Wet, cold, horrible, frustrating Ooty

Tuesday 12th Nov

Today was a "getting shit done" day, and we were soon frustrated by Tamil Nadu's attitude to this.

We had been trying to dedicate a day to sorting stuff out for ages, but we’d been so jam-packed with exciting things to see and do that it had been tricky. We woke up to a cold, dull day and decided that trekking and boating were off the agenda, and doing jobs was on.

We popped out for a cheap and cheerful breakfast. It’s now officially been decided, after sampling them a couple of times, that idly is not for us. These weird, spongy, bland cakey things, which you dunk into watery dhal, are just gross. We’ve noticed that you do have to persevere with food here—it varies so much from place to place, and things that we at first didn’t like, we tried in another spot and fell in love with. Idly, however, is out. Nowhere, no how, could these things become a tasty snack.

The chai and coffee were excellent, and the paratha was a delight, leading to an all-around pretty successful breakfast for 55p (total for two).

Back at the hotel—which we noticed had been built on a hill with seriously sloping everything—we tried to start our "doing day" by connecting to their WiFi. This was the main reason we’d chosen this hotel, as at 700 rupees it was at the higher end of our budget.

This was not a simple task. After entering the unnecessarily long code numerous times without joy, we did get connected but were redirected to a login page that wouldn’t load. After forcefully explaining that there was a problem with their WiFi, they eventually checked and realized that we were, in fact, correct. Jamie soon utilized his IT support skills and helped them try to fix the issue. With the source of the problem being a complete mystery and looking unsolvable, we decided to pack our bags and move on. Staying another night at the high end of our budget without any added extras would be a waste of money—and now we had internet cafes to pay for.

I’d taken a little scout to check out the YWCA, and it looked super cool and cheap. I put on my backpack—my big one, which I haven’t been able to lift since the op (although the doc said I only needed to wait four weeks, I thought it better to be safe and wait six). It felt good to have the freedom to carry my own stuff again. It’s been hard for Jamie, having to lug both our packs around. Plus, I always got glared at like I’m some kind of lazy, weak little posh girl who makes my man carry my bags, and I hated that.

At the YWCA, we walked into our quaint room. Old, retro furniture decorated this big lodging. The huge double bed had a pretty bedspread covering it with a cozy blanket underneath, and in the corner was an old iron fire. Our bathroom was located just across the hallway but was all ours. We even had a little padlock on it.

Super happy with our choice and feeling a new positivity about Ooty, we left for the train station via De Santosh to collect the travel pillow I’d neglected to pack. Still no WiFi—excellent choices made this morning.

At the train station, the counter we needed was closed, so we wandered through town to get a SIM card. With the claim for my op hopefully starting soon, we’d need to be contactable. It would also make our lives easier for calling up hotels to make reservations when we didn’t have WiFi.

We’d been told that we needed a photocopy of our passport, a passport-sized photo, and a contact in India who could vouch for us. We gained all of these things en route, but in the Vodafone shop (which we visited yesterday to establish what we needed), we were told it was not possible. We needed proof of address in the UK on our passport. But addresses are not on UK passports. Jamie found a copy of a paycheck with our address on it, but we were told it had to have a government stamp.

Beyond frustrated that we’d come fully equipped with everything we were told we needed and unable to supply a UK passport with an address as such a thing doesn’t exist, we tried to explain the situation and find a suitable outcome. To this, the man just continued to repeat that he needed a passport with an address, seemingly unaware of how impossible this actually was.

Before bones were broken, we made a hasty exit and tried the Aircel shop. They were much more accommodating and handed over a SIM. However, we are still waiting for this to be activated and may need to reattempt this mission in Cochin.

Next, we tried to find a cafe with WiFi. This was an immediate fail, so we made our way back to the train station. The woman at the desk was pretty unhelpful. She told us all the trains were full and that the only way to get a train was to get a bus to Coimbatore and a train from there—but they were full for tomorrow.

I asked if they were available for the next day, and without checking, she said full. Full all week. And she couldn’t book for us; we had to book in Coimbatore. Then she told us we could get a nice AC coach direct and pointed to the bus station.

At the bus station, there was no direct coach to Cochin, AC or otherwise.

We walked up through town, tired, deflated, and hungry. It started to rain. Cold, horrible, English rain. Spotting a crisp street food stall we’d clocked earlier, we went over to check out the offerings.

There was a lady cooking up fresh crisps in a huge pan of boiling oil and then sifting them out into a huge container. Jamie spotted some that looked like Skips, and we were both keen. Being India, nothing is ever what you expect, so I asked if I could try one before we bought some to check they weren’t disgusting. The woman looked me up and down with a disgusted look and said no.

With our tempers being seriously stretched, we stropped off to head to Kebab Corner for some real grub.

In this strange, cafe-esque kebab shop, we’d picked our meal and were mid-order when a harem of Indian transvestites strutted in. On their way through the restaurant, one grabbed Jamie’s muscles, and another gave me a rather manly and uncomfortable embrace. After an interaction with the manager, they came back in our direction and started squeezing our cheeks and asking for money before the waiter told them quite politely to leave.

We’d seen this group yesterday when we were in Vodafone, and they’d taken money from the woman working there. I’d joked at the time that these were Ooty’s mafia collecting protection money.

After researching online, it said that it’s common for them to beg for money and cause a scene if they don’t get it. Anything from shouting obscenities and swearing to whipping out their manhood. This obviously seems to work a treat, as we’d seen them collecting their cash.

After food, we found an internet cafe and managed to sort out all of our jobs, including the main one of completing my insurance claim form for the op. We printed copies of everything we needed to send and wrote a covering letter. Round the corner in the fax shop, we suffered more technical problems and opted to try faxing somewhere a little more set up than Ooty. Hopefully, Cochin would have better infrastructure!

We wandered back home and were chilling on the bed when all of a sudden the room went black. The power cut was serenaded by the call to prayer, and church bells ceremoniously chimed in unison.

Jamie’s ingenious “clever clev” light solution (torch under a water bottle) didn’t get enough air time as lights soon sprung back into action.

The next morning, we got out early.

All wrapped up in the pre-morning light, we started a 12-hour journey consisting of four tuk-tuks, a bus, a coach, and a ferry.

We arrived in lovely Cochin. It was dark, and we asked our driver to take us straight to the hostel I’d seen online.

1,400 rupees for a night in the hostel was ridiculous, and we took the driver’s offer to take us to his friend’s place—a usually fruitless exercise that often ends in us having to apologize for not staying somewhere we didn’t want to stay in the first place.

This place, however, was magic.

500 rupees a night. A whole newly built modern flat to ourselves, close to town, with a balcony and a roof terrace. The kitchen didn’t have a cooker, but they said we could use theirs.

Happy, content, and knackered, we summoned up the strength to go to the local Italian. The best pasta and pizza we’d had since we left England.

We slept happily and soundly in what was quickly feeling like what we’d been searching for.

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