Thursday 25 October 2012

The Angel of Munnar

Munnar is a tiny hill station which lies at the border of Kerala & Tamilnadu. What with the beautiful weather - never above 20 degree celscious - & fertile hill soil the British identified it as an ideal place for tea plantations. Even today the plantations stand, some in bad repair, some state owned & some still in private owner ship. Most of the infrastructure was put in by the British in the late 1800s, roads & bungalows & post offices....

In the past decade or so tourism picked up & Munnar became one of the hotspots for the Indian tourist. Amenities for tourism were set up, most with little thought to design or environment and the landscape of Munnar changed for ever, for much worse.It is the story of most Indian hill stations, only in the case of Munnar it happened much later, by when we should already have learned from the past.

The road to Munnar offers so many fascinating views one can not resist taking pictures. The taxi driver, Mani was more than willing to stop frequently. He even pointed out many sights I would have missed otherwise. We reached Munnar late, too late to see  places  outside the town.  So I decided to walk around the town a bit.Mani offered to get food for dinner at  the bungalow where the stay was booked.

Nothing could be seen from the road, concrete buildings ensured it. May be the irritated nature forced them to wear ugly  tin sheets over their roofs. Peeping through a gap in the row of buildings,the old church on the hilltop looked most becoming. The winding road to the church, passed near the  the vicarage. "money,money, money......." the hit tune by ABBA could be heard from far. 'The vicar likes the song' I mused,  listening closely it turned out to be a Tamil devotional song, probably composed by him.
image courtesy : http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/john-hoppner
Inside the church the choir practiced English hymns about the love of God. Their faces seemed to be wearing an 'Outsiders not welcome' sign. I stood for a for a few minutes while the interiors of the church told my heart, stories of the lives and dreams of the old British planters.
Out side, in the grave yard, the latest joint free ceramic tiles covered the graves. Arokkya Swamy, the late supervisor  was a great man. The tiles on his grave was sufficient to clad the walls of four large bath rooms
I walked up the hill. At its summit lay Eleanor