From Mysore to Ooty

From Mysore to Ooty

We waved good-bye to our good friends in Bangalore (http://groups.msn.com/AdventuresofRodFran/bangalore.msnw) and set out for the next installment of our journey...the city of Mysore. We hopped on the government bus for the short 3 hour trip. While the bus did not have the frills of a tourist bus...smooth suspension, a seat for all, movies and room for luggage...it got us to our destination. It also gave us the added benefit of getting to chat with local people.

First stop is at Mysore for 24 hours. Our first experience on stepping out of the bus was dealing firmly with the aggressive touts wanting to direct you to a hotel (for a hidden additional charge on the room rate) or to sell you any number of trinkets. They are soon joined by the auto rickshaw drivers who make a clear distinction between honesty and doing business. Honesty is a religious concept; never should religion interfere with business! When you refuse their services, you are followed by a parade of drivers and touts who will secretly sneak into the hotel after you check in to get their unearned commission. Yes, at first glance Mysore was just like every city and village we visited in our travels.

Upon exploring the area surrounding our hotel, we found, though, what sets Mysore apart from other cities: its palaces. From the 15th century to independence (from Britain) in 1947 it was the capital of a princely state. Ruled by the Wodeyar dynasty, the city is strewn with grand palaces, Maharaja haunts, monuments and temples. We decided on an excursion to the nearby richly ornate palace. We wanted to see for ourselves how the rich and famous of yesteryear lived.

We walked up to a gate through which we could see the grand entrance to the palace. Here, by way of conversation, we confirmed that our lack of confidence in touts was well placed. A friendly chap struck up an innocent conversation with us as we took pictures of the entrance through the closed gate. He softly told us that, as today was the King's anniversary, the palace was closed in the morning and would open in an hour and a half. When asked who were the people walking around inside, he said that they were workers preparing the garden for the King. He said that we could take pictures of the King's guards if we wished. He summoned over a man in khaki uniform and turban who obediently allowed us to take his picture. When done the guard held out his hand for "baksish" but refused the 4 rupees that was offered. Hum...

The "friend" said that his friend owns a silk shop. He would be glad to show us the shop while we were waiting for the palace to open! How generous...he would take us there in his rickshaw for free! And we wouldn't have to buy a thing, we could just look. All the while, we know that there is no King and no anniversary and the guard is probably a fake, too. So we smile kindly and refuse his offers, stating that we would much prefer a stroll around the area.

What a surprise we had when we approached the next gate to the palace. It was wide open for tourists! The sad thing is that dishonesty is so expected by us; we understand that for many a small business man it is a common business practice. But these flagrant attempts to dupe us are very disillusioning, none the less.

A tour of the palace revealed opulence and splendor. The frescoes were brilliantly colored, the stained glass domes shed multi-colored light into the rooms, the marble inlays were exquisite, the rosewood and silver doors were intricately carved, and the onion shaped towers raised high into the sky. There were thrones made of crystal glass and thrones of tooled gold. There were grandstands to watch parades of richly decorated elephants, carrying princes offering splendid goods from all over the world. Although the days of the dynasty are long past, it was possible to catch an echo of its grandeur in the empty halls and passageways. India has always had its rich people, then and now. The very few live in luxury while the masses live in squalor. In the past few decades there has been a rise of a middle class with comfortable but moderate means, such as we saw in Bangalore, and it seems to us that the hope for India's future lies in the expansion of the middle class.

Next stop Ooty; duration 48 hours.

Ooty, 2240 m (7200 ft) above sea level, is a hill station nestled in the mountains where the Eastern & Western Ghats (mountain ranges) meet in southern India. When the British ruled India, they would escape from the suffocating summer heat of the plains to the coolness of the hills. They built many seasonal administrative stations in the hills; Ooty is one of them.

For us Ooty was a whistle stop on our trip from Bangalore to the beaches on the west coast. Although the heat in February in Bangalore is not overbearing, we did experience a temperature difference. We again pulled the coats and warm clothes out of the backpacks; this after we hoped we were done with them for the season. (Later when you will read about Kerala, you will find that we had no need for the coats there.)

For each of us it will be remembered differently. Rod will remember the inside of the hotel room as he slept his way to better health. Every few months each of us needs to take a day to calm the churning stomach. Rod finally surrendered to take time for recovery. Fran, on the other hand, will remember long walks at sunrise with the mists rising over the Ooty Lake.

Ooty is a small village set on several hills overlooking a lake. Like many Indian villages, you have to look beyond the dirt and rubbish piles to see the charm. The lake is surrounded by litter and cows rummage through piles of discarded vegetables in the market. But charm it does have. Women with sweet scented flowers in their hair and brightly colored saris walk the streets. The morning mists rising over the lake are magical. The smell of eucalyptus, from which the locals make oil, is pervasive. And one can not neglect mentioning the toy train.

The locals call it the toy train because it is diminutive In size. It Is led by a steam locomotive and chugs up the narrow gauge rail at a pace not much faster than walking. The train evoked memories of snuggling down under the covers reading bedtime stories to our sons. Although more than 20 years have past, the words still roll through our minds…"The Huff and Puff Express is rolling, rolling down the track, the Huff and Puff Express is rolling, …clickity, clickity, clack."

The train of our memory rolled in "pillow clouds of steam" past barnyards and brickyards. The present day train rolls past strange lands unimaginable to us in yesteryear. It travels through tea plantations planted on steep hillsides; the tufted plants forming mosaic patterns of green and brown. Mountain streams rush by houses made of stone. Monkeys swing fearlessly through the limbs of eucalyptus trees. Taxis travel the roads which form impossible hairpin turns as they curve up the mountainside. Brown skinned boys stick their heads out the train window to catch the steam of the engines in their faces.

Rod eventually got a walk into the village to experience the market, with its food, smells, flowers, crafts, trinkets, and cons. Somewhere in the market is someone who can do most anything you need, whether sell a pencil or repair a bicycle. If you can't get it among the shacks and mud paths of the market, then you probably don't really need it.

We came away from the village with different memories. Whether it was chasing mists and shadow in the early morning hours, chasing memories of storybook trains, or recuperating indoors; we shared a common feeling that Ooty was indeed a curative break from the annoyances of traveling.