I woke early to catch the 8:00 ferry to the mainland in hopes of reaching the bus station for the 8:50 bus. As I packed my bag in a hurry, I didn’t distribute the weight very well and so it was difficult to manage from guest house to ferry to bus. It had also rained the previous night and was raining on and off in the morning so I had to figure out how to wrap the duffle over my bag to protect the blanket and towel I carry on the outside from the weather and still manage to carry it like a backpack. Within the first five minutes on my way to the ferry I questioned my decision to wear nice clean clothes for my onward trip. The humidity triggered lots of perspiration and I realized that my bag was going to get dirty throughout the day and so would my clothes. I am not sure what I was thinking.
The journey to the bus stand went smooth and I arrived by 8:30, approached the man at the inquiry counter about the bus I had been informed about and our conversation went as follows:
Me: Hello. Where will I find the Tamil Nadu Government Bus to take to Kumily?
Bus Man: This is Kerala Bus Station. You can take the Kerala Bus to Kothamangalam then transfer to Kumily bus.
Me: I was told that there is a Tamil Nadu Government Bus that goes direct to Kumily at 8:50.
Bus Man: This is Kerala bus stand. Tamil Nadu bus other side. He gave a sweeping gesture with his arm.
Me: Where is other side? Is it at a different bus stand?
Bus Man: Other side, other side. He spoke with one of his attendants and directed the man to take me to the bus parked in front of the toilet.
I waited patiently under the sweltering sun for a uniformed man to appear and unlock the door of the Tamil Nadu Government bus. Finally at 9:30 an official looking man passed by and I stopped him.
Me: Can you help me? I have been waiting for the Tamil Nadu Bus for one hour and no one has arrived.
Bus Man 2: Bus is on other side. You should ask in the Tamil Nadu Information Office inside.
Me: There is an information office inside? Can you show me where it is? He led the way as I hobbled along with my bag which I had now completely converted into a duffle.
At Tamil Nadu Information:
Me: Excuse me. I think I might be too late. I was told to wait on the other side for the Tamil Nadu Government Bus at 8:50 and now it is 9:30.
Tamil Nadu Agent: Bus left at eight fity from this side.
Me: I don’t understand why the Kerala attendant would have me wait on the wrong side. I have been here for over an hour.
TNA: Bus left one hour twenty minutes ago: eight fity, eight fity.
Me: Eight, one, five? Not eight, five, zero?
TNA: Yes, eight one five, eight fity.
Me: Okay then, when is the next bus?
TNA: Eight thirty.
Me: eight three zero?
TNA: Yes madam, evening time.
Me: Do you know if there are any other buses to Kumily?
TNA: Ask Kerala Information.
Me: Okay thank you.
I made my way back to the Kerala Transportation Inquiry window.
Me: Hello again, Do you remember me? He nodded. You had me wait over there for the Tamil Nadu bus. You know there is a Tamil Nadu Transportation Office in this building right?
Bus Man: You asked about the bus, not the office. He was correct. I neglected to ask all the pertinent questions, every last one.
Me: Well, the bus left from the other side (I gestured in the opposite direction from where he had sent me) at eight fifteen.
Bus Man: You came here at eight thirty madam and asked about the Tamil Nadu bus. Morning bus leaves at eight fity from that side, evening bus leaves from this side. You come at eight thirty to ask about bus. His voice began to rise as his arms swung from left then right. We were starting to draw an audience of onlookers.
Me: Why didn’t reveal any of this information before? I knew exactly why- because I didn’t ask the right questions, but he clearly knew where this conversation was headed so I thought I would stoke it a little but more.
BG: You asked about Tamil Nadu Bus.
Me: Well, I need to get to Kumily soon. Do you have any suggestions?
BG: Kerala Government Bus to Kumily at ten fity.
Me: Ten-one-five or ten-five-zero?
BG: Ten-fide-ziro. Bus comes at ten forty here, leaves at ten fity. I looked at my watch that was about an hour away.
Me: How do I know which bus, I cannot read Malayalam.
BG: Sign on bus. Kumily sign English.
Me: Okay, thank you. Eight fifty.
BG: Eight fity, eight fity.
I sat down on my duffle near the Inquiry window with a view of the high traffic area of buses. Every ten to fifteen minutes the place would swell with passengers, buses would begin to come in from both directions at high speeds, stop then reverse into a narrow parking spot at an equally high speed. Several times there was a major pile up as two buses were trying to leave and another one or two attempting to park. Each driver would sound his horn to assume dominance over the situation then a bunch of official men with plastic whistles would run out of the office and wave their arms. With each departure a bus would sound its horn and the ticket agent on the bus would call out the destination. Passengers would run from the platform to the bus and jump on as it slowly pulled away. At ten forty I double checked with the main agent at the inquiry window who said he would let me know when my bus had arrived. Every five or so minute I would catch his eye and he would wave a finger indicating a minute or two longer. At 11:20 I caught another bus employee and asked him to check the status on my bus. He returned with news that the 10:50 bus was not ready (I was under the impression from before that it was supposed to arrive from elsewhere) and the next bus would leave at 11:40.
I could not take standing in the bus station for a moment longer and asked if there was any other possible route to get there, remembering that the main bus man had mentioned something about transferring earlier. He pointed to a bus and I picked up my duffle and ran across the pavement, happy to finally be boarding a bus.
The driver out of Kochi was a horn enthusiast especially through the thick traffic leaving the city and I asked myself why I hadn’t thought to jump on any bus going the general direction earlier – probably a little fear of winding up in a place at dark with no lodging. An hour and a half later I was dropped at another bustling bus station in Kothamangalam, this time with no one manning the inquiry counter. Some man near the counter asked me where I was headed and then began to ask the regular round of questions any traveler gets around India: From which country, where are you going, where are you coming from, your good name, where in US, etc. I tend to prefer relying on the aid of women so I made my way to a small group and asked if they spoke English. They shyly turned away and I looked up to spot a bright green, relatively new bus with a sign indicating Munnar as its final destination. I remembered reading about Munnar in LP and that I could catch a bus from Munnar to Kumily (if I had only thought of this earlier). I ran across the roadway and boarded the bus.
I was seated in the front section of the bus which is designated for women, next to a pleasant young pharmacist named Hima who was on her way to work. The drive to Munnar was picturesque and became breathtaking as we began to climb into the Ghats. The road went past coffee and spice plantations, tea estates were higher in the hills. The driver applied frequent use of his horn as well though he had four or five different types of horns to choose from. For a while I tried to figure out if there was a system to the horns, one to announce ‘you-yield to me!’ or one to announce ‘I am overtaking you’ both actions he assumed regularly. There were a few close encounters with the brush on the side of the road but he was quite accomplished in his driving technique and a little past 5 I arrived safe and sound in Munnar.
An auto-rickshaw driver greeted me at the door and I mentioned the name of a guest house I would like to look at. It was further up the hill and overlooked the town below. It was a scary looking building- a perfect set for a horror movie with walls falling down on one side. I went up the crooked path and at the fork in the road there was a sign for a cemetery to the right, guest house to the left. The ground outside the entrance resembled a junkyard and I already knew that I was not going to stay the night there but since we had come up the hill I might as well look at the room he had available. He led me down a path to what he called a cottage though it was really a shack – the ‘cheap room, only 200 rupees’. There were five beds in the room and though the floor was clean nothing else was. The toilet was outside and there was no shower. I explained to him that it had been a very long day and I was looking for a more comfortable place and a hot shower. He offered to bring a bucket of hot water but I politely declined. Poor old place – in a building that once housed a dozen or so rooms only three were in working condition to be rented out. The rest were ‘broke’ he explained.
We went back down the hill and I spotted a bright pink building called J.J.’s cottage. I decided to have a look inside and it was just what I was looking for with a real bed, warm blankets and all. I had a hot meal, a hot shower and watched a crappy movie on the TV while slowly sipping a Kingfisher.
