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Hogenakkal is unique. It’s the only natural,
traditional, river spa in our land. it also offers a thrilling
white-water-and-waterfalls experience, through ‘The Smoke that
Thunders’, in a fragile basket boat. And, as an added bonus,
you could visit the giant terra-cotta village guardians, the
Aiyanars, on your way to Hogenakkal.
We drove the 114 km from
Salem which, happily, has nothing to do with the bewitching town in
Mass. USA! We passed the district headquarters of Dharmapuri, went
on to Pennagaram rising 200 meters higher than Hogenakkal, and then
would down to the valley of the Kaveri river.
The 15 km descent from
Pennagaram to the 250 meter high Hogenakkal snakes through
interesting terrain. In these sub-montane lands we saw villages with
lush fields of mulberry, fodder for busy silkworms, and the
broad-leaved though often scraggy castor. On the outskirts of these
rural settlements were their fascinating guardian deities, often
referred to as Aiyanars. Made of terracotta or plastered
brick, these giant figures are brightly coloured and generally depict
fearsome and moustached warriors. But there are exceptions to this
assertively macho rule. We have also spotted an Englishman in a pith
helmet accompanied by his memsahib-wife, babalog
(children) and a pet dog; clean-shaven policemen in modern dress; and
the black-uniformed security corps referred to as Black Cats. And
once we saw the statue of a woman with bulging muscles and a flowered
skirt, wielding a mace. It’s the sort of Amazonian built that
the unwary might develop if they don’t visit Hogenakkal on time!
Our ears picked up the
sounds of Hogenakkal long before we saw it. As the scrub-covered
slopes gave way to thickets of thorn-defenced vegetation and then,
almost imperceptibly, when tall trees began to rise, the air
whispered with the soft roar of running water becoming more and more
assertive as we drove lower and lower.
At the bottom of the
valley, the Kaveri’s tributaries spread in a blue and shimmering
web. They gurgled, shimmered, some hardly more than exposed rocks,
and large rocky stretches where old trees grew: really old, towering,
trees. Women in bright saris bathed, back-lit by the sun, or washed
clothes in the running water.
The spa-hamlet rises off
the road: a scatter of shacks and buildings, staggering up the slopes
of the valley, gazing down at the water-woods on the other side of
the road. It has the character of a village struggling to become a
town: a little tatty in patches, not yet chromeglass-and-polish,
still retaining much of its truly-rural charm, though the insipid
uniformity of ‘development’ might overwhelm it before long.
The water-woods, the prime attraction of Hogenakkal will, however,
resist change for many years to come.
It is most unlikely, for
instance, that the coracles will be replaced by more sophisticated
boats. Often referred to as ‘basket-boats’, these circular
vessels have bamboo frames covered in either black plastic or buffalo
hide. They waited like black mushrooms, propped against trees or
upturned on the banks of the river. When the river is in spate, we
were told, all the dark rocks are submerged, but we went there in
February which is among the most favoured months to visit this
riverine spa. We stepped gingerly into our seemingly fragile craft,
sat on small plastic stools, and bobbed across the water. Coracles
are among the oldest types of water-craft in the world, and among the
most successful: a reassuring thought when one is floating in these
saucer-like devices!
We stepped out of the
coracle on the other side, walked up a frozen tumble of
water-smoothed rocks, and clambered down to the flowing river at the
bottom. Village housewives sat on rocks behind displays of fresh
fish smeared in a red paste, wood fires glowing and pans ready to
fry-while-you-wait. Very tempting, but we had a more challenging
encounter ahead of us.
Our boatmen had followed
us, one of them carrying our light coracle on his head like a huge
hat. He floated it in the water and, once again, we stepped in
gingerly, and were paddled out into the stream. Children picnicked
and young men waved out to us from the far bank. A line of grey
herons stood knee-deep in the water like solemn undertakers waiting
mournfully for a funeral. The imagery was appropriately sepulchral
because, the next moment, our coracle thudded into a sharp rock, its
plastic ruptured and water started gushing through a gaping hole.
The coracle began to sink. It wasn’t quite the Titanic,
however, and rescue was swift and effective. Our boatmen leapt out,
sank to their chests in the river, and pushed our coracle to the
bank. We stepped onto land, squelching a bit but delighted with the
experience. While we dried ourselves, our boatmen hared up the rocks
and returned with another coracle and we resumed our slightly soggy
interrupted journey.
We now began rushing
through a dramatic, granite gorge. The rocks had been sculpted by
the river into liquid flowing forms, dotted with fishermen at the end
of nylon lines. A black-and-white kingfisher hovered and dropped,
hovered and dropped, over and over and over again. We swept around a
bend in the canyon and the ‘smoke’ of the falls appeared,
its roar enveloping us. This was our first encounter with ‘The
Smoke that Thunders’.
Then we were in the
rippling muscles of the currents: twisting, foam-churning, raging
water powered by the fury of the multiple falls. Our coracle heaved
and spun. We were snared in the clinging lure of danger. The raw,
pounding, force of the water cascading down, so close and so
implacable, was cruelly, compelling, hypnotic like the fatal
magnetism that draws a bullfighter to the sharp horns of his
adversary. Time ceased to exist because, when adrenalin pumps sharp,
into the blood, the internal clock speeds up, honing the senses to
hair-trigger responses.
We faced the challenge of
the falls for a lifetime, for an instant. And when we were spun-back
into a quiet, jade-green, bay our clothes were soaked with the breath
of the falls and the cold sweat of fear. It was a fantastic
experience which burned the fat from our souls and left us both
exhilarated and exhausted.
After catching our
breaths we trudged up the escarpment and were back in the gentle
attractions of the water-woods. We stood in the safety of the rocks
at the edge of the gorge, and took shots of the plunging, snarling,
water. We teetered on a bouncing bridge of three coconut planks and
reached a rock where a fisherman offered his morning’s catch.
Narrow, concrete, spans ran out across the many branches of the
river. Vendors had set up barrow-stalls selling plastic sachets of
shampoo, washing soap, toilet soap, loosely woven towels, combs,
toothbrushes and a wide range of massage oils. Near them were dhobis
(washermen) plying heavy, antique, ember-filled irons on clothes worn
by bathers and then laundered by them in the river.
And then, to loud
slap-thuds, the famed masseurs of Hogenakkal serviced their
bare-bodied clients. They had them sit on slabs of sun-warmed rock
and pummeled, kneaded and contorted them, removing the kinks of a
sedentary lifestyle. To the bystander they seemed to be torturing
their victims, but everyone was clearly enjoying their energetic
efforts. We were told that there are also a few masseuses but,
naturally, they don’t ply their skills before onlookers.
We did, however, see
women emerging from a low building and heading for their own
sluice-cubicles. We don’t call them shower-stalls because there
are no showers in these sex-segregated facilities. Here, the waters
of the Kaveri are led through spouting sluices to cascade down on
visitors. It’s like standing in your own, private, waterfall.
Later, in our tourist
hotel, we spoke to a husband and wife from Ahmedabad. “If you
will not use our names, one thing I would like to say…” she
hesitated a moment, then blurted out: “Hogenakkal is very good
for couples….”
Possibly she was talking
about taking a break from the kids, getting away from the urban
whirl, getting back to nature. Possibly. But then, when you burn
the fat off your soul in the maelstrom of the falls; and you lose the
fat from your body with the ministrations of the masseurs; and you
are invigorated by the cascade of the Kaveri in the sluice baths,
then your will also tingle with an urgent, teenage, zest for life.
There are many stimulating benefits offered by an encounter with the
Smoke that Thunders.  |
INFORMATION
Air: Bangalore –
130 km and then by taxi or bus.
Rail: Salem –
114 km Bangalore – 130 km and then by road.
Road: Tourist
taxis and buses.
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