22 May 2015
Postcard from Wayanad
November 2012
After a quick swim in the 'adult' swimming pool (cold!) and a last poncy coffee, we're ready to leave.
We're up early on our last morning at Orange County,
turning up on time for the 06:30 bird watching tour. No leech-resistant socks
needed this time, as we stay close to the resort, walking round a nearby lake
and along a rice paddy. Our guide seems to speak better bird than English, with
the ability to impersonate several birdsong and calls. His English is, however,
impossible to understand and he seems to feel the same about our clearly
limited English abilities, so he speaks to us very slowly. It doesn't help
much.
We see 23 different species of bird, from the tiny Taylor
which weaves its nest in a leaf using spider silk as thread, to herons and
parakeets, not dissimilar from the ones in West London. A highlight is watching
a kingfisher fish in the lake - a touch ambitious we feel as the fish are
several times its size. Its fishing score is 0 for 4.
After a quick swim in the 'adult' swimming pool (cold!) and a last poncy coffee, we're ready to leave.
You might think that the estimated travel time of three
hours is more than enough to cover the 140km to Wayanad, and that a local
driver whose job it is to shuttle tourists around local popular places would
know how to get from one famous resort hotel to another. But five and a half
hours, multiple U-turns and umpteen phone calls later, we're still not there.
Pamela's bladder's about to burst and looming motion sickness is making me
think I would rather walk the rest of the way.
We're off to theTranquil Resort, so trying to be helpful
I suggest to the driver we follow a left-turn sign to 'Tranquil Resort'. I get
a withering look, and we drive straight on. (I'd won an earlier argument about
not having the ventilation permanently on recirculating so I don't want to push
my luck). A few minutes and another U-turn later, we take the turning we'd
suggested into Tranquil Resort.
It's hard to explain how wonderful this place is, not
luxurious or swanky but very special. It's a coffee plantation that supplements
its agricultural income by letting out a few rooms. There are 250 hectares of
what seem to be half forest, half coffee. The slopes are steep and there is no
question of automation or even treatment. This is about as organic as it can
get. There a long marked walks, which any of the owner's three dogs are happy to
accompany one on. Forgetting to take my boots off immediately on returning to
our room gets me into trouble, as we later find a leech meandering across the
floor.
There are also, for those not frightened of being
accosted by monkeys in the middle of the night and like being rocked to sleep,
a set of tree houses high above the plantation, fully equipped with electricity
and plumbing.
The plantation is full of wildlife, including over 100
species of birds, land crabs, monkeys, enormous butterflies, large ants and
many other things (we see a mongoose, for example). The rooms are simple and
old-fashioned, but we are looked after beautifully, including by the dogs, one
of which (called 'Shadow', rather a good name we feel for a Boxer) is asleep on
the seat next to me as I write. There's a swimming pool and gardens, and no
cars or human sounds for miles but a cacophony of insect noises as the evening
advances.
We eat together with the owners and another guest in a
never-ending stream of delicious meals. It's less vegetarian than previous
places (there's even beef curry for one meal!) and there are some European
dishes in case we're fed up with curries and spices. The Indian take on
whitebait is excellent, as are the desserts: caramelised pineapple, mini bananas
poached in passion fruit syrup, plantation coffee mousse and an interesting
apricot tarty thingy (Robert may think it worth coming here for the freshly
squeezed watermelon juice alone).
The only other guest is Giles, a rather large Indian who
is responsible for building the local roads. In an attempt to be friendly but
perhaps not having quite picked up what the man's profession is, Pamela says,
"Ah, yes, the local roads. Aren't they awful?". There is an awkward
pause, but Giles keeps smiling, confident in the knowledge that our English is
awful and she must have meant the opposite.
# posted by DavidF @ 16:38 
