The hills are alive...(and so am I)

After driving through some of the most spectacular hairpin bends in the Western Ghats (nine in all), we realized our resort in Waynad, didn’t want to be found. It was buried almost 10 km in the deep forests hundreds of meters up in the mountains. We overshot it the first time around because there’s no board to announce it as you’re coming in. We kept driving because the driver belonged to the male of the species and it was a blow to his ego to ask someone if we were lost though I kept gently (by my definition) suggesting to him that it did look like we were lost. By the time he made up his mind to swallow his pride and pop the question, we had driven to what seemed like the ends of the earth. When he stopped finally and asked “Which way to Kannampatta?” the guy answered with a question: “Kannampattay-yo? Why have you come HERE?” Believe me, that’s the last thing you want to hear. If we knew the answer to that question, we wouldn’t ask him. Then he said, “It’s all the way back there.” A sweeping wave of his hand suggested it could be anywhere in Asia (or Africa). “Do we have to turn back?” I asked the driver and it took every ounce of effort not to say “I told you so.” “Just for a bit,” he muttered under his breath and I’m sure it took every ounce of his effort not to say “Now, shut up and sit back till I get you seriously lost again.” He drove for what seemed to be forever before he spotted the board announcing the resort had been found – I’ve never seen a happier man. But that’s because he didn’t know what lay in store. Unknown to the unsuspecting driver, it would be another 10 km after it was found that the resort would actually be found.

We entered the forests through a road that seemed two fingerbreadths wide – it was the narrowest path I’ve ever seen anywhere. It looked like it could accommodate nothing more than one horse. Thick woods, mud hills, rocks on one side and sheer drops on the other. This was the only entrance into the resort and - like we found out to our horror, later – the only exit as well. We were driving on what might as well have been a rope and hoping an ant wouldn’t approach. If a walker came from the other side, we had four choices: a) He could climb over our car and keep walking. b) We could reverse 5 km with him riding on our hood or roof, to deposit him outside the trail. c) He could walk backwards 5 km because there wasn’t enough space for him to turn around. d) Or we could do the easiest thing: run over him – in which case he would literally and metaphorically pass over to the other side. If a car came from the other side, we had one choice: head butt it off the cliff. I made a mental note to tell the resort that they must ferry their guests either on mules or horses, but if the horse were to meet a fellow horse coming from the opposite direction, we were done for; one of them would have to jump over the other or walk backwards all the way. I finally understood why Tarzan was a happy man.

The driver sighed and giggled alternately and sometimes emitted a sound between a sigh and a giggle that meant “I’d love to simply stop the car right here, get down, and run away, you nut jobs.” And then it happened. To our collective horror, there was a car headed straight for us, from the opposite direction – apparently leaving the resort. “This is a new car. This is my first trip in the new car,” the driver whimpered. It was directed at God. Then he turned to us. “This is a new car,” he told us. “Congratulations!” I said brightly and sensed immediately it was the worst possible thing to say. I couldn’t read his face. Let’s just say he wasn’t happy. (Let’s also say if looks could kill, you would be reading my obituary now instead.) When the other car got close enough, our driver put his head out and yelled, “This is a new car,” “Oh,” the other fellow said, his face registering impending doom, “can you go closer on your side?” “Can I? Yes, I can if I can drive up the mountains vertically, otherwise I can’t,” our driver snapped testily. “This is a new car” he said to no one in particular. “Well, the only way I can go any closer on MY side is if I plunged off the mountain,” the other driver murmured thoughtfully. We waited with bated breath but he changed his mind.

Then began the finest demonstration of negotiations I’ve ever witnessed - these guys ought to be our diplomats in Pakistan, they’d do a fantastic job. With great politeness they directed each other where to turn, how to reverse, what to avoid and after what can only be described as 15 minutes of death dance, two cars miraculously passed on the bicycle track. I’m sure the road must’ve expanded – there’s NO WAY the cars would’ve passed otherwise. By now, our driver was perspiring freely in the chilly hillside forest. But he was a happy man. At least for a while. After we’d gone about 300 meters, out of nowhere a calf darted out. It saw the car and began prancing around trying to climb up the steep slope, sliding back, hopping around (I think on two legs) and generally acting cute and confused. “This is a new car,” our driver told the prancing calf and turned off the engine and leaned on the horn. The sound drove the calf crazy and it began darting about wildly like its tail was on fire. “Don’t jump on my car,” the driver begged the calf. “This is a new car.” “He will if you keep up with the honking,” I told him cheerfully and he quickly got off the God awful sound. And just like that, out of thin air, a man materialized with a lasso and began chasing the calf. It was a wild goose chase for the longest time as the man crouched, lunged, and sprinted trying to lasso the calf which kept bleating like a lamb as it ducked and dodged him expertly. After a while everyone forgot who was chasing whom. I think the calf forgot too and that’s how he got caught. The man folded himself and the calf and they stuffed themselves into the woods so we could pass and so it came to pass that nature, man, beast, a new car and a harassed driver delivered us into the lovely mountains of Waynad.