Notes from an 80-km journey from the roaring Athirappilly waterfalls in Kerala to the forest-fringed tea plantations of Valparai in Tamil Nadu
Ramya Sriram - Athirappilly Falls stages a rainbow
We kept our eyes peeled for leeches on the ground as we made our way to the waterfall. The stone steps, flanked by ferns, glistened with rain. We were visiting Athirappilly waterfalls in Kerala, which provided a grand beginning to our 80-km journey to Valparai in Tamil Nadu. We had chosen to take the famously scenic route through the thick Vazhachal forest in the Western Ghats.
The path to the waterfall was lined at frequent intervals with notice boards that reminded us that the forest and its resources were precious and vulnerable. Baby monkeys used the boards to perform gymnastics, while older ones looked unblinkingly at passers-by, possibly in hope of being fed.
The Athirappilly Falls in full flow
The 80-foot waterfall is formed by the Chalakudy River, which seemed surprisingly tame, but cascaded over the edge of the mountain furiously into a turqoise pool below. The pool was surrounded by what looked like impenetrable deep green forest. To my delight, a lovely rainbow played towards the bottom of the waterfall, with the foam blurring its colours slightly.
A small signboard pointed the way to the bottom of the waterfall - Way to Full View. The steps were ignored in some places, where visitors preferred to take the steeper and muddy “short-cut”. We reached the bottom of the waterfall, and the little girl in front of me squealed, “Wow!” I echoed her. We were looking up at enormous columns of water that crashed on the rocks below dramatically, birthing a spray of cool water over us. I remembered a TV ad I’d once seen that likened streams and waterfalls to the veins of mother earth, with blood surging through them. I understood the analogy then!
Curtains of water at Athirappilly Falls
I noticed that the way was completely clean and free of plastic, despite the numerous tourists there. A group of men sang a lilting Malalayam folk song as they descended the path, their voices mingling with the trill of cicadas.
Our next stop was at the Vazhachal waterfall, which ran over a gentler slope as compared to Athirappilly but was twice as loud. From a distance, it sounded like TV static noise, getting louder as we moved closer; then it was deafening. The Vazhachal forest is home to all the four species of hornbills (I didn’t spot any though). The route through the forest was quiet and deserted, except for the gurgling of the Chalakudy River, which travelled with us alongside. The forest was freshly washed by rain and everything from the ground to the treetops seemed to scream with life.
Vazhachal Falls - less spectacular than Athirappilly but louder
As we approached Malakkapara, a mist descended on us, an almost-opaque white screen that I’ve seen so often in the Ghats. It cleared within minutes, like a curtain raiser for the next scene – a completely different landscape of tea gardens caressing the clouds. I always look at tea plantations with a mixture of delight (how pretty they look!) and sadness (if unpruned, the tea "shrub" grows into a magnificent tree) and guilt (I'm a tea-lover). On the way, we encountered the Upper Sholayar Dam, the second deepest in Asia, which provides water and electricity to neighbouring areas.
Our destination, Sinna Dorai’s bungalow, situated in Upper Paralai tea estate of Parry Agro, took some time to locate. Two charming women welcomed us with a drink that was sweet and fresh – iced tea. I noticed wooden benches outside the cottages where I could already picture my mother meditating early in the morning. It was so quiet that any conversation seemed disturbing and out of place.
A peacock scans the valley in a Valparai tea plantation
The rooms were done up in teak, cane and jute, maintaining a tone of natural warmth. Food was hot and steaming – dal, roti, rice, sambar and rasam, all home-cooked – and served by smiling staff. The coconut soufflé was a perfect end to the meal, and was followed by an hour of me battling existential questions – what was I doing living in a crowded, polluted city? I vowed, like every time I visit the Western Ghats, that I would move out and settle down in the hills.
In the evening, Murugan, our local guide, took us for a short walk around the Parry Agro estate on the road, which he said was “shared by elephants and bison”. Visitors are usually not allowed to roam around on their own “for their own safety as well as for safety of the animals.” I suspected the animals possibly needed more protection from humans than vice versa. As we walk, we hear bird calls – a magpie robin, Murugan tells us, the crooning of a spotted dove, and a loud, clear call of a peacock, which was so close that I jumped. It stood silhouetted against the twilight sky, before it spread its brown wings and swooped over the valley and disappeared into a tree. “Did you know peacocks could fly that far?” my mum asked in a hushed whisper. Murugan, amused by our wonder, said, “Wait till you hear the Malabar Whistling Thrush hold katcheris in the mornings.”
The Upper Paralai Estate is about 225 hectares in area and is exclusively dedicated to growing organic tea: “No chemicals, only neem cake and vermi-compost.” Silver oak trees, which help bind the soil, are planted in between the tea. “It is a light tree and falls easily,” Murugan said, upon which we backed away from the tree a little. “But it acts as good manure.” The tea is sold in five flavours - strawberry, peach, black currant, lemon mint and green apple. The 700 workers there are all provided with accommodation within the estate. Most of them send their children to the local school and college. Some of the other estates in Valparai belong to Tata, PKT, Jayashree Industries, NEPC and Woodbriar. Murugan stopped to pluck a fern leaf. He stamped it on his hand and sheepishly told us that it leaves a silver-white “tattoo” on the skin.
The bungalow boasts of a quaint library, well stocked with books, two Murphy radio sets and an ancient typewriter. An enormous log register from 1952 sits on the table, which has the names of the tea estate workers, the amount of work done per day and the corresponding pay. A cosy sitting room, complete with fireplace, includes a record player. The decor and serveware is exquisite – if you like a piece, you could request them to source it for you. Murugan tells us that the bungalow got its name from the local salutation for ‘Assistant Manager’. Back in the room, I read a letter from the current Sinnai Dorai himself, who made it quite clear that we behave ourselves, respect the environment, and not try any funny business with the animals.
A pretty clock in the library at Sinna Durai's Bungalow in Valparai
A plethora of bright-eyed birds awaited us the next morning outside the cottage. It is always special to see dawn rise over the hills, gently prodding to life all things big and small. Shortly after, a siren sounded – the signal for the first batch of workers to begin their tasks for the day. Murugan appeared and ushered me down the slope into the tea gardens. Among the green, brown blobs moved heavily about. Gaur! We watched in silence as the gaur grazed on the grass among the tea (“No animal likes tea,” Murugan said. “Only we do.”)
We climbed up the steep slope to our cottage again, when he turned around suddenly and wildly gestured to me with a finger on his lips. He quietly parted the leaves of a bush and – OMG! I found myself staring straight at a leopard. Thankfully, it was a good distance away, but surely it was making eye contact with me? I was too nervous to move or reach for the camera. The staring match continued – I couldn’t tell who was more startled. Throughout, Murugan asked me to stay completely quiet and still. The leopard, bored of these seemingly inanimate creatures, turned around and bounded off into the trees. I was shivering with excitement – this was my first big cat sighting in the wild!
Over breakfast, the staff told us that wild animal sightings are extremely common in the area. Encounters are an everyday affair. “Elephants are fine as long as you get out of their path,” we are told. “If you confront it or poke a camera in its face, it may attack.” Though both tigers and leopards are found in the area, leopard attacks are more common. After a pause, Murugan added, “We are trespassing on their property, you know.”
cottage at Sinna Durai's Bungalow
Sinna Dorai’s bungalow, like most mountain getaways, offers tranquility and a chance to bond with nature. But more than that, it offers a way of living. I was impressed by the way its inhabitants and tea estate workers co-existed with the wilderness around them. It looked like a value system was firmly in place, respected and obeyed. For those who can adjust to being treated at par with their wild fellow-creatures and can appreciate and follow the code of conduct, this is the place. Just twenty-four hours in Valparai made me feel like I was moulting, shedding off a layer of the old and growing new skin. With its commitment to responsible travel, cool air and homely warmth, a visit to this bungalow can be described as nothing short of healing.
Ramya Sriram is a cartoonist, writer and founder ofThe Tap, her trove of visual and verbal stories. When not illustrating or translating ideas into comics, she’s hopping onto trains and running off to the mountains.
Banks rose from the sides of the road, covered in roots and ferns, fungi and moss. Rock-faces seemed to melt into rivulets as water seeped through and over them. Boughs and lianas were smothered in moss, and epiphytes were everywhere. Creepers hung from branches like curtains and every bend in the road had a frothy, white, gushing waterfall. It looked like a set from the movies. The bigger characters in this drama –Nilgiri Langurs, Malabar Giant Squirrels and birds – seemed to respectfully give way to the small, the immobile, and the green. The setting breathed and pulsed with life – from the smallest snails chomping on leaves to the fairy lantern fungi that defied my camera to catch its color.
And then there were the impatiens – little pink, fuchsia and white flowers that grow on wet rock. Whole beds, small clumps, and lone sentinels bending and twisting but holding their own under waterfalls. The sun had pushed its way through the thick blanket of grey and briefly spotlighted a moss here, a fern there. Tucking two cameras and one pair of binoculars under my new rain-jacket, I jumped out and took in a lungful of fresh, drizzly forest air.
It was the paradise I’d imagined and longed to walk through. Vazhachal is a primary forest, albeit logged, and the trees were old growth. Electric transmission lines scarred the landscape at regular intervals, but around it foliage determinedly continued on. Fabulous as the scene was, there was a sinister undertone. A four-lane highway was to replace this 20-foot road. That meant that the ferns and the first few rows of trees would be cleared. It rankled, for with increased traffic and disturbance comes the scourge of the invasive species – the lantana, parthenium and eupatorium. And with that, this diversity of ferns and flora would be crowded out.
Light was low and photography in that rain was a prayer. But for me, the quest for tack-sharp images respectfully retreated behind the grand drama of green that surrounded me. The dark of the rainforest in monsoon is what it is. Raindrops on every blade, every edge, every petal, every moss fruiting body, is life – as it unfolds. Hence, if blurry, grainy, and high-ISO images were to be a legacy of this trip, so be it.
Soaking wet by now, finding a dry corner of my t-shirt to wipe my lens clean was nothing more than a dream. My knees were muddy from kneeling to take eye-level shots. I’d found a couple of leeches on my neck, one on my face and one on my lip. I’d no idea what else was inside my clothes. I was faced with a choice. Wetness and leeches can make one miserable. But I had one glorious day in such a forest, and a few hours to simply soak it all up. And so I took all my leech-bloody-wetness thoughts and locked it up in a small compartment in my head. Then I threw the key away. Access denied to negative emotions, I chased snails and sloshed across a stream to see insanely huge fungi. Clambering up mud walls and slip sliding on leaf litter, I was laughing inwardly at the sheer joy of being there.
It was dark by now – the sun had given up the fight with the clouds and called it a day. I looked at my camera. Surely the lens would be kaput the next day. Fogged up at a minimum. And we’d probably see the highly endangered lion-tailed macaques up close, and I’d have nothing to photograph them with. Well, I thought to myself, there is a way out. I would just have to soak up that experience so deep that I’d remember it forever. Leaning back on the by-now-oh-so-wet Scorpio seat, I smiled a broad, satisfied smile.
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