Munnar - Tea and Tourism

Saturday 23 February

An early wake-up at 4 am when a car backed up right outside my (ground floor) window starts up and idles its diesel engine.  Though my windows are closed, before long the room fills with diesel fumes. I go through to reception, but the receptionist is fast asleep on the floor, so I open my window, climb out and hammer on the car roof. The driver explains that his battery is "down" and he's charging it up. I explain my predicament (he seems to understand "poisoned") and agrees to re-park on the other side of the road. Resume sleep.

My daytrip white taxi arrives, as booked, at 10 driven by Siva, the "brother" (flexible designation) of last night's man Hari. I opt for the front seat and belt up, clunk, click. "Excuse sir," says Siva, "No need belt. I am good driver. You are safe with me." "But what about the idiot in the other car?" I don't say. I make an excuse about "habit" and the law in the UK, but he doesn't swallow it and I think takes slightly against me. Siva is a young man of faith, not just in his own driving, but hedges his bets with a plastic Ganesh stuck on the dashboard and luminous rosary beads dangling from the mirror.

 

We head into the hills, following the set Rs. 1000 itinerary. First stop is the "honey tree", where huge crusted honeycombs hang from the upper branches. 

The honeycomb man

 Then to a viewpoint in the tea plantations, where women carry sacks of fresh cut tea on their heads down the slopes, just like a Ty-Phoo advert. We go on to the first of two dams whose reservoirs have created a mini Lake District on the eastern edge of Kerala. Today, Saturday, both sites are crawling with Indian tourists, many of them groups of young men, though there are a few families and school groups too. Happily, mixed groups of rowdy teenagers are largely unknown in India. Inevitably, I get dragged into several photos. 

One of the lads?

 There are stalls selling snacks and souvenirs (and tea), riding horses, pedalos on the lakes, and shooting ranges. I chance Rs. 10 on three shots with an air rifle, burst three balloons on a board nailed to a tree (it's not difficult), and win an orange plastic whistle.

The final stop on the upward trail is at, or just before, Top Station, the highest road point (2100 m) on the border with Tamil Nadu state. It's dramatic scenery, and a dramatic change in weather too. On the west it is clear and sunny, but to the east of the ridge it is so misty that the high peaks and the valleys below are hard to make out. 

I've discovered how to work the panorama facility on the camera!

Every hillside is clothed in lines of fresh green tea bushes, either vertical or horizontal or patchy according to the terrain. Siva leaves me to wander down through the plantations, where groups of men and women are cutting the bright green new shoots off the tops of the low tea bushes. They chop at the bushes with special shears that incorporate a collecting bag. (Later, in Munnar, I watch a blacksmith making them).

Shaving the fresh shoots off the top of the bushes

Back in Munnar, I explore the town's few streets, the Shiva temple, the small bazaar and covered market. There are some shops selling souvenir teas and spices, herbal oils and chocolate to tourists, but otherwise it's a working town and agreeable for that. Spotting a salon, I decide the holiday souvenir haircut is overdue, my last cut being in Calcutta (see blog, 3 December). The Munnar salon has three chairs and does brisk business offering a range of services including a choice of massages (face, head and body), face masking (?) and face bleaching (!). But I stick to a basic cut and beard trim. I say "not short, not long", and he says "medium, OK?" My barber is gentle, thorough and has steady hands on the cutthroat and I am well pleased, though I barely recognise myself after the crop. I'd call it the bottom end of medium. The customer in the next seat has the temerity to complain about something, and is rewarded with a sharp slap on the cheek. After dark, the evening turns truly cold and I'm shivery even in the sweatshirt. Older men wrap strips of cloth round their heads and look just like the walking wounded traipsing back from the trenches.

I consider pulling strings (if I have any) and negotiating my way into The High Range Club. But, unfortunately for me, they have a dinner jacket only policy after 7 pm on Saturdays!

Not sure what Churchill would think of his bridge surrounded by Communist posters!

Painted on a wall near Munnar town centre:

Grace, Love, Mercy - All The Three -  Stand for One Same Reality - Life's Star

He who Loves is Who Really Lives.