Day 9 continued.

Back in my room it is still warm but slightly cooler than the lakeside. I sit on the balcony briefly in the warm dusky light. A romantic smell of old fashioned zoo cages wafts up. Crickets brurr brurr, monkeys chatter and shops outside the hotel begin to light up for the evening. I hear the Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. A lovely sound, it underlines two things: one, that here in Catholic Kerala people of different faiths live in harmony and two, remembering my Swedish friend's legs, it is sunset and time I withdrew, shut the doors and slathered myself in mozzy repel. I switch the plug in on. When I asked the tour guide if there were many mosquitoes he said, 

'No Mem but one or two like to sing in your ear.' 

How true, I heard the first whiny warning of my visit to Kerala but unusually for me it flew too close to my clapping hands.

Off for dinner I am greeted like long lost royalty. There is Chinese food as well here and I may be able to avoid the inevitable chillies tonight. Toasted cheese and olives for lunch had still included a sprinkling of cayenne. George accompanies me pointing out the least spicy dishes with freshly cooked naan. The puddings are to die for, little almond cakes, plum fruit cake with nuts and raisins and I break all my rules to eat freshly cut sweet pineapple. George brings me a small dish of vermicelli Kheer in case I like it and missed it. If I weren't trying to be so Mem-sahib I'd have licked out the bowl. The music is the theme from 'Slumdog Millionaire.' We've all seen it. I promise to send George a copy of the book so he can practice his English.

Back in my room I would have watched TV but I can't get it to work. I phone reception and they say - 'in a few minutes Mem. We are having our evening power cut and although the generator is working the satellite TV won't work until we go back on main power.' Sounds sensible to me. I read 'The Dali Llama's Cat' instead, practice right thinking and fall asleep. 

Day 9    11^th Jan 13                    Off to the Elephants


It's a bumpy ride once we leave the paddy fields and up into the foothills of the western Ghats. Again I am very impressed with Kieran's driving. It's a fabulous one track dusty road and cars, lorries, buses plus the usual tuk tuks and motor bikes jostle for position or possession. Apart from the occasional 'harrumph' Kieran is unmoved. Outside varied hornsounds sing on. We move out from behind a local bus, beep beep, round a blind corner on the wrong (if there is one) side of the road beep, beep and slip in between a slower moving tuk tuk and lorry to let another car bump by in the opposite direction. Classic, highly decorated but very slow diesel trucks chug by covered in gorgeous, painted patterns like fairground rides, saints, tassels and crucifix swing on the windscreens, so cluttered it's a wonder the driver has any vision at all. Actually our car has tassels and saint on the dashboard although Kieran has told me he isn't any religion - or a communist. Hedging his bets.

A bus stops to pick up. The door, pulled open by passengers, is on a string. A man sitting inside holds the other end and when everyone is safely in, pulls the door closed again. Who needs hydraulics? These local buses are dented, smoky and slow. They don't have windows, just metal bars with brown arms and hands poking out. 

The Elephant Court Hotel in Kottayam.

It's impressive. In reception a woman reaches up to clean the chandeliers. She has a plastic feather on a pole. and carefully strokes each arm of the fancy light. I watch her fascinated while they process my voucher. 

My room is nice but a different quality from the Zuri. 

It is comfortable with the usual giant bed and well appointed en suite. The bathroom smells of warm pee but then I don't want to be precious about this. Why not? Because everywhere is very clean and I think sometimes we forget what we really smell like. Oh there's a hair dryer, brilliant, I 'll wash my hair tonight. As I test it, the electricity goes off. I remember this from the Travancore. Count to ten - yep, starting again.

Lunch is delicious, I am on my own in a big restaurant. The waiters all want to practice their English and are very impressed when I recognise Ravi Shankar on the sound system. He has sadly died recently they tell me. I knew that. My favourite waiter George stops to talk. He speaks good English and just finished an engineering degree, working here to pay off his student debt or the interest will increase too much. Good looking and friendly, when he smiles he shows perfect teeth and coffee coloured gums.

Kieran is back and takes me to some spice gardens. Just a small collection of bushes, with a dusty track defining where we walk through the undergrowth. I join a Swedish couple with no English so the guide talks to me as we all struggle to be understood. I notice the woman has bare legs and loads of red angry bites. Young and anxious about the effect of climate change on the spice industry, the guide is gentle, knowledgeable and reminds me of Maosie. At one point we stand back to allow a huge, old, tired elephant plod by obediently carrying a few swaying tourists.
I want to buy some spices and K takes me to an organic shop - 'the best prices Mem.' 
I buy, nutmegs, cinnamon bark, all spice for curries, Marsala tea and Keralan home grown coffee. It comes to more cash than I've brought out with me - 'no problem, go next door for use card.'
Next door is a jewellers, of course I see some marcasite and turquoise earrings I like.
'You buy?'
'No money.'
'You have card.'
'Too much money.'
'These are cheaper.'
'I like these but no I don't buy.'
'How much you pay?'
'I can only afford.....'
Oh too little.'
'Yes.' 'I must go, please take for the spices.'
'You pay.......' he drops the price by half and it comes to half more that I said I could pay.
'OK'
I go out with a pair of earrings and my spices and we all smile broadly.
I tell Kieran he must make sure to get a good commission from both shops because I have spent lots of money. He smiles but doesn't admit anything.

Day 8 continued.                      The Zuri at Kumarakom.

9 am, on a warm morning, what a lovely place.  My ‘Superior Lagoon View Room’ isn't quite ready so I sit on the restaurant patio and have another breakfast. Delicious little spicy, crispy doughnuts and some steamed sweet fruit with cloves. I ask for more tea which comes in a coffee pot and tastes of coffee. Ah well, can’t have everything. Landscaped for privacy, small houses appear and disappear between palms by the lake. It is a hot, humid, sunny day, the mist melting where the hotel lake meets the Vembanad lake, under the bridge.Tranquil and very beautiful, I’d like to come back here.

My room is almost as big as my house in UK. The bathroom has everything, including a phone by the toilet. It has its own enclosed, small pebbled yard, sauna and outside shower and a secluded wooden balcony overlooking the lake. The bed is big enough for four. I spend the morning reading the paper by the pool and have a toasted snack and a very cold beer for lunch. It is too hot to sit in the sun but a smiley bar, cook, pool attendant brings me soft, soft towels and adjusts the umbrella for perfect shade. 

As evening begins the mist returns and I walk around the whole resort. It has lots of detached residences inside a perimeter wall. Outside are marshes and paddy fields. Three more secluded houses at the back have their own gardens and I see the guests are Moslem families. Full black burkas outside and brightly coloured outfits glimpsed through the fence in their sheltered back garden, playing with the children. All tastes catered for. The hotel has Ayurvedic massage, its own speed boat for lake trips, a gym, a couple more bars and a dedicated fish restaurant. Back at the landing stage a lone houseboat rocks in the dusk. I wonder how my three men are and who is sailing with them.

The day drifts away, back in my room I’ll have room service tonight. Why be unsociable? Because it’s a great menu delivered by a minion in a golf cart and I can sit on my balcony in my pyjamas instead of getting dressed up for the restaurant. 

The view from my balcony.

A ‘Question Time’ debate on TV is discussing a recent Pakistani attack on the border where a captured Indian soldier was beheaded and his body returned. A politician, a journalist, an actor and a wise man are putting viewpoints to the Indian Dimbleby who just keeps looking straight down the camera lens. His guests sit behind him and although he asks them questions and responds to their comments, he doesn't actually look at them. Weird. Their answers ranged from, 'this will not affect the ongoing negotiations for peace with Pakistan - to - the soldiers must respond and behead twelve Pakistanis for blood revenge.' The audience cheer and boo and it holds my interest. Then I watch Rowan Martin in ‘Johnny English Reborn’ It holds my interest too. I tried Indian film programmes but they seem to be stuck in the 60s. All tight courtelle trouser suits, singing and couples suggesting just about everything with each other, in and out of drenching waterfalls, lots of ear, throat and hand caressing but no kissing, very frustrating.

I sleep well again and no mozzys dare invade my palace.

Up quite early and have a light breakfast while I wait for Kieran. We're going up the mountains to Thekkady. 

 FRIDAY  10^TH JANUARY 2013                DAY 8

I sleep well. There are two bites on my ankle in the morning but it’s a search to find any. They are not uncomfortable. The bed rocks gently and all my bones are warm, lovely.

Breakfast is tea, small pieces of sweet toast with butter and mixed fruit jam, served on the front of the boat while we chug on towards the Zuri resort and spa, my next stop. We’re all relaxed now – aged English woman is obviously enjoying herself.

The view is lovely, a vast stretch of water to the horizon populated by these houseboats. The bank lined with coconut and banana palms, a popular place to live and a man passes on his way to work with his daughter off to school, the wake swaying us slightly. 

Keralites are very proud of having 100% attendance at primary school which is free and 60% at secondary. We pass a shack with a hammer and sickle painted on the door.

‘Oh, communist party?’

‘Yes Mem.’

‘Many communists in Kerala?’

‘Yes Mem. Many in India’

‘Are you a communist?’

Yes Mem, me and all my family all are communists.’

‘Wow…. My husband was a communist.’

H e gives me a terrific smile.

My small book by Salim Pushpanath, tells me that Kerala installed one of the first freely elected communist governments in the world. I am fascinated. 

I fill out their feedback form with a glowing report and all 'excellent' ticks. They withdraw to the stern and I see them poring over it intensely while I sort my luggage out.

You can see the hotel in the distance.

We draw up to a small pier, guarded by an officious military looking man in a khaki uniform. He looks down his nose at my three men as they tie up and speaks brusquely to them. I notice they drop their eyes and shoulders when answering. I am ready. My voucher and luggage is passed up and his attitude becomes all smiles with me. Pah – some communist. I bet he votes for the congress party. I take a photo, thank my boaters and give them what I hope is a big tip.

A golf cart drives me to reception and I realise the Zuri resort is seriously posh and beautiful.

The sun sets quickly, I slather up with the anti-bite. It is very humid, hot and heavy in the gathering dusk. Back on board hundreds of frantic small white flies attack the lights.

‘Not mosquitoes Mem, rice flies. Come, come eat, eat.’

He shows me a place in the dining cabin which has been shuttered and doors closed tight. Inside it is very warm, all lights are off except for 2 thin spluttering candles on the table –‘to keep flies away.’ It is like a sauna. The food again is delicious and I taste it all. I have to; I can’t see what it is. I am boiling.

Hot sweet beetroot, fresh chapattis and an okra and potato dish I think. He offers chicken curry but I politely decline thinking it’s a bit late for curry and although I have an en suite, I don’t want to wake them up with white woman explosions in the night.

‘No curry Mem? There’s no more fish.’

‘No that’s fine thank you, I don’t eat much.’

I realise that while I have been vaguely anxious about travelling solo on this journey, these men are anxious too. It is a risk for them having me aboard on my own. The boat is owned by a company and therefore it’s very important I enjoy myself. I smile a lot and compliment the chef. I love the hot sweet tea and it appears again with a promise to make me cup first thing in the morning. It must be obvious that I am happy and thrilled because we all finally relax. I say ‘goodnight’ and go to bed. He starts the air con which I set at 25 degrees. That’s quite cold enough to dissuade the flying visitors. Windows and doors closed there are a few flies around the lights in my bedroom but not enough to worry me. I switch the lights off because there is enough light coming through the curtains. The boat rolls gently on the swell and I hear some fireworks and children’s laughter on the river, must be a party. I look through the curtains to see but the window outside is seething with a thick carpet of little white flies. I can’t see anything through them.

Three men in a boat.

The pilot,  the chef, and my carer.

First, the guided tour. My stateroom with en suite is cool with a big window, shaded by curtains and blinds. It is all wood and very clean. The door is split in two vertically like a little cupboard with brass bolts inside and outside. I wonder whose modesty we are protecting.

A tiny dining room leads through to the stern where the other two busy themselves with imminent sailing routines like remembering to cast off all the ropes.  A diesel engine makes comforting putt putts as we sail under the bridge into the Vembanad Lake and wetlands. The houseboat is steered by hand or feet from a chair on the front deck. I sit like the African Queen on a comfy settee behind, relaxing and enjoying the view.

A man in a canoe is shepherding his flock of 200 flapping ducks, quacking like stock market traders. Across the lake a women dhobis her washing, slapping it hard on a stone at the water’s edge. The lake is silver grey but not smelly or obviously polluted. Washing up uses water drawn from a plastic container in the boat and there is no apparent sewage, just an abundance of hyacinths, birds and fish. Small basic houses follow the water’s edge and children swim and wash as we pass so I hope it’s relatively clean. We move along at a stately glide the morning sun heating us to about 35 degrees.The heat suits me and there is plenty to look at.

The chef serves me lunch at a table alone in the dining room. Delicious salted fish, 2 vegetable dishes, white rice, fresh poppadoms and a spicy dhal which is too hot for me. I taste everything and discover if I eat a good amount of boiled rice with a small helping of the spicy food it takes the burning edge off. Followed by a cup of sweet dark Kerala tea, fried battered bananas and an ‘English Plum Cake’ in a sealed plastic bag. The cake is moist with fruit and ginger in it and matches the tea perfectly. The plum cake makes me realise the effort that has gone into offering me food they think I might like and I am appreciative.

I spend the afternoon watching the world go by and as the sun begins to drop we moor up outside an art gallery. We have to squeeze into a space sharing it with five other boats of various sizes. I jump off and have a look round.

Jerom and his wife tell me about his paintings. He charges me 50 rupees (45p) entry fee. There are painted portraits of all the Popes and water colours of biblical scenes. He says Darwin was wrong and although we developed from the apes, God created the bears. (At least I think that's what he said.) He had carved and painted about a hundred wild birds in relief mounted on wooden boards. It was a little surreal and I warmed to them both. I ask if he has a web-site and he said he is developing one but saving up for a floor first. I didn't want to buy anything because I couldn't carry it home on the plane. Eventually my three men came to get me. It was time to return to the boat for the evening meal.  

9^th Jan 13         Day 7                The Tour begins.

                      

My first decision has to be trust K’s skilled driving and switch off. That way I can enjoy the journeys. It’s the same response I use when flying through turbulence - made my choice, want to be here, OK  whatever will be etc. I'm alone, no responsibilities for others' safety, excited and looking forward to seeing everything. Can't waste my adrenalin getting anxious about the driving and I detach.

The Toyota is clean and cool, I relax in a comfy arm chair. Let the adventure begin. Driving in India is a fairground ride and it is great fun. I soon learn the idea is to head for whatever space appears in front regardless of which side of the road it’s on and get through it. I could say they drive on the left but it would be a massive exaggeration.  If it looks as if you aren't going to make it and the bus/lorry/motorbike/tuk tuk is getting there first, you just decelerate and touch the horn. There is no agro’ no white van man cursing or road rage, no spite, revenge or ego involved, it is a glorious, cluttered, good humoured, free for all. A small motor bike with a man holding his young son sitting between the handlebars, feet dangling over the front wheel while his wife is on the pillion and young daughter clinging on the back, putt putts by my window on the wrong side of the road. They all smile, wave and wobble. Logically I know it is extremely dangerous but also fascinating and commonplace. As most of the roads we travel are just wide enough for two way traffic and often only one way wide, there isn't the chance to do the big speeds we are used to here at home. And there are hundreds of people travelling, walking, sitting, shopping and living.

We leave Kovalam, through Alleppey to Kumarakom. Whole towns emerge from the jungle. New, houses in pastel plaster locked behind iron gates and stretches of older, smaller shop/houses line the road, some with ramshackle tin roofs circa 1950s.  We rattle along consistently adding our music to the symphony of vehicle horns outside. After a couple of hours we stop for a toilet break at a cafe. I daren’t have a cup of tea in case I want to stop more often. K has supplied me with a bag full of sealed half litre bottles of water picked up from a relation at the side of the road. I rinse my mouth round and get out to wee while I have the chance. It is a western toilet in that there is a pedestal but the whole room is covered in water. The seat, the floor, the walls have all been sluiced down. Fine I am equipped so I dry off the places I want to touch and use my kit, diligently sanitising my hands. An unsteady broken plastic cistern allows me to flush it with brownish water...very carefully. I can do this. It does smell of old pee but then I have been in a lot worse in the past. No I am perfectly happy. Off we go again. ‘Is driving a good job K?’ ‘A little bit good Mem’ ‘Did you have to take a test?’ ‘Oh yes Mem.’  I wonder what was tested. It seems clear to me that given the expectations, K is an excellent driver. He takes exaggerated care over ferocious sleeping policemen like cattle grids but I suspect it is to protect the car.

We turn down long, straight, dusty red pathways raised above vast paddy fields. The pickers wear coloured umbrella hats as they bend double over the rice. We approach the Vembanad Lake, the largest backwater in Kerala. Houseboats, all different shapes and sizes like basketwork hippos, are tied up at the water’s edge. Mine is called ‘Gavathry,’ the Duck. I wave goodbye to K and he says he will pick me up in 2 days at my next hotel. How will I get to it? Sail there of course. 

The Duck is on the left.