I had mapped out a few places to go while hiding out from the cockroaches in Kanyakamuri, even going so far as to write down my rough schedule – on paper! – with phone numbers for hostels and departure times for transportation between cities. Jay’s dad and brother in law went through the schedule with me, helping to shape it into something more manageable and focused. They dropped me off at the same bus stop they had picked me up from four days earlier, this time parting ways as they drove off for the funeral of a family member and I for the mountains and rivers of the north. The first leg of the trip was uneventful, not even any rain until my feet touched down in Kollam. I set them towards the ferry stand, just across the street, to catch a boat through Kerala’s famous backwaters to the city of Alappuzha. I had heard all sorts of conflicting tales of the ferry running (tourist office), not running (hostel owner via a tourist) and running every other day (Lonely Planet). I inquired about this mysterious boat to the group of tan-shirted men draped around the benches at the ferry stand and learned that all three realities were in fact true for their respective owners. The ferry ran any time there were more than ten passengers lined up to ride it. And as big as I may be, I am but one. I waited for a couple hours, gazing at the river and the travelers hopping on and off of boats large and small, hoping just one family of four, one couple and perhaps an old man might be desiring a leisurely cruise through the backwaters with me.
However, none of my imaginary tourists appeared, so instead I caught the seven am commuter boat (at less than one tenth the cost no less) after a night in Alappuzha in a forest-themed hostel with six baby puppies where I almost burnt down my hut with a coil of incense. Eek. Survival was on my side though, and I even had time to wander through the city a bit, see a guy building coffins and buy a few things for my forest excursion: mosquito repellent, a book, allergy medicine, bandaids, bananas and an apple. [In case you were wondering, all of that totaled to $4.] I was off bright and early, counting my blessings as I attempted to wipe the soot off the green wall where the coil had extinguished itself. As excited as I was to be on a boat, and on my way to the mountains of tea, the river lulled me to sleep within a few minutes and I scarcely remember anything until I woke up on the bus in the hills. It was amazing: lush green, raging waterfalls and pineapples growing in the ground. We climbed higher and higher and I tried harder and harder to capture photos this strange land of things I had never seen before. But as the sights grew more awe inspiring, not once failing to improve with each hairpin turn we rounded, I settled in and waited. The journey is most often my favorite part, to the extreme that I almost dread arrivals, with all of their bag-carrying, reorientation and self-propelled movement. This one I enjoyed the bus ride, but with a reserved room in the forest and a renewed energy from my last four days, I was excited to arrive.
I was not disappointed either – the mountains at the top were covered in the most beautiful of greenery I had yet to see. Tea bushes were carefully shaped into clouds, the little alleys between them filled with brightly-colored leaf plucking women, smooth boulders and tall thin silver oaks all draped in a thin mist. The air, heavy with the scent of fresh tea leaves, eucalyptus and rain drops, seemed to heal my every malady. It was utterly unworldly. You must go there – and do not listen if they say June is not the time. It was calm and cool and the sun shone through the clouds whenever I left cover.
I spent the day with the mother of a friend (Himani) of a friend (Rajeev) and she showed me the school for children of plantation workers, a tea factory, a plantation owner’s clubhouse, a paper and fabric project employing artisans with mental and physical disabilities, and a great little biryani restaurant. At that point I headed out to the hills in a rickshaw, with a driver who showed me honey bees, elephants, a hydroelectricity dam, how to make tea and an echo valley with no echo left. I ran into a family from my hotel, who I brought along for a bit, and we ended up having dinner and drinks. I spent an evening talking with them, the parents both teachers in Delhi and the son a musician in Mumbai, a great new dimension after the evening before with a German and an American. We had all swapped stories, the girls of fortune tellers, gem markets, five star resorts and taxi rides through the desert, mine of ancient temples, homemade delicacies, dusty buses and cultural exchange. I think we both promised to ourselves to try a bit of the other side, although I knew I would wait for Amara as bazaars are best explored with company and nice hotels with shared pocketbooks.
The thirty eight hours of breathlessness gave way to twenty nine hours of motion. Another early morning in a rickshaw, driving to the bus, driving to the train and riding to the city where I should eventually find myself on a plane after a few days. As I arrived in hot hot Kochi, I sat thinking about the cool cool mountains, with the long nights of frogs chirping and rain dropping. I gazed at the humanity and missed the trees a bit – so much I almost missed my train as I had brought myself to the wrong station. I hurried through the city to the correct point of departure and found myself unable to locate my seat. The ticket was in some pretty little language I could not read, and even Ram (who bought me the ticket) wasn’t sure where I was to go. I eventually just hopped on between two cars, hoping to find someone to help. I sat, like Huckleberry Finn, at the open train door and continued to muse about adventures, wanders and rambles, patiently awaiting the ticket collector to point me on my way.
I had mapped out a few places to go while hiding out from the cockroaches in Kanyakamuri, even going so far as to write down my rough schedule – on paper! – with phone numbers for hostels and departure times for transportation between cities. Jay’s dad and brother in law went through the schedule with me, helping to shape it into something more manageable and focused. They dropped me off at the same bus stop they had picked me up from four days earlier, this time parting ways as they drove off for the funeral of a family member and I for the mountains and rivers of the north. The first leg of the trip was uneventful, not even any rain until my feet touched down in Kollam. I set them towards the ferry stand, just across the street, to catch a boat through Kerala’s famous backwaters to the city of Alappuzha. I had heard all sorts of conflicting tales of the ferry running (tourist office), not running (hostel owner via a tourist) and running every other day (Lonely Planet). I inquired about this mysterious boat to the group of tan-shirted men draped around the benches at the ferry stand and learned that all three realities were in fact true for their respective owners. The ferry ran any time there were more than ten passengers lined up to ride it. And as big as I may be, I am but one. I waited for a couple hours, gazing at the river and the travelers hopping on and off of boats large and small, hoping just one family of four, one couple and perhaps an old man might be desiring a leisurely cruise through the backwaters with me. 
However, none of my imaginary tourists appeared, so instead I caught the seven am commuter boat (at less than one tenth the cost no less) after a night in Alappuzha in a forest-themed hostel with six baby puppies where I almost burnt down my hut with a coil of incense. Eek. Survival was on my side though, and I even had time to wander through the city a bit, see a guy building coffins and buy a few things for my forest excursion: mosquito repellent, a book, allergy medicine, bandaids, bananas and an apple. [In case you were wondering, all of that totaled to $4.] I was off bright and early, counting my blessings as I attempted to wipe the soot off the green wall where the coil had extinguished itself. As excited as I was to be on a boat, and on my way to the mountains of tea, the river lulled me to sleep within a few minutes and I scarcely remember anything until I woke up on the bus in the hills. It was amazing: lush green, raging waterfalls and pineapples growing in the ground. We climbed higher and higher and I tried harder and harder to capture photos this strange land of things I had never seen before. But as the sights grew more awe inspiring, not once failing to improve with each hairpin turn we rounded, I settled in and waited. The journey is most often my favorite part, to the extreme that I almost dread arrivals, with all of their bag-carrying, reorientation and self-propelled movement. This one I enjoyed the bus ride, but with a reserved room in the forest and a renewed energy from my last four days, I was excited to arrive. 
I was not disappointed either – the mountains at the top were covered in the most beautiful of greenery I had yet to see. Tea bushes were carefully shaped into clouds, the little alleys between them filled with brightly-colored leaf plucking women, smooth boulders and tall thin silver oaks all draped in a thin mist. The air, heavy with the scent of fresh tea leaves, eucalyptus and rain drops, seemed to heal my every malady. It was utterly unworldly. You must go there – and do not listen if they say June is not the time. It was calm and cool and the sun shone through the clouds whenever I left cover. 
The thirty eight hours of breathlessness gave way to twenty nine hours of motion. Another early morning in a rickshaw, driving to the bus, driving to the train and riding to the city where I should eventually find myself on a plane after a few days. As I arrived in hot hot Kochi, I sat thinking about the cool cool mountains, with the long nights of frogs chirping and rain dropping. I gazed at the humanity and missed the trees a bit – so much I almost missed my train as I had brought myself to the wrong station. I hurried through the city to the correct point of departure and found myself unable to locate my seat. The ticket was in some pretty little language I could not read, and even Ram (who bought me the ticket) wasn’t sure where I was to go. I eventually just hopped on between two cars, hoping to find someone to help. I sat, like Huckleberry Finn, at the open train door and continued to muse about adventures, wanders and rambles, patiently awaiting the ticket collector to point me on my way.
