Meditative Munnar

Despite arriving very late and barely conscious after the rapid and relentlessly reckless winding climbing of our gutsy taxi driver, who incidentally had been a highly acrimonious member of the great bus stop dispute not 4 hours previously, and immediately witnessing a sudden and nasty bike accident involving a stunned motorist and an unfortunate ragged dog in the centre of town, Munnar endeavoured to later became a firm favourite. Like all densely populated areas in india, the town centre was a chaotic coalescence of ramshackle dusty crevices selling an endless supply of mismatched, worn and out of fashion garms, padlocks, shoe laces, peanuts, everything in battered abundance, all illuminated by blindingly garish signs, and marred with an utterly opprobious accumilation of filth and unattended rubbish swamps under the thick haze of motorcycle fumes.

We quickly sought immediate refuge in a shell of room

nestled awkwardly in a seeminly half finished block of concrete flats. It's fumbling opulence employed the use of wall to wall white marble, India's favourite decorative accent - which at altitudes of 2000ft and tempratures of 5 degrees were like glaciers to the feet. Our speedy decision was based on the fact that Jack was quickly slipping into delerious illness. Constantly shivering, hot as the sun, and sick as a dog. We slept instantly and rose to lope straight to the hospital, which was like setting foot back into an archaic military refuge with rudimentary high iron beds, stark, poorly painted corridors, and shelves of tattered boxes containing dusty ointments. We were given an array of potions and pills to remedy what seemed to have developed into tonsilitus and fever, but of course after a scour of the ailment section in my Lonely Planet was quickly self-diagnosed as malaria, dengue fever and a myriad of other death inducing conditions... We retreated back to the dark and gloomy room of marble.

After the hospital, I quickly headed out on a mission to find us a room outside of the hideously busy town centre. Not 100 paces down the road I was acosted by a seriously amicable family from Allapuhza who immediately thrust a sneaky beer into my hand and implored I visit them when I made it South. Their taxi driver chimed in and hearing the tale of my 'husband's' woes insisted I see the perfect room with a friend of his out of town. Sometimes Jack becomes my doting betrothed in the eyes of adoring locals, and rather than disillusioning them with enforcement of the relational frivolity of the West which is so utterly incongruent with the arrangement of marriage and family structures of this country, we cheerfully play along. 

In seconds I was on the back of a bike, with an oversized helmet rattling around happily on my head providing just enough space to skillfully decant beer into my mouth, enjoying the journey through the awe inspiring landscape to a room atop the house of Bashkar, 6km outside of town. Perfect. I headed back, we packed up our things from the cold room of death and trundled in a rickshaw to the room of dreams.Resembling a 70's drug lord getaway home, the room was decorated in vibrant blues and pinks, emblazened with an array of unncessary mirrors and adorned with a lattice of mismatching, decadent rugs. Our small balcony complete with two surprisingly comfortable plastic chairs overlooked a deep valley in the waves of hills crested by a formideable mountain on the horizon. After a tranquil yoga session facing the misty mountains, I took a solitary walk through the rocky paths of the upper hills noticing the steep declivity of the land, which suggests that the tea pickers have all the agility an light sure footedness of a mountain goat? The carpet of green waxy bushes were soothing to the soul, all arranged in incredible patterns winding up mounds and round the valleys.

When Jack was marginally better the next day, we ventured out for a whip around theneighbourhood spotting friendly flocks of brightly dressed women balancing surprsingly large loads skillfully on their heads whilst navigating the inclines to skim the fresh tea leaves from the tops of the plants. We randomly bumped into the photographer from the bus, Sebastian, who we'd also come across on our final night in Hampi, and stopped to exhange stories and share lunch. A ballsy bet to eat what looked like an unassuming sweet chilli left me feeling reasonably afflicted, so I made my excuses as they waited for bikes and made my way to the town's tea museum alone. In place of a technical description of the beloved tea harvesting process, which was my expectation and hope, was a perculiar collection of colonial images of the revered 'Planters' in opulent sedan chairs atop the backs of locals and such like. A bizarrely narrated projection film gave a brief and relatively interesting history of Munnar from it's aboriginal origins to its discovery by enterpising westerners


Time in Munnar out of the throngs of its touristic centre was peaceful and inspiring. We rose at the crack of dawn to see the sun creep over the hills, and stayed up well into the night capturing the path of the stars, snoozing under the tripod awaiting a long exposure snap. Bashkar, with his immaculate and well combed side parting and formideable moustache, was endlessly attentive and supplied chai in the early hours and secured us take away dinner in the evenings. It was a struggle to tear ouselves away on the thrid day, but we headed for the station to ride a government bus 5 hours South to sea level.