Kerala for Christmas





Travelling from Gokarna to Fort Kochi in time for Christmas, I reminisce on the usual 23rd December struggle home for Christmas. Weary after too many Christmas parties and thoroughly bored of the tedious repetitive conversations acted out at the photocopier about colleagues' Christmas plans. I am usually negotiating right now the pandemonium of Euston Station and the journey to the icy North; this year replaced with the spicy cacophony of the Trivandrum Christmas Express to the steamy South.

Our Christmas journey begins with departure from the paradisical Om Beach; a wonderful unexploited hideaway in our cocohut amongst the palms. The time to leave is nigh as we have become too firmly fixed into the community of the Sangam cocohuts, if we stay much longer we will be babysitting for the blonde Swiss German boys and intervening in their father's overly strict fathering. Or we would end up not containing our cynicism with the preaching of alternative lifestyles by hippies bound for the Rainbow Gathering on Paradise Beach and their futile demonstrations against natural disasters (speed boats). So...departure.

 We catch the 9.20 Trivandrum Express, travelling sleeper class (third best out of five, two better than jungle class). Joining a 50 hour express train from Gujarat at hour 34 the now resident families in our carriage are in another zone. Unsurprisingly they are not over welcoming as we cram in. After two months travelling the trains I feel more relaxed now with the comical systems of passengers flowing in and out. My earlier irritation at intrusion into my personal “purchased” zone has gone and I behave as everyone else, my perception changing. A flux of passengers moving about the train, seat sharing, one gets up and another quickly slips into the space. A general relaxed acceptance that trains are overcrowded, that India is overcrowded and that if you suddenly want to lie down forcing five people into the next berth then everyone will adapt but if you go to the toilet they shift back. One passenger phones his daughter then thrusts the phone to Christopher for a three way translation/ interrogation session.


We chug through the lush state of Karnataka and into tropical Kerala passing over wide estuaries pouring water from the Ghats of Central India into the Arabian Sea. Simple fishing boats that have worked these waters for hundreds of years are dwarfed by the dramatic water scapes trimmed by steamy jungle. Hot, hot, hot. In the middle of the day there is a palpable hot energy running through the train. Gujarati women in yellow saris, their bare feet taking the air from the window, sprawl gossiping on sacks of grain. I retire to a free upper berth for a semi sweaty sleep accompanied by calls of biryani and a tambourine.

Eating my biryani, cheap bland train stodge, I watch the sun sets over dreamy backwaters, a land crowded with tall palms with houses hidden inside. From the train the towns we pass don't have the frenetic energy of the towns in the North. Or is the three weeks on the beach which have relieved the pressure? Let's see....


Fort Kochi for Christmas - an old colonial city - Portuguese, Dutch and British buildings as well as the Chinese influence who left their ingenious fishing nets in the port.  Kochi is the first Indian city which I can say is lovely and calm...very refreshing.



Christmas was spent phlittering round the churches, ajurvedic massages, kathakali theatre and cooking curry for Christmas dinner with our host Gigi and her daughters. 




Christmas Dinner



Boxing Day and onto the hill station of Munnar, a horrible town full of rich Indians escaping the hot cities but beautiful surroundings.  Spoiled of course by the rubbish and noisy traffic... we roamed the hills and tea plantations and met the local kids who taught me a song and leapt into my arms.






An interesting Keralan christmas scene - this family invited us in for coffee with cardamom and a perusal of the family albums before a photo shoot with santa and a jungle nativity scene.
Moving On...

 

See You Soon Before Monsoon




Some interim reflections/ confessional rant on India:

After 7 weeks in India a little time on the beach has allowed for some interim reflections on previous phlittering environment. Adjustment and acceptance levels now stabilising I can move on from the temporary paralysis on Palolem Beach. India invokes strong and sometimes conflicting feelings bouncing from fascination, repulsion, amusement, schizophrenia, shanti, agitation...

Pleasantly accustomed to the fine things India has to offer I enjoy the comfort and privacy of the better class of trains as well as the cheap passenger trains which chug along sluggishly through the lush southern jungles with warm air washing over my face as I chat to curious locals who have been surreptitiously peering at me with amber eyes while sharing samosas.

Trusted Thali
I enjoy arriving in a new town and taking time to barter good-heartedly for a tuk tuk, the comical little machines which keep the chaos fluid. The comforting familiarity of my old friend the tuk tuk. I enjoy the familiarity. The familiarity of India's culinary delights: mango lassis, prawn curries, vegetable thalis (the safest bet in town for my tea – veg curry, pickles, rice, chappati, curd, daal and if I'm lucky a popadom – all for a quid or thereabouts) and masala chai – served whenever you need it by the ubiquitous chai wallahs whose tinny cry echoes into my railway slumber. And now I know the real costs of the delights and how things work I can relax and enjoy the ten minutes it takes to negotiate down to 15 Rupees for my papaya.

Hello to The Queen – a mysteriously named typical Indian dessert (perhaps only typical for the tourists?).



The enjoyment eases the challenges of travelling around India. It eases my agitation at the hassle and shoving of the cities. I thought I would be more tolerant of people then find myself reacting to trickery by shouting at hoteliers and ignoring friendly people in the street because I suspect they are trying to sell me a camel safari then I feel guilty for my behaviour. And for every brusque money grabbing tricky person I meet I also meet a gentle curious person who wants to enquire about me, my nice country and profession. And if I soften and consent, he might take a photo to show his wife this strange unmarried white monkey he met on his business trip to Vasco de Gama. I enjoy the mutual photo taking on trains, buses and everywhere really – getting mobbed by excitable school trips or kids on bikes.




The wonderful trains also provide a challenge to my sentiments with the odour of excrement and urine which drifts in from stations. And the general filth and pollution in India provides also a general challenge. Searching for a non-existent bin on the train I follow my fellow passenger's suggestion and throw my rubbish from the window. Seconds later I am filled with horror at my action, an action which is so normal to millions of Indians who are accustomed to their rubbish being cleaned away by the lower castes. Another common waste disposal system is to burn rubbish at night on the side of the street polluting the air with toxic fumes....a clear lack of litter bins, waste disposal system and education.

But my acceptance of the lack of litter bins is growing. As is my acceptance of how slowly business is carried and my acceptance that I can't walk on city pavements because they are covered with crap and I need to walk into the oncoming blaring stream of motorbikes, dogs, bulls and tuk tuks whilst dodging open sewers.



The dogs and cows are tolerated in the name of religion. Perhaps cynically I perceive
that greater tolerance is given to animals than to the ragged street children, who are booted into the gutter by shopkeepers. Meanwhile let's paint the holy cow's horns and give money to holy men.

I vow to stop giving money to saddhus, who have chosen their holy path of charity, to irritating hare krishnas and to people providing un-requested services (incl. singing me a welcome song, giving me irrelevant “information” and forcibly decorating my hand with henna). If I am going to be milked for money in India then my funds are going to cripples who wheel themselves painfully (for me or the?) along the street. To the wretched woman sprawled in a crowded street, howling an unsettling repetitive wail, crying for money. Her head on the ground and her face covered with a black veil. She lies in an awkward sprawl with a protruding stump of a leg positioned prominently upwards. The stump is smudged with red and black like a piece of painted wood or old crayon. A nightmarish vision of damnation. Or to the man in dirty white rags, half naked, black grime caked into his skin being chased by a vicious dog.



Visions of chaos and a lack of personal space. A palpable sense of one billion people climbing on top of each other to thrust themselves forward. People crush in and out of trains and traders disregarding each other to compete. I hear about “jugaad” which refers to the unique creativity of Indians to overcome constraints in their circumstances to achieve, produce and succeed. This is striking in Mumbai. In Dharavi, Mumbai's main slum, a quarter of a million people work scavenging waste across the city and process the waste recycling in the slums with an annual turnover of $1 billion.





The chasm between slum dwellers and the upper classes is striking. Then the new middle classes with bacardi breezers, contrived manners and stunted old fashioned English Old Chap. I visit glitzy city malls with pale skin teenagers gathering to eat McSpciy Chicken burgers, pizza hut and watch the latest Bollywood movie: Ra One or Rockstar which depict luxurious lives of the Indian upper classes. The movies have a schizophrenic storyline jumping inexplicably from a love scene in Mumbai to a snowy mountaintop in Kashmir, the heroine is dying then living. Scenes are interspersed by brash melodies and slapstick humour causing ripples of chuckles from the audience who interrupt the scene with mobile phone calls. The films blend an American convention of cheesy predictable stories with a unique Indian style of humour and situations.

The aspirations for wealth clear in Bollywood films are also apparent in other parts of society. There is a clear obsession with money. Traders kiss their first money of the day and say a prayer. Hindus give offerings of money to the gods. Part of a standard tour guide includes a run down of associated costs of things viewed. Meeting new people involves direct questioning about how much your possessions cost and even how much you earn which can be disconcerting. Children walking with their families come and demand money and pens. In fact this obsession with money can seem perverse and crass to my English sensibilities.

There is an emerging Indian middle class and with this greater aspirations for people to improve their circumstances. This includes a recent increase in the demands of families for huge dowries as part of arranged marriages. Brides are seen as commodities, weddings an opportunity to ameliorate a family's economic status. Poor families cannot afford to have too many daughters.  


The obsession with money is matched with the strength of religion. The diversity and strength of religion is incredible. Hindus, Buddhists, Jains, Muslims and Christians – a common fervour.

The kitsch Catholic shrines in Goa came as a surprise after the colourful Hindu shrines in the North. Religion is a strong part of peoples' identity and purpose. I read a newspaper article expressing concern at the frequent crushes at pilgrimage sites, a holy rush to get darshan first. Last week we visited the mountain where Hanuman, the monkey god, was born and this week we arrive at Gokarna where Shiva was reborn through the ear of a cow. The land holds an intricate mythological map of Hinduism with a country wide complex of sites providing physical proof to quell any religious doubts although the pilgrims I speak to offer a conflicting range of stories about the strange but complicated stories and significance of events. It is a confusing and exhausting time for pilgrims to visit and understand this mass of places. Perhaps the good faith of the visit is what's important.
Hanuman
On the road for over two months now and it is amazing how normal it feels but some lurking work ethic guilt thing sometimes creeps in on reflection of my new found indolent and decadent lifestyle. Days spent making difficult decisions. Should I have a boiled or fried egg? Shall I walk to the left or right of the beach today? How many nights to spend in this village? Oh, time to take my malaria pill again – the monotony!

 

Lunghi Land

The boys just popped into town. Phlittering into town is a pleasant 45 minute walk past the beached cattle, up some rocky steps, over the cliffs, down through sandy Kudle Bay and over the headland past the Namaste Yoga Centre into Gokarna Town. After a few days of peace and seclusion on Om Beach it was nice to get some provisions.





Today's provisions were mainly Indian apparel and a few sweet delicacies. We tracked down the cheapest lunghi shop in town and the three boys all selected a fine lunghi of a different colour; deep purple, burnt auburn and emerald green. Each boy happy with his colour we paid attention to our lunghi wearing lesson from the kindly tailor. Lunghis can be worn in various styles: as a long straight evening skirt to protect from mosquitoes, in a double wrap short sexy mini skirt or pulled back through the legs into shorts, Gandhi fashion. They provide a cheap, stylish comfortable alternative for men to trousers which also suit the Indian climate well.


Spot the Indian Man
 Phlittering through the streets of Gokarna we stopped for some light pampering at a little barber's shop. The barber shaved my stubble and pruned my moustache (30 rupees – cheapest shave yet but unfortunately no face massage available at this salon) then whipped Yann's hair into shape.
 



As we walk home bare footed along the beach, Yann reminds me of my remark back in September in Delhi Airport that I would not ever emulate the appearance of a man we saw; dressed in a skirt, long haired, bare footed who had obviously been in India some time.

I reflect on the recent day's activities morning sivananda yoga under the palms of Om Beach, a little chanting, carving coconuts into bowls, purchasing a few bangles and beads, mindless chattering, a swim to the rocks, a couple of hours in the hammock, sitting by the camp fire on the beach listening to bongoing Bob Marley...I realise I have arrived. But not quite arrived to disconnect from society for a month and build my own shack in the isolation of nearby isolated Paradise Beach for the forthcoming month long Rainbow Gathering.

Although it is tempting to escape from Rat Attack which has struck our little cocohut for the last two nights. The cocohuts are more primitive on Om Beach but we always must maintain some order. 
 

To what nice brand do you belong sir?


















From the cosy bay of Palolem, fish vindaloo and happy hours we whizzed up, up and up, northwards, into another amalgamation. On Anjuna Beach the party starts at sunset as topless dreaded ravers daubed in garish pink paint jerk to pumping trance music with toddlers on their shoulders. Excitedly we join the party but the evening rave is brief. Extinguished early like a candle in the wind we move to the sands.

To which nice country do you belong sir?”

What brand do you smoke?”

What is your good name friend?”

Have you ever felt the touch of an Indian chick's skin? You can find a chick on cupids.com

Close the circle and hide.

I am down a peg or two myself old chap.”

A nonsensical barrage of insistent questioning from inebriated Mumbai weekend trippers. The interrogation cuts through our current limits of social decorum.

Ou est ta femme?”

My wife is a man. Circle closed and removed. Departure to a disco with scary monsters in a concealed sauna. The toilet's in the kitchen and the spring rolls are going spare.

OMELETTE, OMELETTE, OMELETTE”

The Omelette Lady Brigade is at the ready. Ready to swoop in with tables on their heads and an artillery of eggs to ring all the psychedelic trance parties and terrorise the ravers. But we can command luscious moist egg mayonnaise rolls when we want, everything has a price.

We recline on sunbeds in disarray with our moon glasses on and enjoy the final minutes of the full moon extravaganza. A shining spectacle plays out in front of our beds with a glistening moon and a golden channel of light sparkling magically off the ocean. The aroma of dirty oil drifting in from the busy shipping lane invades my slumber. I blink and its dawn. Depressed I see the dirty Arabian Sea and the beach littered with bottles and blackened by oil.





Yessss....ma'am....look at my shop...come....look!”

Anjuna Beach traders plying their wares. You can always hide a shop up your sari. Or hide behind a luminous orange palm. One glance and you're got.

Massage....look in my book....just thinking!”

And I do contemplate the massage...and the negotiation...and contemplate trying to limit the massage prior to price spiralling.

Baba, baba”

Ten dolphins leaping. Twelve thick jawed Russians drinking. Four ravers resting.

Coconut, watermelon, pineapple, coconut, wmlnapapcnut”

Return to source, 110 km today back to our Palolem, fish tandoori and the silence of the disco. Lazy afternoons relaxing amongst the cocohuts with fruit tables and Kingfisher from Samson's Kiosk.

The strange state of Goa. In 1961 the Indian troops crossed the border to bring it back to Mother India from the Portuguese. Then came the hippies, the ravers, the backpackers, the package holidays, the Russians, the Mumbaikarans. Its uniqueness continues and the kitsch Catholic Jesus protects our Sea View home. 
 

Gotta Get to Goa.....




We traversed the vast plains and deserts of Northern India riding the magnificent Indian Railways, on our way negotiating hectic cities, camel safaris and damned lies. After a confirmed case of total temple overload and Indian city implosion we finally arrived at our little cocohut in Goa....time to breathe, take stock and get drunk.



On my first temple visits I was full of fresh curiosity, especially in the mysterious and intricate erotic carvings at the ancient temples of Khajuraho and eagerly followed the full 3 hour audio guide.





An obligatory stopover in Agra to visit the marvellous Taj Mahal where we joined the throngs of Indian tourists visiting their proud landmark but the throngs appeared distracted mainly by me. Families were queueing up with their babies to have their photo taken with me and I came away a little starstruck. I was distracted by the interesting poses adopted by Indians. The skies above Agra are yellow from traffic pollution, the streets dirty and the hassle immense so we kept our stopover in Agra brief.



Departure Agra, we arrive at the station at 5 am, scanning the information board I realise our train is not listed. After a bit of queue barging (helpfully this is normal and acceptable behaviour) the station official's grunts confirm my fear that we are at the wrong station. We quickly engage the emergency services of a hasty tuk tuk. He accordingly meets our demand and drives like a lunatic across the city, Wacky Races, tilting the fragile little machine precariously around roundabouts and gets us to the correct station with two minutes to spare. My indifference to safety is growing by the day as a means to get by.




Arrival Anywhere involves shoving our way out of the train station, focussed on the agreed departure strategy. We battle through the assembled irritants vying for the attention of the “white monkeys” with a barrage of direct (and often impertinent) questions:

What can I do for you?”
What do you want?”
Where are you going”
Looking for something?”
Auto rickshaw?”
Hotel?”

Unsure where to start answering some of these questions I resort to my new found Hindi phrase “Nahi chai'iya” - nothing needed

After breaking free from the scrum, the hardcore tuk tuk price bargaining ensues and the struggle to avoid tuk tuk scams which involve taking you to the wrong hotel to get commission or telling that your hotel has burned down. The sheer cheek.



Late Arrival At Jodhpur and another lunatic tuk tuk driver speeds us through another dirty Indian city. Warm musty wind whistles through the open cab and I look out apprehensive of what this “blue city” holds for me. We foil the first tuk tuk scam to take us to the wrong hotel insistent he takes us through the maze of narrow alleys to Hotel Cosy. Hotel Cosy lies nestled on the steep walls of the magnificent fort. And Hotel Cosy is overbooked but the tricky hotelier is in denial and attempts to claim our room is a mattress in a hallway. Tired, irritated and not amused we haughtily gather our belongings and depart to find another hotel. Marching blindly through the dark streets avoiding cow pats and open sewers we are shadowed by the previous tuk tuk man who is determined to get some commission somewhere but we shoo him away.

It's midnight and the streets are nearly deserted, a few old men playing cards in doorways and the dogs on guard of their territory... a black scraggy thing is barking ahead and as we approach his attention focusses on me. The scent of my stress. I dart to a small shop still open and hide behind a random Jain monk who giggles good heartedly. As we venture further the snarling black beast returns. He awakens the interest of the pack scattered on doorways down the street, smelling the blood and fear in the air. Yann threatens a ferocious beast with his bag but they are targeting me. I realise why locals only travel the city streets by motorbike after 10. Dog time begins. By day the scruffy dogs of the street are subdued by the roar of the city around them, seemingly docile. But by night they take over, their howls audible all over the city.




Our terror is over when we are saved by a passing tuk tuk who whisks us away to safety. We then spend much of our time in the blue city in our bright blue hostel apart from a short trip out to the fort.

We see a fine selection of Rajasthani splendour including the fort of Jaisalmer and the palaces of Udaipur but the heat of the desert state is oppressive and we wanna get to the beach. The fort of Jaisalmer is a beautiful golden mound of a city glistening in the sunshine, a feel of Arabia with flat roofed houses, desert and carpet merchants. Unfortunately there is a poor Indian approach to protecting its heritage and environment as seen in the fort of Jaisalmer which is plagued by dangerous motorbikes and shamefully littered with discarded plastic bottles.




We escape to sleep under the stars in the desert. 










Udaipur centres round a magical lake surrounded by palaces, famous as the setting for the James Bond film Octopussy. In honour of the great film we attend a screening of the great classic – our best Saturday night in India yet.


Onto Ahmedabad, the great capital city of Gujarat, a dry (in various senses of the word) city of 6 million people with the standard appalling levels of noise and filth. The lack of infrastructure and the levels of poverty are stark. I take a morning walk through the city which depresses me. Awkward lumps shift on the pavement, shrouded in dirty blankets, babies crawl along the dirty pavement, a woman squats over the drain brushing her teeth, dogs calming down after their nightly street patrol, men wake up and sit on benches reading newspapers. Women in dirty saris sweep rubbish with bristly brooms of sticks.

Equally stark is the strict society of Gujarat. I feel for my fellow homosexuals, oppressed by such stifling cultures. There is actually very little for people to do here.

Although Ahmedabad is big, industrial, conservative and busy I feel a certain freedom now away from the stifling tourist towns of Rajasthan, the people who greet me do so with genuine friendly curiosity, no hidden agendas to get me into a shop. I also attend a heritage guided walk and discover the hidden historic soul of the city including the pols – communal living areas, self contained squares where castes have traditionally lived together – lively, friendly places with their own temples and bird tables.

Destination Ahmedabad includes visits to the dance academy and meals with the Indian dancers. An interesting organisation run by a dynasty of influential, philanthropic Gujarati industrialists.

After a faint glimmer of liberal lights in Ahmedabad I notice them shining brighter down the coast in Mumbai.



We couch surf in New Mumbai, a modern urban sprawl which has sprung up rapidly on the mainland as an overspill to escape the claustrophobia of the crowded island city. A day stuck in New Mumbai partly due to The Slap (of a politician which caused the government to close down the transport system to avoid political riots) and partly due to a huge hangover before venturing into town. We join Mumbaikaran morning commuters and take the much used pastel green suburban rail network (which usually sees people hanging out of trains and crowded on the roof) to journey into the centre which takes an hour. The journey passes by the sea, through jungle and past miles of slums. It's shocking. Incomprehensibly around half of Mumbai's 16 million people live in slums, sometimes with 15,000 people sharing one toilet. The most basic slums are bits of tarpaulin with no walls next to piles of rotting rubbish, the “nicer” slums are precariously built brick structures. Like in Rio backpackers are invited from hostels to go on voyeuristic slum tours which is all a bit sick.



The journey takes you to the tip of the island which is an enclave for modern Mumbaikarans – pretentious moneyed teenagers and Bollywood gliterati. Red London buses and New York style taxis pass down leavy boulevards and past the grand British buildings including the Victoria Terminus modelled on St Pancras and it is very pleasant indeed. We take a boat from the island through the brown sea and take a view of the city shrouded with a beige cloud of smog – all contributing to a film of scum sticking to my body like a parasite.




The city is like a sad Manhattan island mixed with a dirty version of Rio de Janeiro. Like Rio the extremes of rich and poor are immense. We visit Marine Drive, circular road overlooking the sea which has some of the most expensive property in the world. A huge white hotel sparkles perfectly in the evening, an unworldly vision of luxury. Along the road a wretched woman rolls on the floor with black curly hair and an emaciated body caked in mud. I hand her a note and she squints at it, her mind hallucinating with desperate hunger.

More about Goa next time kids.