To London: 1st June 2003
I arrived back in London today. It’s a pleasant 28 degrees. SARS is still worrying the countries of the Far East. The Monsoon I suppose is busy watering a parched India. That empty feeling when coming back from India has arrived; India, provoker of thoughts, stoker of emotions and harbinger of doom for my digestive tract. Pushing open my front door, a barricade of junk mail tried to stop me entering. Gathering them all up like autumn leaves I placed them in the dustbin outside where my next-door neighbour said, “It’s been hot here mate, we could do with some rain...”
I knew the feeling and just smiled.
Thursday 17 May 2007
Chennai? You mean Madras.
To Chennai. 30th May
Remembering the new name of India’s fourth largest city and capital of the state of Tamil Nadu, I asked a bus driver today at the station, “Bus for Chennai?”. He wobbled his head and replied, “Yessss. Madraaaassssss.” How old habits diehard.
My trip back to Chennai was uneventful, except for the heat. As we arrived at lunchtime passing through wide streets lined with huge hand-painted billboard, the temperature hit 50 degrees, the hottest day there since 1910. Only once before have I experienced this heat, in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, but that heat was a dry heat devoid of the humidity of Madras. There was no doubt about where I was heading - straight for the air-conditioning of the airport.
Remembering the new name of India’s fourth largest city and capital of the state of Tamil Nadu, I asked a bus driver today at the station, “Bus for Chennai?”. He wobbled his head and replied, “Yessss. Madraaaassssss.” How old habits diehard.
My trip back to Chennai was uneventful, except for the heat. As we arrived at lunchtime passing through wide streets lined with huge hand-painted billboard, the temperature hit 50 degrees, the hottest day there since 1910. Only once before have I experienced this heat, in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, but that heat was a dry heat devoid of the humidity of Madras. There was no doubt about where I was heading - straight for the air-conditioning of the airport.
the places in the Life of Pi
Pondicherry: 29th May
Today, my last day at Pondicherry, I walked the length of Goubert Salai, the esplanade where Mr Martell’s fictitious protagonist Pi Patel has a charming inter-faith dialogue with the three wise men, one Hindu, one Muslim and one Christian. Families stroll down here every evening, and buy ice creams and roasted nuts, and their children grip pink fuzzes of candy floss and helium-filled balloons. There is a imposing statue of Mahatma Gandhi donated by the French, where in the book the Pi Patel envisioned that he heard his conversation that all religions are true in his debate with the three wise men.
From the esplanade I rode to the Botanical Gardens, which have a large collection of trees and plants, an aquarium and a toy train. Pi lived in the zoo in the botanical gardens where his father was the zookeeper, but today it is no longer there. Perhaps it never was. I went down to the Indian Coffee House in Nehru Street, where a waiter served me an excellent frothy Nilgiri Hills coffee for 3 rupees. It’s a simple room with high ceilings and green walls, that serves cheap, good food. The atmosphere is abuzz with chatter, and patrons chat on red plastic chairs under fast-moving ceiling fans. It was here Mr Martell mentions in his author’s note at the start of the book, that he met a certain Francis Adirubasamy who told him the story of Pi Patel, a story that would make you believe in God, a story of the boy who survived a shipwreck stranded with an adult male Royal Bengal Tiger. One of the waiters there remembers Mr Martell who would sit there and write, and claims to even know Mr Adirubasamy. Now I was confused, fiction and fact became strangely blurred.
Today, my last day at Pondicherry, I walked the length of Goubert Salai, the esplanade where Mr Martell’s fictitious protagonist Pi Patel has a charming inter-faith dialogue with the three wise men, one Hindu, one Muslim and one Christian. Families stroll down here every evening, and buy ice creams and roasted nuts, and their children grip pink fuzzes of candy floss and helium-filled balloons. There is a imposing statue of Mahatma Gandhi donated by the French, where in the book the Pi Patel envisioned that he heard his conversation that all religions are true in his debate with the three wise men.
From the esplanade I rode to the Botanical Gardens, which have a large collection of trees and plants, an aquarium and a toy train. Pi lived in the zoo in the botanical gardens where his father was the zookeeper, but today it is no longer there. Perhaps it never was. I went down to the Indian Coffee House in Nehru Street, where a waiter served me an excellent frothy Nilgiri Hills coffee for 3 rupees. It’s a simple room with high ceilings and green walls, that serves cheap, good food. The atmosphere is abuzz with chatter, and patrons chat on red plastic chairs under fast-moving ceiling fans. It was here Mr Martell mentions in his author’s note at the start of the book, that he met a certain Francis Adirubasamy who told him the story of Pi Patel, a story that would make you believe in God, a story of the boy who survived a shipwreck stranded with an adult male Royal Bengal Tiger. One of the waiters there remembers Mr Martell who would sit there and write, and claims to even know Mr Adirubasamy. Now I was confused, fiction and fact became strangely blurred.
Pondicherry... the ashram... and finally the monsoon
Chidambaram to Pondicherry:26th May
By lunchtime I had arrived at the ashram guest house (Park Guest House) in Pondicherry; in Tamil it’s called Pudducherry, or affectionately just “Pondy”. The guest house must be one of the loveliest places I have ever stayed in. Not because of its comfort but because of the tranquil location. Every room is named after a virtue, joy, peace, compassion etc. and has a balcony facing the sea. There is a meditation garden where all you can hear are the sound of lapping waves. The large windows of the vegetarian canteen are yards from the shore and give the semblance of being on a boat far out at sea.
There is an unmistakable French feel to Pondicherry. There are Alliance Francais, restaurants that serve Bordeaux and cigars, and the police wear red kepis like Gendarmes. The well-planned streets, all arranged in right angles have French names like Goubert Avenue and Dumas Street and are lined with trees that provide shade from the unbearable 45 degrees lunchtime blaze. The houses are whitewashed, with old wooden doors and well-watered blooming gardens. Today the Frenchness is but a hint alluding to bye-gone days of a colonial past. Pondicherry became Indian in 1954 and there is the unmistakable busy feel of a typical Indian city in the more inland parts of Pondicherry, dusty streets, hooting vehicles and people scurrying around.
The ashram in the city was founded by Shri Aurobindo in 1926, and after he died the Mother took over as spiritual guide till she died in 1973 aged 97. Their bodies are laid to rest in tombs of the courtyard of the main ashram building on Marine Street. Auroville is the ashram community 10 kilometres north of Pondicherry in Tamil Nadu (Pondicherry itself is a Union territory); it was started by the Mother as an experimental place where people could live in a higher spiritual awareness, and harmony. It has 80 settlements over an area of 20 kilometres each devoted to projects ranging from alternative technology, agriculture, tree planting and handicrafts, education and health; the many buildings are spread out connected by roads winding their way through newly-planted trees. The centre of the settlement is the imposing Matrimandir with a huge bronze-coloured dome. Inside most of it is still under construction but the white marble meditation chamber at the top is complete – it has a hazy light coming from a mirror on the roof which is refracted through a solid crystal 70cms wide. The room is cool and has strong calming feeling about it; a steward advised me that at 4.30pm some people would be allowed in to meditate there, once the crowds had gone home.
While I queued the rumble of thunder resounded and electric-blue lightning flashes cracked the sky. Rain fell in torrents and the air cooled as people sheltered under a large banyan tree, leaning on its vertical roots. The red-earth path to the Matrimandir turned in to a mud-track and the meditation session was cancelled. I rode my motorbike back to Pondicherry through paths of mud, round puddles and past fallen branches, soaked to the skin. The rain felt strangely pleasant, the heat and humidity was gone. The Monsoon had eventually arrived in full measure, loud, spectacular and very wet.
By lunchtime I had arrived at the ashram guest house (Park Guest House) in Pondicherry; in Tamil it’s called Pudducherry, or affectionately just “Pondy”. The guest house must be one of the loveliest places I have ever stayed in. Not because of its comfort but because of the tranquil location. Every room is named after a virtue, joy, peace, compassion etc. and has a balcony facing the sea. There is a meditation garden where all you can hear are the sound of lapping waves. The large windows of the vegetarian canteen are yards from the shore and give the semblance of being on a boat far out at sea.
There is an unmistakable French feel to Pondicherry. There are Alliance Francais, restaurants that serve Bordeaux and cigars, and the police wear red kepis like Gendarmes. The well-planned streets, all arranged in right angles have French names like Goubert Avenue and Dumas Street and are lined with trees that provide shade from the unbearable 45 degrees lunchtime blaze. The houses are whitewashed, with old wooden doors and well-watered blooming gardens. Today the Frenchness is but a hint alluding to bye-gone days of a colonial past. Pondicherry became Indian in 1954 and there is the unmistakable busy feel of a typical Indian city in the more inland parts of Pondicherry, dusty streets, hooting vehicles and people scurrying around.
The ashram in the city was founded by Shri Aurobindo in 1926, and after he died the Mother took over as spiritual guide till she died in 1973 aged 97. Their bodies are laid to rest in tombs of the courtyard of the main ashram building on Marine Street. Auroville is the ashram community 10 kilometres north of Pondicherry in Tamil Nadu (Pondicherry itself is a Union territory); it was started by the Mother as an experimental place where people could live in a higher spiritual awareness, and harmony. It has 80 settlements over an area of 20 kilometres each devoted to projects ranging from alternative technology, agriculture, tree planting and handicrafts, education and health; the many buildings are spread out connected by roads winding their way through newly-planted trees. The centre of the settlement is the imposing Matrimandir with a huge bronze-coloured dome. Inside most of it is still under construction but the white marble meditation chamber at the top is complete – it has a hazy light coming from a mirror on the roof which is refracted through a solid crystal 70cms wide. The room is cool and has strong calming feeling about it; a steward advised me that at 4.30pm some people would be allowed in to meditate there, once the crowds had gone home.
While I queued the rumble of thunder resounded and electric-blue lightning flashes cracked the sky. Rain fell in torrents and the air cooled as people sheltered under a large banyan tree, leaning on its vertical roots. The red-earth path to the Matrimandir turned in to a mud-track and the meditation session was cancelled. I rode my motorbike back to Pondicherry through paths of mud, round puddles and past fallen branches, soaked to the skin. The rain felt strangely pleasant, the heat and humidity was gone. The Monsoon had eventually arrived in full measure, loud, spectacular and very wet.
Chidambaram - the Lord of the Dance
Madurai to Chidambaram: 25th May
This morning I said goodbye to Pete. We exchanged presents, I gave him an orange powder drink and he gave me a cloth bag with Tamil writing on the side. He took a bus up to Kodaikanal, the only hill station in India set up by Americans. The hawkers have got on his nerves, and he wants the relative quiet of the hills. I later learned from him that Kodaikanal was just as busy and he ended up getting on the next bus out. He ended up in Rameshwaram and stayed in a shoreline hut with a fisherman who every morning would pour a cold bucket of water over him. From there he went north to Orissa , Calcutta which he loved, along the Ganges to Varanasi. He wants to be in Dharamsala for His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s birthday in July.
I got off the bus at Chidambaramam, a small town famous for the great temple site of Natarajah, Shiva as Lord of the Dance. The temple complex occupies 22 hectares and is about 700 years old. It has a large courtyard with many shrines, and lines of people stared wide-eyed as the doors to the inner sanctum were opened. There are huge gaupurams around the courtyard, and as the sun set, a cloud appeared in the west.
This morning I said goodbye to Pete. We exchanged presents, I gave him an orange powder drink and he gave me a cloth bag with Tamil writing on the side. He took a bus up to Kodaikanal, the only hill station in India set up by Americans. The hawkers have got on his nerves, and he wants the relative quiet of the hills. I later learned from him that Kodaikanal was just as busy and he ended up getting on the next bus out. He ended up in Rameshwaram and stayed in a shoreline hut with a fisherman who every morning would pour a cold bucket of water over him. From there he went north to Orissa , Calcutta which he loved, along the Ganges to Varanasi. He wants to be in Dharamsala for His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s birthday in July.
I got off the bus at Chidambaramam, a small town famous for the great temple site of Natarajah, Shiva as Lord of the Dance. The temple complex occupies 22 hectares and is about 700 years old. It has a large courtyard with many shrines, and lines of people stared wide-eyed as the doors to the inner sanctum were opened. There are huge gaupurams around the courtyard, and as the sun set, a cloud appeared in the west.
I finally get that dhoti... but why is our Guide arrested?
Kanyiakumari to Madurai: 23rd May
The hotel man knocked at my door this morning. “Sar, sunrise 10 minutes,”. I woke Pete and we ran to the bobbing wooden boats of the harbour close to the jetty, the sky was pink and gradually the sun appeared over the horizon and the crowd that lined the shore stood up and made their sun salutations. A ferry leaves for the Vivekananda Rock every half hour, to visit the mandapam built in 1970 an ornate stone building dedicated to Swami Vivekananda who merged the tenets of Hinduism and the concept of social justice. We spent an hour on the rock reading about him and Pete seemed to enjoy his newfound celebrity status as Indian tourists wanted to have a photo taken with a westerner. Back on the mainland of India we visited the temple dedicated to the Devi Kanya, the virgin consort of Lord Shiva, an incarnation of Parvati. In its dark, stone interiors we walked barefoot through the light of earthenware lamps and saw the idol at its central altar.
It’s still extremely hot, no clouds in the sky that may herald the monsoon. It’s fashionably late this year, spinning around in a circular weather pattern in the ocean, like a whirling dervish, playing hard to get with India.
We took a minibus north to Madurai, the scenery changed to scrubland in sharp contrast to the lush and greenery of Kerala. Beside the road power-generating windmills with 3 sails spun fast. By 8pm we were in the packed street markets of Madurai, one of the oldest cities in south India, ancient centre for learning and pilgrimage.
At the Sree Devi Hotel, the bell-boy took us to the rooftop where we saw an amazing sight – the imposing silhouettes of 50 metre high gateways of the Shri Meenakshi temple, they stood like silent sentinels of the night, their presence belittling the lights and buildings below. In the morning we got a better view of the temple and its gateways, called Gaupurams. They are adorned with many colourful statues of Gods and Deities from Hindu mythology. The temple design goes back to 1560, but there has been a temple here for 2,000 years. Inside the temple complex, which occupies 6 hectares, drums and pipes played a fast catchy tune; worshippers mingled, some lay prostrate before idols, others offering prashad, their faces shiny, illuminated by the light of thousands of earthenware butter lamps; inside the dark interior of the inner sanctum where only Hindus are allowed, were idols of deities, Nandi the bull, Lord Shiva, and curvaceous, seductive women blackened by time. In the halls of carved stone pillars, bats flew amongst shards of yellow sunset light, revealing plumes of rising incense smoke. A decorated elephant with shiny brown eyes blessed worshippers by tapping their heads with its trunk. Quite an atmosphere for a religious place, vibrant and thriving. Alive.
We hired a guide, an old lady in a simple cotton sari. She was a retired English teacher who spoke perfect English and used the word “somewhat” in practically every sentence she spoke. Ten minutes into our tour, lathi wielding policemen in khaki uniforms came and evicted her from the complex for not being an official guide. I got incessantly harangued by hawkers and money cheats in Madurai. People claimed to be a tailors from the temple market who could sew Nehru-collar jackets, shirts, and kurta pyjama. On collecting my sandals from the booth outside the temple the man wanted to charge me 16 times more than the proper price for looking after them. When asked how he could justify the price, his answer was, “I love money” and he was irate when I paid him the proper price of 50 paise. A vendor of water bottles upped his prices well above the recommended price due to a cooling charge. I decided with my Nikes, cargo pants, cameras and map I looked far too much like a tourist so for 90 rupees I got a dhoti. It’s cool to wear and easy to walk in. I’m practically a local now, as long as I don’t open my mouth.
The hotel man knocked at my door this morning. “Sar, sunrise 10 minutes,”. I woke Pete and we ran to the bobbing wooden boats of the harbour close to the jetty, the sky was pink and gradually the sun appeared over the horizon and the crowd that lined the shore stood up and made their sun salutations. A ferry leaves for the Vivekananda Rock every half hour, to visit the mandapam built in 1970 an ornate stone building dedicated to Swami Vivekananda who merged the tenets of Hinduism and the concept of social justice. We spent an hour on the rock reading about him and Pete seemed to enjoy his newfound celebrity status as Indian tourists wanted to have a photo taken with a westerner. Back on the mainland of India we visited the temple dedicated to the Devi Kanya, the virgin consort of Lord Shiva, an incarnation of Parvati. In its dark, stone interiors we walked barefoot through the light of earthenware lamps and saw the idol at its central altar.
It’s still extremely hot, no clouds in the sky that may herald the monsoon. It’s fashionably late this year, spinning around in a circular weather pattern in the ocean, like a whirling dervish, playing hard to get with India.
We took a minibus north to Madurai, the scenery changed to scrubland in sharp contrast to the lush and greenery of Kerala. Beside the road power-generating windmills with 3 sails spun fast. By 8pm we were in the packed street markets of Madurai, one of the oldest cities in south India, ancient centre for learning and pilgrimage.
At the Sree Devi Hotel, the bell-boy took us to the rooftop where we saw an amazing sight – the imposing silhouettes of 50 metre high gateways of the Shri Meenakshi temple, they stood like silent sentinels of the night, their presence belittling the lights and buildings below. In the morning we got a better view of the temple and its gateways, called Gaupurams. They are adorned with many colourful statues of Gods and Deities from Hindu mythology. The temple design goes back to 1560, but there has been a temple here for 2,000 years. Inside the temple complex, which occupies 6 hectares, drums and pipes played a fast catchy tune; worshippers mingled, some lay prostrate before idols, others offering prashad, their faces shiny, illuminated by the light of thousands of earthenware butter lamps; inside the dark interior of the inner sanctum where only Hindus are allowed, were idols of deities, Nandi the bull, Lord Shiva, and curvaceous, seductive women blackened by time. In the halls of carved stone pillars, bats flew amongst shards of yellow sunset light, revealing plumes of rising incense smoke. A decorated elephant with shiny brown eyes blessed worshippers by tapping their heads with its trunk. Quite an atmosphere for a religious place, vibrant and thriving. Alive.
We hired a guide, an old lady in a simple cotton sari. She was a retired English teacher who spoke perfect English and used the word “somewhat” in practically every sentence she spoke. Ten minutes into our tour, lathi wielding policemen in khaki uniforms came and evicted her from the complex for not being an official guide. I got incessantly harangued by hawkers and money cheats in Madurai. People claimed to be a tailors from the temple market who could sew Nehru-collar jackets, shirts, and kurta pyjama. On collecting my sandals from the booth outside the temple the man wanted to charge me 16 times more than the proper price for looking after them. When asked how he could justify the price, his answer was, “I love money” and he was irate when I paid him the proper price of 50 paise. A vendor of water bottles upped his prices well above the recommended price due to a cooling charge. I decided with my Nikes, cargo pants, cameras and map I looked far too much like a tourist so for 90 rupees I got a dhoti. It’s cool to wear and easy to walk in. I’m practically a local now, as long as I don’t open my mouth.
to the southernmost point of India
Varkala to Kanyia Kumari: 22nd May
This morning Pete and I boarded the train, where passengers are packed together like sardines - there’s hardly room to store my rucksack as one chap is sleeping where the luggage is supposed to go. Soon, the train passes in to a new state, Tamil Nadu and we arrive at the terminal stop, Kanyiakumari, India’s southern-most tip. As well as its geographic significance it is also a pilgrim town with an old temple. Its main street is bustling with juicebars with stacks of limes and oranges, sari shops and others selling chandeliers and garlands made of small white shells, dried starfish and pink conches on which they can engrave your name for a small extra charge.
At the shore people flock near the Triveni Sangamam, the bathing ghats. The strong southerly wind, breathes life in to saris, kameez and churidar, making people look like fluttering flagposts. Families sit on concrete benches and eat ice creams. An elephant is tapping the heads of tourists, an auspicious sign, if they put a rupee coin in the tip of its trunk.
This, the southernmost point is where three seas meet. As you look out to the sea facing the next landmass Antarctica, on the left is Vivekananda Rock which sits in the Bay of Bengal, where the swami meditated in 1892; an imposing stone statue of Thiruvalluvar the Tamil poet, faces towards India. Straight ahead, shiny black rocks emerge from the Indian ocean, like heads of surfacing whales. Waves create loud, crashing explosions of froth. To the right is the Arabian Sea beyond the Mahatma Gandhi Memorial where his ashes were kept.
This morning Pete and I boarded the train, where passengers are packed together like sardines - there’s hardly room to store my rucksack as one chap is sleeping where the luggage is supposed to go. Soon, the train passes in to a new state, Tamil Nadu and we arrive at the terminal stop, Kanyiakumari, India’s southern-most tip. As well as its geographic significance it is also a pilgrim town with an old temple. Its main street is bustling with juicebars with stacks of limes and oranges, sari shops and others selling chandeliers and garlands made of small white shells, dried starfish and pink conches on which they can engrave your name for a small extra charge.
At the shore people flock near the Triveni Sangamam, the bathing ghats. The strong southerly wind, breathes life in to saris, kameez and churidar, making people look like fluttering flagposts. Families sit on concrete benches and eat ice creams. An elephant is tapping the heads of tourists, an auspicious sign, if they put a rupee coin in the tip of its trunk.
This, the southernmost point is where three seas meet. As you look out to the sea facing the next landmass Antarctica, on the left is Vivekananda Rock which sits in the Bay of Bengal, where the swami meditated in 1892; an imposing stone statue of Thiruvalluvar the Tamil poet, faces towards India. Straight ahead, shiny black rocks emerge from the Indian ocean, like heads of surfacing whales. Waves create loud, crashing explosions of froth. To the right is the Arabian Sea beyond the Mahatma Gandhi Memorial where his ashes were kept.
I'm stranded ... hooray
Varkala: 21st May
Today there’s a transport strike, auto-rickshaws, the buses and trains are affected. I’ll be stranded here for today. Wonderful. In Varkala town I saw the temple and sat watching people washing their clothes, slapping them violently on the ghats by the large tank. I bumped in to a fellow beach-footballer called Nasser. He had met a Swedish backpacker 2 years ago and recently got married to her, and was waiting for his residency permit before his new life in Stockholm.
Today there’s a transport strike, auto-rickshaws, the buses and trains are affected. I’ll be stranded here for today. Wonderful. In Varkala town I saw the temple and sat watching people washing their clothes, slapping them violently on the ghats by the large tank. I bumped in to a fellow beach-footballer called Nasser. He had met a Swedish backpacker 2 years ago and recently got married to her, and was waiting for his residency permit before his new life in Stockholm.
I.N.D.I.A. - (I'll Never Do It Again_)
Varkala: 19th May
I’m staying at the Hill Palace Hotel for 300 rupees a night; my balcony looks over the cappuccino-coloured sands of the beach and the copper-red cliffs shrouded by misty sea-spray. The soothing sound of crashing waves is all I can hear. To my left, a parade of restaurants stretches across the cliff-top, even one that sells French gateaux. It was a special time at the resort, a short window at the end of the tourist season but before the monsoon, which left just a handful of foreigners milling around. They are a motley collection of foreigners, here for various reasons, like Rick’s café in Casablanca:
- Walter is a Dutch student on an exchange programme with the University of Cochin. We play beach football with 15 locals practically every evening at sunset.
- There’s a Canadian called Sarah who is taking advantage of a two month break from the corporate world of management consultancy to learn Ayurvedic Medicine and Yoga.
- Alan is from Seattle and spends his time in India to top up his tan on the beaches of Goa, Varkala and Kovallam. He doesn’t sound too impressed with his experiences, India to him is an acronym that stands for :
I’ll Never Do It Again.
.
- A couple of Irish ladies are here to end their travels around Asia, having been in Thailand, and Nepal before coming to Varkala. In Thailand one of them had slipped and had fractured her ankle, and ended up in a knee-high plaster cast for 6 weeks. This didn’t stop her from enjoying herself, her burly six-feet-high friend carried both their rucksacks as she limped around on crutches. Life backpacking with a plaster cast brought her several problems which she surmounted. In the humidity of Thailand, it itched manically and she had to stick twigs down there. Showering became practically impossible as the cast had to be kept dry, so she innovated and showered with the metal-hose bidet found in some hotel bathrooms. The toughest thing to do, according to her, was to use the Indian style toilets; once she fell in one and couldn’t get out so the staff at the hotel had to break down the door to get her out. The joys of one-legged backpacking! And as soon as the cast was cut off in Nepal she trekked the Anapurna Himalayas for 12 days.
It’s very difficult to swim in the sea here, a vicious under-current drags you along, so swimming is more like drifting along like a jellyfish. At least it is cooling so we just float around in the warm sea water like foetuses. Three lifeguards sit all day under a large umbrella watching out for people who swim too far out; they frequently blow their whistles when they do. At sunset they leave the beach, and there are usually a couple of fatalities of night-swimmers who get carried away in the current every season. Varkala is beautiful, devoid of the worst excesses of beaches no litter, no gawkers or hawkers, except for the “pineapple lady” who slices a whole pineapple for 20 rupees. I wonder of it will stay this way in 10 years time.
I’m staying at the Hill Palace Hotel for 300 rupees a night; my balcony looks over the cappuccino-coloured sands of the beach and the copper-red cliffs shrouded by misty sea-spray. The soothing sound of crashing waves is all I can hear. To my left, a parade of restaurants stretches across the cliff-top, even one that sells French gateaux. It was a special time at the resort, a short window at the end of the tourist season but before the monsoon, which left just a handful of foreigners milling around. They are a motley collection of foreigners, here for various reasons, like Rick’s café in Casablanca:
- Walter is a Dutch student on an exchange programme with the University of Cochin. We play beach football with 15 locals practically every evening at sunset.
- There’s a Canadian called Sarah who is taking advantage of a two month break from the corporate world of management consultancy to learn Ayurvedic Medicine and Yoga.
- Alan is from Seattle and spends his time in India to top up his tan on the beaches of Goa, Varkala and Kovallam. He doesn’t sound too impressed with his experiences, India to him is an acronym that stands for :
I’ll Never Do It Again.
.
- A couple of Irish ladies are here to end their travels around Asia, having been in Thailand, and Nepal before coming to Varkala. In Thailand one of them had slipped and had fractured her ankle, and ended up in a knee-high plaster cast for 6 weeks. This didn’t stop her from enjoying herself, her burly six-feet-high friend carried both their rucksacks as she limped around on crutches. Life backpacking with a plaster cast brought her several problems which she surmounted. In the humidity of Thailand, it itched manically and she had to stick twigs down there. Showering became practically impossible as the cast had to be kept dry, so she innovated and showered with the metal-hose bidet found in some hotel bathrooms. The toughest thing to do, according to her, was to use the Indian style toilets; once she fell in one and couldn’t get out so the staff at the hotel had to break down the door to get her out. The joys of one-legged backpacking! And as soon as the cast was cut off in Nepal she trekked the Anapurna Himalayas for 12 days.
It’s very difficult to swim in the sea here, a vicious under-current drags you along, so swimming is more like drifting along like a jellyfish. At least it is cooling so we just float around in the warm sea water like foetuses. Three lifeguards sit all day under a large umbrella watching out for people who swim too far out; they frequently blow their whistles when they do. At sunset they leave the beach, and there are usually a couple of fatalities of night-swimmers who get carried away in the current every season. Varkala is beautiful, devoid of the worst excesses of beaches no litter, no gawkers or hawkers, except for the “pineapple lady” who slices a whole pineapple for 20 rupees. I wonder of it will stay this way in 10 years time.
The Monsoon is on her way
Karumady Village to Kollam to Varkala: 18th May
Jji and his family, my wonderful hosts waved goodbye to me from the bankside as the 11.30 Alappuzha- Kollam ferry pulled away for the 8 hour ride south down the national waterway. On board was Stephan, Peter, an Englishman, a honey-mooning couple from Bombay and two families from New Delhi.
We passed lines of Chinese fishing nets sticking up from the water like dangly spiders’ legs, and the idyllic rusticity of thatched houses and soaring fish eagles suspended on air currents like paper kites. Gradually a flash of pink appeared on the right bank and we got closer a 25 storey apartment block appeared – painted in bright trifle pink. It was the ashram of Ama-chi, a holy lady also known as the Hugging Mama; a hug from her is said to be very auspicious. Stephan stepped off the ferry to spend a night there and were uncertain whether we would ever see him again. He turned up in Varkala a few days later where he said he went to a darshan where Amachi hugged 14,000 people in 12 hours - a phenomenal feat indeed, equating to 3 hugs a minute.
My homestay was in Karumady, a remote village in the backwaters, where I stayed with the Mapilasery family.
The ferry made good progress down the waterway, and we sat on the benches on its roof. I found a copy of an English-language newspaper lying around, which said:
“Monsoon due to arrive in 4 days time”.
So there was really only one way to make best use of the remaining days of rain-free weather – in the words of the Californian surfers, “Where’s the beach dude?”. The ferry ride ended at Kollam, a typical Keralan market town on the edge of Ashtamudi Lake where Pete found the answer. A two hour bus ride away was Varkala a developing beach resort 41 km north of Thiruvanthapuram.
Jji and his family, my wonderful hosts waved goodbye to me from the bankside as the 11.30 Alappuzha- Kollam ferry pulled away for the 8 hour ride south down the national waterway. On board was Stephan, Peter, an Englishman, a honey-mooning couple from Bombay and two families from New Delhi.
We passed lines of Chinese fishing nets sticking up from the water like dangly spiders’ legs, and the idyllic rusticity of thatched houses and soaring fish eagles suspended on air currents like paper kites. Gradually a flash of pink appeared on the right bank and we got closer a 25 storey apartment block appeared – painted in bright trifle pink. It was the ashram of Ama-chi, a holy lady also known as the Hugging Mama; a hug from her is said to be very auspicious. Stephan stepped off the ferry to spend a night there and were uncertain whether we would ever see him again. He turned up in Varkala a few days later where he said he went to a darshan where Amachi hugged 14,000 people in 12 hours - a phenomenal feat indeed, equating to 3 hugs a minute.
My homestay was in Karumady, a remote village in the backwaters, where I stayed with the Mapilasery family.
The ferry made good progress down the waterway, and we sat on the benches on its roof. I found a copy of an English-language newspaper lying around, which said:
“Monsoon due to arrive in 4 days time”.
So there was really only one way to make best use of the remaining days of rain-free weather – in the words of the Californian surfers, “Where’s the beach dude?”. The ferry ride ended at Kollam, a typical Keralan market town on the edge of Ashtamudi Lake where Pete found the answer. A two hour bus ride away was Varkala a developing beach resort 41 km north of Thiruvanthapuram.
Crossing a bridge in the village
Karumady: 17th May
A short walk along village paths there is a 10th century black granite idol of the Buddha called the “Karumadikkuttan”. There is a certain sadness about the statue which sits contemplatively overlooking the river and has an arm missing after an attack from a wild elephant. On the way back I took a different route and the path turned in to a log bridge, about a foot wide and 10 feet long , above a fast-moving water current between two flooded fields. It was suited to the small nimble feet of the locals, not to mine. There was no other way across and I noticed villagers had congregated staring at me, smiling. Well this was it. I couldn’t turn round now could I? I made three rapid steps, slipped and fell in the water which was cool and clear. A man from the village helped me out and the villagers clapped.
A short walk along village paths there is a 10th century black granite idol of the Buddha called the “Karumadikkuttan”. There is a certain sadness about the statue which sits contemplatively overlooking the river and has an arm missing after an attack from a wild elephant. On the way back I took a different route and the path turned in to a log bridge, about a foot wide and 10 feet long , above a fast-moving water current between two flooded fields. It was suited to the small nimble feet of the locals, not to mine. There was no other way across and I noticed villagers had congregated staring at me, smiling. Well this was it. I couldn’t turn round now could I? I made three rapid steps, slipped and fell in the water which was cool and clear. A man from the village helped me out and the villagers clapped.
A faux pas in Church, a faux pas in a temple
Ambalapuzzha :16th May
This morning Jiji brought me a breakfast of coconut pancakes drizzled with jaggary and tea in teapot. In the evenings I am treated to a home-made thaali meal with small bowls of parippu (mixed lentil soup flavoured with tomato and garlic), rasam (peppery lentil broth), kathrika (plantain fritters) and vadai ( small doughnuts made from black lentil batter). For deserts they served me rice noodles, in milk and raisins and always send me to bed with a chilled bottle of mineral water and a mosquito coil. It’s just like living with a family, but with payment.
The Sri Krishna Temple, one of the oldest in Kerala, is a three kilometre walk away. It’s an auspicious time now, a special festival is going on which only happens once every 144 years. Under a glitzy cloth house of tinsel and garlands, priests of all ages and shades of brown, sit in rows bare chested but for a thread. They throw one petal for every Vedic chant which is wired up to loudspeakers so that the auspiciousness of the occasion can be heard by passers-by on the main road. From the size of ridge of fragrant petals in front of them, they have been chanting for quite some days. Inside the temple a man approached me and told me take off my shirt, customary for south Indian temples. I knew this, but I forgot to do it. Spot the tourist!
A boatmen rowed me around the waterways for a day; we passed many houses on the banks of the canals, drifting past branches with chameleons hanging on them like green socks on a clothesline, past flooded paddy fields with embankments of tethered goats, overtaking slower boats carrying mounds of green coconuts and ducking in the boat as we passed under low footbridges. An old lady scraped the scales off a fish on the bankside and she waved at us. Ocassionally a palm matted houseboatm which are air-conditioned floating 5 star hotels, would pass us with a party on board. The children were friendly, they would run along the bank and shout “What country?” and “One pen please!”. A threw a pen at them which started a minor squabble. Pens must be valued, in Kerala primary education is compulsory and the literacy rate is about 95%. The standard of living in Kerala is relatively good too thanks in part to the land reforms of the world’s first elected Communist government.
We passed a grove of coconut trees – apparently more people die from falling coconuts than snake bites in Kerala which literally means “Land of Coconuts”. Inspite of their fatal attraction, the coconut tree is the botanical darling of the Malayalis. Coir is made from the fibres of its husk and used to bind their boats which are made from its wood; from its milk, they make a bubbly white country wine called Toddy which is fermented in earthenware pots up a tree (it is an acquired taste, take my word for it); oil is made from its dried coconut flesh (called copra) and used for massages, cooking and hair. No wonder they call the coconut tree the tree gifted from God but sleep under one at your peril, you could be saying a very personal thank you.
The backwaters are a mix of sea water and freshwater. The Malayali people have learned to channels the water types to best advantage, annually letting the sea water in to their fields to kills off weeds and mosquito larvae.
Up ahead two brass vases were bobbing and spinning of their own accord. As we neared them, shrivelled pink fingertips appeared on them and the heads of two old ladies appeared in the water – they were wading for shellfish. A nearby factory heats and crushes the shells to make a white powder, as fine as talcum, which is used as a lime for cement, paintwash and paan.
We berthed in Champakulum a waterlogged village with an ancient church built in 427AD. St Thomas the Apostle is said to have brought Christianity to these shores just after the death of Jesus Christ. I took off my shoes, no need to remove my shirt this time, and then sat in the church on the pew-less floor with the others. They were singing hyms infront of a large statue of Christ next to high walls with murals on them. I looked around and saw that the congregation around me were all women. Two days, two religious places, two mistakes. I was sitting on the women’s side of the church.
This morning Jiji brought me a breakfast of coconut pancakes drizzled with jaggary and tea in teapot. In the evenings I am treated to a home-made thaali meal with small bowls of parippu (mixed lentil soup flavoured with tomato and garlic), rasam (peppery lentil broth), kathrika (plantain fritters) and vadai ( small doughnuts made from black lentil batter). For deserts they served me rice noodles, in milk and raisins and always send me to bed with a chilled bottle of mineral water and a mosquito coil. It’s just like living with a family, but with payment.
The Sri Krishna Temple, one of the oldest in Kerala, is a three kilometre walk away. It’s an auspicious time now, a special festival is going on which only happens once every 144 years. Under a glitzy cloth house of tinsel and garlands, priests of all ages and shades of brown, sit in rows bare chested but for a thread. They throw one petal for every Vedic chant which is wired up to loudspeakers so that the auspiciousness of the occasion can be heard by passers-by on the main road. From the size of ridge of fragrant petals in front of them, they have been chanting for quite some days. Inside the temple a man approached me and told me take off my shirt, customary for south Indian temples. I knew this, but I forgot to do it. Spot the tourist!
A boatmen rowed me around the waterways for a day; we passed many houses on the banks of the canals, drifting past branches with chameleons hanging on them like green socks on a clothesline, past flooded paddy fields with embankments of tethered goats, overtaking slower boats carrying mounds of green coconuts and ducking in the boat as we passed under low footbridges. An old lady scraped the scales off a fish on the bankside and she waved at us. Ocassionally a palm matted houseboatm which are air-conditioned floating 5 star hotels, would pass us with a party on board. The children were friendly, they would run along the bank and shout “What country?” and “One pen please!”. A threw a pen at them which started a minor squabble. Pens must be valued, in Kerala primary education is compulsory and the literacy rate is about 95%. The standard of living in Kerala is relatively good too thanks in part to the land reforms of the world’s first elected Communist government.
We passed a grove of coconut trees – apparently more people die from falling coconuts than snake bites in Kerala which literally means “Land of Coconuts”. Inspite of their fatal attraction, the coconut tree is the botanical darling of the Malayalis. Coir is made from the fibres of its husk and used to bind their boats which are made from its wood; from its milk, they make a bubbly white country wine called Toddy which is fermented in earthenware pots up a tree (it is an acquired taste, take my word for it); oil is made from its dried coconut flesh (called copra) and used for massages, cooking and hair. No wonder they call the coconut tree the tree gifted from God but sleep under one at your peril, you could be saying a very personal thank you.
The backwaters are a mix of sea water and freshwater. The Malayali people have learned to channels the water types to best advantage, annually letting the sea water in to their fields to kills off weeds and mosquito larvae.
Up ahead two brass vases were bobbing and spinning of their own accord. As we neared them, shrivelled pink fingertips appeared on them and the heads of two old ladies appeared in the water – they were wading for shellfish. A nearby factory heats and crushes the shells to make a white powder, as fine as talcum, which is used as a lime for cement, paintwash and paan.
We berthed in Champakulum a waterlogged village with an ancient church built in 427AD. St Thomas the Apostle is said to have brought Christianity to these shores just after the death of Jesus Christ. I took off my shoes, no need to remove my shirt this time, and then sat in the church on the pew-less floor with the others. They were singing hyms infront of a large statue of Christ next to high walls with murals on them. I looked around and saw that the congregation around me were all women. Two days, two religious places, two mistakes. I was sitting on the women’s side of the church.
Where can I buy a dhoti?
Fort Cochin to Karumady Village: 15th May
On leaving Fort Cochin, David the owner of the Delight hotel, advised me to go and stay with some of his friends who live in the rural backwaters in the village of Karumady Village. I scribbled down the directions and place names.
The first mode of travel today, a high speed autorickshaw, its driver must have been Kerala’s answer to Evil Kenieval, perhaps narrowly beaten by Vijay Amritraj in getting a role in a James Bond film. From the Ernakulum Bus station it was a short ride to Kotayam where, still rubbing a bump at the top of my head, I asked for the jetty terminal – nobody could understand me. Perhaps it was the way I pronounced “Goo Ma Gun Jetty”. That’s what Davod had said I’m sure. Any small change in inflexion or intonation can change a place name beyond recognition
After asking anyone who could remotely understand me, I arrived at the “Kumarkom” jetty for a 2 hour wait - the ferry to Allapuzha had been cancelled so at a canalside restaurant I ate some idiapam and fried okra. Chartered barges full of partying families from the close-by 5 star holiday resorts went past. Soon the ferry arrived and we sailed in to the huge Vembanad Lake which looked more like a sea but betrayed by the green tinsel of coconut trees that edged the horizon that encircled us. The lake is the venue for the annual Nehru Cup for which crews race each other in “snake” boats, each with 80 rowers, 20 drummers and 15 steersmen. The afternoon winds were up and we dipped our way through the waves till we berthed at a tiny village called Mohama. I asked a group of youths how to get a bus to Alappuzha but they appeared keener to ask questions than to give me a straight answer:
“Which country you are from?”
“ India.”
Confused looks, they stare at me up and down.
“OK then, England.”
More confused looks, staring at me up and down once again.
When a man with betel-stained teeth who reeked of early-afternoon whiskey demanded fifty rupees, I realised it was time to stop the explanation of the Indian community in the UK and just slipped away. On the bus I contemplated the advantages of inconspicuousness in foreign travel. I really need that dhoti.
From Alappuzha, it was only one further bus to Ambalapuzha Junction on National Highway 47 to get to my destination of Karumady Village. The realisation I was off the beaten track came to me when I saw that the destination signboards on the buses were all written in the looping, flowing script of Malayalam. I asked people on the bus “Ambalapuzha Junction?”. And this led to a secondary issue – when people in south India shake their heads, they mean “yes”. It’s not quite a shake, but more a gentle wobble of the chin from side to side, hardly discernible in the franticness of a bus station. The conductor shook his head in this manner, I understood it to mean “no” so shook my head in perceived agreement meaning “no” too, and descended the bus. Only afterwards did a fellow passenger come up to me and say that it was indeed going to Ambalapuzha.
After the bus, an auto-rickshaw sped me through narrow red-earth lanes made redder by the light of a mango-flesh sunset, its reflection rippling in the water of a paddy field. At dusk I arrived at Karumady village and walked over a small footbridge to arrive at the home of Jiji and Trisha Mappilassery and their son John, a family of Christians who rent out cottages on the banks of the river Pumba in what they advertise as “a very private backwater residence”.
There was a powercut and the Mappilasserys were seated on the floor of their living room singing Christian hymns in Malayalam in the bluish light of a paraffin lampd. Jiji showed me to my cottage by the waterside, tranquil and silent but for the splashing fisherman working in the full-moon light and the occasional plop from a diving kingfisher. The land was inherited by Jiji, he got last pick after his 3 brothers and 3 sisters, who wondered considered the strip of land on the banks of the backwaters as useless for growing anything. In his time when he’s not working as a Database Administrator, he manages the business of his homestay , Riverside Retreat (riversideret@hotmail.com).
On leaving Fort Cochin, David the owner of the Delight hotel, advised me to go and stay with some of his friends who live in the rural backwaters in the village of Karumady Village. I scribbled down the directions and place names.
The first mode of travel today, a high speed autorickshaw, its driver must have been Kerala’s answer to Evil Kenieval, perhaps narrowly beaten by Vijay Amritraj in getting a role in a James Bond film. From the Ernakulum Bus station it was a short ride to Kotayam where, still rubbing a bump at the top of my head, I asked for the jetty terminal – nobody could understand me. Perhaps it was the way I pronounced “Goo Ma Gun Jetty”. That’s what Davod had said I’m sure. Any small change in inflexion or intonation can change a place name beyond recognition
After asking anyone who could remotely understand me, I arrived at the “Kumarkom” jetty for a 2 hour wait - the ferry to Allapuzha had been cancelled so at a canalside restaurant I ate some idiapam and fried okra. Chartered barges full of partying families from the close-by 5 star holiday resorts went past. Soon the ferry arrived and we sailed in to the huge Vembanad Lake which looked more like a sea but betrayed by the green tinsel of coconut trees that edged the horizon that encircled us. The lake is the venue for the annual Nehru Cup for which crews race each other in “snake” boats, each with 80 rowers, 20 drummers and 15 steersmen. The afternoon winds were up and we dipped our way through the waves till we berthed at a tiny village called Mohama. I asked a group of youths how to get a bus to Alappuzha but they appeared keener to ask questions than to give me a straight answer:
“Which country you are from?”
“ India.”
Confused looks, they stare at me up and down.
“OK then, England.”
More confused looks, staring at me up and down once again.
When a man with betel-stained teeth who reeked of early-afternoon whiskey demanded fifty rupees, I realised it was time to stop the explanation of the Indian community in the UK and just slipped away. On the bus I contemplated the advantages of inconspicuousness in foreign travel. I really need that dhoti.
From Alappuzha, it was only one further bus to Ambalapuzha Junction on National Highway 47 to get to my destination of Karumady Village. The realisation I was off the beaten track came to me when I saw that the destination signboards on the buses were all written in the looping, flowing script of Malayalam. I asked people on the bus “Ambalapuzha Junction?”. And this led to a secondary issue – when people in south India shake their heads, they mean “yes”. It’s not quite a shake, but more a gentle wobble of the chin from side to side, hardly discernible in the franticness of a bus station. The conductor shook his head in this manner, I understood it to mean “no” so shook my head in perceived agreement meaning “no” too, and descended the bus. Only afterwards did a fellow passenger come up to me and say that it was indeed going to Ambalapuzha.
After the bus, an auto-rickshaw sped me through narrow red-earth lanes made redder by the light of a mango-flesh sunset, its reflection rippling in the water of a paddy field. At dusk I arrived at Karumady village and walked over a small footbridge to arrive at the home of Jiji and Trisha Mappilassery and their son John, a family of Christians who rent out cottages on the banks of the river Pumba in what they advertise as “a very private backwater residence”.
There was a powercut and the Mappilasserys were seated on the floor of their living room singing Christian hymns in Malayalam in the bluish light of a paraffin lampd. Jiji showed me to my cottage by the waterside, tranquil and silent but for the splashing fisherman working in the full-moon light and the occasional plop from a diving kingfisher. The land was inherited by Jiji, he got last pick after his 3 brothers and 3 sisters, who wondered considered the strip of land on the banks of the backwaters as useless for growing anything. In his time when he’s not working as a Database Administrator, he manages the business of his homestay , Riverside Retreat (riversideret@hotmail.com).
Trichur to Fort Cochin: 11th May
God bless the sellers on trains. Carriers and purveyors of roasted peanuts, crunchy honeyed nut bars and steaming coffees in flimsy plastic cups. With a deftness and grace tantamount to a performing art, they weave their way through squashes of passengers, carrying their wares; pouring tea from a hot-to-touch metal urn, without spilling a drop in the regular shake of the carriage; they make small newspaper-cones and fill them with chickpeas and lentils and squeeze lime juice on it with just one hand. With the nimbleness of foot of a ballerina and the dexterous fingers of an origami expert, one of them brought me my breakfast – a paper bag full of steaming and gently spiced rice.
The overnight train that pulled in to Trichur station was full of bleary-eyed Bombayites; two lads sat chatting nonchalantly with their legs dangling off the carriage. I got off at Ernakulum Town station and took a bus through Cochin, a group of islands and peninsulas tied together by bridges and ferries, one of India’s largest ports and a major naval base.
I am staying at the Delight Hotel an elegant hotel-home with high ceilings held up with old Burma teak beams, built by Europeans, lived in by Flowery and David the Indian Landlords . The roof terrace overlooks the Parade Ground and the St Fancis Church, the oldest church in India and first resting place of Vasco Da Gama’s body. It was built in 1503 by the Portuguese and depending on who was in charge at the time was Catholic, Dutch Protestant, Anglican and is currently being used by the Church of South India. Fort Cochin’s distinctly foreign ambience has rubbed off from traders who came here for centuries to take spices, ivory and peacocks back to Europe, China and Africa. In places it is like an English seaside town in the sub-tropics, Eastbourne with coconut trees.
Fort Cochin has narrow streets straddled with quaint houses shoulder-barging for space. The thoroughfares have names like Lilly Street and Princess Street and a crossroads called Loafer’s Corner, haunt of the hawkers. One of the hawkers has a masterful technique to get tourists in to his office – he asks people which country they are from. Then he mentions a football team from that country and lists players and matches with a level of details a TV pundit would be proud of. The rapport started, he would lure them in to his office and sell them tickets for a backwater cruise, still mentioning David Beckham and Zinedine Zidane.
The beach has huge cantilevered Chinese fishing nets , which were gifts from the court of Kublai Khan. The fishermen were having little luck, it was the hot weather which was keeping the fish away from the shore, and they were waiting for the Monsoon which would swell their catches with its late arrival. I did manage to buy some shrimps from them and got them made in to a mild curry served with parathas at a nearby shack.
I cycled through the air which smelt of drying cloves, cinammon and ginger in the nearby district of Mattancherry, passing flaking old spice warehouses. Further along I noticed a wall painted with the Star of David and arrived at the synagogue. It was originally built in 1568 but has since been reconstructed. The Jews have been here for centuries but migration to Israel in recent years have made their numbers dwindle. Closeby, the Dutch Palace, built by the Portuguese in 1555 and gifted to the local Rajah, has beautiful if a bit faded murals showing scenes from Hindu mythology.
Close to the Customs jetty where dolphins play, a beach-shack reverberates daily to the sound of cymbals, drums and conches. It used to be more substantial but in January a fire razed it to the ground, so the Kathakali play is now performed on a makeshift stage between palm-woven walls until they have enough donations to build a theatre building once more. Two hours before they commenced, one of the actors put on his make-up for the benefit of the audience, an intricate process, involving mixing coconut oil with powdery stones, seeds to make the whites of his eyes red and rice paste to create a beard. They perform a scene from the Mahabharata where Bhima kills Virata – the spectacle is colourful and exaggerated, from the bright-green makeup, the exaggerated moustaches and the large skirts flared with wire. One story can last up to 6 hours, and is narrated by a singer – there are no words from the actors who communicate with expressions and gestures. The actor who played Draupadi (the wife of 5 husbands - there are no actresses in Kathakali) was especially moving, as genuine tears smudged his heavy eye-liner.
God bless the sellers on trains. Carriers and purveyors of roasted peanuts, crunchy honeyed nut bars and steaming coffees in flimsy plastic cups. With a deftness and grace tantamount to a performing art, they weave their way through squashes of passengers, carrying their wares; pouring tea from a hot-to-touch metal urn, without spilling a drop in the regular shake of the carriage; they make small newspaper-cones and fill them with chickpeas and lentils and squeeze lime juice on it with just one hand. With the nimbleness of foot of a ballerina and the dexterous fingers of an origami expert, one of them brought me my breakfast – a paper bag full of steaming and gently spiced rice.
The overnight train that pulled in to Trichur station was full of bleary-eyed Bombayites; two lads sat chatting nonchalantly with their legs dangling off the carriage. I got off at Ernakulum Town station and took a bus through Cochin, a group of islands and peninsulas tied together by bridges and ferries, one of India’s largest ports and a major naval base.
I am staying at the Delight Hotel an elegant hotel-home with high ceilings held up with old Burma teak beams, built by Europeans, lived in by Flowery and David the Indian Landlords . The roof terrace overlooks the Parade Ground and the St Fancis Church, the oldest church in India and first resting place of Vasco Da Gama’s body. It was built in 1503 by the Portuguese and depending on who was in charge at the time was Catholic, Dutch Protestant, Anglican and is currently being used by the Church of South India. Fort Cochin’s distinctly foreign ambience has rubbed off from traders who came here for centuries to take spices, ivory and peacocks back to Europe, China and Africa. In places it is like an English seaside town in the sub-tropics, Eastbourne with coconut trees.
Fort Cochin has narrow streets straddled with quaint houses shoulder-barging for space. The thoroughfares have names like Lilly Street and Princess Street and a crossroads called Loafer’s Corner, haunt of the hawkers. One of the hawkers has a masterful technique to get tourists in to his office – he asks people which country they are from. Then he mentions a football team from that country and lists players and matches with a level of details a TV pundit would be proud of. The rapport started, he would lure them in to his office and sell them tickets for a backwater cruise, still mentioning David Beckham and Zinedine Zidane.
The beach has huge cantilevered Chinese fishing nets , which were gifts from the court of Kublai Khan. The fishermen were having little luck, it was the hot weather which was keeping the fish away from the shore, and they were waiting for the Monsoon which would swell their catches with its late arrival. I did manage to buy some shrimps from them and got them made in to a mild curry served with parathas at a nearby shack.
I cycled through the air which smelt of drying cloves, cinammon and ginger in the nearby district of Mattancherry, passing flaking old spice warehouses. Further along I noticed a wall painted with the Star of David and arrived at the synagogue. It was originally built in 1568 but has since been reconstructed. The Jews have been here for centuries but migration to Israel in recent years have made their numbers dwindle. Closeby, the Dutch Palace, built by the Portuguese in 1555 and gifted to the local Rajah, has beautiful if a bit faded murals showing scenes from Hindu mythology.
Close to the Customs jetty where dolphins play, a beach-shack reverberates daily to the sound of cymbals, drums and conches. It used to be more substantial but in January a fire razed it to the ground, so the Kathakali play is now performed on a makeshift stage between palm-woven walls until they have enough donations to build a theatre building once more. Two hours before they commenced, one of the actors put on his make-up for the benefit of the audience, an intricate process, involving mixing coconut oil with powdery stones, seeds to make the whites of his eyes red and rice paste to create a beard. They perform a scene from the Mahabharata where Bhima kills Virata – the spectacle is colourful and exaggerated, from the bright-green makeup, the exaggerated moustaches and the large skirts flared with wire. One story can last up to 6 hours, and is narrated by a singer – there are no words from the actors who communicate with expressions and gestures. The actor who played Draupadi (the wife of 5 husbands - there are no actresses in Kathakali) was especially moving, as genuine tears smudged his heavy eye-liner.
the most spectacular public event I have ever witnessed
Mysore to Trishur: 9th May
This bus journey weaved threadlike through a changing tapestry of panaoramas - from the dusty plateau of Mysore, through the thick foliage of a nature reserve where elephants bathed and wild deer darted, over hills and throughand the mist of wild bamboo groves, past the regimented discipline of a tea and coffee plantations ended finally by high speed descent down to sea level (God these bus drivers love speed don’t they). Soon, the road was fringed by red tiled houses and countless coconut trees, the hallmark of Kerala.
On the bus I met a German, Stephan. He had given up his job as a physiotherapist in Bavaria to do whatever he wanted, and ever since he was a child he wanted to visit India.He had started off in Bombay, there a film studio hired him as an extra for 4 days. His role was to be someone in a party chatting, holding a cocktail, and in return received free lodging and payment. He too was going to the Pooram and we decided to see it together. We arrived at Trishur, Kerala’s cultural capital. The heat hit me as soon as the bus stopped – I wished I was being hosed down like the elephant next to the bus station.
The humidity was going to be an issue. It was cool sitting on the big wheel in the funfair at middle of the main square, but otherwise it was stifling. My shirt stuck to my back like damp Kingfisher label. The locals never complain about the heat, they just glow with a gentle sheen. All the men wear dhotis, I might have to buy one if someone can teach me how to tie it.
The Pooram, the annual 2 day elephant festival, was the most spectacular public event I have ever witnessed, anywhere. Period. A picture paints a thousand words, so I can never really do it justice with narrative but picture this if you will: Two teams of 30 perfectly tusked temple elephants, stand face to face outside the Vadakunathan temple; on their heads are solid gold headdresses made specifically for the occasion; on each elephant stand 3 men, holding feathers, fans and a decorated silk umbrella with gold and silver trim; hundreds of musicians with trumpets and drums resonate an up-tempo tune; a hollering crowd of 100,000, jump up and down, there’s no space even for a leaf falling from the vibrations to reach the ground. Every few minutes the silk umbrellas on each elephant are changed to a different colour and this continues as each team reciprocates the 40 colour changes over 3 hours.
The Pooram at Trishur, an annual festival of elephants and spectacular fireworks
Veebu and Sreekanth, two organisers of the Pooram, invited us for a drink in the dark but air conditioned atmosphere of a local hotel, for Stephan his first experience of a bar in India. He was quite surprised, at its dimly lit atmosphere, reminiscent of a Speakeasy in Prohibition America, as if for a cloak and dagger activity hidden from prying eyes – a far cry from airy German beer halls serving frothy steins of lager from whence he came.
It’s traditional for the Thiruampady and Paramekkavu temples to put on a fireworks display in the evening and revellers congregated along the main roads. “Fireworks display” is a bit of euphemism here, for me the words conjure up images of families walking hand in hand on dew-soaked lawns “ooohhhing” and “ahhhhhing” at balls of fire that rise and explode in to illuminated flowers in the night sky. The shopkeepers taping up their glass windows provided a clue – this was going to make Guy Fawkes day sound like party poppers. Flashes of intense light lit up the sky and heated our faces, the blast, like a 10,000 watt speaker with the volume knob turned up to 10, sent vibrations through the ground in to our chests; the cheeks, noses and ears of onlookers shook. At one stage, people ran away thinking that history was repeating itself when three years ago a rocket killed 3 people. I went back to the hotel and cleared the plaster that had fallen off the ceiling on to my bed. The fireworks were over, but I could still hear them ringing in my ear drums well in to the morning.
Mysore
Bangalore to Mysore: 8th May
Sitting at the front of an inter-city bus is an unnerving experience as I found out today. You do get a good view with the full vision of the windscreen, but every now and again, your heart goes in to your mouth and misses a beat, as an oncoming bus passes, literally inches away, in a sort of modern day jousting. Maybe it’s just me, no one else seemed to bat an eyelid.
The state bus west out of Bangalore to Mysore is a three hour journey for Rs 50.
Halfway there we breakfasted in a foodhal that served puris and sambar – two food items only, no nonsense, cheap, fast and safe. Just as I was tucking in the bus was pulling out to leave so, hand dripping with sambar, I ran out to stop it only to find it re-parking in the shade of a tree.
Arrived in Mysore at noon and checked in to the New Gayathri Bhavan, a simple and clean place, which charged Rs 185 a night. It was high above the streets so seemed quiet. Quiet that is until the evening, when the generator kicks in a makes a noise not dissimilar to a Porsche 911 flying by. I knew I should have kept those ear plugs they gave me on the flight. The mosquitos here are quite small and bites from them only itch for a short while and they disappear in no time.
Mysore is small enough to walk around – there’s a colourful market place selling powders in a rainbow of colours and rows of red-green mangoes, oranges, jackfruit and green bananas. The mangoes are sweet and so juicy it is practically impossible to eat them without needing a shower.
The Mysore palace dominates the city. A beautiful building, surprisingly modern, it smacks of a gorgeous colonial splendour; scenes from the Jewel in the Crown seem to come right out of the hard-wood floors and spiralling stairwells. The Durbar Hall has an ornate ceiling and sculpted pillars, there is a jewel encrusted golden throne and a gallery of pictures of the Wodeyar dynasty. You have to be nimble footed on the hot pavement stones as you have to enter the palace complex barefoot.
I left the palace and checked my emails at a cyber café –according to www.lonelyplanet.com. there would be a “Pooram” an annual festival of temple elephants which attracts in excess of 100,000 people on the 10th of May in Trichur in north Kerala. So that was it, my next stop.
Sitting at the front of an inter-city bus is an unnerving experience as I found out today. You do get a good view with the full vision of the windscreen, but every now and again, your heart goes in to your mouth and misses a beat, as an oncoming bus passes, literally inches away, in a sort of modern day jousting. Maybe it’s just me, no one else seemed to bat an eyelid.
The state bus west out of Bangalore to Mysore is a three hour journey for Rs 50.
Halfway there we breakfasted in a foodhal that served puris and sambar – two food items only, no nonsense, cheap, fast and safe. Just as I was tucking in the bus was pulling out to leave so, hand dripping with sambar, I ran out to stop it only to find it re-parking in the shade of a tree.
Arrived in Mysore at noon and checked in to the New Gayathri Bhavan, a simple and clean place, which charged Rs 185 a night. It was high above the streets so seemed quiet. Quiet that is until the evening, when the generator kicks in a makes a noise not dissimilar to a Porsche 911 flying by. I knew I should have kept those ear plugs they gave me on the flight. The mosquitos here are quite small and bites from them only itch for a short while and they disappear in no time.
Mysore is small enough to walk around – there’s a colourful market place selling powders in a rainbow of colours and rows of red-green mangoes, oranges, jackfruit and green bananas. The mangoes are sweet and so juicy it is practically impossible to eat them without needing a shower.
The Mysore palace dominates the city. A beautiful building, surprisingly modern, it smacks of a gorgeous colonial splendour; scenes from the Jewel in the Crown seem to come right out of the hard-wood floors and spiralling stairwells. The Durbar Hall has an ornate ceiling and sculpted pillars, there is a jewel encrusted golden throne and a gallery of pictures of the Wodeyar dynasty. You have to be nimble footed on the hot pavement stones as you have to enter the palace complex barefoot.
I left the palace and checked my emails at a cyber café –according to www.lonelyplanet.com. there would be a “Pooram” an annual festival of temple elephants which attracts in excess of 100,000 people on the 10th of May in Trichur in north Kerala. So that was it, my next stop.
Kolkata or Calcutta, and the role of pickles in airline security
4th May: Dibrugarh to Calcutta to Bangalore
Kolkata? Calcutta? The last time I was here it was called Calcutta which to me harks back to the days of the Black Hole, Viceroys and the old capital of India before it moved to the wide planned-streets of Lutyen’s New Delhi. I’m not sure which one I prefer. If Cassius Clay wanted to be called Muhamed Ali, that was his unwavering right, in the same way that the Bengalis can call their city as they see fit. To what extent a group of politicians can claim to represent the views of their people in this matter, is another issue. Various cities and towns on my route have changed names: Madras is now called Chennai, Cochin is Kochi, Quillon is Kollam, Alapey is now Allapuzha. Trivandrum has doubled its syllables to the near-unpronouncable mouthful of Thiruvanthapuram.
I landed in the early afternoon at Netaji Subhas Chandra airport, in Kolkata and sat in the cool air-conditioning of the airport, waiting for my flight to the south. Above me some letters line-danced across an LED display:
“The following items are banned from personal baggage
on all Indian Airline flights: knives, grenades, gas
canisters… pistols…machetes…chilly powder and pickles.”
It was a 4 hour wait for the flight from, Kolkata to Bangalore. So I found a comfy sofa lay, back on my rucksack and contemplated the role of chillies and pickles in airliner security. Nothing to do with putting it in the coffee is it?
11pm: I landed in Bangalore after an uneventful but delayed flight. In the Karnataka tourist Board office an official with a Gold Flake hanging out of his mouth said that all the hotels in Bangalore are booked up so he suggested I stay at a 5 star that night. Was this a likely story? Rahul Dravid, the cricketer is getting married today, but why would that cause all the hotel rooms to be booked up? After much discussion he found me a room for a tenth of the price, 600 “bucks” (“bucks” I learn today is a trendy synonym for “rupees” in India - initially I was flabbergasted at the perceived expense.)
The rooms at the Ram Bhavan in the busy City Market part of town are clean with white-tiled bathrooms and cable TV with more channels you can ever watch. I think the room next door is going to watch the Hindi movie channel at full volume all night. Mustn’t complain. The balcony has a good view of the central road, bustling with activity, a doom for jaywalkers – I can see a chahwala carrying a dozen glasses of steaming tea, balancing them on a tray and weaving his way through the crowd of autorickshaws, Ambassadors and Tata trucks like a circus act. Such skill. A blue scooter is whizzing by, with a whole family on board complete with carom board strapped precariously next to the spare wheel. By 10pm it’s all quiet except for some paan stalls, stray dogs and the crowd around the wine store, its metal bars ensuring the late night customers never get too friendly. Rahul Dravid has just got married and Bangalore is buzzing. City Market is a commercial area vibrant with noise and traffic with a busy bus station under a flyover, a mosque and lots of shops. At a food hall, I ate a crispy vegetable dosa.
Bangalore, India’s silicon valley, has beautiful planned streets, wide pavements with shade-giving flowery trees and an imposing state assembly which is an edifice of breathtaking beauty, It has a plethora of western shops, a Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut; there is a definite western feel to this place, which lends it more to Indian tourists, rather than foreign ones. To escape the noon heat I visited a café modelled on the London underground, with signs saying Oxford Circus and Charing Cross where I met its Sindhi owner and a Naga waiter. Later I went to the five storied state science museum which gives an insight in to science, Bangalore’s forte. Juxtaposed with its modernity is tradition, as Tipu Sultan’s summer palace is in the city too.
Kolkata? Calcutta? The last time I was here it was called Calcutta which to me harks back to the days of the Black Hole, Viceroys and the old capital of India before it moved to the wide planned-streets of Lutyen’s New Delhi. I’m not sure which one I prefer. If Cassius Clay wanted to be called Muhamed Ali, that was his unwavering right, in the same way that the Bengalis can call their city as they see fit. To what extent a group of politicians can claim to represent the views of their people in this matter, is another issue. Various cities and towns on my route have changed names: Madras is now called Chennai, Cochin is Kochi, Quillon is Kollam, Alapey is now Allapuzha. Trivandrum has doubled its syllables to the near-unpronouncable mouthful of Thiruvanthapuram.
I landed in the early afternoon at Netaji Subhas Chandra airport, in Kolkata and sat in the cool air-conditioning of the airport, waiting for my flight to the south. Above me some letters line-danced across an LED display:
“The following items are banned from personal baggage
on all Indian Airline flights: knives, grenades, gas
canisters… pistols…machetes…chilly powder and pickles.”
It was a 4 hour wait for the flight from, Kolkata to Bangalore. So I found a comfy sofa lay, back on my rucksack and contemplated the role of chillies and pickles in airliner security. Nothing to do with putting it in the coffee is it?
11pm: I landed in Bangalore after an uneventful but delayed flight. In the Karnataka tourist Board office an official with a Gold Flake hanging out of his mouth said that all the hotels in Bangalore are booked up so he suggested I stay at a 5 star that night. Was this a likely story? Rahul Dravid, the cricketer is getting married today, but why would that cause all the hotel rooms to be booked up? After much discussion he found me a room for a tenth of the price, 600 “bucks” (“bucks” I learn today is a trendy synonym for “rupees” in India - initially I was flabbergasted at the perceived expense.)
The rooms at the Ram Bhavan in the busy City Market part of town are clean with white-tiled bathrooms and cable TV with more channels you can ever watch. I think the room next door is going to watch the Hindi movie channel at full volume all night. Mustn’t complain. The balcony has a good view of the central road, bustling with activity, a doom for jaywalkers – I can see a chahwala carrying a dozen glasses of steaming tea, balancing them on a tray and weaving his way through the crowd of autorickshaws, Ambassadors and Tata trucks like a circus act. Such skill. A blue scooter is whizzing by, with a whole family on board complete with carom board strapped precariously next to the spare wheel. By 10pm it’s all quiet except for some paan stalls, stray dogs and the crowd around the wine store, its metal bars ensuring the late night customers never get too friendly. Rahul Dravid has just got married and Bangalore is buzzing. City Market is a commercial area vibrant with noise and traffic with a busy bus station under a flyover, a mosque and lots of shops. At a food hall, I ate a crispy vegetable dosa.
Bangalore, India’s silicon valley, has beautiful planned streets, wide pavements with shade-giving flowery trees and an imposing state assembly which is an edifice of breathtaking beauty, It has a plethora of western shops, a Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut; there is a definite western feel to this place, which lends it more to Indian tourists, rather than foreign ones. To escape the noon heat I visited a café modelled on the London underground, with signs saying Oxford Circus and Charing Cross where I met its Sindhi owner and a Naga waiter. Later I went to the five storied state science museum which gives an insight in to science, Bangalore’s forte. Juxtaposed with its modernity is tradition, as Tipu Sultan’s summer palace is in the city too.
Travelling alone in India
My experience of travelling on my own has been an enlightening one. Solitude is a wonderful teacher, a friend who shows you things you would miss in the company of many, a friend who holds a light to hidden things. Detailed observations of people, places, histories, recipes, faces, facts and your opinions can be entirely overlooked in group travel. Flexibility and an empowering feeling of freedom and self-awareness become companions. Your foibles and strengths, the roller coaster of your moods, the full array of your feelings between melancholy and joy, rage and tranquillity- travel in India seems able to coax these in to life in a way unsurpassed by any other experience. I decided to travel on my own on this my sixteenth visit to the land of my parents, to really absorb India, to feel its heat on my face, to breathe its dust, to journey on old trains and rusty buses, to ask questions of locals, to live with them and their families, to not miss anything. In a country of over a billion people, the lone traveller, can never really be alone.
In search of the Life of Pi
On the verandah of a bungalow on a tea estate near Dibrugarh, I was browsing my sister’s bookcase. My sister, Mrs Loya Agarwala, is an editor for a local journal, she has written stories and features in national magazines for over 10 years and is a regular columnist for a regional daily. Her bookcase, as is her house, is a little corner of England, her birthplace. Its shelves are filled with Bronte, Shakespeare, Dickens, and Byron. Her kitchen shelves have jars of Colman’s mustard, and Branston pickle side by side with jars of gaaj tenga and aamlokhi. She handed me a book with a picture of tiger on the cover called Life of Pi, by Yann Martell. Last year’s Booker Prize winner was a compelling read about a boy called Pi Patel, a Hindu-Muslim-Christian, who is shipwrecked and gets stranded on a lifeboat with a seasick tiger – a magical tale of the resilience of the human spirit. Unbeknown to me at the time, the book would determine the course of the rest of my holiday.
Man proposes God disposes says the English adage, even holiday plans which tend to be transient and fragile, are slave to the vicissitudes of travel. My Plan “A” was to fly from Guwahati to Bangkok and then to Phnom Penh in Cambodia from where I would journey to Angkor Wat on motorbike, and then to Vietnam travelling south from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City. It was April 2003 and already airports were nervous about the SARS virus which had been extending its deathly grip to South China and northern Vietnam. Governments were getting twitchier and twitchier; SARS was something not to be sneezed at. A contact in Bangkok emailed me to say that some people were wearing masks and tourists who came from affected countries would have to undergo 2 weeks quarantine. Quarantine? For humans? That made me think of people in kennels with masks on at Bangkok International Airport, and staff swinging leashes at them screaming, “Walkies”. Fortunately I didn’t have to deliberate for too long, SARS-fearing Indian Airlines pilots were refusing to fly the Guwahati – Bangkok route. They had made the decision for me.
So where could I go? I needed a Plan “B”. The answer was staring me in the face, literally – the book Life of Pi starts off in Pondicherry, a union territory in south India, which belonged to France before 1954. I would be travelling a ‘V’ shaped route on the southern tip of India through the states of Karnataka, Kerala and Tamil Nadu: south to Bangalore, Mysore, Trishur, Kochi, Alappuzha, Kollam, Trivanthapuram, Kanyiakumari and then north to Madurai, Chidambaram, Pondicherry, and finally Chennai (Madras)
The journey would take me a month on bus and trains, drifting on wooden boats in sleepy backwaters, past the oldest Churches in India, to a festival of elephants with gold headdresses and spinning silken umbrellas on their backs. There would be a Maharajah’s palace, a rock out at sea where a swami once meditated, ancient Hindu temple complexes, a synagogue and an ashram to visit.
Man proposes God disposes says the English adage, even holiday plans which tend to be transient and fragile, are slave to the vicissitudes of travel. My Plan “A” was to fly from Guwahati to Bangkok and then to Phnom Penh in Cambodia from where I would journey to Angkor Wat on motorbike, and then to Vietnam travelling south from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City. It was April 2003 and already airports were nervous about the SARS virus which had been extending its deathly grip to South China and northern Vietnam. Governments were getting twitchier and twitchier; SARS was something not to be sneezed at. A contact in Bangkok emailed me to say that some people were wearing masks and tourists who came from affected countries would have to undergo 2 weeks quarantine. Quarantine? For humans? That made me think of people in kennels with masks on at Bangkok International Airport, and staff swinging leashes at them screaming, “Walkies”. Fortunately I didn’t have to deliberate for too long, SARS-fearing Indian Airlines pilots were refusing to fly the Guwahati – Bangkok route. They had made the decision for me.
So where could I go? I needed a Plan “B”. The answer was staring me in the face, literally – the book Life of Pi starts off in Pondicherry, a union territory in south India, which belonged to France before 1954. I would be travelling a ‘V’ shaped route on the southern tip of India through the states of Karnataka, Kerala and Tamil Nadu: south to Bangalore, Mysore, Trishur, Kochi, Alappuzha, Kollam, Trivanthapuram, Kanyiakumari and then north to Madurai, Chidambaram, Pondicherry, and finally Chennai (Madras)
The journey would take me a month on bus and trains, drifting on wooden boats in sleepy backwaters, past the oldest Churches in India, to a festival of elephants with gold headdresses and spinning silken umbrellas on their backs. There would be a Maharajah’s palace, a rock out at sea where a swami once meditated, ancient Hindu temple complexes, a synagogue and an ashram to visit.
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