Vilpatty
So, I realize that I haven’t updated in quite some time. I started to make a list of things I should cover in my blog, and it went like this: “Vilpatty hike, Harvest Festival, School Drama? [as in ridiculous staff politics, not performing arts], Travel Plans, Base of Rattail Hike, end of semester?, next semester?”
Clearly this is too much to cover in one blog, and highlights two essential flaws in your esteemed author: 1, tries to do everything, 2, intense procrastination.
ERGO I SHALL RESORT TO THE SUMMARY, a skill I have not quite mastered.
[Edited to add: in fact, I am incapable of summarizing, and so this entry contains only an account of the Vilpatty Hike. Sorry.
1. Vilpatty Hike. This was incredible. It was the last hike I needed to get my Tahr Pin, and the last hike of the semester. I almost didn’t go; there’s a conditioning hike at the very beginning of next semester before Tahr Camp that can count as your last hike, but BB had cautioned me that in the past, kids have left their last hike for the spring semester and then injured themselves over the holiday, leaving them broken of both heart and ankle. So, I went.
Vilpatty is a “C” hike, and one of the rare higher-level hikes that goes there and back along exactly the same route. The route leads from the school, to the popular Dolphin’s Nose viewpoint, and then down a steep mountainside path through thick forest to the village of Vilpatty. The village is accessible ONLY by said path, and perches lonesome among brooding cliffs and verdant mist-clad slopes. We set out on a cloudy, ominous morning and walked down the endless path to the village, a thin, leaky water pipe running alongside and weakly spitting water at us every once in awhile. The pipe had been laid by KIS students on a So-Ex mission, long ago. It was a strange reminder of the age of the school and the endurance of their service missions. How much has the pipe helped? Did it leak from the first day; did the students do a good job? Was it – as I suspect of many such efforts of good will – futile from the beginning?
I was still musing on the pipe as it snaked around the last corner and arrived at its destination: the village. Half-shrouded in mist, emerging from layers of foliage and fog, hidden by mountains, protected by the fortress of its inaccessibility. It was a brave, huddled mass of roofs nestled between imposing peaks; higher than the warm, fertile valleys, lower than the lofty hill stations. In-between. Visible on a clear day, but impossible to reach. Easier by far to shout across that breathless gap of air than to trek down the long path and enter the small meeting of houses. But we were there! We’d made that journey, along with pack animals and men and women carrying stones or good news. We were there.
A shrine on our right and a huge tree on our left heralded the entrance of the village, and we paused on some large rocks before going in, looking at the thin bridge that led into the settlement. A woman and her two children wandered out to fetch water from the stream. Beyond them, a flat stone courtyard with coffee beans laid out to dry in the sun; black in their stiff pods, a surprising white when shelled. I didn’t know that coffee beans were white before they roasted.
Eventually we ventured in. True; people go in and out every day, for the path is not so long, and after all, there are many villages that have no road leading to them. But Vilpatty was the first place I’d ever been to that wasn’t accessible by vehicle – not even the toughest 4-wheel-drive could have made it down that steep, rocky, treacherous path. I suppose a helicopter could make it, but even that would have nowhere to land. Everything is grown tall with forest. I held my breath as we entered, the damp stone and cement dripping with mist, the shells of coffee beans scattered on the narrow alleyways. No roads here; no broad gates to welcome carts or cars. Just twisting passages between low houses, built up on cement platforms with squat little doors. The village was surprisingly quiet, just a few children and dogs, and some silent adults sitting in doorways. We walked cautiously, caught in the breathless hush of entering a different world.
As we approached a small temple, a woman popped out of a hidden corridor and gestured wildly, speaking in Tamil, and conveyed that she would like to offer us some coffee. After a lot of confusion, we understood that we were to follow her, so we threaded single-file through a gap between two low-walled courtyards, turned a corner into a passage so thin that our largest group member had to turn sideways to get through, and emerged into a courtyard hemmed in completely by houses, halfway roofed by scraps of wood and corrugated tin, with four children and a rooster running around. She set out chairs for us and we sat as she began to prepare the coffee. We all took turns grinding: in one corner of the courtyard there was a stone cone set into the ground, into which the coffee beans were poured; then a huge wooden pestle about four feet tall was used to mash the beans into the bottom of the cone, grinding them to appropriate fineness. She shook the grounds through a large sieve and then took them into the dark cave of a kitchen to brew the coffee. Rain fell gently, and the rooster shuttled back and forth across the space with a mad excitement, as the children sat shyly in the doorway and watched us. One child, who must have been no older than 7, was in charge of a tiny baby, wise-eyed and adorned with anklets and bracelets, though bare-bottomed.
When she brought us the coffee, it was incredible – black and strong, liberally sweetened, and steaming furiously in the cool misty air. It tasted clear, untainted and somehow more organic than any other coffee I’d ever had; simply, it tasted like something that came from a bush. It didn’t taste like a product, it tasted like a delicious plant, the same way mint tea tastes when you pick the leaves from your garden. It was good, a good plant, a good bean. It was ten thirty in the morning and we were having the best morning coffee of our lives. It was good, watching the mist flow overhead, and the sharp reflective drops of water fall from the troughs of the corrugated roofing, hearing the barely-audible sigh of the breeze and the whisper of soft rain on the houses, breathing in the dark clarity of the coffee and the smell of damp dirt.
After we'd finished the coffee and exhausted our collective broken Tamil and English (about 10 words between all of us, sadly) it was time to move on, and we wound our way out of the village, the children following us. We walked back up the mountain (a seriously intense uphill climb! Unrelenting!) and reentered the touristy bustle of Dolphin’s Nose, the eerie serenity of Vilpatty already a surreal receding memory. Lunch with a view of mist and more mist, and then the trek back to school, slogging through a torrential downpour. I’d like to go back to that village sometime; visitors are understandably rare, so there was no stigma of the irritating Western tourist, nor the bloodthirsty attention of locals who make a living off of scamming tourists. They were simply happy to see us, and happy to offer us their coffee on a pristine Saturday morning.
Next up: um, hopefully SOMETHING before I head off travelling.
Clearly this is too much to cover in one blog, and highlights two essential flaws in your esteemed author: 1, tries to do everything, 2, intense procrastination.
ERGO I SHALL RESORT TO THE SUMMARY, a skill I have not quite mastered.
[Edited to add: in fact, I am incapable of summarizing, and so this entry contains only an account of the Vilpatty Hike. Sorry.
1. Vilpatty Hike. This was incredible. It was the last hike I needed to get my Tahr Pin, and the last hike of the semester. I almost didn’t go; there’s a conditioning hike at the very beginning of next semester before Tahr Camp that can count as your last hike, but BB had cautioned me that in the past, kids have left their last hike for the spring semester and then injured themselves over the holiday, leaving them broken of both heart and ankle. So, I went.
Vilpatty is a “C” hike, and one of the rare higher-level hikes that goes there and back along exactly the same route. The route leads from the school, to the popular Dolphin’s Nose viewpoint, and then down a steep mountainside path through thick forest to the village of Vilpatty. The village is accessible ONLY by said path, and perches lonesome among brooding cliffs and verdant mist-clad slopes. We set out on a cloudy, ominous morning and walked down the endless path to the village, a thin, leaky water pipe running alongside and weakly spitting water at us every once in awhile. The pipe had been laid by KIS students on a So-Ex mission, long ago. It was a strange reminder of the age of the school and the endurance of their service missions. How much has the pipe helped? Did it leak from the first day; did the students do a good job? Was it – as I suspect of many such efforts of good will – futile from the beginning?
I was still musing on the pipe as it snaked around the last corner and arrived at its destination: the village. Half-shrouded in mist, emerging from layers of foliage and fog, hidden by mountains, protected by the fortress of its inaccessibility. It was a brave, huddled mass of roofs nestled between imposing peaks; higher than the warm, fertile valleys, lower than the lofty hill stations. In-between. Visible on a clear day, but impossible to reach. Easier by far to shout across that breathless gap of air than to trek down the long path and enter the small meeting of houses. But we were there! We’d made that journey, along with pack animals and men and women carrying stones or good news. We were there.
A shrine on our right and a huge tree on our left heralded the entrance of the village, and we paused on some large rocks before going in, looking at the thin bridge that led into the settlement. A woman and her two children wandered out to fetch water from the stream. Beyond them, a flat stone courtyard with coffee beans laid out to dry in the sun; black in their stiff pods, a surprising white when shelled. I didn’t know that coffee beans were white before they roasted.
Eventually we ventured in. True; people go in and out every day, for the path is not so long, and after all, there are many villages that have no road leading to them. But Vilpatty was the first place I’d ever been to that wasn’t accessible by vehicle – not even the toughest 4-wheel-drive could have made it down that steep, rocky, treacherous path. I suppose a helicopter could make it, but even that would have nowhere to land. Everything is grown tall with forest. I held my breath as we entered, the damp stone and cement dripping with mist, the shells of coffee beans scattered on the narrow alleyways. No roads here; no broad gates to welcome carts or cars. Just twisting passages between low houses, built up on cement platforms with squat little doors. The village was surprisingly quiet, just a few children and dogs, and some silent adults sitting in doorways. We walked cautiously, caught in the breathless hush of entering a different world.
As we approached a small temple, a woman popped out of a hidden corridor and gestured wildly, speaking in Tamil, and conveyed that she would like to offer us some coffee. After a lot of confusion, we understood that we were to follow her, so we threaded single-file through a gap between two low-walled courtyards, turned a corner into a passage so thin that our largest group member had to turn sideways to get through, and emerged into a courtyard hemmed in completely by houses, halfway roofed by scraps of wood and corrugated tin, with four children and a rooster running around. She set out chairs for us and we sat as she began to prepare the coffee. We all took turns grinding: in one corner of the courtyard there was a stone cone set into the ground, into which the coffee beans were poured; then a huge wooden pestle about four feet tall was used to mash the beans into the bottom of the cone, grinding them to appropriate fineness. She shook the grounds through a large sieve and then took them into the dark cave of a kitchen to brew the coffee. Rain fell gently, and the rooster shuttled back and forth across the space with a mad excitement, as the children sat shyly in the doorway and watched us. One child, who must have been no older than 7, was in charge of a tiny baby, wise-eyed and adorned with anklets and bracelets, though bare-bottomed.
When she brought us the coffee, it was incredible – black and strong, liberally sweetened, and steaming furiously in the cool misty air. It tasted clear, untainted and somehow more organic than any other coffee I’d ever had; simply, it tasted like something that came from a bush. It didn’t taste like a product, it tasted like a delicious plant, the same way mint tea tastes when you pick the leaves from your garden. It was good, a good plant, a good bean. It was ten thirty in the morning and we were having the best morning coffee of our lives. It was good, watching the mist flow overhead, and the sharp reflective drops of water fall from the troughs of the corrugated roofing, hearing the barely-audible sigh of the breeze and the whisper of soft rain on the houses, breathing in the dark clarity of the coffee and the smell of damp dirt.
After we'd finished the coffee and exhausted our collective broken Tamil and English (about 10 words between all of us, sadly) it was time to move on, and we wound our way out of the village, the children following us. We walked back up the mountain (a seriously intense uphill climb! Unrelenting!) and reentered the touristy bustle of Dolphin’s Nose, the eerie serenity of Vilpatty already a surreal receding memory. Lunch with a view of mist and more mist, and then the trek back to school, slogging through a torrential downpour. I’d like to go back to that village sometime; visitors are understandably rare, so there was no stigma of the irritating Western tourist, nor the bloodthirsty attention of locals who make a living off of scamming tourists. They were simply happy to see us, and happy to offer us their coffee on a pristine Saturday morning.
Next up: um, hopefully SOMETHING before I head off travelling.
posted by Jenn at
4:55 PM
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