A getaway was long overdue. Google and tripadvisor were
raped for budget-friendly ideas and visions of serenity ensued; sipping tea on
a hilltop and enjoying much-needed rest
over a good book. This trip would feature
peace, tranquillity and endless sleep, lulled by the soft winds of the emerald
hills, waited on by some culinary genius of an Appu at a plush boutique
hideaway.
“I’m going on a holiday to the hills, who wants to join me?”
said the Whatsapp message to friends, to which immediate positive replies were received.
“Yes, let’s! Shall we hike on Knuckles?”
Wait, what? Hike on Knuckles? As in, walk one’s toes off in
leech-infested mud and grime and weather the monsoon madness? Who is their
right minds would want to do something so vile when they could be toastily
nesting in a cloud of quilts next to a fireplace instead? There was no way in
hell that this holiday would be ruined by a hike.
“Ok”.
Sometimes, we holiday planners are wimps when it comes to
being decisive. If hiking was the only way to have company, then it would have
to happen. Perhaps after about 15 minutes of a brisk walk amongst the tea bushes
we could go back to basking in the dream holiday. And so bags were packed,
leech socks procured (you wouldn’t believe how Godsent these are) and we were
off, singing ‘the hills are aliiiiive’ in the car, all the way to a budget
bungalow at the foot of the Knuckles range (the boutique hotel prices, it
turned out, had to remain filed under ‘dream’).
“I have a something special planned” announced the trip’s
adventurous itinerary planner, along the way. How apt a description for the
detour she had in store, at the end of a ride deep into no man’s land. It began
with a suspended bridge over Bambarakiri ella that seemed to have been taken
straight out of a movie, followed by being literally ‘blown away’ atop the
breathtaking Mini World’s End, and ended with perhaps the most phenomenal
waterfall experience at the magical Sera Ella. If creeping behind the fall
itself and being mesmerized by the cascading sheet of water wasn’t treat
enough, swimming in the pristine waters below it just took the day to Fantasy
Island levels. Perhaps the hike to come would not be as bad as assumed, if this
was the kind of delight on offer. Trepidation turned to happy hope.
The next day, we set off in the wee hours for the rocky
range, picking our guide up on the way- a tiny sprite of a man named Raja who
looked like he couldn’t say boo to a goose and carried nothing but a worryingly
evil-looking knife, as opposed to the rest of the group all kitted out like
they were auditioning for Survivor. In no time at all, the charm of the
previous day’s activities vanished. A hike on the Knuckles range is anything
but a walk in the park, especially if one is a middle-aged cat lady who has
never seen the inside of a gym. After 7 hours of climbing up slippery rocks at
the pace of a snail’s grandmother, screaming filth at the mobs of leeches that
appeared out of nowhere with every step, 2 and a half hours of being left
behind in the heart of the forest next to leopard kill while the rest climbed on
to the peak (because yours truly busted her knee) and earning tree-frog like Raja’s
disdain, the hike was complete and legs wobbling like jellyfish. But dare I say
the achievement felt glorious, and the views along the way spectacular. A truly
spiritual encounter, in more ways than one.
The holiday had turned into something very different to what
was originally anticipated, but a memorable one nonetheless. However next time,
tea and quilts it is, without leeches.
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