LIFE OUTSIDE OOTY.
Speaking seriously, the dearth of diversion or even occupation at
Ootacamund, considerably diminishes its value as a sanitary station. It
is generally remarked, that a man who in other places drinks a little
too freely, here seldom fails to bring on an attack of delirium tremens.
After the first excitement passes away, it is apt to be succeeded by a
sense of dreariness and ennui more debilitating to the system than even
the perpetual perspirations of the plains.
* * * * *
The chief occupations for a visitor outside of Ooty are
curiosity-hunting, field-sports, and excursionizing.
Of late years, the Neilgherries have been so exposed to the pickaxes
of indefatigable archæologists, that their huge store of curiosities
has been almost exhausted. Little now remains but the fixtures. In
many parts almost every hill is crowned by single and double cairns,
enclosing open areas, which, when opened, were found to contain numerous
pottery[163] figures of men and animals. There are some remarkable
remains which remind us of the Cromlechs[164] and Kistvaens[165] of
Druidism; all, however, have been rifled of the funeral urns and the
other relics which they contained. Vases holding burnt bones and
charcoal, brass vessels, spear heads, clay images of female warriors on
horseback, stone pestles, pots and covers ornamented with human figures
and curious animals, have been taken from the barrows that abound in
different parts of the Neilgherries. The ruins of forts and pagodas,
traces of buildings and manual labour, may be discovered in the darkest
recesses of ancient forests. Long and deep fosses, the use of which
cannot be explained, and diminutive labyrinths still remain the monuments
of ancient civilization. At St. Catherine’s Falls, near Kotagherry, the
natives show marks in the rock which they attribute to a certain hill
Rajah who urged his horse over the precipice to escape the pursuit of
his foes. The land is rich in such traditions. There is a name for every
hill;[166] to every remarkable one is attached some cherished legend.
Here we are shown the favourite seats of the Rishi, or saintly race,
who, in hoary eld, honoured the green tops of the Blue Mountains with
their holy presence. There, we are told, abode the foul Rakhshasa (demon)
tribe, that loved to work man’s mortal woe; and there, dwarfish beings,
somewhat like our fairies, long since passed away, lived in the dancing
and singing style of existence usually attributed by barbarians to those
pretty creatures of their imaginations.
The Toda family—the grand depository of Neilgherry tradition—has
supplied our curiosity-hunters with many a marvel. But, let the young
beginner beware how he trusts to their information. The fellows can
enjoy a hoax. Moreover, with the instinctive cunning of the wild man,
they are inveterate liars, concealing truth because they perceive that
their betters attach some importance to extracting it, and yet cannot
understand the reason why they should take the trouble to do so. For
instance—we heard of a gentleman who, when walking near one of the
villages, saw some roughly-rounded stones lying upon the ground, and
asked a Toda what their use might be. The savage replied extempore,
that the biggest piece was, according to his creed, the grandfather of
the gods; another was the grandmother, and so on to a great length. He
received a rupee for the intelligence given; and well he won it. The
stones were those used by the young men of the hamlet for “putting” in
their leisure hours—a slender foundation, indeed, to support so grand a
superstructure of traditional lore!
Antiquarians are everywhere a simple race: in India, “con tutto rispetto
parlando,” we are almost tempted to describe them as simpletons. Who does
not recollect the Athenæum sauce-jar which some wag buried in the ruins
of a fort, said to have been founded by Alexander the Great at Sehwan
in Scinde, and the strange theories which the Etruscan images upon that
article elicited from grave and learned heads?
* * * * *
Game is still plentiful in the Neilgherries. The little woods about
Ootacamund abound in woodcock, leopard,[167] and ibex. Near Coonoor, elk
and wild hog are to be met with, and to the east of Kotagherry there is
excellent bison-shooting. Elephants occasionally ascend the Koondah hills
to escape the fiery heat of the luxuriant jungles below the mountains.
Tigers are rare in these parts, and no one takes the trouble to attack
them: the cold climate ruins them for sport by diminishing their ferocity
and the chance of one’s being clawed. The wolf is not an aboriginal of
the hills: he sometimes, however, favours us with a visit, in packs,
gaunt with hunger and sufficiently fierce, for the purpose of dining
on the dogs. The small black bear, or rather ant-eater of the plains,
affords tolerable sport; but this Alpine region does not produce the
large and powerful brown animal of the Pyrenees and Central Asia.
The peculiarity of Neilgherry hunting is, that nothing can be done by
means of beaters only—the plan adopted in India generally. Cocks cannot
be flushed without spaniels, and foxhounds are necessary for tracking
large game. The canine species thrives prodigiously on the hills, and
seems to derive even more benefit from the climate than the human dogs.
The crack sportsman from the plains must here abandon his favourite
pig-sticking, or exchange it for what he always considered the illicit
practice of hog-shooting. _En revanche_, he has the elk, the bison, and
the ibex.
The Neilgherry Sambur, or elk,[168] is the giant of the cervine
race—often fourteen hands high, with antlers upwards of three feet long,
spanning thirty-two or thirty-three inches between the extremities.
In spite of this beast’s size and unwieldiness—some of them weigh
seven hundred pounds—they are sufficiently speedy to distance any but
a good horse. They divide their time between the mountain-woods and
the lower jungles, resorting to the former for the sake of the water,
and descending to the latter to get at the “salt-licks,” in which they
abound. Elk are usually met with in pairs, or in greater numbers, and
when once sighted are easily shot. The neck and the hollow behind the
shoulder are the parts aimed at, for these animals are extraordinarily
tenacious of life, and will carry off a most unreasonable number of
balls, unless hit in a vital region. The flesh is coarse, but makes
excellent mulligatawny, the shin-bones afford good marrow, the hoofs are
convertible into jelly, the tongue is eatable, and the skin useful for
saddle-covers, gaiters, and hunting boots. The head, stuffed with straw
and provided with eyes, skilfully made out of the bottom of a black
bottle, is a favourite ornament for the verandah or the mantelpiece.
Samburs are easily tamed: several of them may be seen about Ootacamund,
grazing with halters round their necks, almost as tame as cows. There are
several ways of hunting elk. On the hills skirting the Pykarry river,
where there is little swamp or bog, attempts have been made to run and
spear them. Some sportsmen stalk them; but the usual mode is to post the
guns, and then to make the beast break cover. Dogs are preferred to
beaters for this purpose, as their giving tongue warns one when the game
is coming, and the animal will almost always fly from his fourfooted,
whereas it often succeeds in charging and breaking through the line of
biped foes. Samburs, when wounded and closely pursued, will sometimes
stand and defend themselves desperately with tooth and antler; the “game
thing” then is to “walk into them” with a hunting-knife.
Bison-hunting upon the hills is a most exciting sport, requiring thews
and sinews, a cool head and a steady hand. A charge of one of these
animals is quite the reverse of a joke: Venator had better make sure of
his nerve before he goes forth to stand before such a rush. The bison is
a noble animal. We have seen heads[169] which a strong man was scarcely
able to lift, and horns that measured twenty inches in circumference.
They are usually shot with ounce or two ounce iron or brass balls, and
plugs made by the hill-people, who cut a bar of metal and file it down
to the size required with the rudest tools and remarkable neatness. The
Hindoos, however, do not patronise bison-hunting, as they consider the
beast a wild species of their sacred animal.
The word “ibex,” like the “jungle sheep”[170] of the Neilgherries, is
a misnomer: the denominated being the Capra Caucasica, not the Capra
ibex of Cuvier. It is to these hills what the chamois is to the Alps,
and the izzard to the Pyrenees. If you are sportsman enough to like
difficulty and danger, incurred for nothing’s sake, you will think well
of ibex-hunting. In the first place you have to find your game, and to
find it also in some place where it can be approached when alive, and
secured when dead. The senses of these wild goats are extraordinarily
acute, and often, after many hours of toil, the disappointed pursuer is
informed by the peculiar whistling noise which they make when alarmed,
that, warned of his proximity—probably by the wind—they have moved off
to safer quarters. Secondly, you must hit them—hard, too; otherwise you
will never bring about a dead stop. And, lastly, as they are addicted to
scrambling down and rolling over tremendous precipices—especially after
they have felt lead—you must either lose the beast or risk your neck to
bag the body. Not for the pot. The flesh is never eaten, but the stuffed
head is preserved as a trophy of venatic prowess.
The hill people, when not employed in spearing and netting game on their
own account, will generally act as lookers-out and beaters. We are apt,
however, to be too generous with our money: the effect of the liberality
proving it to be ill-advised. Often it will happen to you—especially
during your first month’s sporting—that some black scoundrel rushes up
in a frantic hurry to report game trove, in the hope that you will, upon
the spur of the moment, present him with a rupee. And suppose you do so,
what is the result? It is sad weather; the clouds rain cats and dogs—to
use an old phrase—the wind is raw as a south-easter off the Cape; the
ground one mass of slippery mud. Do you look out of the window, roll your
head, dismiss the “nigger,” return to your fire, the “Demented,” and your
cigar. No! emphatically no!! You rush into your room, pull on shoes and
gaiters, don your hunting-garb with astonishing rapidity, catch up your
guns, roar for the favourite servant that carries them, and start in the
middle of the howling storm. Your eagerness to “get a slap at a bison”
incites you to cruelty: you think nothing of dashing into the first
village, and compelling a troop of half-naked wretches to accompany you.
Now mark the consequence of giving away that rupee in a hurry. The head
beater leads you up and down the steepest, the most rugged, stony, and
slippery hills he can hit upon, with the benevolent view of preventing
your making a fool of yourself to any greater extent. But when your stout
English legs have completely “taken the shine” out of those baboon-like
shanks which support his body, then he conducts you to some Shola,[171]
places you and your servant upon the top of an elevated rock commanding
a thorough enjoyment of the weather, and an extensive view of the ravine
through which the beast is to break cover, and retires with his comrades
to the snug cavern, which he held all along in mental view. There he sits
before a cosy bit of fire, occasionally indulging you with a view-halloo,
proving how actively the gang is engaged in discovering the game. Half
an hour has passed; you are wet through, “_jusqu’aux os_,” and the chill
blasts feel as if they were cutting their way into your vitals: still
your ardour endures. Another twenty minutes—your fingers refuse to uphold
the cocked rifle.
“We really must go if they can’t find this beast in another quarter of an
hour, Baloo!”
“Han, Sahib!—yes, sir,”—quavers forth your unhappy domestic, in a frozen
treble—“if the Sahib were to—to go, just now—would it not be good? It is
very cold—and—perhaps—they have been telling the Sahib lies.”
Baloo is right. The head beater appears, followed by his attendant train.
He swears that it is a case of “stole away.”
You feel that there is something wrong about that bison, by the way in
which the man’s eye avoided you. But probably a sense of justice prevents
your having recourse to the baculine discipline which, on any other
occasion, we should have advised you to administer with no niggardly hand.
Sounders of hog are commonly found at certain seasons about Coonoor
especially. They are often shot, and more often missed, as their gaunt
forms boring through the high grass afford a very uncertain mark. If
Diana favour you, you may have the luck to come upon that beautiful
variety of the leopard tribe, the black cheeta, and wreak upon him the
revenge which his brethren’s ravages amongst your “bobbery-pack”[172]
has roused in your bosom. If you are proud of your poultry yard you will
never allow a jungle cat to pass without rolling her over: the large
fierce beasts are so uncommonly fond of ducks and fowls. The jackals[173]
on the hills are even more daring and impudent than they are in the
plains. Hares are so numerous and voracious that they will destroy any
garden, flower or kitchen, unless it is defended by a dwarf-fencing of
split bamboos. Your careful Malee[174] takes, moreover, the precaution
of surrounding your cabbages with a deep ditch in order to keep out the
huge porcupines that abound here. _En passant_ we advise every one who
has not tasted a _rôti_ of one of those animals to do so _sine morâ_,
not, however, forgetting to roll up the flesh in a layer of mutton fat,
and thus to remedy its only defect—dryness. Martins, polecats, mongooses,
and the little grey gilahri[175] of Hindostan, flourish on the hills;
there is also a large dark brown squirrel, with a huge bushy tail, but
the flying species, so common on the western coast, is not an inhabitant
of the Neilgherries. The woods are tenanted by several kinds of monkeys,
black and red, large and small: the otter is occasionally met with in the
fords of the Pykarry river.
There are two varieties of the wild dog, one a large nondescript, with
a canine head, the body of a wolf, and a brush instead of a tail: the
other is a smaller beast of similar appearance. They generally hunt
in large packs, and the skill with which they follow up the game is
admirable. When pressed by hunger they are very ferocious. It is at no
time a pleasant sight to see fifty or a hundred of their ill-omened faces
glaring at you and your horse as you ride by them: especially after
you have heard certain well-authenticated anecdotes of their cannibal
propensities. When such rencontre does occur, the best way is to put a
bold face upon the matter, ride up to them, and use your heavy horsewhip
as well as you can: if you endeavour to get away they will generally feel
inclined to follow you, and as for escaping from them on horseback, it is
morally impossible.
Another animal—though not a wild one—of which we bid you beware, is the
Neilgherry buffalo, especially the fine fawn-coloured beasts, belonging
to the Todas. Occasionally, as you are passing along the base of some
remote hill, you will be unpleasantly surprised by a sudden and impetuous
charge of a whole herd. Unless you have a gun with you, you must ride for
it. And _how_ you must ride will probably surprise you. We well recollect
a kind of adventure which once occurred to ourselves, when quietly
excursionizing in the vicinity of Ooty. Excited by the appearance of our
nag’s red saddle-cloth, some twenty huge beasts resolved to dispute with
us the right of passage through one of the long smooth lawns, which run
down the centre of the woodlands. At first they looked up curiously,
then fiercely. Presently they advanced, snorting rabidly, in a rude
line, a huge black bull the leader of the movement. The walk soon broke
into a trot, the trot became a gallop, the intention of the gallop, was
clearly a charge, and the consequences of a charge might have been
serious. We found little difficulty in escaping the general rush of our
assailants, by means of a sharp touch with the spur: one by one they
tailed off, stood looking at our decreasing form in angry disgust, and
returned to their normal occupation. But Taurus, the ringleader, seemed
determined upon mischief. He pursued us with the dogged determination
of a lyme hound: he had speed as well as bottom. Whenever we attempted
to breathe the pony, the rapidity with which our friend gained ground
upon us, was a warning not to try that trick too long. Close upon our
quarters followed the big beast with his curved horns duly prepared: his
eyes flashing fire, and his grunting snorts indicative of extreme rage.
We could scarcely help laughing at the agility with which the monstrous
body, on its four little legs, bowled away over the level turf, or at the
same time wishing that our holsters contained the means of chastising his
impudence.
How long the recreation might have lasted, or how it might have ended
had not a long mud wall got between Taurus and ourselves, we cannot say.
He followed us for at least a mile, and seemed by no means tired of the
occupation. We were beginning to anticipate the pleasure of entering
Ootacamund at the top of our nag’s speed, with a huge buffalo at his
heels, and though we might have enjoyed seeing a friend in such novel
predicament, the thing lost all its charms, when we ourselves expected to
afford such spectacle to our friends.
We should strongly advise all public spirited individuals immediately
after suffering from such a nuisance to find out the herdsman, and
persuade him by a judicious application of the cravache, to teach his
cattle better manners. He will be much more careful the next time he sees
a stranger ride by.
Among the feathered tribes, the woodcock, probably on account of its
comparative rarity, is the favourite sport. Three or four brace are
considered an excellent bag, even with the assistance of good dogs, and
a thorough knowledge of their covers. Cock shooting lasts from November
to March. Partridges are rare, not being natives of the hills. Snipe, and
solitary snipe, abound in the swamps. Quails of both species, red and
grey,—the former especially—are found in the warmer localities, and when
properly tamed and trained, they are as game birds as those of the low
country. Our list concludes with peacocks, jungle[176] and spur fowl.
After perusing our brief sketch of Neilgherry sport, you will easily
understand that to some ardent minds it offers irresistible attractions.
Officers have been known to quit the service, or to invalid solely
with the view of devoting themselves wholly to the _pleasures_ of the
chase. They separate themselves from their kind, inhabit the jungles
for weeks together, and never enter a station except for the purpose
of laying in a fresh store of powder and shot, calomel and quinine.
Attended by a servant or two, they wander about, rifle in hand, shooting
their meals—some curried bird—sleeping away the rabid hours of noontide
heat under some thick brake, and starting with renewed vigour as soon
as the slanting rays of the sun diffuse a little activity throughout
the animal creation. Sometimes breakfast is rudely interrupted by an
angry old tusker, who, in spite of his race’s proverbial purblindness,
detects the presence of an enemy, and rushes on trumpeting to do a
deed of violence. A “striped skin” will occasionally invite himself to
partake of the dinner, and when not treated with all possible ceremony
walks off with a raw joint in the shape of some unhappy black. There
is little to be gained by such a life. Government gives, it is true, a
reward of 7_l._[177] for every slaughtered elephant, and tiger-skins,
as well as ivory, find a ready sale: but no one can become a Crœsus by
the favour of Diana. Not much, however, do our adventurous sportsmen
think of lucre: they go on shooting through existence, only pausing at
times when the bites of the tree-leeches,[178] scorpions, centipedes,
and musquitoes, or a low fever, which they have vainly endeavoured to
master by means of quinine administered in doses sufficient to turn an
average head, imperiously compel them to lay up, till assailed by a Foe
against whom the dose and the rifle are equally unefficacious. Many are
almost blinded by the terrible glare and damp heat of the jungles: the
fetid swamps breed brain fevers as well as snipe, bisons have horns, and
cheetahs claws: so that such career, though bright enough in its own way,
is generally speaking at least as brief as it is brilliant.
* * * * *
Before the monsoon sets in, we will “get through,” as our Irish cousin
expressed himself at the Vatican, “the sight-seeing” in the neighbourhood
of Ooty.
Maleemund, or, as others write it, Meyni, a favourite spot for pic-nics,
is a Toda village lying about three miles north of the grand station: it
affords you a pleasant ride through pretty woodlands, and a very inferior
view. Beyond it is Billicul, a little Berger settlement surrounded by
cultivation: here a resident on the hills has built a bungalow, and the
locality is often visited for the pleasure of contemplating the reeking
flats of Mysore. Striking across country into the Seegoor Pass, you may,
if you have any curiosity, inspect the Kulhutty Falls, certain cataracts
upon a very diminutive scale indeed. You must see the Pykarry river, a
deep and irregular stream flowing down a winding bed full of rocks,
rapids, and sand-banks: it supplies your curries with a shrunken specimen
of the finny tribe—alas! how different from certain fishes which you
may connect in memory with certain mountain streams in the old country.
The surrounding hills are celebrated for containing abundance of game.
An indefatigable excursionist would ride seven miles further on the
Goodalore road for the sake of the _coups-d’œil_, and to be able to say
that he has seen Neddiwuttun. All the pleasure he derives from this extra
stage along a vile path, is a sense of intense satisfaction that he is
not compelled to pass a night in the damp, dreary, moss-clad bungalow,
where unhappy travellers must at times perforce abide. Three miles from
Ooty, in the direction of the Koondah hills, you pass Fair Lawn, the
bit of turf which Terpsichore loves. Finally, after a long and dreary
stretch over a tiresome series of little eminences, after fording the
Porthy river, and crossing its sister stream, the Avalanche, by an unsafe
bridge, you arrive at the Wooden House,[179] whence sportsmen issue to
disturb the innocent enjoyments of elk and ibex, bison and elephant.