After another long bus ride from Trichy, passing some wonderful landscapes and huge rock formations on which the locals had thoughtfully painted adverts for tea bags and soap powder, I arrived in the city of
Unfortunately it was still an Indian hotel. My sheets were fairly shoddy (and never actually got changed, despite my requests and baksheesh), the fan had a death rattle and the speed control was stuck on gale force, there were millions of little red ants everywhere who delivered a particularly irritating bite, and the hot water was only hot when it felt like it (which was not a crisis in the tropical heat, but I wanted my money's worth). And even when you book into a mid-range hotel, you don't get away from Indian intrusions: one of the things that really bugs me about Indian hotels is that you will never get an uninterrupted lie in, because at some stage in the early morning (between 7 and 8.30am usually) there will be a knock at the door, and not your usual discreet knock, more a battering. Sometimes, if you ignore it, it goes away; sometimes it's accompanied by the cry of 'Chai! Kaafi!' and you can yell back a 'No thanks you bastard' for a bit of peace; but my experience in the Hotel Aarathy was fairly unique and not a little confusing, if only because the rooms were equipped with phones which could have been used to call up the services on offer if I had been interested in a morning tea.
My door buzzer went off at 8.30am, which the Indians consider to be halfway through the day (after all, when you don't have a television, bars are taboo and you can hardly afford electricity, what else is there to do at night except turn in early and, maybe, try to increase the population?). I ignored it, and it buzzed again. Realising my slumber was irreparably shattered, I slipped on my sarong and stuck my head round the door. 'Yes, what?' I asked rather brusquely, hair sticking out like a briar bush.
'This is the laundry man,' said one of the two men standing in the corridor, indicating his companion. 'He's been here since six o'clock,' he continued, obviously assuming that this would clarify matters. I must have looked pretty blank, because he pointed at the man behind him again and said, 'Laundry man.'
Perhaps this was my clean sheet, at last, but I wasn't interested. 'No thanks, no laundry,' I said and closed the door in their faces, infuriated that my relaxing start to the day had been shattered. I checked out later that day and moved into a place that was less than half the price: it still had a hurricane fan but this time there were no ants. It didn't have MTV either, but one night of Indian pop was enough to cure my TV-blues for some time.
I also bumped into Howard again and checked out
And all the while, the election was creating havoc across the country. A total of 48 people died in Coimbatore (in western Tamil Nadu) in various weekend explosions and arrests, and I thanked my stars that due to the staggered polling system (implemented so the security forces could travel around the country to police the voting without being too spread out) meant Madurai wasn't voting until the next weekend. I would still be in a voting area then, though...
Return Visit to Madurai
Arriving back in
But where Kodai had a dry coolness that only the mountains can provide,
2 comments:
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