Turns out that the place where I spent the night is atop the famed Cardamom Mountains, near the intersection of two large lineaments that, in the back of my home stay, brought some handsome coarsely-crystalline gneisses to the surface. My plan today is to ride down to the Idukki Wildlife Sanctuary, a rugged peninsula surrounded by the waters of the Kulamavu Reservoir, where some of the last Tamil tigers and herds of wild elephants are protected.
I had a good start. Last night it had rained (and now I have a great respect for wet pavement), but despite the overcast the morning was dry. I had about 50 km to go to the Idukki Wildlife Sanctuary, but again got the most complicated route to follow according to Google Maps. I think I finally figured out that to shave a minute here and a minute there it sends me through short cuts between the meanders of the main roads, which is cute in terms of seeing the country, but pretty harrowing in spots. There was a stretch that ran on bumpy bare granite, better suited to Ronnie's dirt bike than to my Yamaha and its sleek seat.
On the way I saw some beautiful forests of a tall tree with a very straight trunk, and hanging from the trunk, like beads, big duos of Jack Fruit. Inevitably I would get to an intersection where the map was unclear, so I would ask a local a very simple question, pointing to the left fork "Is this the way to Idduki Wildlife Sanctuary?" A simple yes or no question. But Indians are friendly people that don't like to give yes or no answers, and they would break into a long tirade in Tamil that probably went like this: "Bless you sir for wanting to visit the refuge. It is still a long distance away. But you will have a chance of seeing a beautiful waterfall on the way. However, you must be aware that a man-eating tiger has been seen lurking around the waterfall. May God protect you in your journey." No luck getting the answer to my yes/no question, so I just drove on unto the unknown. Many (or most) people here are Catholics or Christians, with a spattering of Jehova's Witnesses, and some other sects. They live in handsome small ranchettes, which, although somehow scattered seemed too many to share the land with elephants.
Then I reached the entrance to the sanctuary and was told by a polite but firm lady game warden that no entrance was allowed. Too bad because it is indeed an idyllic virgin forest with plenty of small streams, a pretty "water spill" over slabs of granite, and the luscious vegetation that I would like to see around me if I were an elephant. I was even hoping to see a glimpse of the man-eating tiger. After giving me the time to enjoy the surroundings, the lady game warden pointed to the road and the big misty mountains in the background, and sent me on my way.
The misty mountains ... they looked very tall and forbidding, and of course shrouded in a mist that never goes away. And here I made a big mistake, and instead of donning my poncho boldly went where no man has gone before. On top of the mountains I saw vast tea plantations, which when sunny must be a joy to behold. With the drizzle they appeared to be interminable as I climbed and climbed, while the drizzle turned into a light rain. Too late for the poncho now, and by the time I reached the mountain pass I was thoroughly wet. Then came the ride from hell, as I descended the narrow winding mountain road for 50 kilometers of slick asphalt under a torrential rain. I attempted to stop on a couple of occasions, still under the delusion that strong monsoon squalls only last 15 to 30 minutes. Nonsense. A real monsoon downpour can last for hours at a stretch. So I resumed the downward journey, shaking my head at the fools that went full speed, cutting the curves, and leaning into the curve at an angle that could have caused them to slip. I was definitely driving like Grandpa Fiddles, so it took me a long time to reach the coastal plain, and from there go another 50 km to my lodgings for the night. Fortunately the air temperature was balmy, so being wet to the bone did not seem too bad.
I was expected at my hotel, and managed to bring the bike in in the covered garage right away. And then I realized the extent to which I was drenched, from head to toes, for anywhere I stopped I left behind a puddle of water. The reception was on the third floor, and I left a wet trail from the garage, to the elevator, to the lobby, to my room. The fellow in charge was flabbergasted by this apparition of the Monster from the Green Lagoon, but made his best to make me comfortable, helped me to order dinner in my room and two tall Kingfisher Beers, and then left me to dry out on my own while he went to mop dry the trails of my passage.
The sleek seat cover of my Yamaha has turned into a big liability, because instead of being able to rest the weight of my back pack on my seat, I end bearing it on my shoulders all the time. I am bushed from the strain of the ride and the load on my shoulders :(
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