bathing the elephants

Fellow outsourced American Matt and I went to Wayanad this past weekend. Wayanad is a town in the state of Kerala, which, according to Kerala’s tourism industry, is “God’s own country.” Kerala actually is a very lovely, naturalistic place, though I don’t know God’s opinion of it, if he has an opinion of it, if there is a God. Kerala has mountains and hills covered with tea and coffee plants, numerous animal sanctuaries, famed backwaters where you can chill on a houseboat as it gently flows down the river (I haven’t done that yet but I must). Kerala also has tropical rainforests. The jungle. That’s what I was looking forward to. That and the possibility of giving elephants a bath.

Thankachen, my driver, was psyched to take us on this three day trip since he was originally from Kerala. No doubt he was also psyched because he knew he’d get a fat tip at the end. He took an SUV instead of his usual car, which was good because of the rugged, mountainous, barely-can-be-classified-as-roads roads.

Friday afternoon, after a seven hour drive that featured an overturned soda truck in the street and the joyful looting that followed (more on that next post), we arrived at Wayanad Resort. I’d never stayed at a resort before. And I’d never been to the jungle before. And I’d certainly never stayed at a resort in the jungle before, so I was totally down for this place. And we paid an amazingly low price – once again, the monetary differences between the US and India pay off.

The resort was new, just six months old. As such, not many people knew about it yet, which was why we were able to make last-minute, holiday weekend reservations (Friday was Republic Day). Once there, we ended up befriending the resort’s owner, who told us that one of their two “couples” suites was empty. It hadn’t even been used yet. It was away from the rest of the resort, a small wooden cottage room on stilts, right on the edge of the jungle. The owner said we could switch to that room at no extra charge. I’m sure it was because we were Americans working in the area, and therefore we might have friends we could tell about our swell time at his resort and encourage them to visit. Regardless, we made the switch, stipulating of course that we would need separate beds. Despite it being a “couples” suite, Matt and I were not a couple.

We trekked downhill along a stream, hopping on rocks and hoping to spot a meandering elephant or something else exotic. The air was heavy and humid, bringing about sweat with the smallest of movements. The scenery was gorgeous, save for the plastic piping peeking out from the short waterfalls, leading back up to the pool at the resort.



The room was awesome. There were huge windows from which you could see nothing but nature. When I woke up Saturday morning, I relaxed in a chair with my feet up, looking out the window and enjoying the vibrant sounds of the jungle, which were only occasionally interrupted by the sounds of Matt vomiting, for he had eaten some undercooked chicken the night before.

We had been assured we’d need some sort of guide for exploring Wayanad. The resort owner, who couldn’t find a traditional guide, recruited a member of his restaurant staff for the job. The waiter took us to Chambra Peak, which was a pretty mountain surrounded by hills, covered with round green tea plants. It was a very beautiful, if uneventful trek. “Trek” is kind of a funny word to me, even though I hear it quite often. It just seems a more glamorous way of saying “hike.” I’m all for calling a multi-day hike a “trek,” but calling anything shorter than that a “trek” just sounds silly to me. Whicheva…

After that, we went to Edakkal Cave, which was rather disappointing. I mean, the cave itself – situated halfway up a mountain – was fine, though I’ve been to way better caves in the states. But the overcrowding at this one made it insane. In India, a line of people doesn’t actually mean a line – it means everyone pushes up against everyone else – oftentimes people grabbing you by the waist or the shoulders. You have no personal space at all. And this place was the worst. It was filled with tourists and schoolkids, everyone jostling and shoving and not giving you any room to breathe. A few times I snapped some nasty comments at the people behind me who kept holding my shoulders. And mild-mannered Matt even called out some line-jumping hooligans who were pushing children out of their way. Not fun.

The whole setup was destined to create problems. One long, steep, narrow rocky path led up the mountain to the cave, then the same long, steep, narrow, rocky path was the only way back down. Add a bunch of line jumpers and hooligans to the mix and you end up with a not so great time at Edakkal Cave.



When we got back, I went for a solo “trek” just off the grounds of the resort, along a jungle path that led into “deep forest,” from what I’d been told. I was hoping to spot a wild elephant and hoping not to spot a large jungle cat, for if I spotted it, chances are that it would also have spotted me. Sadly, I didn’t see anything wilder than a lizard. As I traveled deeper into the lush thicket, the trail vanished and the sky was getting dark. And I’ll admit, I flinched a few times when I heard a noise. So I headed back out of the jungle. As complete darkness fell, I fell into a hammock.

That night the resort had some martial artists perform. They wore tribal outfits and used swords, staffs and shields. They tumbled on a cement stage and displayed savage, choreographed moves as they “fought” each other. Like ballet but with weaponry. In their last segment, one of the fighters got a huge gash on the side of his forehead from a whip-like metal weapon called a flexible sword. Blood was everywhere, covering his face and chest, but he continued the routine. After it was over, he wrapped a huge bandana around his head to stop the bleeding. We were assured that he wasn’t actually cut, that the blood somehow came about for some other reason. I forget the reason they gave but it doesn’t matter. It was just a lie to placate the small children in the small crowd. That guy totally got sliced by the flexible sword.

All that stuff was cool – or in the case of the cave, not so cool, but still interesting. But I had been most looking forward to our drive back to Bangalore. We left the resort at 3:30 Sunday morning. It’s horrible getting up that early, but it was the only way we could reach the town of Dubare in time. Yes, we were going to elephant camp.

At the Dubare Elephant Camp, elephants work in the forests, hauling lumber and such. In the process they get very dirty. And as we all know, elephants can’t stand being dirty.

We watched as the mahouts (AKA “elephant guys”) rode the elephants into a lake, a few at a time. A mahout would call out a signal and tap the elephant a certain way, causing it to slowly lower itself, then gently plop into the water on its side. Then the mahout would splash water onto the great beast, getting it nice and wet. This was followed by a hard scrubbing with, umm, elephant scrubbing stones. Yep, that’s the technical term…I guess.

An elephant taking a bath is comparable to a dog getting his belly rubbed. The elephants loved it, they were in elephant ecstasy (elephantasy)? After a little while, the elephant would lumber to his feet, then lie back down in the water on his other side. Can’t bathe an elephant on just one side. Everybody knows that.

There were maybe forty people there, in addition to the mahouts. Since we had paid for the full “elephant experience”, we were allowed to interact with the elephants. So I rolled up my pant legs and walked into the water. I splashed an elephant, then rubbed and scrubbed her with my hands. I guess the elephant scrubbing stones were only for the mahouts.

Other visitors soon joined in the elephant bathing. I’m sure we didn’t clean the elephants all that well, that the mahouts were doing most of the actual work, that we were just tourists play-bathing the elephants. But I didn’t care. I was standing ankle-deep in a lake in India, rubbing a wet elephant’s head. And the elephant was loving it. I can’t say I’d ever pictured myself in that situation before, but now I can’t ever forget it.

beOOTYful (poem)

Drove to Ooty in car with four wheel drive,
Without it perhaps we’d have never arrived

Twenty hairpin turns along cliffs and up mountain,
Maybe not twenty, I wasn’t quite countin’

Passed through Bandipur, saw elephants roam wild
Peacocks and deer, black-faced monkey with child

Stayed in some cottage where a cold night was certain
Where a bevy of flies clung tight to the curtain

Ate pasta and French fries, paneer and pineapple,
All sizzling in lettuce that was shaped like a bowl

Saw botanical gardens, so lush and so green
Climbed hills by steppe farmland, the view was serene

It was all quite impressive, we stayed there for hours
Saw a big map of India, made all up of flowers

Met an old man way up high by a temple
Exchanged pleasantries, for our chat was simple

Fresh chocolate oddly named, from all shops it oozed
Never tried “white man’s chocolate” but the name still amused

Tibetan market was weak and all filled with junk
Plastic trinkets and doodads and filler and funk

Toured a tea factory and little museum
Tea leaves got grinded so small you can’t see ‘em

Companions bought tea home but this writer did not
I do not drink drinks that come from a teapot

Took a nice train ride in Nilgiri Hills
The views were majestic, they gave us the chills

Typically four hours but cut down to one
Because of the rail damage a landslide had done

Had soup and some drinks in a lodge by a fire
As we were all weary and starting to tire

Thinking how this was the nicest of weekends
While hearing a singer with voice of Cat Stevens

food

I'm a picky eater. Always have been. The "holy trinity" of condiments (ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise) will never find their way onto my burger. A mushroom, no matter how much it's considered a delicacy, will never travel down my gullet. And a pickle will never be more than a fun word to say.

But my eating habits have broadened over the years. I'm long past those carefree childhood days when I would eat cashew chicken without the cashews and macaroni and cheese without the cheese. I hadn't eaten a whole lot of Indian food in my life – a little nan here, a little curry there -- so I wasn't sure how I would react to a steady diet of it. But after two months in the country, it's safe to say that…

I love it. It's ever so tasty.

For breakfast (on the rare days I actually eat breakfast) or a snack, I can have a dosa, this giant pancake thing that you rip pieces off of and dip into coconut chutney and/or sambar, this sorta thick red stuff. Or I can have idly, these fat disc-shaped rice formations that you also dip into coconut chutney and/or sambar. I don't like coconut – strongly dislike it in fact – but for some reason, all the coconut stuff here is good. I think it's because it's made with coconut milk rather than the coconut itself, although I'm not 100% certain about that. All that I know for sure is that it's yummy.

Because of the various religions and such in India, many people are vegetarian. Thus, menus are typically divided into "veg" and "non-veg" sections (there's also "pure veg" for that smaller sect of vegans). Both styles employ lots of rice and breads. And tasty curries/gravies to dip the breads in (Indians are big on dipping), as well as mix with the rice. The biggest difference is that the non-veg meals have chicken...usually. Chicken is the non-veg item featured most of the time, with an occasional cameo appearance by mutton or fish.

Since I'm an omnivore with a definite taste for meat, I expected to eat mostly non-veg stuff. And I do eat that a lot . But I've also quite enjoyed the veg. I think it's because of which particular vegetables take starring roles. In the states, tomatoes and uber-bland lettuce hog the veggie spotlight. Here, peas get to take center stage. I love peas! And corn. I love corn! I can order a pizza with corn on it – it's awesome!

Pre-India, I didn't like spicy food. But here, I adjusted very quickly – now I hardly notice it. Some other American will eat something and complain that it's too spicy. Then I'll eat it and it will seem fine. And of course I'll have to mock the person who thought it was too spicy. A few months ago, I would have been mocking myself.

Apparently some people in the states knew about paneer. Sadly I was never one of these people. I just discovered this versatile cottage cheese concoction (with a vague resemblance to tofu) and I have dug it in its myriad of incarnations. Mixed in with rice, fried up like a mozzarella stick, filling a burrito-style roll, on a pizza (though strangely, packets of ketchup also come with pizza. hmmm…). It's all good, baby. I am a proud convert to the ways of the paneer.

I have also embraced eating with my hands, a farily common practice, depending of course on what kind of food you're eating. But if you follow proper Indian etiquette, you should only use your right hand. Because, in theory, your left hand would be used for, ummm, other tasks, after the food has been digested.

Spoons are used more than forks. And at the work cafeteria where I often eat, knives are near impossible to find. Which creates the challenge of trying to cut chicken off the bone using only a spoon (or two spoons). Believe me, it ain't easy.

Finally, there is the water. Since my feeble American body is unable to handle the complexities of Indian tap water, I have to go bottled all the way. I always try to have a bottle of water with me. When you order one at a restaurant, they'll bring the bottle out to the table before opening it, just to show you that it is indeed bottled water.

At the cafeteria, people don't drink at all during the meal. After it's finished, everyone will get up, go over to the wall of sinks to wash their hands (because napkins are a rarity), then fill up a glass from these large metal tanks of water. When I first arrived here, someone told me that the tanks of water were safe to drink from. So I would have a tall, refreshing glass after every meal. And then I would find myself in the bathroom. Every forty five minutes. It took me way too long (a week and a half) to figure out it was the water creating the turbulence in my stomach. Because I was dumb.

But c'est la vie. I survived. And dropped one full belt size in the process.

Three Days in North India (videophotocomic)

cow haiku

streets are filled with cows
blocking traffic, eating trash
that's a sacred life?