Backpacker Mark Strijbosch bids farewell to India in the final account of his travels around the country, but danger lurks among the coffee and art...

Undulating tea plants stretch away from the hilltop.Undulating tea plants stretch away from the hilltop.

The next leg of my trip took me to the city of Kochi, the peaks of the Western Ghats and a walk through India’s first modern art festival.

Typically, my journey started bouncing on a steel frame on a 1950’s Leyland Bus taking me to the sleepy town of Munnar.

We swerved through the high hills and my bus seat was the window to the world. Hills covered with tiny, green shrubs rolled on forever as the view lulled me to sleep.

We were greeted to the town by a frenzy of Soviet flags, with more old Indian ladies staring at us from their house windows draped in red and yellow.

Our bus was not a time machine, and we were not in the USSR. Munnar ground to a complete halt as a general strike gripped southwest India.

Where best, I thought, to spend a strike: isolated in the mountains with all the time in the world to explore.

With all the local amenities shut, I was forced to stock up on bread and water to last a few days and it was finally time to stalk the tea plantations – empty of any tea pickers.

My luck in India had at last run out

Carved through the green canvas were little footpaths that separated the cauliflower-like plants into different fields.

Peace surrounded me and I felt like I was on another planet with only one thing to do: climb the highest peak in my sight.

I walked for ages to the sound of a natural spring echoing through the hills.

At the top I was welcomed by a tall cross overlooking the hilltop station village: the perfect spot to unwind.

Descending from my dream viewing point and enduring the return bus ride, I found myself in the thick of a busy city once more.

After the strike ended, Kochi burst to life with market stalls along the busy streets.

Opting to stay well away from the chaos, I stumbled into the most bizarre cafe in India where each male waiter wore a thick, black moustache and a traditional outfit, made complete by a one-foot-tall hat.

With a strange choice of clothing, their dark eyes darted around the room ready to serve the next dosa pancake to the esteemed clients.

All the locals flocked to the Indian Coffee House and, when travelling, that is generally a good sign. No tourists in sight, just a bunch of friendly villagers.

Later, I jumped on an old ferry that took me across the bay to a small, fortified island that hosted a brilliant market.

I was fortunate to be in time for India’s first art festival: the Indian Biennale, a festival usually reserved for the streets and canals of Venice, to which 80 artists contributed.

Wandering around aimlessly, I realised I had walked into an alley housing five leather-clad motorbikers, who were puffing away on their beedis (Indian cigarettes).

My luck in India had at last run out and I was soon surrounded. The alley seemed to narrow and the words ‘residual traces’ left in brick by an artist seemed ironic.

I thought I could run away when a yellow motorbike scrambled in front of me blocking my exit.

“Don’t go,” he said, “Come sit with us…”

Uneasily, I sat on the floor among the men as another arrived holding a box.

Like a scene from a gangster film, he dismounted from his bike and headed straight towards me and handed the box to his fellow gang members.

Distracting me with conversation, the others opened the box and soon I had no escape.

I was invited to their corner – where their innocence at last shone through.

The self-titled ‘Motorcycle Men’ were sitting and playing a board game, and I was to be their next victim.

The challenge lasted three hours but I gained the respect of the brotherhood, as I emerged victorious, counting in the local tongue to show off and gain points.

In a puff of exhaust, they sped off, leaving me to roam the streets freely once more.

It seemed to mean something when I came across some street art reading ‘For the tiger, humans are alike, the tiger just wants to be a tiger’.

On that note, my adventure came to a close. I had experienced a very local side to India in Pune, the humbling temples in Hampi, the pits of commercialisation in Goa and a fantastic art festival in Kochi.

As I packed my bags, the surreal lull India offers lived on and I can only dream of heading there again, even if to discover the more hectic north of this giant country.

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