India part 11c: Ooty - Willy's

"I looked at willies on the internet," announced Sarah. It took me a good few seconds before I realised she was referring to an elusive cafe - Willy's - we'd been searching for a few days before. The previous night, realising there was plenty of life in this joke yet - or realising there wasn't but pressing ahead anyway - Dave had enthusiastically told our uncomprehending rickshaw driver: "We're hunting for Willy's!"

Anyway, we found the damn place in the end, and it was a bit of a triumph, with chicken 65 burgers (never had I heard of such a combination) and full of student types who looked like they were plotting their own separate revolutions. It also had a library which contained many Enid Blyton books, perhaps left behind by the Raj as a companion to the railways. I spent our first afternoon in Willy's reading the first half of Mrs B's The Mystery of the Burnt Cottage, which features the Five Find-Outers and Dog, not to be confused with the more famous Famous Five. Sarah asked what the difference between the two was, and I struggled to explain, eventually coming up with: "The Five Find-Outers and Dog are more... parochial." (Although Blyton definitely shows a lack of consistency in her categorisations here, since one of the Famous Five was actually a dog.) For me, FF-OaD's main selling point is the presence of Frederick Algernon Trotteville whose unfortunate initials and substantial girth earn him the inevitable nickname 'Fatty'.

India part 11b: Ooty - being there

*Warning: this post contains flowers. Loads of them.*

Although the Lonely Planet's India 2009 edition says otherwise, there are only two things wrong with Ooty's excellent Reflections guest house. One is that hot water is only available between 7 and 9am; the other is that the proprietors are obsessed with their bad write-up in the Lonely Planet's India 2009 edition and won't stop going on about it. Because of the water issue (fair enough really, it is a budget place), Sarah and I got up early - early for two weary nomads, that is - and wandered down to the communal sitting room area where I broke my 'do not socialise with travellers' rule by speaking to some other English people, who unfortunately turned out to be very nice. Most of them were just about to leave for warmer climes, but we befriended a guy called Dave, who bore a striking resemblence to Coldplay singer Chris Martin, though we didn't hold that against him, and the three of us set off for a walk down to the lake.

Along with a dam made of lifebelts, we found a dilapidated but nevertheless popular amusement park and immediately headed to the ghost house, which was mainly scary because they seemed to be playing the sounds of people being tortured at full volume from the PA.

There was also a "Freaky Jungle", which was in a similar vein but with plastic animals instead of wig-wearing skeletons, a flight simulator, which induced an unpleasant combination of nostalgia and nausea, boating on the smelly lake, a games arcade which intermittently switched itself off due to powercuts, and various deserted fairground rides.

But all this was nothing compared to the wonders of Thread Garden.

The brainchild of one Antony Joseph, this one-off attraction consists of flowers made entirely from, you guessed it, thread. Sewn by a team of 50 Keralan women (we never did find out why they didn't use local ladies), it took 12 years to create. The whole thing looked very old and faded, but perhaps this was just a result of bad lighting, for Thread Garden certainly had an exceedingly high opinion of itself. "In all respects thread garden can be rated as the highest art creation of manual effort, that ever brought about successfully in the world," proclaimed one sign. Another declared: "An artistic creation par-excellence challenging the human imagination, it occupies the position of unique and innovative miracle in this era." See its semi-divine majesty for yourself, reader.

The hotel restaurant where we had lunch shortly afterwards was filled with young men in '80s garb - one fellow wore mirror shades and a bandana, and seemed convinced he was the coolest thing in Ooty. Maybe he was, although I'm sure Antony Joseph would have something to say about that. Full up, but apparently still in search of floral thrills, we found ourselves accidentally trespassing in a strange and empty set of horticultural offices, escaping unchastised to the Rose Garden, where we were greeted by another sign distinctly lacking in modesty.

After a poor start during which we began to wonder whether this might in fact be only the sixth or seventh best rose park in the world, we reached the lower levels, which yielded some prettier rosy delights. In a startlingly original bit of symbolism, I photographed some of them against a less-than-glamorous backdrop to give you a mindblowing epiphany about, like, beauty amid poverty and that.

Each variety of rose had a sign next to it bearing the name of its species, or a dedication, or something, and these quickly got weirder and weirder, encompassing sentimental and obvious ("Perfect Moment" and so on), strangely out of place -

- inappropriate -

- and downright bizarre:

After a siesta (or "bit of a lie down" if you're old and decrepit like me) back at the guest house, we decided to head out for some dinner, for some reason setting our hearts upon a hotel-restaurant called Sherlock, which we'd heard had an Arthur Conan Doyle theme. We autorickshawed up to Charing Cross (Ooty is an old British colonial haunt, so you get touches like that here and there), but it was only after we'd started stomping up a giant of a hill in the dark that we realised our destination was quite a trek (3km, we discovered later). Luckily a man in a huge truck stopped and gave us a lift just as we were about to fall down and expire. The three of us squashed into the front as he swerved around potholes and powered around corners, with a deranged and murderous look in his eye.

And then, there we were: a pristine lawn right at the top of the hill, with the stars above clear and many. "Is this Sherlock?" asked Dave to the man who opened the door, adding: "Are you Sherlock?" To our relief, the man nodded, smiling. "Do you do food?" I wondered. Yes, he said, still blocking the doorway. "Well, can we come in?" we laughed. It was a charming and immaculate place, with a log fire and the best Christmas tree we'd seen in India so far (also only the second). As our meal cooked, Sarah and Dave played a game of chess, while I sat in an armchair reading a Sherlock Holmes story.

Fully fed, we took a chilly rickshaw ride back to Charing Cross, dashed to a bar seconds before it closed and bought some Kingfishers. As we carried them back to Reflections, clinking our way along the empty streets, we saw a man interrupt his stroll briefly to vomit onto the pavement before nonchalantly carrying on as if nothing had happened. We drank the beers on the terrace, with the stars brighter than ever, whispering so as not to wake anyone.

India part 11a: Ooty - getting there

Forty-five percent of the fun of Ooty - apart from the pleasing name, short for Ootacamund - is getting there, which is achieved by hopping aboard a narrow gauge steam train known as the Blue Nilgiri Mountain Express.

As any fule kno, the train uses the Abt rack and pinion system to wind its way up to the hill station, which basically means it uses cogs and ting, like an oversized bit of Lego.

What do you get for your ticket? Well, there's a Docklands Light Railway-like view if you book a first class ticket...

... which we're glad we did, to be honest - because second class was rammed to the rafters (NB the Blue Nilgiri Mountain Express train does not actually have rafters, this is what is known as a metaphor) with hooting schoolchildren, who would have chorused, "You are from?" repeatedly had they sighted us. Here's our very civilised carriage.

And there are some great views as you make your way up the mountain, too. The kid below wasn't the only one to come over all dreamy.

It's not only very slow, but there are approximately one million and one stops, with some stations consisting of a bit of tarmac and a sign, and very unconventional-looking guards, who look on disapprovingly.

I think this final picture was taken at the end of the line, but I may be wrong. It can happen, you know.

So there we are. Getting on at Mettupalayam, as we did, means you've travelled 41km in four and a half hours, which is twice as long as Paula Radcliffe used to take to run the same distance. They don't make 'em like this any more (except in the UK, of course, hahaha).

Oh, and here's Shahrukh Khan and Malaika Arora heading to Ooty in style...

This just in: Taj Mahal outshone by splendour of this toilet

India part 10: Madurai

Couldn't find all that much to photograph in Madurai - oh, unless you count the Meenakshi temple. And we do.

This last picture was taken from a hole in the wall at our hotel. Sree Devi was very well located, but our room was not: we slept right next to the noisiest elevator in history. Well, stayed awake next to it, anyway.

India observation #47

If there's one thing I've learnt from the subcontinent, it's that you'll never see an Indian whistling a tune. If that's what you've come here to see, forget it. Go home.

*EDIT 3/2/11 7.43pm *
Omg, saw this happening live two days ago, I REPENT.

India part 9: Kanyakumari

Kayakumari, which lies at the southern tip of India, where the three oceans meet, seemed to be on fast-forward when we arrived. We were ushered into a rickshaw, promised a rate of Rs.30 (pretty much as low as it gets if you're a gora), and whisked to our chosen hotel. We didn't even get a chance to open our mouths to request room 408 - listed in our guidebook as the one with the best view - we found ourselves standing on its balcony and nodding a 'yes' to the porter within seconds of walking into the hotel.

As well as these lovely ladies in saris, there were busloads (literally) of shirtless young male pilgrims dressed all in black, dashing around at high speed, larking about, and making lots of noise. Kanyakkers is clearly the choice location for the Hindu acolyte's equivalent of a stag weekend.

^ WAHEEEYYYY THE LADS ^

Beach conversation
Sarah: That word, 'God' - it just makes me think of an old man with a bird sitting in a cloud in the sky.
Will: Me too, but without the bird.
Sarah: Beard. Beard. [Sighs.]

Signs I have seen #147

Just say no, kids.

India part 8: Neyyar Dam

A discovery, courtesy of our four-day stay at the above ashram: I really like yoga. Hurrah! Chanting mantras: not so much. Sitting cross-legged for hours and hours every day: about as enjoyable as sandpapering your own ankles. Anyway, here's an extract from the diary:

My limbs ache. At 2pm we have a lecture. Yesterday's was given by a man who looked quite like the actor Zachary Quinto.

He really did, you know. What's that? More? Okay.

Every morning, we have to do Karma Yoga, jobs around the ashram to help out. This consisted of a rather forlorn-looking man with a beard showing me and a Finnish girl "bin locations". He pronounced these two words with perhaps more gravity than they deserved. We're supposed to pick up full bins and haul them to a spot in the woods where two rough-and-ready Indian men sort through the rubbish, selecting items for compost, reuse, and so on. I suspect they just burn the lot. Still, there isn't that much waste - although there are 250 people living here, there's very little trash generated on-site. Sarah got toilet-cleaning duty lol.

Before you get me wrong, as you so often do, I should reluctantly concede that the whole thing was a really positive and enjoyable experience, and the ashramifications of this are that we are thinking of paying another visit, maybe to one of the Sivananda joints up north. However, the negative stuff is far more fun to type up.

Last night we were shown a short documentary about water. It was dreadful bollocks. This quack in Japan had apparently discovered that you could make water produce "beautiful crystals" if you said nice things to it, or more blobby crystals ("ugly shapes") if you said things like (and I'm quoting): "You fool", "You make me sick" or "I will kill you". I wonder if he got this hypothesis soon after watching Ghostbusters 2, with its psychoreactive pink ectoplasm. Brilliantly, the doctor's experiment even works if you write a few words on a piece of paper and sellotape them to a jar of water - and the scientists in the documentary demonstrated that water understands both French and Japanese! I kept expecting Ben Goldacre to come Tarzanning into the hall. The reason for all this, by the way, was to show that chanting mantras can have an effect on the outside world and therefore mantras are the best thing ever. I shouted, "YOU FOOL" at my water bottle on the way to bed and the liquid within has now turned the colour of Satan's piss, SO IT MUST BE TRUE.

But it wasn't all snarkiness:

There have been some quite special moments. In the mornings, you close your eyes to meditate, and when you open them, the light of day has crept in. In the evenings, you sit with hundreds of people in a completely silent room, and all that's audible are the crickets and the roaring of lions from across the lake.

Lions? Yes, really - there was a wildlife sanctuary nearby. One girl told us she'd visited it and that although there were real lions there, the noise wasn't from them, but was in fact the sound of a tape being played over a loudspeaker. We soon realised this was absolute drivel, since you'd need a PA the size of Portsmouth to achieve such a pointless effect. We left her before she got started on the water crystals.

Signs I have seen #121

Back to India stuff... This would work well in an X Factor ad break, I reckon.