Southern India: Invisible Tigers, Spice and Everything Nice

 

 

Bidding farewell to Chettinad, we started the 225km drive west to Kumily in the lush heights of the Western Ghats.

On the way, our driver Murugan insisted we stop at his hometown, Madurai, for morning tea with his wife at their inner-city house. It was a kind offer from the wheel man and a welcome pitstop on the long haul. We sipped tea and nibbled local sweets with our goodly hosts before getting back on the road.

Madurai is a sprawling, historic south Indian metropolis; it was quite an ordeal creeping through the chaos of traffic and pedestrians as we crossed town.

The city features some significant attractions, particularly the Arulmigu Meenakshi Sundareswarar Temple, a major holy place for Hindu pilgrims,but we wanted to get into the mountains before nightfall, so forged on, finally breaking free on the road west.

 

 

We noticed the country becoming more mountainous at Theni, passed through a town called Cumbum (indeterminate etymology), and soon commenced zigzagging up a series of hairpin bends through lush jungle to the popular mountain town.

 

 

After a couple of weeks broiling on the hot, smoggy southeast plains, the cool clean air of the Ghats was a great relief. The high range separates eastern southern India from the west coast and rises to heights over 2600 metres along its 1600km north-south length.

 

 

Kumily is in the Cardamom Hills in the State of Kerala. Situated near Thekkady and the Periyar Tiger Reserve, the area is renowned for its spice plantations and has been a trading post for centuries. But the adjacent nature reserve is the biggest attraction for tourists, and hordes come annually.

During the Raj, the British poohbahs were big fans of this region as the highlands offered a seasonal escape from the blistering heat of the lowlands and coastal cities.

They would spend the hottest months in these lofty locales, lolling about sipping pink gins, playing croquet, billiards and tennis, and blasting increasingly scarce tigers and elephants from the landscape to adorn drawing rooms back in Knightsbridge.

 

 

Checking into another impressive CGH Earth property, Spice Village, we were led to a charming bungalow set in manicured gardens. Our home for the next few days.

We’d arrived just in time for evening high tea, joining other guests in a civilised tradition harking back to the time of the flaunting colonial Brits.

That evening we set off to explore Kumily’s colourful streets, popping into the eclectic shops and stalls and snapping up a few deals.

 

 

Since we were on a by-road of the Hippie Trail, we decided to go all flower child and invest in his and hers Kashmiri harem pants (What next, the patchouli oil?). But alas, his ripped open along the seat seam minutes after exiting the shop, a common malfunction for bargain Indian haberdashery. (It also helps to have the weedy physique a vegan groovy one in such fashion speculations, which I don’t).

We also popped into a local eatery near the hotel for our first taste of a Kerala curry (the beginning of a consuming regional culinary love affair), before bedding down to the sounds of the jungle in the cool Kumily night.

 

 

Breakfast at Spice Village is a sumptuous affair, the buffet offering delicious Tamil and Keralan specialities. We’d grown rather fond of South Indian coffee in our travels, which is mixed up in vats, and poured from a great height into a cup at your table by skilled waiters. They are masters of this fine cascading art at Spice Village.

 

 

Then it was off to the Periyar National Park, 10 kms to the south where we hoped to spot India’s legendary apex predator, the Bengal Tiger, or maybe even an elephant or two.

The trip to the park was undeniably a Covid super spreader activity, as the bus was packed to the roof lining with excited, tiger-crazed tourists. On went our masks. Approximately 800,000 people visit the park each year and it is pretty much always crowded.

 

 

We alighted at Thekkady Park, the staging post where we would take a boat ride around the lake and hopefully see some of the much-mooted wildlife along the shoreline.

In addition to tiger, Periyar is an important elephant habitat. Both species have had a pretty rough trot in recent centuries, not least at the hands of the ruddy-faced Brits in Pith Helmets and safari suits, stalking them with elephant guns and .303s. Hence today there are a precious 35-40 tigers in the park and approximately 50 elephants hanging on.

 

 

There are also 35 other animal species found at Periyar, some endangered, including populations of gaur, sambar deer, leopard, sloth bear, wild dog, lion tailed monkey, Nilgiri langur, barking deer and Nilgiri tahr.

 

 

This was encouraging to know, because on our visit we saw almost no wildlife at all, apart from the odd water bird, deer and boar nosing about the shoreline. Binoculars, cameras, and iPhones swept the surroundings, but nary a tiger or elephant deigned to make a cameo.

“I’ve seen more animals in my backyard!” came a disgruntled exclamation from somewhere on the boat.

 

 

We did however have an interesting encounter as we steamed about the lake questing wildlife.

An outwardly friendly fellow, dressed in an unspecified uniform, approached Jacqui, and said he was an expert at spying wildlife on the tour. (God knows, we needed such a hawk-eye.) He asked if she’d like him to get a few pictures of the elusive beasts on her iPhone.

Hopeful of some small digital memento of fauna she reluctantly agreed, and he disappeared to the front of the boat with the phone. He returned minutes later with a blurry image of what looked like a feral pig at 1000 paces. We were immensely unimpressed.

“I will get another, madam, something very special just for you,” he said, darting off again.

 

This time Jacqui took assertive action, hunting him down and retrieving her phone, to which he’d now added another photographic image: a black blur he said was a rare crow.

“They’re everywhere in Australia,’ we told him. He smiled enigmatically and scurried off.

Casually checking her accounts a few days later, Jacqui found the slippery ‘wildlife lensman’ had hacked into the phone, found credit card details, and bought himself a small electronic household gadget.

The apposite cancellations of cards ensued, always a major hassle in foreign lands. Moral: avoid all dodgy Divits in dreadful official dungarees, seeking your phone for “splendid memories”; chances are he’s not Henri Cartier-Bresson.

Back in town, we decided to visit a few of the spice and herb outlets and bought a compartmentalised lacquered case containing 12 of the region’s most popular spices. It would make for some fine curries and exotic dishes back home.

Regrettably when we arrived in Perth, we declared our spice treasure chest at customs, only to have 11 of the spices summarily emptied into the bin, sad victims of biosecurity. The Kumily cinnamon was the only one to make it to the pantry.

 

 

The next day we took a fascinating tour of Abraham’s Spice Garden, about 15 minutes out of town. We were taken through the luxuriant gardens by the daughter of the owner, who pointed out numerous exotic herbs and spices, and were surprised at the beautiful flowers produced by many of them.

 

 

She explained the fascinating story behind each plant, how they are grown and processed, and the health benefits and culinary uses of each.

 

 

Halfway through the tour, we were surprised to be led into the family home to “check the score’, where the entire extended family were huddled around an ancient TV – watching India play Australia in the final of the cricket World Cup.

 

 

“It is quite even at the moment,” mumbled the patriarch, eyes glued to the tube. “I do believe we have a good chance of victory.”

We finished the tour, bought a few herbal elixirs and potions from the garden shop, and returned to town for dinner.

Strangely, the streets were almost empty, and an ominous silence hung over what is usually a noisy, bustling hamlet.

 

 

It turned out, not only was all Kumily and Thekkady watching the cricket, but so were 1.43 billion Indians across the subcontinent.

We found a small restaurant in the back streets and ordered a light dinner.  There was only one other occupied table in the establishment. A large family, all on iPhones and iPads, watching (you guess it) the cricket and completely ignoring their food.

They were looking dejected and grim as the underdog Australians were closing in on a win.

When it was announced Australia had won, after nearly being knocked out completely a week or two earlier, a deep thunderous groan reverberated across the land.

 

 

Walking home as Australians, we half expected to be hunted by an angry mob wielding rattan batons, and tossed in the nearest river; but instead the collective dejection was too great, and a deep stultifying silence filled the night.

We felt a bit sorry for the Indians, especially since our own team, while clearly a talented mob, often leave much to be desired with their incessant scandals and dubious shenanigans, both on and off the pitch. Nevertheless, we made sure the bungalow door was bolted that momentous eve.

 

 

Next morning, we were up early for the long drive out of the Western Ghats and down to Kovalam on the far south coast. Our Ayurvedic treatments awaited.

Murugan hurtled out of the mountains like a rally driver, speeding past the gorgeous tea plantations, and plunging through pretty towns, without ever slowing for bend or traffic.

 

 

It would have been nice to stop and take in some of the passing beauty, but our helmsman was on a mission. It was his last day with us, the end was nigh; and judging by his steely demeanour, we could only presume he was a closet cricket fan.

 

 

Click here for the Starfish report on our next destination, an Ayurvedic retreat on India’s far south coast:https://www.thestarfish.com.au/2024/03/26/somatheeram-ayurvedic-rejuvenation-in-india/