Six hours from the coast into the Western Ghats (mtns) we hopped off the bus into a parade and discovered what serious religious devotion can look like here. Two men were swinging through the air about ten feet up, their bodies suspended in the air with lines attached to metal hooks stuck through the skin on their backs and legs and attached at the other end to a giant pulley five feet above them, the whole contraption pulled by a small decorated tractor and surrounded by people yelling and chanting along with the swinging man. Following them up were women with hooks attached to lines in their backs, dancing wildly as if puppeted by the man holding the ends of the lines. A group of men drummed, costumed children danced, women carried decorated umbrellas, a few women danced with six foot long metal poles stuck through their cheeks, and long rows of women in beautiful sarees struggled to pull huge wooden floats by giant ropes.
The next day was normal - as if all the days before it forever had passed uneventful, like nobody had been out of their mind on faith the day before. We rented a moto and followed fancy Bombayite couples and their drivers to the sites, snaking higher up the mountain through lush tea estates that cover all but the very vertical of land, a stark contrast to the otherwise dry hills. In town we fell in love with an assortment of charming mini-dhoti-sporting older men over ginger chai, soda water, one hand sewn sack (the standard box for mailing), and peas masala. We threw around our few words in Malayalam as much as possible, exclaiming "beautiful!" or "beautiful place!" as often as possible and savouring the smiles it received.
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