’
‘Oh, that’s fine!’ exulted Kevin. ‘I’ll have two plates!’
The waiter went away. Ten minutes later, he returned.
