Recently, after several trips abroad, we decided to travel around the Indian state of Kerala.
Until then, we had taken it lightly while we heard tales of historic or scenic spots that were worth visiting. Now, we were placing ourselves in the hands of a tour operator and following a pre-prepared itinerary based on the time available to us, the list of places we wanted to see and the places the tour operator thought we should visit.
We had ‘foreign’ travel mates of Indian-origin with us and we secretly worried whether they would find the amenities amenable after a lifetime spent abroad. Would we get that extra bed that had been promised for the singleton among us or would we have to squeeze ourselves into the allotted accommodation as best we could? Would the roads be in a decent state of repair or would we bump along and emerge at our destination nauseous and with all our bones jarred and out of alignment? Would the vehicle and the driver stick to schedule or would we have to go by our notoriously flexible Indian timings? Would there be clean enough ‘happy’ rooms and conveniences along the highway from which we could emerge with relieved smiles or would be forced to ‘hold it’ until we reached our destination?
After a few initial hiccups, which could happen anywhere in the world (but we are more intolerant of when it is our own country), we got into the rhythm of the tour and began to appreciate everything around us.
There was fauna we had not expected to see. A completely unafraid nilgai (antelope) grazing a foot away from a crowd of noisy picnickers; no longer shy Nilgiri tahr (goat) sauntering around their preserve without a care in the world while we visitors whispered and tried not to make sudden movements; ubiquitous monkeys who thought nothing of helping themselves to a toddler’s ice-cream and hopping off, leaving him empty-handed, deprived, howling in disappointment and outrage.
It was a huge bonus that everywhere we turned everyone looked like us, dressed like us, talked like us. Even if we did not know the local language, we could get by with English and Hindi. We were not strangers in a strange place. We didn’t have to walk on eggshells wondering who and how we would offend. There were no strange customs that we had to fall in line with. We didn’t stick out like sore thumbs.
We were home.
But, at the same time, we were in a very different land from all the areas we had seen in our travels around our country. Because, from the moment we crossed the state border and entered into Kerala, there was an amazing abundance of greenery.
If we looked about at ground level, there was brown and green – coconut palms, rubber trees, bamboo, teak, sal, all manner of creepers and shrubs — and when we climbed into the hills, the never-ending tea plantations dotted with eucalyptus, silver oak, silky oak ...
If we looked upward from the valleys, there were ‘broccoli’ hills: Hills so completely covered with foliage that they looked like a giant’s never-ending broccoli patch.
If we looked down from a high rise building or from the top of a hill, all we could see was green. Fern green, moss green, mint green, paddy green, sap green, bottle green, emerald green, tea green, teal green: You name the shade of green, it was around somewhere.
Like all other tourists, we clicked photographs from every angle — and of course evidence of ‘God’s green country’ got in everywhere.
Sometimes, I guess the grass is greener on our side of the fence.
Cheryl Rao is a freelance journalist based in India.