The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline
CHAPTER SEVEN - ERNAKULAM JUNCTION
(Printable
version here)
We had come to Ernakulam following a discussion I had with
a customer of my former employer. Lucy had been to this part
of India and told me how much she enjoyed it
We were now standing on the railway platform which was, strangely
for an Indian railway station, rather deserted. There was
a gate right in front of us with a cluster of auto rickshaws
surrounding it.
This was exactly the scenario we always hoped to avoid; arriving
in the pitch dark and unable to get our bearings. We couldn't
do our normal double act, which was me looking for rooms while
Brian sat tight with the baggage. The likelihood of finding
a pleasant waiting- room with a cup of tea to while away the
time until daybreak wasn't an option either. I had chosen
a hotel from the guidebook and we asked a rickshaw driver
to take us there. The obligatory haggling was a nightmare
when we didn't know where we were going or how far it was.
We were at the mercy of the driver.
We arrived at the hotel, called The Woodlands, and Brian
waited with the driver while I went to check the rooms and
availability. Rooms were available but they were very grimy.
I decided to try the hotel next door before committing myself
to The Woodlands.
It was called Woodlands Grange and was the sister hotel to
the one next-door. It made Woodlands look like the ugly stepsister.
It had all mod cons, new, shiny and clean.
Poor Brian was still outside and being attacked by mosquitoes.
Without further ado we made our decision and paid off the
rickshaw.
This place was even more expensive than the Moti Mahal. Our
budget was being destroyed.
I had a little set-to with the Duty Manager over the prices,
which I lost, and we had a further discussion about their
24-hour check-out policy. I pointed out to him that as we
had checked in at 5 a.m. he could not seriously suggest that
we should check out at 5 a.m. the following morning, but that
was exactly what he was suggesting. Further discussion brought
us to a compromise of 9.a.m.
Having dumped our bags in the corner of the room and showered,
by 6 a.m. we were sitting in the hotel restaurant. I ordered
toast and tea but Brian forgot his mosquito bites when he
saw that paper dosas were on the menu. The waiter seemed highly
amused by the big westerner tucking in to dosas and red-hot
sauce for breakfast and he kept up a steady supply to the
table.
We took a street map from reception on the way out and not
one of the reception staff was able to show us where the hotel
was located on it.
Ernakulam is a large port with two peninsulas on either side
of the bay culminating in two districts. One is Fort Cochin
and the other Vypeen Island, which isn't an island at all;
just the end of the peninsula. There is also Willingdon Island
and Bolgatty Island and all are reached by small ferries.
They are also accessible by road but we understood that these
journeys were long and the small boats were favourite.
Our objective for the first morning was to go to Fort Cochin
and check out the hotel described as `Heaven on Earth' by
Lucy's partner. We made our way to the ferry jetty, a 20 minute
brisk walk away.
That first nonchalant stroll was the most comfortable walk
we had in Ernakulam. We soon learned that every day by mid-morning
the pavements were scorching and a huge layer of smog covered
the city. Our bodies and clothing became grey with the pollution
after just one or two hours of walking the streets. On the
odd occasion that we caught a rickshaw it was necessary to
cover our noses and mouths with a cloth or tissue as the fumes
from the vehicles were choking.
The ferries to Fort Cochin ran every 15 minutes but it was
part of the journey to engage in pushing and shoving to obtain
tickets. The boats were never full and the barging about was
unnecessary.
After a few experiences of patiently waiting my turn only
to be rudely pushed to one side, I thought it only right and
proper to strike a few blows for the West. I was happy to
engage in hand slapping and even the odd bout of hair-pulling
to keep people out of my way. Feelings of guilt were quickly
dispelled once aboard.
As we chugged across the bay we passed Willingdon Island,
which boasts all the top-notch hotels lined up at the water's
edge.
WiIlingdon Island was India sanitised enough to make it acceptable
to tourists.
Arrival at Fort Cochin meant jumping from the side of the
boat on to a narrow wedge of lumpy concrete. We were lucky
not to land on a cart, bicycle or package being pushed forward
by eager passengers waiting to embark. Neither manners nor
common sense prevailed.
A tiny alley led to the road and as we emerged from the alleyway
my first impression was of a scene from mediaeval Venice.
Ancient buildings with a Mediterranean air housed open-fronted
shops selling wholesale goods. Merchants were bent over weighing
scales measuring spices, peppers and rice, and fat old men
were grouped together haggling over tobacco leaf and rope.
The air had a wonderful aroma of ginger, cloves and jasmine.
It was tempting to follow the road into Mantacherry and look
at all the activity and colour, but we were on a mission.
We wanted to secure some less expensive accommodation and
we wanted to base ourselves on Fort Cochin.
Within five minutes we had reached the hotel that had been
recommended to us.
Two big heavy wooden gates opened into a very pleasant courtyard.
The rooms faced the courtyard and each had a small veranda.
There was one room available but the prices were much higher
than we had been led to believe. The hotel had only five rooms
and they seemed to be very much in demand. The phone rang
constantly while we were making our reservation. We decided
to stay for a couple of days and told them we would check
in first thing in the morning.
The courtyard was filled with flowers and trees and old ceramic
statues of animals. We were not sure if the artefacts were
antiques or new figures that had become weathered, but either
way they made for a very pleasant atmosphere.
We walked to the end of the garden where there was a small
landing stage with a few chairs, and a view over the water
towards the Port of Kochi. From here we could watch the ferryboats
chugging past - and also watch the growing grey-pink cloud
of pollution over Ernakulam.
We had a pot of tea under a vine-roofed restaurant in the
garden and struck up conversation with a smashing English
lady who was on a journey of memories.
She was in her sixties and had lived in India as a child.
She had returned as a young woman and taught in Kashmir [now
strictly off limits to tourists] and travelled about India
staying with wealthy friends of her parents. She had returned
alone all these years later to see how things had changed.
We sat for quite some time listening to her stories of India
and all the other countries she had visited.
She was staying on Bolgatty Island in a honeymoon cottage
that was part of Bolgatty Palace. She said the hotel restaurant
was very run down but the staff were charming and we should
take a look.
We decided to make our way back to Ernakulam from a different
jetty. It didn't look far on the map and according to a timetable
we had 25 minutes to get there. We started off at a leisurely
pace but ended up racing along like a sketch from the Keystone
Cops.
We strolled through merchants' warehouses and now that I'd
had a chance to read parts of the guidebook I knew that the
feeling of a European influence in the architecture had not
been imagined.
The Portuguese had built large parts of Mantacherry in 1555.
They also built Mantacherry Palace and had presented it to
the Raja of Cochin as a measure of goodwill and also as a
means of securing trading privileges. The Dutch came along
in1663 and built Dutch-style houses both in Mantacherry and
Fort Cochin.
There was also a synagogue in Mantacherry. This unexpected
Jewish community descended from Jewish settlers who fled Palestine
2000 years ago. The community has diminished rapidly since
Indian independence and now there are only about 20.
The English lady we had met knew the Matriarch who is now
head of the remaining Jewish families. Each Friday evening
she holds a soiree, strictly invitation only, which involves
drinking copious amounts of whisky served by white-gloved
Indians in resplendent costumes. Her lifestyle is completely
maintained in the style of the Raj.
We had not intended to seek out either the Palace or the
Synagogue on that occasion but we saw them both as we dived
down alleyways and were mis guided, naturally, by stall holders
and merchants alike, when asking the way to the boat jetty.
Eventually drenched in sweat we arrived back at the original
ferry stop in Fort Cochin just as a boat pulled in.
Back in Ernakulam, lunch seemed a good idea. We also needed
to change some money.
The Bank of India was another step back in time. Dark and
gloomy with row upon row of desks, all piled high with ledgers
and folders crammed to overflowing with sheets of paper. There
were no counters; just signs propped up on the desks informing
us of what the occupant was likely to deal with. We loitered
next to ` Foreign Exchange' but it was a waste of time. They
would not issue us with cash on a Credit Card as we had been
led to believe they would.
We back-tracked to Thomas Cook and called at another travel
agent on the way. Brian thought they might prove as helpful
as the agent in Mangalore when it came to recommending somewhere
to eat and he was right.
They gave us the names of a couple of places but the one that
appealed to us most was a Health Hotel for which they also
gave us the directions. How could we have been stupid enough
to listen?
The directions took us via Thomas Cook where I changed the
remnants of my sterling traveller's cheques and we then walked
for almost 45 minutes over bridges, under bridges and across
railway tracks looking for the restaurant.
We found ourselves in quite a modern commercial area, and
we could see men talking in an office across the road. Brian
went over, despite all our other bad leads, to ask directions.
Only Brian could have chosen the offices of a company called
Willy and Willy, `The centre for software.'
Inside were three of the fattest Indians we had seen, all
dressed in western clothing and dripping with gold chains
and huge gaudy rings. They invited us to sit down at the table
with them; it was like an interview with the Ernakulam mafia.
They tried to sell us computers, jewellery and antiques, but
they could not tell us where the restaurant was.
We walked back into Ernakulam and purchased a large bottle
of water, which I could have happily thrown all over myself
let alone drink. I was all for giving up, I was at the sit-down-in-the-road-and-cry
stage. My eyes were sore, I was knackered and my legs were
wobbly. Brian insisted we continue.
I could not possibly walk and Genghis Khan condescended to
allow us to take a rickshaw. This mode of transport ensured
that our faces were in close proximity to the exhaust pipes
from lorries and 6 inches above emissions from cars and other
rickshaws.
As we drove along, choking, I promised myself that I would
have only one further attempt at finding the restaurant. We
were dropped off near a beauty salon and Brian decided it
would be the ideal place to ask directions.
When he came out he was laughing. He said that three giggling
girls had greeted him. He was quite sure by the way they looked
at him that they had not spoken to a white man before especially
one who by this time resembled Rasputin with hair and moustache
flying in every direction. They thought the place we were
looking for was down the road.
I was already staggering down the road when Brian came out.
If I had waited for him my legs would have seized up and I
would quite possibly never have walked again. As he caught
up with me a slightly built Indian man on a moped pulled up
beside us and asked if we were lost. We explained we were
trying to find the Health Hotel and he said:' "Follow me,
I'm going there myself.''
We could hardly believe it. This man turned out to be Jacob,
and Jacob was the brain behind Aruvi Kuruvi Poonkuruvi, the
Eco Health Hotel. Halle bloody lujah.
It was a strange place; a small building almost on top of
the railway tracks and down a succession of narrow winding
roads.
The doorway led into a shop with Spartan fittings and unusual
stock. There were packets of herbs, a few hand-made bowls,
and a selection of pamphlets which were mainly in Hindi. Most
of the other literature was of an environmental or political
nature.
Jacob was the owner of the small adjoining eating room and
also the shop. He was immaculately dressed in a light coloured
Indian tunic top and trousers, about 5' 2" tall and as
thin as a willow. His face stopped short of being gaunt, as
if he survived on strictly the amount of food it took to fuel
his body not a mouthful more or less. His face was unlined
and we were completely foxed as to his age. His eyes sparkled
and he had the most wonderful charisma. He invited us through
to the dining room.
It was spotlessly clean. The walls were a pale yellow and
five highly polished wooden tables with matching chairs were
the only furnishings. The floor had been scrubbed and not
a single crumb marred the surface. This was my idea of heaven,
never mind the Fort House Hotel.
The only other item in the room was a large portrait of Ghandi.
This dominated the wall and looked down on the diners. The
overall effect was of a stunning simplicity.
Jacob explained that certain types of food were served at
different times of the day. He asked us if we would like a
glass of 'revitalising tea' or ' thirst quenching tea'. Under
the circumstances we ordered two of each.
Jacob left us to prepare our food himself, which gave us time
to discuss this find. He returned with two plates, each bearing
a palm leaf which had been wrapped up to form a small parcel.
He told us to open the leaf and we would find a speciality
of the house which was served only during mid-afternoon.
Inside was a large white ball which looked like a big steamy
dumpling. There were no knives and forks and I was embarrassed
at being watched so closely by the proprietor while trying
to open this thing up and break bits off using only my right
hand.
[Using the left hand is an absolute breach of etiquette as
that is the hand you are supposed to wipe your bum with.]
The dumpling was, I think, steamed rice stuffed with dates
and spices and fruit and jaggery. Jaggery is a brown unrefined
sugar used a great deal in Indian cooking. It tastes like
treacle or bonfire toffee. We could have eaten ten of those
delicious dumplings, but I had the feeling that they were
possibly going to inflate inside the stomach. And they were
also crammed with calories.
We decided there and then that we would find the energy from
somewhere to return to the hotel, wash, change and come back
for an evening meal. Jacob said he would be there and would
like to join us.
We took a rickshaw back to Woodlands Grange and managed to
wash and change without succumbing to the temptation to lie
on the bed and close our eyes.
Within a couple of hours we were back at the Health Hotel
and Jacob provided us with an amazing meal.
We had a soup with vegetables, and thankfully a spoon with
which to eat it and rice accompanied by sauces the like of
which I have never tasted before.
Even better than the food was Jacobs's conversation. He told
us of his ideals for the restaurant which meant that all food
must be freshly prepared and using only the best ingredients.
Vegetables were brought in from the countryside where there
was little likelihood of pollution, and foul water would not
have been used to water the growing plants. Everything must
be kept scrupulously clean and that included mind and body.
He was very active in the Prohibition movement both in the
state of Kerala and nationally. He explained that the drinking
of alcohol was forbidden in some states and frowned upon generally,
but that had not prevented the opening of many liquor stores
in towns and even the smallest of villages.
He felt very strongly that alcohol was the cause of much of
the trouble and domestic violence throughout the country and
he had been quite savagely beaten on two occasions for campaigning
for support for his views.
He made it very clear that he was a disciple of Ghandi and
that all the things in which he believed were the beliefs
of the great man. Cleanliness, exercising restraint with one's
diet, eating simply and living simply were all part of the
teachings. We knew nothing of the teachings of Mahatma Ghandi
and felt very ignorant.
He told us of the widespread corruption of the Indian government
and he gave us one example.
A village in the mountains of the north was inaccessible by
road, and for many years the villagers had pleaded with the
government to build a road so that the children could attend
a school and the village could have access to the outside
world.
The government had always ignored the request until a conglomerate
of major world banks approached them. The banks wanted to
build a dam and harness the power for hydro electrics and
in turn make fistfuls of money. But in order to build the
dam they needed a road, and so the government agreed to build
one.
This was not good news for the village, as the road would
be used to bring the builders in and drive the families out.
Their homes and farmland, which had been handed down over
generations, would be flooded and they were to be offered
no compensation.
Jacob had made the long and hazardous journey northward and,
with an English woman, had rallied the villagers and international
press to stop the construction work. He showed us photographs
of villagers and his fellow activist standing neck deep in
water in a meeting hall in the village, which was slowly being
submerged.
We could have listened to him for hours but our lack of sleep
was catching up with us. It was strange to think as we left,
that this man had touched our lives and yet we would probably
never see him again.
We completely collapsed by the time we hit the sack, but unfortunately
there could be no lie-in. We wanted to be on an early ferry
to Cochin to avoid the heat, especially as we would be carrying
the rucksacks and all the other baggage we had acquired.
I had a rather heated exchange with the receptionist as we
checked out. He tried to charge for an extra half day as we
hadn't checked out at 5.00a.m. I explained that I had all
ready made an arrangement with the Duty Manager the previous
day.
I think he could see I was about to explode if he pushed it
much more. The confrontation woke me up and pumped up the
adrenalin which helped me cart my rucksack all the way to
the ferry and from there to the Fort House Hotel.
The hotel was a family business run by mother, father and
daughter with the aid of several servants who were treated
as sub-human as usual.
We had arrived in time for breakfast and we sat down in the
open-air restaurant. There were two other couples, one French
and the other German.
Mother was supervising breakfast and Father was on reception.
A tall thin Englishman approached the desk and began complaining.
He said he wanted to check out immediately. The father was
clearly surprised and asked if there was a problem. The man
said, no, he just want to check out. The father pointed out
that the man had booked in for five days and the hotel had
refused numerous requests for bookings on the grounds that
they were fully booked. This man couldn't just walk out with
no good reason.
The man now became agitated and in reply to the father's
request for an explanation said: "Well, quite frankly,
my wife just can't get any sleep. It's all the noise.''
We looked at each other. Noise? There wasn't any. There were
no cars or rickshaws passing by and even later in the day
we rarely saw any vehicles pass the big wooden gates.
The father looked equally confused by this comment and politely
questioned the statement. The man became a degree or two more
irate and said: " Look, my wife just can't sleep and
she needs to sleep. With the jet lag she is very tired and
all this noise is just not acceptable.''
The father was now starting to lose his cool and asked a little
angrily:
"What noise?''
"That chanting going on all the time. How can anyone
be expected to sleep?''
Brian and I looked at each other again and a light slowly
began to dawn. By the look on the father's face he had just
seen the same light.
The chanting referred to was the Muslim call to prayer broadcast
over a loud speaker four times a day for about three minutes.
The father said: " Do you mean the call to prayer?''
" I do, yes. It goes on and on. How can we be expected
to sleep?''
The father was flabbergasted. '' But I can't do anything about
that. You will hear that wherever you go in Cochin. ''
''Well you can do something about it. You can go down there
and tell them to stop it''
We all looked at each other with mouths agape. I hoped the
man's wife never visited London overnight. She would have
him down to Westminster demanding that Big Ben be switched
off.
We thought it was really funny and the other couples looked
as if they were trying to make sure their translation of the
conversation was what they thought it was.
The father blew a gasket. He ranted and raved and did an excellent
impression of Basil Fawlty and mother came racing out of the
kitchen.
The man just stood there repeating that the place was ''too
damned noisy.''
Well, it was now!
Father relayed the conversation to mother and then turned
to the man and yelled: "Get out. Bloody well get out!''
The man was completely unfazed. He said:
" Fine. Order me a car, will you?''
I thought he was going to add: "There's a good fellow.''
The father came to each table and apologised for his behaviour.
Then he loudly told mother he was going to order a car and
phone every other hotel in Cochin and make sure this man would
not find a room available anywhere.
What a barmy couple. What on earth did they expect to find
India? They should have rented a cottage in the Lake District.
We went back to our room and unpacked. We would most likely
stay here three or four days unless I could find somewhere
as nice but cheaper.
Then we headed out for a walk to see the famous Chinese Fishing
Nets of Fort Cochin, just 20 minutes away. These are a big
tourist attraction, especially as it is possible to choose
a fish and have it cooked at one of the nearby stalls.
Everywhere as far as the eye could see was litter. It was
like the after math of a rock festival. It was easy to see
the cause and it did not lay with the western tourists but
with the Indians themselves. There were vast numbers of Indian
tourists and day-trippers and every bottle they purchased
to drink from, every ice cream or snack consumed meant more
litter to be indiscriminately dropped to the ground. There
were litterbins but they were empty.
The fishing nets were strung out along the tip of Fort Cochin.
They were fixed, cantilevered nets that were introduced by
the traders from the court of Kublai Khan. They required four
men to operate their system of counterweights. We didn't spend
a great deal of time watching the nets being hauled in and
out, quite frankly the fish were very smelly and the flies
were out in force. In addition the stallholders were driving
us mad to buy fish and cook it for us.
There was a concrete promenade running along the shoreline.
It was built on top of huge rocks which formed the sea wall.
The cavities between the rocks were filled with plastic bottles
and waste paper.
We cut away from the promenade and found an old Dutch cemetery;
the adjacent church housed the tombstone of Vasco da Gama
who died in Fort Cochin in 1524.
We walked through an area with a smattering of shops and
boarding houses and a man with a mobile market stall who took
in ironing. We were not sure if this was the centre of Cochin,
but we did find all our necessities: toilet paper, bananas,
and giant toffee and nut gob stoppers. There was also a barber,
a laundry, and an e-mail facility.
It was heating up so we made our way back to the Fort House.
Without any regard for the expense we splashed out 50p on
a couple of mugs of tea on the terrace.
We decided that we would go to a performance of Kathakali
dancing that evening. Kathakali was proclaimed to be India's
most spectacular dance drama dating back over 500 years. There
are many different interpretations but the dances are based
on stories from the Ramayana and Mahabharata. It seemed that
most true performances lasted until the early hours of the
morning, but we opted for the 1½ hour tourist version.
The dancing began at 7.30 p.m. but we could go along at 6
p.m. to watch the dancers apply their make-up. Brian wasn't
terribly enthusiastic about that either, but I persuaded him
that we had to ' do culture.'
Brian decided that he would go back to the barber's and have
a shave. Off he went with his twenty rupees for his treat.
He really loved having a shave and telling me how the techniques
varied and why some barbers were better than others.
Two hours later I was really beginning to panic. I picked
my book up and put it down, went inside and went back outside.
Where the hell had Brian got too? I went inside again, decided
to think positive thoughts, and began to wash and change for
the evening.
Suddenly I was aware of someone standing at the window and
I jumped out of my skin. A little voice said: 'Elowe ' which
I presumed was hello, so I went to the door and opened it.
A very pretty little girl about 8 years old was standing there.
She looked a mixture of European and Oriental origin with
long black hair. She smiled and I could then see she was minus
her front teeth.
I said "Hello'' but she just looked at me.
I asked: " Do you speak English? Parlez-vous Francais
? Sprecken se Deutsche? Hablo Espanol?''
All were greeted with a vacant look. I had now used up my
store of foreign language possibilities. I decided that closing
the door was the next option so I did.
Ten minutes later and looking as if he had been swimming
fully dressed, Brian reappeared. '' I got lost.''
" You what?''
"'I got lost.''
"But that is not possible, the barber's shop is only
two minutes away. If you managed to find the way there, why
the hell couldn't you find the way back?''
"I didn't find the way there, I got lost on the way.''
" I don't believe it!'' Then I thought about it, and
I could believe it.
Brian said that after an hour and a half he had realized that
he was completely lost and decided to catch a rickshaw back
to the hotel.
I was amazed that he remembered the name of where we were
staying.
He showered and by now it was time to go to the theatre.
We bought our tickets and reserved our seats in the rickety
old shed at the water's edge.
The actors appeared at 6 p.m. on the dot and began the laborious
task of applying the make-up. Powdered minerals and the sap
of certain trees was used for the bright facial make-up and
burnt coconut oil was used for the black paint around the
eyes. Pepper seeds were placed under the eyelid to turn the
whites of the eyes dark red which was supposed to be very
attractive, but which in reality looked very painful.
After half an hour this became deathly boring so we took
it in turns to go walkabout so as not to lose our seats. Fortunately
we were both back in time for the explanation of the hand
and eye movements that were used to tell the story of the
dance.
This is when we realised why the actors had to train for so
long to become good performers. Their eyeballs could whiz
around their sockets in circular movements at 100 miles an
hour and they could move their eyes in opposite directions.
Their hands could imitate the flight of a butterfly with fingers
moving independently and so quickly that they became a blur.
It was an excellent demonstration.
The dancing itself was rather boring. We had been given a
printed sheet to explain the story but the English translation
was incomprehensible. Nevertheless we enjoyed the whole experience.
We walked down to the fishing nets after the show and bravely
selected some fish from one of the stalls. This was quickly
snatched away and, after a bit more bartering, cooked for
us at one of the food stands across the road. On a scale of
one to ten I would say the taste of the fish rated about a
two.
Off we trailed back to our room and although barely 10p.m.
the streets were deserted, the Indians were not night owls.
The following morning we had breakfast at the hotel. The
little girl who had given me such a fright the previous day
was having breakfast with her parents. We wished them a good
morning and ascertained that they were German.
The man was very tall but had one leg very much shorter than
the other. Both he and his wife looked to be in their mid-fifties
and miserable. The child was very young and pretty and resembled
neither of these two solemn people. I mention them only because
we bumped into them constantly over the next few days, rarely
all together but always looking dejected.
We took an early ferry to Ernakulam to visit the bank and
then have a look at Bolgatty Island and the Palace.
It was at this point we found out how far it was between the
Bolgatty and Cochin boat jetties. Too far.
When we finally arrived at the jetty for Bolgatty the Indians
waiting in various queues entertained themselves at our expense
by telling us that whichever queue we were in was the wrong
one.
We sat on the harbour wall waiting for the ferry with the
waves lapping just below our sandals. The sea looked like
dirty washing up water and I am sure that dipping our feet
in would remove athlete's foot, corns and calluses, and falling
in would prove fatal. We carefully boarded the boat for Bolgatty
Island and within five minutes we were stepping ashore into
a sea of litter.
We followed a narrow track signposted as the way to the Palace.
A broken gateway led to a large open area of long grass.
As far as the eye could see there was scrubby grass, trees
and litter. We wondered if there could possibly be a palace
in there, and the answer was that there was and there wasn't.
There was a large building looking out across the bay, but
it was falling down and derelict. We found the restaurant
which resembled an abandoned golf club - abandoned about eighty
years ago. It was dire. Dirty tablecloths, a carpet best not
examined too closely, window frames rotting and paint peeling,
a whole chunk of the ceiling hanging down. What had that English
lady been thinking of? We braved a cup of tea and then went
out in search of the honeymoon cottages.
They were indeed two architectural fantasies of the past,
and most definitely had possibilities. I could easily imagine
Douglas Fairbanks or David Niven ensconced in one of these
two cottages with their lady loves.
The cottages were circular and they balanced over the sea
supported by four tall columns. Each cosy little love nest
had its own staircase leading up to the arched entrance doorway
and had a balcony looking out across the bay. I am sure that
in the thirties it would have been the most romantic place
to stay, but now, unless you arrived in the dark and never
left your room, it would be a nightmare.
We left a little note for the English lady to say hello,
and also told her to come and join us at the Fort House. When
she had told us she felt a bit isolated at Bolgatty, that
was an understatement.
We did not hang about at Bolgatty but travelled back to Ernakulam
on the little private launch belonging to the hotel. It was
similar to the lovely little launches that we had seen on
the Thames in London, except the brasswork on that little
boat had not seen polish in many years.
Unfortunately it dropped us at the wrong jetty which meant
a long walk to the Cochin jetty. We tried in vain to find
a couple of recommended snack bars on the way, but we did
see some pretty amazing road workers.
It was about 2p.m. and hot, hot, hot. A huge lorry had just
delivered a load of molten tarmac and a gang of men and women
labourers were raking it out on to the road surface, and all
they had on their feet were flip-flops. We could not believe
how they could bear to walk on the tar with virtually no protection
for their feet, yet they seemed to be unconcerned and could
have been walking on grass.
Back at the Cochin jetty I rolled up my sleeves to take on
all comers in the battle of the ferry ticket.
We mooched around Cochin and I found a lovely guest house
overlooking the former parade ground. Everything about Cochin
was in the shadow of The Raj, if only the former splendour
had been maintained.
I went inside the guest house and had a look around. The rooms
were excellent and reasonably priced. We still had things
we wanted to see around Ernakulam and Cochin and if we moved
in here it would be cheaper than the Fort House. We arranged
to move in the following day, but before leaving I took the
opportunity to ask the owner to recommend a good traditional
veggie restaurant. He suggested a place called Krishna, a
10 minute rickshaw ride away. We decided to try it that evening.
We packed our gear ready for an early departure next day
and then off we went in search of a rickshaw to take us to
the Krishna restaurant.
The Krishna was large and bare and I think we were as welcome
as a pig at a Jewish wedding. We took a seat and our troubles
began. A dirty waiter approached us and just stood waiting
for us to say something. We tried ''Menu?''
Nothing. This man did not understand a word we said and when
he spoke to us the same thing applied.
The Indian restaurants always had the till by the door and
the boss usually staffed it. We tried to ask him what food
there was on offer, on the grounds that he was the boss and
perhaps spoke English, but he was a very unpleasant character
and just glared at us.
We were not to be beaten and so pointed at food that other
people were eating and put our fingers up for one or two portions.
We hadn't a clue what we had ordered and when it arrived we
hadn't a clue what it was. One dish looked like a doughnut
with a side dish of runny vegetable soup. It tasted all right
but we needed about ten each, which we thought might cause
a stir. We asked for tea but they didn't serve it. The waiter
brought us tap water and so we asked for bottled, but they
didn't have that either. We pointed at someone else's plate
and we had a dish of that each. It was red hot and we had
nothing to wash it down with. This was not going well.
Out of pity an Indian on the next table finally spoke to
us in English.
He explained that at this time of the evening all the dishes
are changing and we were too late for one lot of culinary
extravaganzas and too early for the other. Perhaps we would
care to wait?
Perhaps we wouldn't. We paid our bill and got up to leave.
The English-speaking Indian joined us outside as we were discussing
what the bloody hell to do next.
He had been born in Cochin but hadn't been in Cochin for the
last 23 years. His parents had taken him to Paris when he
was a child and that was where he had stayed. He had returned
to look at his birthplace and to drum up some business for
Herbal Life. Naturally he tried to sign us up for a shipload
of the stuff as he gave us his life story. He decided that
he knew his way back to Cochin and so we walked along with
him. After an hour of ear-bashing, which Brian was quite happy
for me to suffer alone [he trailed behind us] we reached a
few landmarks that I recognised, and we were able to bid him
adieu.
It had been a lousy night all round really. A restaurant
with no food, ignorant racist staff, nothing to drink and
mind numbingly boring conversation on an hour-long hike back
to our room.
At the Fort House we went straight to the restaurant and ordered
a meal. And very nice it was, too.
An early start and off we trundled to the Delight Guest House
where the landlady was one Flowery David. We settled into
our room, which was on the ground floor, dark, with old colonial
furniture. I could not have handled that gloom in England
but here it created the illusion of making the room cooler.
We unpacked again and went upstairs to the family's living
quarters to asked The Davids about places to visit, food and
beaches.
Brian and I had decided that the term 'Culture Vultures'
did not really apply to us. A few historical sights interspersed
with beach and ocean was our preference, and right now we
fancied a bit of beach. Flowery told us that there was an
excellent beach on Vypeen Island.
But we needed to take a 40 minute bus ride when we got off
the ferry to avoid a polluted area.
For the next couple of days we kept threatening to go to
the beach at Vypeen but we knew that we could be stranded
in the boiling heat, possibly with no shade, and we wouldn't
know that until after we had been thrown off the bus. Then
having been toasted, the bus may well not pick us up to take
us back to the ferry. Nahhh.. .. Perhaps not.
Flowery's other suggestions were The Dutch Palace and the
Synagogue. She also suggested that we may be able to pay and
swim at one of the hotels on Willingdon Island and we could
explore Mantacherry and Cochin by bike. For breakfast and
other food she suggested the Cyber Café and the Art
Café, both just a ten minute walk away. Farther afield
were suggestions to visit the tea plantations at Munnar and
an elephant reserve on the way.
We really gave that idea careful consideration. It certainly
appealed, but more research caused us to reconsider. It would
be very cold up in the hill stations and we didn't relish
freezing in T-shirts up a mountain. We wouldn't be able to
visit a tea factory, or see the tea being picked, or buy tea
- or probably even drink bloody tea, so it was a long way
to look at a load of green bushes.
I had a theory about Indian produce, which included tea.
I was convinced that all good fruit grown in India was shipped
immediately to Tesco and Sainsburys and only the dregs of
the crops were left to be sold at the home market. But the
tea! I knew that tea was grown in India; the country was famous
for it, so why didn't they sell it or drink it?
All that was available was tea dust. The only tea leaves I
saw in a cup where those I bought from England or those I
purchased from a tea exporter later in our journey. Even that
was poor and three times as expensive as at home.
The better restaurants only gave us the luxury of a tea bag
and an eyeglass full of tepid water. The whole thing was as
extraordinary as the tea dust was foul. So, as we could find
elephants farther south, and we couldn't sample tea, we abandoned
the idea of a trip to Munnar.
On our first morning at the Delight we headed for the Cyber
café to check out the e-mail facilities and charges
and to see what made the café a café.
Cyber café and the Art café were at opposite
ends of a street that would have fitted in to any island village
in Greece. It was that Mediterranean influence again. The
street was lined with white-washed terraced houses, some with
fancy metal balustrades on the upper floors and others with
colourful plants in pots outside. The Cyber café had
a narrow stable door. The bottom part was closed so we had
to peer into the gloom and hope someone would let us in.
A slightly-built Indian girl greeted us; she seemed shy and
very twitchy and had the most wonderful moustache. Her name
was Pixie and she became Brian's number one fan.
The Cyber café was a very small family house. We never
found out where the family managed to sleep but there were
certainly at least six of them living there.
Once through the front door there was a tall 6 inch-wide cabinet
that Pixie could just about squeeze behind. The reception
desk. A flight of steps led to a ''Computer School''. [Indians
of both sexes and all ages were constantly going up and down
so it seemed to be a thriving business.]
In front of the reception desk was a 2ft gap which we could
just about walk through. By holding aside an old curtain tacked
to the top of the doorway we entered the e-mail room. It was
small and square with lumpy white-washed walls. Four big posters
depicted alpine scenes. There were four plastic chairs and.
On each was a computer. This was pretty cosy and a tight fit.
Another curtain led to the café. It was only big enough
for two Formica tables, each with four chairs. There was just
enough room to squeeze into a chair and sit down. In addition
to more Alpine scenes, the wall was painted up to waist height
with sky blue gloss. Another curtain led to the kitchen containing
a bench, which doubled as chopping board and home to a two-ring
gas burner fuelled by an attached gas bottle. The final curtain,
so to speak, hid the toilet, sink, shower, and ever-present
bucket.
Pixie was a bit of a computer whiz and also Holder of the
Menu. And Pixie took that job very, very seriously. Each day
a set breakfast and a set evening meal were offered. For example,
Monday breakfast could be Iddlies and Monday evening might
be Pourri Masala and chapattis. This would be repeated Thursday
and so on.
Asking Pixie to explain what exactly each meal was would throw
her in to a nervous twitching spin. I expect it would be like
asking me to describe beans on toast, it would be difficult
to imagine someone not knowing what it was, and if they didn't,
how would I explain it? We had to tell Pixie at breakfast
if we wanted to eat in the evening and we had to tell her
what time we wanted to eat. Then, with great concentration,
she would repeat everything back to us, probably twice.
George was the owner of Cyber café and was tall, slightly
balding and in his late forties. Maria, his wife courtesy
of an arranged marriage, was a pretty twenty-something. They
had a little boy of about five who would come and just stare
at Brian when we were waiting for our evening meal.
Maria had a younger sister and these two prepared the food.
Our first meal was smashing but there just wasn't enough,
so when we ordered for the next day we ordered for four. This
sent Pixie into a severe twitching fit. Ordering for four,
would have worked wonderfully well if our enthusiasm with
the cooking hadn't led to the cooks' over exuberance with
the sizes of the portions. Maria and her sister couldn't quite
believe how big Brian was and because of our greed thought
he could never be filled up. The dishes of rice grew bigger
and bigger and the piles of chapattis became mountainous.
Brian rashly mentioned one night that he was eager to try
Iddlies. These were tiny bun shapes made of steamed rice flour
and served with a side dish of hot runny gravy. Because of
our piggish reputation and the girls being so excited by our
ability to demolish huge quantities of grub, they served 16
iddlies the next morning for breakfast.
I tried one and thought they were pretty disgusting, like
heavy soggy, tasteless dumplings but Brian was enjoying his
so I gave him mine. After ten he didn't look so impressed,
but as I told him, he mustn't hurt the girls' feelings. Fifteen
iddlies later the girls thought he must love them so much
he must want more. His `no' was quite emphatic.
The farther south we travelled it became impossible not to
be aware of India's obsession with Auyervedic medicine. This
is an age-old tradition of treating all ailments imaginable
with massage and herbal oils pushed into every orifice.
I had images of Thailand when it came to massages. Thais approach
you on the beach and give you a relaxing massage where you
lie. While I had no intention of taking any medicine, I thought
I would quite like to try one of these ayuervedic massages.
There was a notice on the wall at the Cyber café that
invited anyone interested to ` Speak to George.' It transpired
that George's sister had a beauty salon and hairdresser's
and she would give me a massage. I booked in for seven o'clock
that evening.
We hired some bikes from the self-appointed tourist information
man cum hostel manager cum laundry man round the corner. First
we pedalled back to Delight with Brian's newly washed and
ironed trousers. The laundry was neatly folded and wrapped
in old newspaper, which was such a comfort when the contents
are, or had been white. The laundry was obviously upmarket
as they had used the financial section of the Hindu Times
for packaging.
We pedalled off around Cochin and Mantacherry and although
it felt 1000 degrees it was cooler on the bikes. We cycled
up alleys filled with chickens and cows and past mucky squalid
huts with kids playing in the dust. We passed big colonial
houses surrounded by high walls enclosing lush green trees
and beautiful flowers. We saw two butchers' stalls, which
would turn any one with the will to survive into instant vegetarians.
Bits of animal corpse were hanging on rusty hooks with entrails
draped all over the place; one of the shops had an old tree
stump as a chopping board. Both butchers had one big factor
in common; the swarms of flies covering every-thing, and the
absence of running water and refrigeration.
We found the Military base and it was enormous, as was the
Naval base next door. They were both immaculate. Indians can
be clean but it seems they need someone to tell them how.
By way of contrast we came upon a little tree-lined track
just off the main road. We cut along it and could see a small
sandy bay. We thought we could sit in the shade and watch
the sea for five or ten minutes. As we leaned the bikes against
a tree, a fisherman beat us to the shore. He promptly hitched
up his skirt, squatted down and did a big shit. We picked
up the bikes and headed back for the road.
We managed to locate the boat jetty for ferries to Willingdon
Island so we decided to go there the next day and have a swim
at one of the posh hotels.
Having purchased bananas and a pineapple, we returned our
bikes.
Both had very lumpy saddles and, rubbing our sore behinds,
we made our way back to our room for a much-needed shower.
I suggested that we go to the Cyber café and I would
try to have my massage earlier than arranged. Brian could
send some e-mails and we could eat about 7.30. We were both
rather hungry. We could only do that of course, if Pixie could
cope with the change of plan.
I knocked on the shuttered doors of the Beauty Parlour and
a tall Indian woman in a vile burgundy brushed nylon nightie
appeared. She was the sister of George, the café owner.
We had thought that the sari was the national dress of India
but as it turned out, the nightie was a very close second.
With the exception of Bombay, Delhi and Rajistan, it is strongly
in evidence everywhere. The garment was always the same style:
floor length with long puff sleeves, a Peter Pan collar and
a yoke trimmed with lace or frills. It is invariably made
of a floral print synthetic material, but there are some plain
ones which were in brushed nylon.
This was a fabric that I thought most countries had banned
on the grounds of taste and also it's highly flammable qualities.
Nighties are worn for housework, and also in the street when
women are fetching water from the wells or standpipes, or
sitting on the doorstep peeling vegetables. With such a hoo-ha
made about what is respectable and what is not in India, it
seemed strange to see women walking about in nightwear and
no one raising an eyebrow.
I digress, and with good reason. The following experience
left me speechless for two hours and unable to describe the
ordeal for days.
George's sister seemed very flustered when I asked if I could
have my massage early. She said it was difficult and she would
have to see if it could be organised. I said I would wait
next door in the café.
Something about this lady's demeanour made me think a third
party might be involved in this carry on. I had assumed that
George's sister would be giving the treatment. I will refer
to George's sister from this point as `Nightie.'
Within 15 minutes Nightie appeared at the Cyber café
still wearing the burgundy nylon number. I was now able to
see that giving it a good wash would not have gone amiss.
If I had thought toothpaste was used in most households, I
would have said that was what was all down the front of Nighties
nighty.
I followed Nightie to the salon.
It was a large room with a Formica worktop fixed to the wall
on it lay a mirror and a hairdryer. That was it. I was beckoned
through the salon - and into what?
Another large room, but very murky as there was no natural
light. The floors and walls were concrete, and to my right
was an ancient sagging double bed. There was a row of clothes
hooks above it, and hanging from them was a big pair of old
blue Y-front underpants.
Behind the bed head was a big old cabinet with mesh doors
and inside was a mass of assorted crockery and baking dishes
from a range of centuries. Between the bed and me, was a wooden
dining table.
Nightie called out towards another room and we were joined
by a woman who looked well over 100, 4ft tall and as frail
as a match.
Her grey hair was tied back from her wrinkled old face. Her
deep red sari was hitched up between her knees to reveal her
thin bow legs.
The women motioned me to take off my skirt and top, which
I did. But when they indicated I should remove my bra and
my knickers. I wanted to shout: "Excuse me, but I am
British you know!''
It seemed the massage wasn't going to proceed unless I stripped
off completely, so feeling a complete idiot I removed my drawers.
What now? I thought.
I certainly wasn't prepared for the next move.
The women motioned me to get on to the table. I have never
felt such a complete eejit as I did lying there in someone's
front room with no kit on. I stared up at the ceiling thinking:
" What are you bloody doing?''
Worse was yet to come.
Old Lady, stood behind my head and started to take all the
hairgrips out of my hair, which had been plaited and fastened
securely in coils. Once unravelled she ran her fingers through
it and then …whoosh! Two pints of warm oil over my head
and into my face.
At first I thought she was going to massage my scalp, but
after a bit of a rub around she moved from my head to my body.
My hair felt disgusting, and that was without touching it.
Old Lady poured gallons of warm oil all over me. She picked
up my arm and rubbed it. I thought she was just trying to
rub in some of the oil slick before starting the massage,
but no. That was it. She just rubbed each limb up and down
in turn, like wiping a work surface. Mad!
She spoke no English so called to Nightie when she had finished.
Nightie came in and told me to turn over. As I sat up to execute
the manoeuvre the women made a mad dash for the table and
grabbed hold of me. This was a nightmare.
I could soon see why. Unless I moved with the speed of a snail
I was going to shoot off the table like a slippery eel. I
turned over, which I felt was a less embarrassing position,
but Christ, was it ever uncomfortable. My hips were sticking
in to the tabletop, as was my face. I squirmed forwards and
let my head hang down off the edge of the table but that was
even more uncomfortable. How much longer would this go on?
The women stood behind my head. They were jabbering in Hindi
and then Nightie let out a series of big fat belches. Lovely.
Old Lady poured more oil over my back and worked her way around
my body. As she rubbed the oil up and down the back of my
legs, my knee-caps were pushed into the wooden tabletop. I
hoped that she did not think my groans were those of pleasure.
After a final rub of the head to ensure my hair was as matted
as possible, I thought this test of tolerance must finally
be over. Nightie told me they would now leave me for fifteen
minutes to relax. Oh God! All that would come to mind as I
lay there was the Japanese game show ' Endurance.'
The oil was running into my eyes and stinging, and I had
nothing to hand to wipe it away. I lay there, looking into
the china cabinet scrutinizing the jumble of contents. To
my right was a wooden clothes rail and hanging over it were
'things'. I couldn't really make out through my blurred vision
what these things, were, but with extreme caution, so as not
to shoot off the table, I reached out and grabbed the first
bit of material that came to hand and wiped my eyes with it.
I could only hope it was Nightie's best linen.
The women returned and I just hoped this was one of the few
houses in Cochin that had hot water, or how the hell would
I get this oil off me?
They helped me to slide off the table and held my arms as
they led me, feet ready to shoot out from under me at any
second, through the kitchen and into a very small room with
light blue scuffed and scratched walls, a western toilet minus
lid, a tap, a bucket, and a child's three-legged plastic stool.
Old Lady motioned me to sit on the stool. I did not really
care any more; I was in shock. There was no further humiliation
they could inflict.
Oh but there was.
I don't like swimming. I don't like swimming because I hate
water in my face. I doubly hate water in my eyes and up my
nose. I mean, I really hate it!
Old Lady came towards me with a huge stainless steel pot.
It was so big I didn't know how her scrawny arms could carry
it. I certainly couldn't have imagined that she was going
to lift it high enough to tip over my head, which is what
she did!
This was too much. I couldn't see or breathe. As I spluttered
and coughed Old Lady picked up my arm and a bar of soap and
started to wash it. I tried to tell her no, I would do it,
but she called out to Nightie who came and told me that Old
Lady had to do it.
My humiliation was complete.
I further endured my hair being washed with soap and two more
buckets of water being thrown over my head. An eternity later
I was back in my own clothes and standing in front of the
mirror in the salon. My hair was a matted mess and after futile
effort trying to comb it I thought: " I just want to
get out of here''. The old lady clasped her hands and bowed
to me; Nightie stood in her nightie, and I dived
next-door.
Brian was sitting in the café with a cup of tea and
a newspaper. Pixie told me to hurry up as Brian was hungry
and dinner was ready. I took my seat at the table, mascara-rimmed
eyes and hair like candyfloss.
Brian looked up and said: "You look well, have a nice
time?''
Bastard!
I could not speak. I ate my dinner shaking my head and running
the whole scenario through in my mind. In answer to Brain's
growing curiosity I could only able to reply " I'll tell
you later.''
I just didn't know how I could do the tale justice.
The next day we took an early stroll through Mantacherry
to the Willingdon Ferry. At the Casino Hotel, for the exorbitant
sum of 500 rupees each, we could use the swimming pool.
The pool was not large, which didn't bother me. All I wanted
to do was stand up to my neck in it and be cool, and the poolside
was just what we didn't need - a real suntrap.
Within five minutes of lying on the sunlounger the mattress
cover turned into molten plastic and the glue of my book disintegrated.
Drinks were prohibitively expensive so we only had one. When
we were charged as much for an orange juice in one place as
we were paying for a good room in another it had to be a rip
off.
We spent most of the day submerged in the pool watching residents
come and go. We watched them eating sandwiches and drinking
fancy cocktails while we muttered "Bloody hell, they
must be mad.''
By 4pm we decided to jump on a ferry to Ernakulam. We had
made the decision while roasting at the pool to move on the
day after next. It was silly paying to swim; we may as well
find a beach. We would have a last walk around Ernakulam,
Brian could have a shave, and we could pick up train tickets
and any last-minute things we might want before our departure.
We completed all the tasks on our list and in addition found
a greeting card wholesaler. Never one to miss a bargain, I
bought a pack of 30 letter cards and envelopes at a bargain
price. Such a shame I didn't check the envelopes. They had
no adhesive. The savings were lost on the money it cost to
buy a glue stick.
When we arrived back at Cochin we called in to the Art café.
We had been in before but had found it too westernised. It
was generally full of people who looked like hippy social
workers either poring studiously over huge books or writing
long letters home. We preferred the more traditional Cyber
café, not this place of Simon and Garfunkel tapes and
chocolate cake. [Well, perhaps not the chocolate cake.] They
also served Earl Grey tea so I had a pot of that and Brian
went for the cake. Hypocrites!
We couldn't help but notice that the place was covered in
posters announcing the Tree Festival which would take place
the following day. We could not miss that.
The lucky tree honoured the previous year had been the large
tree on the parade ground beside the Delight Guest House.
We had passed it every day and watched people sit in its shade
and also pee up it.
The next day we began our packing as we would be leaving
at about 5a.m. the day after.
We walked to the taxi rank and ordered a taxi to pick us up
at the Delight. Despite the taxi man writing our details in
a book, we didn't feel very confident that anyone would actually
appear.
The tree festival was about as sad as a festival could be.
The tree looked good, all covered in ribbons and garlands,
but as for the rest of the festivities…...
It is hard to take a " Green Peace'' rally seriously
when you are wading through litter deeper than autumn leaves
in Sherwood Forest. A Rubbish Bin festival would have been
a better idea.
Two small boys were demonstrating a warm-up for kickboxing
but they were out of time and looked bored silly. A very voluptuous
Indian woman pranced around a stage pretending to be a tree,
and some exceptionally bad poetry was recited.
The tree and performers were surrounded by the great unwashed,
body-pierced western contingent. The specially shipped-in
American tourists were having a great time with their cameras.
It was like watching paint dry.
Later that evening we said our farewells to George and Maria,
her sister, and of course Pixie. I took note of recipes, and
Brian exchanged
e-mail addresses.
We would not forget the Cyber café.
Drowsy and bad-tempered we lumbered out of the Delight the
next morning in the dark, and were gratified to find our taxi
waiting.
It took no time at all to reach the railway station. The streets
were deserted except for the odd woman filling up her water
jugs.
In her nightie, of course.
(Printable
version here)
|
Chapter
2
