The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER SEVEN - ERNAKULAM JUNCTION

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 45minutes 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 1 ½ 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 prepareded 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 their 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.