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.
Thursday, 17 May 2007
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).
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