Coorg: Want Coffee, Will Travel

Adventures of a 25 year old, rewritten as a 32 year old

In March, I had accompanied some colleagues from our partner organisation for data collection. We were in south Karnataka and our driver informed us: “This side Ooty, that side Coorg.” Both far more appealing than the sub-district hospital settings we were meant to visit.

Conversations shifted (inevitably) to chocolates made in Ooty and Coorg. And then, to coffee.

Coffee and Coorg have a special place in my heart. You see, two weeks after I turned twenty-five, I got a little carried away and traveled 2400 kilometers to buy coffee. I returned with 70% Arabica mixed with 30% Robusta, stayed at an Indian hostel for the first time, and brought back many stories of the kindness of strangers.

This is one of my favorite travel stories to share. At the time, I had recently left my first job as a Research Assistant and was encouraged by my parents to take some time to explore my passions / change my career path. Blessed to have parents who literally said “Ja Simran Ja”, become a travel writer if you want. And privileged to be the youngest and second child, perhaps. I did some of the traveling. I did some of the writing. And then panicked and applied to graduate programmes in public health. Was it reverse psychology all along?

When I told my colleagues this background and my stories from that trip, one of them was curious to read my blog from that time. I try not to be ashamed of my earlier writing, particularly my “Blah-ber Blog” : very detailed, very verbose, very pun-y, very enthusiastic. Twenty-five year old me was very cute. She included a deep context-setting paragraph on her relationship with filter coffee and wrote nearly 1400 words about an 8 hour time period, in great detail. Taking a cue from her, I have now set further context and will give this a shot as a thirty-two year old.

Spoiler Alert: the coffee I bought

My 70L travel backpack had seen Prague, Paris and Amsterdam earlier that year. If I had to take myself seriously as a soon-to-be-maybe Full-Time Travel Writer, I had to take it along everywhere I went. In my imagination, that’s what serious Travel Writers carried, leaving everyone else impressed and in awe.*

My co-passenger from Bengaluru to Kushalnagar was an impeccably dressed older lady, close to my mom’s age. I looked like - and was in fact - someone who had overslept and worn a tee-shirt and jeans in haste to make the bus on time. Aunty and I got chatting and she asked me why I was heading to Coorg. I responded with, “Oh I really love coffee so I just wanted to visit.” If she thought it was a strange answer, it didn’t show on her face. She was attending a wedding in the family and had grown up in Coorg. When I told her I was traveling alone and staying in a hostel, she was rather concerned. In a land of homestays, this “hostel” business sounded shady, particularly for a young girl on her own. She wasn’t satisfied by the hostel’s instructions to me: “find a private bus or negotiate with auto rickshaw drivers from Kushalnagar bus stop.” She didn’t see the same appeal of adventure that I did. Generation gap.

At the bus stop, before I could say my polite goodbye, aunty pointed to her brother and declared that they would be dropping me off at this “hostel”. I tried to do the dance… not actual physical movements which would have guaranteed them leaving me behind. The one where I would say I would manage, wait for them to say it was no problem, where I would reply with it would be too much of an imposition. There was no scope for debate. We sat in her brother’s old white ambassador car. I could sense him sounding grumpy about this detour.

The people pleaser in me was determined to win him over. It was shockingly simple, actually. His grumpiness dissipated when he found out I was also south Indian and in his ‘hood for coffee. A guided tour began. This included a former finance minister's estate, types of coffee plants, and a deep dive into the history and culture of the region.

Further guidance was given on my impending coffee purchase: I was to walk to Siddapur from my hostel. In the market, near the petrol station, I would find Raju coffee mills (saved in my Google Keep as “raju core mills”). He insisted that I ask for 700 grams of Arabica and 300 grams of Robusta, mixed. At this point, his sister registered her protest against these proportions. He stood his ground and declared that if I wanted to make my parents happy and this trip a success, this was the answer. Lastly, I was to tell Raju that Madhu had sent me.

Siddapur was a little over 4 kilometers from Zostel. I opted for a slow, exploratory amble that first day. Many cars and the occasional auto whizzed past me.

If I was ever in doubt about being a city girl, what happened next would confirm it. When I was told to go to a mill, I pictured a factory. I expected the petrol station to look like the one I drove my car to. Before I knew it, I had walked the length of Siddapur’s main street. Twice! My mobile data failed me with poor network connectivity.

Finally, I purchased coconut water in exchange for information about Raju and his coffee mills: a dialogue fit for a Kannada/Tamil/English/hand-gesture filled Bollywood thriller. I was pointed to a shop that advertised selling coffee, opposite what resembled the ghost of a petrol station. I decided to take my chances and walk into Laxmiganesh Rice Mill and Spice House.

A unique mix of smells - freshly ground coffee and other spices - hit me first. Raju’s huge smile, a second later. Madhu had stopped by a few hours earlier to inform him of my impending visit. When I insisted on the 70-30 ratio, he mocked my sincerity by asking whether I’d be okay if it was 80-20 or 65-35. But he knew Madhu would hold him accountable. I purchased multiple kilograms for my family without considering whether my backpack could accommodate them. When I handed over a 2000 rupee note to pay, Raju stared at me in disbelief. I wondered if I accidentally handed him a fake note. Raju hadn’t seen the magenta spectacle before – it had been in circulation only for a year. He stepped out of his store and asked passers-by for change. Soon other store owners and passers-by joined him in looking at the note and exclaiming utter fascination. From the girl who came to Coorg to buy coffee, I became the girl with the 2000 rupee note.

Backpack and me: the day we met

*On my return bus journey, I met a young girl in college. When I told her I was travelling solo, she exclaimed, “I can’t believe I’m meeting a real-life solo female traveler with a backpack!!”.