Kalpatta to Bekal and a Jeep Safari

Wyanad Wildlife Sanctuary Muthanga

Deer, Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary Muthanga

Once we woke up we got on the way to Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary (Muthanga). At the bustling ticket counter we ran into Laurie (an American living and working in Mysore for a month) and her workmate (a local lady.) With their help, the four of us organised to share the cost of one jeep and got our tickets with minimal fuss.

The jeep took us down a ridiculously bumpy track and into the sanctuary. We followed a set loop, keeping our eyes peeled for animals. The scrubby terrain made it difficult though as our vision was limited to the passage through which we drove. Our driver seemed to be more useful than our guide, managing to manoeuvre down the bumpy track while spotting deer, elephant dung and tiger tracks all while our guide just sat there. On a number of instances, one of us passengers spotted an animal and asked the driver to stop before either of their trained sets of eyes saw it.

'Physically handicapped' monkey

Our driver kindly informed us that evenings were the best time for spotting animals, particularly the tigers, but that it was a lot less safe. When we questioned him as to why he pulled out a newspaper article from the day before to show us. A man had been attacked by a tiger at a wildlife sanctuary just 4km from where we were. Goody.

About half way through our safari we turned onto the sealed road which runs through the sanctuary and which is open to the public. So, essentially, we could have given ourselves a tour of much of the sanctuary and seen just as many monkeys as we had on the tour. But...this is India. And the monkey we did get a close up of had no hands. Poor little guy. When we asked our guide for an explanation, all we got was 'he's physically handicapped.'

The Indian lady in our tour group and the Indian driver were a prime example of India's diverse spectrum of languages. Often, the locals speak English to each other, as with so many local languages floating around, they can't communicate in any local language.

When we decided there wasn't much more to do in Wayanad District, we figured we may as well head West. We rode back to Rainbow Cottage, checked out, watched a lady chase cows out of the guesthouse garden, speedily packed our things, and set off. It was going to be a big day when, already, we had ridden 60km.

Rainbow Cottage

With me as navigator we came down the hill from Rainbow Cottage and on our second turn came across a road that was no more. They were doing some kind of construction which had required ripping a huge hole across the span of the road. As Chris tried to manoeuvre a three-point turn and I considered a new route a helpful man told us he would help us "get across." Surely he wasn't talking about this road, we thought. There was no road. There was barely a footpath. And the 30cm of footpath that remained was in pieces, crowded with people, rocks and other debri. But, as the man cleared a couple of rocks and I was told to get off the bike a crowd of locals gathered to offer advice through rambling and pointing and getting in the way. I watched anxiously as Chris and Big Red traversed the gap. They made it, I snapped a photo and we were back on our way.

Road?

We cruised the uncrowded back road that took us through towns that, by the stares we got, we figured hadn't seen tourists in some time. Starving, we eventually found a place that advertised it was 'for food.' Perfect. We ordered up some vegetable masalas and parottas and were both stuffed for a delicious 58 INR. Back on Big Red we found, what Chris can be quoted as calling, "the best road in India." Although it twisted and turned, the bitumen was the smoothest we'd come across. We counted down the eleven signposted hairpin bends and made it back into the sticky heat of the plains. The scenery changed as quickly as it had on our way into the hills and as the day progressed we were again surrounded by rice paddies, backwaters, banana plantations and coconut palms.

Before we knew it we were being welcomed back to the coast by the smell of fish. We followed the road North, wondering the whole way what everyone was doing today as all of the shops seemed to be shut. Turns out, on Sundays, locals spend their day milling around markets on main roads and generally creating chaos for tourists on Royal Enfields. We pushed our way through the traffic and made it into Bekal for sunset. All day I had been copping more stares than usual and, as we approached Bekal and the Muslims were out in force enjoying their Sunday I realised I had shorts on. My knees were showing. That'll do it.

Locals saw us looking a little lost and, thinking we could surely only be in Bekal for one reason, directed us down a winding beach road to one of the many 'resort and spas.' At $310 AUD a night, its not exactly what we were looking for. As we perused the Lonely Planet and the Internet for accommodation options we received our very first "namaste." It only took two and a half weeks.

After some quick googling, we found a cheaper place back off the beach, across the railway track and down some back streets that seemed more our style. When we finally found it, we drove past it and were called back by the lovely owner. He guided us down to the house of his forefathers which he had converted to a guesthouse when he built his own grand house 9 years ago. It was stunning.

Set on a ground of gardens and coconut palms we entered through an indoor/outdoor entertaining area complete with beautiful old wooden furnishings. Each of the rooms had been converted but, being the only guests, we had the house to ourselves. And a 'room boy.' A guy who stood outside our place all night in case we needed anything.

After showers we went into town for dinner. Our guesthouse owner suggested we eat at Bekal Palace. We knew the place. We had stopped there to ask about rooms and they had quoted us 1750 INR plus 12.5% tax. Gosh we hated that darn tax that kept popping up everywhere. We took pleasure in returning, to eat only, knowing we had paid about the same amount as they had quoted and, instead of getting a box on the main road had scored ourselves a beautiful old home for the night. We did enjoy their paneer butter masala though.

Miscellaneous observations:

Men row skinny boats loaded up with huge piles of sand to river-side construction sites. Bowls are then used to relocate the sand. Wheelbarrows are not. Wheelbarrows are however attached to motorbikes and used as trailers.

The big green road signs feel very familiar until you realise they, more often than not, provide directions and distances to temples and ashrams rather than towns and cities.

Indians can do roundabouts! It just takes traffic lights or policemen to direct traffic for it to work.

Suddenly the poor driving skills of the locals makes sense when you see a driving instructor talking on the phone while nudging the wheel of his learner driver.

The police are laid back. They tried to pull us over but, as we had already passed them, we kept going. It obviously wasn't too important as they weren't about to jump in their car and come after us.

Talking on one phone and texting on another all while riding a motorbike is a skill one should never learn.

Riding with a helmet in your lap is not the same as wearing a helmet on your head. Similarly, a construction site hard hat is not a helmet.

There are only so many chickens stuffed into so many cages piled high on so many trucks you can see before you can't bring yourself to eat chicken anymore

When Chris' honking successfully prompts an oncoming vehicle to move back into their rightful lane, Chris will fist pump the air.

Friendships between men are more openly touchy feely than any other. Holding hands, hugging, walking with arms around one another are just some of the norm.

People build beautiful houses and then, out of what looks like a fear of them getting wet, build giant corrugated iron covers that sit a couple of metres above them and cover the entire property.

In terms if people carrying capacity, a motorbike is not a car. A car is not a van. A van is not a bus. A bus is not a train. Oh, and twelve people in a Tuk Tuk is too many.

People carry loads on their head so heavy that they are unable to lift them up or down themselves.