11/16/2006 Ooty, Tamil Nadu, India

The Artful Dodger is alive, well, and living in Mysore. And vacationing in Ooty.

The streets are full of folks relentlessly vying for your attention and wallet. In Mysore, flautists walk with you for blocks, punctuating their campaign for your rupees with the sweet songs of their wares. Children run up to you, ask your name, where you are from, and then, "...ten rupees?" Auto-rickshaw drivers cruise along beside you offering rides. Few accept your initial “no thank you” nor “no, sorry.”

And beware the bright, dapper young man who wants to help you with anything.

As we walked up the block to the maharajah’s palace in Mysore, one such friendly fellow approached us with the usual name/where you from/how long in India/ where you going repartee, then tried to divert us to some shops down the road, saying that the palace had closed for the day. This being a ploy we had read about, we said we would continue around back to the ticket office and check it out. He left us for a spell, then returned with the same story, come with me, the palace is closed, etc. Of course, when we got there, the palace was open and we went in. (And it was epic!)

At the top of Chamundi Hill in Mysore sits a popular temple honoring, natch, Chamundi, a deity favorite of the maharajah’s. This temple is frequented mostly by Indians and the occasional tourist (that would be us). As we walked up to the temple and began stuffing our shoes into our daypack, two young men intercepted us and instructed us to leave our shoes at the shoe check--inside the bag wouldn't do. (We prefer the backpack approach to avoid line hassles--another story.) So being good non-citizens, we went to the shoe check along with everyone else. Unlike for everyone else, along with our claim check we were handed a sandalwood statue, a packet of saffron? red paint?, and a small bouquet of freesias. I tried to hand the goods back to the attendant, but he was insistent. "No, offering, you must take this to the temple." Since it seemed everyone but us had brought their own offering or bought one from the myriad of vendors down the road, I took the offering and we went into the temple. My d'oh! moment came some time later, as it hit me that I should have asked him how much it would cost. Of course then when we went to claim our shoes he wanted 100 rupees, and when we complained that no one had told us there would be a charge, he pointed across the road to a "clearly posted" sign in Dravidian script. We argued our case for a short time, with him and the other two "temple workers," then forked over the 100 rupees. If we had to be fleeced, at least it was only for ~$2 US.

As we made our way down the 1000 steps to the valley, sadhus at their shrines also demanded money. One pulled me over, "blessed" me with a thumbprint of red powder on my forehead, then held out his plate.

[Mom, close your eyes here. You too, Mel.]

After walking up and down the main drag one night in Ooty, searching for The Sidewalk Cafe, Eric pulled out our trusty Lonely Planet India book, and yet another incarnation of the dapper Dodger popped over, chatted amiably for a bit, then was excited to help us find our restaurant. He pointed out that the landmark we thought we had found, Charing Cross, was actually a few blocks down, so we followed him to the correct Charing Cross intersection. On the other side of the roundabout the road forked, and he led us up the left side of the fork, up a hill. After a couple hundred feet, exuding great confidence that we were on our way, he waved us on, turned around, and walked away. The few businesses on the road petered out a short way ahead, and--did I mention it was dark?--the rest of the road wound about the hill. We passed a body in the fetal position, hopefully sleeping, in the dirt on the other side of the road. "This could be bad," I said, Eric agreed, and we hiked it back down the road, onto the main drag, up the right side of the fork, and into the restaurant. Was this guy confused? Was he playing with us? Were there thugs waiting in the wings?

[Okay you can open your eyes now.]

Part of what keeps us from becoming jaded is that for each Artful (and Not So Artful) Dodger, we also encounter young men who really do help strangers, people who want a picture with you, students and teachers who want to practice their English with you, and schoolgirls who shyly smile, say hello, ask your name and tell you theirs, and shake your hand. To close our hearts and refuse all but the sanitized version of tourism would make us two more ugly Americans, besides being the antithesis of why we are here, which is to experience a lot and participate in our hosting countries. So we try to learn whatever we are supposed to learn from each episode, and enjoy the story as we go on.

The bus ride from Mysore to Ooty was 5.5 dusty, bumpy hours in the back of an old government-run bus. While a Charles Bronson-type Bollywood movie played at the front of the bus and in our ears, the stories outside our windows were plenty to interest us for the duration of the trip.

Inside a fenced churchyard, a robed priest and a man in plain clothes sat together on the steps in front of the church, the priest’s right hand pressed against the man’s forehead, perhaps in ablution of the man’s sins, perhaps in blessing.

Rows and rows of shops ran along the road, with all kinds of wares, including bins of grains, chilies, fruits, and vegetables, herbal remedies, pharmaceuticals, clothing, and fresh fruit drinks, and people (mostly men) doing business and socializing.

Cows are given free reign on the road; all honking stops and people and vehicles move around them. We also saw pigs, dogs, goats, and monkeys along the way.

The verdant countryside was refreshing after so much city life, and included rice and cane fields along with more tropical foliage and eucalyptus trees. The ride continued up into the hills and through a national park and animal refuge, then through sporadic towns and up the hill into Ooty.

Yesterday we walked to the Ooty Botanical Garden. Like the countryside, it was a refreshing break from the town, with large lawns, winding walkways, lots of flowers, families on strolls, and teenagers seeking out the outer reaches of the garden. We sat on a bench overlooking most of the garden, and became an attraction in ourselves. First off, one man handed his camera to his wife and asked to take a picture with Eric, the Big White Guy. The man sat very erect and stately for the picture, then we had a shot with his wife, baby (named Fida), and me. Then a teacher from the college of agriculture and commerce walked up with some of his students so they all could practice speaking English with us.

Then a bunch of middle-school-age boys and girls came by, and we took pictures with both our cameras with the boys. The girls shyly shook our hands, exchanged names, and giggled.

We plan to stay in Ooty another day, to visit the tea plantation. Then we are heading south into Kerala~ we’re still working on the details on that.