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.