The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER EIGHT - VARKALA HERE WE COME

The train was already at the platform when we arrived at the station and we were able to find a bench in salubrious second class. We managed to spread out sufficiently on the three-seater to stop anyone else sitting with us, and if anyone tried we glared. We were getting the hang of this travelling lark.
We had a painless four-hour journey, arriving on time and at a cost of 80 pence each. [Perhaps British rail could learn a thing or two from the Indian railroad system.] On reaching Varkala we legged it across the tracks, found a rickshaw, and then it was time for decisions, decisions.
We asked the rickshaw driver to take us to the cliffs, as that was the farthest distance and we could walk back down-hill to find accommodation if necessary. It was quite a long and winding road and we gave up trying to keep track of the route.
We arrived at the top of a cliff to find a gravel space the size of a football pitch. Railings ran along the edge of the cliff making it a safe look-out, and several concrete benches afforded excellent positions to watch a sunset. Was this India? This consideration, this planning?
We found out later that this had all been installed when Indira Ghandi made a state visit to Varkala by helicopter. The area had been cleared for the helicopter to land, and in true Indian fashion, once out of sight of the heli-pad it would be quite easy to plummet to your death over the cliff when walking past its crumbling and unprotected edge.
We left the rickshaw and dropped down on to a dust track leading to a string of restaurant huts along the cliff edge. It looked very reminiscent of beach bars circa 1970 in any tacky Spanish holiday resort.
We aimed at the nearest and largest, which was quite busy and became even busier as we waited to order breakfast. Most of the clientele were bleary-eyed Scandinavians, but regardless of nationality, dreadlocks and body piercing was the order of the day. We guessed that despite their appearances they weren't real travellers like us [ha, ha] because they were ordering muesli and orange juice or toast and jam, whereas we were attacking Masala Dosas and mouth-numbing Sambar and coconut chutney.
I ate mine in record-breaking time even with no knife or fork, probably the healthiest option as I couldn't imagine the utensils ever being in contact with hot water.
I was eager to find a room. It was fast approaching mid-day and melt-down time, and I wanted to spend as little time as possible trawling the accommodation options. I looked at the possibilities at the top of the cliff and found one O.K. but too dear, an O.K. but too small, and an O.K. but too dear and too small. Halfway down the cliff I found a `` You cannot be serious.''
Further down and up the other side, I found some splendid circular huts with all mod cons which were `` very nice but not at that price, thank you.''
I bravely entered the Tourist Information shed. The young man inside quickly folded his half-eaten lunch back into its palm leaf and suggested that I try Eden Garden Hotel or walk to Varkala Junction. He did point out that the latter might be a bit noisy as there was a temple there.
During our stay at Varkala beach we often heard bangs like shotgun blasts, very early in the morning, throughout the day and into the early evening. Initially we thought it was a farmer getting even with the crows.
Not so. The bangs were firecrackers let off by a man outside the temple. When a devotee went to pray, and if he could afford it, he paid for the firecrackers to be let off before he entered the temple. This would wake up the god who would then listen to his prayers. Personally I would have thought the God would have preferred being able to nod off from dawn to dusk, but there you are. The noise was noticeable from the beach area, and avoiding accommodation at Varkala Junction had been sound advice.
Behind the tourist hut was a paddy field and across the field ran a track leading to a small cluster of thatched buildings. These buildings stood around a large pond and in the pond were three raised platforms with circular thatched roofs. Each platform held a table and four chairs, it was very picturesque. This was Eden Garden.
There was only one room available. It was small but very clean, and had an adjoining bathroom with sit-down lav. The rooms shared a veranda which ran the length of the building and I thought that it would do nicely.
I was concerned that the pond would attract mozzies, but the manager assured me that they weren't a problem. Being a wally I accepted that, and never thought to ask why. We did find out eventually, when one of the mozzie deterrents slithered out of the pond and nearly gave a chap a cardiac arrest. It was a bloody big snake.
I climbed back up the cliff to fetch Brian, who I was sure would now be awash with masala tea, another passion Maria and Pixie had introduced him to.
Brian was impressed when he saw Eden Garden. I was awarded maximum Brownie points. We moved the room around a bit to accommodate our rucksacks and ourselves. There was no wardrobe or anywhere to hang anything so we used the towel rail in the bathroom for trousers
The bathroom floor was tiled, which made it a death trap when wet, which was every time we had a shower. The showerhead just stuck out of the wall so that each time we turned it on the whole bathroom became a paddling pool.
We had a sink, and the toilet was on a raised platform beside a window. The window was opaque with mesh over the top to stop the mozzies. After a peep around the end of the building some days later, I was glad we couldn't see out. Loads of litter was stacked up at the back of the rooms so you could bet there would be rats out there.
We had other wildlife inside. Each day from dawn till dusk an army of ants came through the window and turned right. They marched around the wall, past the top of the towel rail, over the top of the doorframe and down the other side, along the back of the sink, past the shower, turn left along the far wall, left at the lav and a final turn right and back out the window.
What on earth were they doing? There was no food en route. Maybe it was a Weight Watchers power-walking class for ants. And why didn't it bother me? I would have gone spare at home. As it was, I used to say ``Good morning'' to them when I brushed my teeth.
Once unpacked we thought we would go and sit at one of the table islands and peruse the menu and have a cup of tea. It was only when sitting over the pond that we realised three things. Firstly, a very dodgy plank of wood reached the little islands; secondly, the floor planks were full of holes. One misplaced chair leg disappearing down a hole and the occupant of the seat would be pitched into the water. Finally, Eden Garden had its very own German bakery. How could I have missed that when I checked in?
There was a huddle of what we thought were Chinese boys sitting near a glass cabinet full of cakes and biscuits. The boys turned out to be Nepalese and they could certainly bake. There was fresh bread every day, and cake, but as far as Brian was concerned there was nothing to touch the apple cake. This was a cross between apple pie and apple crumble and the portions were Desperate Dan size. For the duration of our stay the high-light of Brian's afternoon was apple cake and masala tea.
After tea we walked along the beach. The beach below the cliffs wasn't very pleasant with stagnant pools of water, rocks and litter.
Much had been made in the guidebooks of a fresh water spring running out of the cliff wall. Pilgrims were supposed to go there to bathe. In reality it was a trickle of water running between two rocks which were green with algae. There were always five or six half-dressed Indian men around the spring, but they looked as if they were doing the weekly wash rather than anything holy.
There were two or three routes up to the top of the cliff. One was not an option, at least not without ropes and crampons. Both the other options were extremely steep and required the legs of a giraffe. One ascent even had a rope secured by a metal stake hammered into the rock face with which you could haul yourself up.
We had our first clash with touting and hassle on the cliff top. Every restaurant had someone outside trying to drag us in and we were not amused. I could see someone going over the cliff if we had to have this every night.
Alcohol was another hugely annoying thing. It is prohibited in this state but at every opportunity the waiters and touts were offering us bottles of lager, or at least that is what it was claimed to be.
It was smuggled to tables in unmarked bottles wrapped in brown paper or serviettes. The waiters would covertly sneak up to our table and whisper: ``Do you want beer? I can get you beer.''
I think we were supposed to die of gratitude and hand over a huge tip. It would have been laughable if it hadn't seriously got on our nerves after a while. It was quite obvious that here westerners were synonymous with, drink, drugs and big fat wallets.
We had the same problem with men trying to sell us drugs both in Varkala and later in Madurai and Delhi. I found a great way of dealing with them. I would say:`` Sorry, what was that? You want a policeman? You have got what? Drugs. Oh drugs. Yes, I think we need a policeman.''
I would say this louder and louder and they would generally stare at me in horror and then run like hell. It was great fun.
It was at about this time as we sat looking out to sea that Brian realised he had lost his worry beads. I had bought them for him a few years previously in Greece. I had become used to him whirling them around his fingers and generally twiddling with them, and evidently so had he. He was mortified. We had to hurry run back to our room and tip out the contents of our rucksacks but no joy. We decided that they had been left at The Delight in Cochin. Brian couldn't wait, and rushed off immediately to find a telephone. When he returned he looked so dejected. In answer to Brians question of: ``Did you find a string of green beads in our room when you cleaned it?'' He was asked: `` Were they worth anything? No? Oh well we threw them away.''
That first night we experienced one of many power cuts in Varkala.
They happened every evening at 9p.m. We tried to be sure that we had finished eating by 8.30p.m. as the restaurant we favoured was at the top of the cliff and it was hell trying to make our way back down with the aid of a small torch. Failing that we would stay put until 10p.m when the lights came back on.
A couple of times, and I expect for a laugh, the little man in the power station would switch the lights off at 7p.m. as well as 9.p.m. For an absolute scream he would also turn the power off in the late afternoon and leave it off. This meant that the water pumps didn't work so we couldn't wash or shower.
The next morning was quite cloudy but very humid. We had seen that the tourist hut had bicycles to rent so we thought we would take a couple and have a look at the main town. We crossed over to the hut only to find that they had just the one bike, but if we walked up to Varkala junction we could pick two up from there. We strolled up the road and past a succession of trinket shops and Ayervedic treatment 'clinics'.
I had overcome my burning desire for any massage, therapeutic or otherwise, after my experience in Cochin and quickly disposed of the leaflets that were constantly handed out to us for the treatment centres. Not so everyone, as we were to discover later.
The tourist information at the junction turned out to be a travel agent who just happened to run an information office. This was the case all over India. Just because a sign said Tourist Information we had assumed it was somewhere official the same as at home. The reality was that anyone could open one of these centres, tell you anything or sell you anything.
The young man in the travel agency was quite a card. We tormented him mercilessly about the price of his bikes but in the end he had us over a barrel as he had a monopoly. We had to pay about £20 as a deposit and £2 per day per bike. He told us that the bikes were the latest models and had lights and gears and anything else we wanted.
When they were wheeled out they were so small that Brian looked as if he had stolen a childs bike. I could see he wasn't happy, and even less so when the young man had no spanner to raise the seat. The icing on the cake was that the tyres were almost flat and he had no pump. He told us that there was a shop up the road that had ``the Pump'' [the only one in Varkala Junction] and they would fix the seat too. We set off, Brian mumbling dangerously under his breath.
Round the corner meant round the corner at the top of a very long steep hill. I couldn't have pedalled to the top even if the bikes had been fit to ride.
The first shop on the corner was run by a very rude old man who just abused us and waved his hands about. The shop we wanted was farther up the hill.
It was in fact a roadside shack, and did not have a spanner. There was, however, an ancient pump which fell to bits at every pump. By the time Brian was finished his hands were covered with thick black grease. And it went without saying that there was nothing to wipe them on or wash them with. He was not a happy bunny.
The tyres now inflated we cycled up to Varkala. It was a busy little town with lots of shops selling all manner of goods. There was a newsagent and eating-houses - spartan like institutional canteens. They varied in cleanliness and helpfulness but they all served the same basic foods which changed at different times of day. We later ate in one of these places and had our first Upma.
Upma could either be a type of coarse semolina or couscous with various ingredients mixed in. Our first Upma was rather bland and just had a little mustard seed and sweetcorn. The locals covered it with sugar. At the time we thought it was great, but it was nothing compared with the ones we sampled later. My culinary attempts at replicating it when we returned home weren't too bad either.
We did a circuit of the town, bought ourselves bananas and a pineapple, and decided that the travel agent could have his bikes back and we wanted our money. At least it was down hill on the way back.
He was reluctant to give us our money but couldn't shut us up quickly enough when four unsuspecting westerners entered wanting to hire bikes. He had only four, and four out on hire, was better than two. Plus the fact the new customers didn't barter with him. We would be walking from now on.
Back at Eden Garden, we said hello to our new neighbour.
Eden Garden only had eight rooms. Five were side by side with a long communal veranda and a further three ran along the end of the pond with their own veranda. Our new neighbour was sitting outside her room. She was a thin woman in her early forties, with dark blond hair to her shoulders. We introduced ourselves but, whatever her name was, she will always be Dot to us.
We named her after Dot Cotton in the Eastenders soap, because she never had a cigarette out of her mouth.
Dot had come to Eden Garden for the Ayuervedic treatments offered by the manager's wife. Well, well, well, it seemed we had checked ourselves into a regular little hospital.
Brian went to order his afternoon tea on his island seat and Dot and I had a bit of a chinwag.
She had been to Eden Garden the previous year when she had a chest infection. [hardly surprising with her consumption of cigarettes.] Her full story emerged over the next few days.
Dot was a teacher in a rough part of Coventry. [Brian knew this as he had lived in Coventry for several years.] She taught English and most of her students were on the Government New Deal training scheme.
They were 16 year olds who didn't want to be there and were going to give any lecturer a hard time. I could sympathise with Dot's situation.
She had about had enough when a friend suggested that they go to India. Dot threw in her job, rented out her house, and went on a big adventure.
After three months, when her money ran out, she returned to England starry-eyed, full of good karma, peace and love.
We realised that Dot might be academically gifted but worldly she wasn't.
After only a week back in her teaching post she could bear it no longer. The students looked even more offensive, once her head had been out of the quagmire for three months, and she could see that she had been right about them in the first place, they were a waste of time.
Virtually on the edge of a nervous breakdown, she thought the best thing she could do was resign, again. She gathered up all her savings, sold anything she could, rented out the house and ran away to India.
Unfortunately, she had nil equity in the house so she couldn't really sell it, and the rent from the tenant only just covered the mortgage payments. So if the tenant moved out she was up the creek. Worst of all, and like a holiday romance, things didn't look so good in India when she came back.
It's one thing to have a fling with a country; quite another to arrive with all your worldly possession and say: `` This is it, then.''
Dot had been back in India for five months when we met her, and I think the panic was just starting to set in. Her visa was almost expired and her savings were dwindling. She had nothing to go home to, and was desperately looking for a reason to stay in India - or for a clue as to what had dragged her back at all.
Her main reason for staying at Eden Garden was to treat herself after five months of hard travelling. We were full of admiration for her. I certainly would not have undertaken the travelling she had done, especially as a woman alone.
She hoped to meet up with a friend who she knew from home.
He was a retired teacher and they had tried travelling together but they argued too much. They had gone their separate ways but agreed to keep in touch and meet every so often to chat and chase away the loneliness, which seemed a very sensible and commendable idea. Dot and her pal were going to meet up in Varkala and then take a cheap flight from Trivandrum [only a forty minute train ride away] to Sri Lanka. Once in Sri Lanka they would apply for an extension to their Indian visas. Hopefully after the ten days it would take to process their application they could return to India for a further six months, or in her case until the money ran out.
We felt really sorry for Dot. We didn't think she had much of a life in England. She had made a huge decision and now looked to be paddling slowly up shit creek. We soon had further reason to question her choice of action.
Later that evening we climbed the cliff for a very average meal. We have learned that in India only peasants eat brown rice. Everyone else aspires to white, processed, all-goodness-removed rice. A sign of affluence. Isn't it mad that it is completely the opposite at home now?
One night we tried a restaurant that stood alone and was always empty. It was owned by an Indian called Sashi. He cooked vegetarian food only which probably accounted for his lack of clientele. His food tasted wonderful. His prices were ridiculous, 15p for rice and 25p for a tasty vegetable dish. Sahsi's suited us very well. Cheap, clean and freshly cooked food.
Each evening we made the descent from the cliff top and suffice to say that every occasion was accompanied by strong Anglo-Saxon comments from one or the other or both of us as we slipped and skidded down the loose rock and gravel path back to Eden garden.
The next day was again overcast but we thought we would head to the beach. It certainly wasn't cold. There were a few people lazing about but we suspected that most didn't surface until lunchtime. We sat ourselves down at the far end of the stretch of sand from were we could see all the comings and goings, there were no little bays or inlets in which to hide.
We looked at the skyline behind us, as far as the eye could see were cliffs topped with a forest of palms and it looked very spectacular. We could also see a rocky headland and we decided that might warrant further exploration in order to see what was beyond.
The sun was now peeping out from behind clouds, and it was quite a shock as when the rays hit us they felt like a flame from a blowtorch.
I don't burn but I was squirming around, while Brian, who has an eye problem when travelling, sees any shade of red as golden brown, especially when it's on his body, lay there and lapped it up.
We didn't relax for long. After five minutes a little girl of seven [we knew because we asked] approached us. She was loaded down with a bag on each arm, full of lungi's [sarongs], and an impossible quantity of fabric balancing on her head. She plonked herself down, obviously meaning business. Poor kid.
We were feeling quite charitable, only in the listening department I hasten to add. We heard about her hard life, supporting the family, beatings if she didn't sell things, starvation, good prices, undying friendship and coming to England.
Her English was excellent and she had the business skills of a
top-rate shark selling second hand cars. The child would have gone far in the west. She could lie, change tack, and produce a doleful look in the twinkling of an eye.
We were very impressed, but unfortunately not with anything she was selling. When she realised this, she went for the long proven Indian selling technique of constant repetition. This would generally drive the tourist insane and inevitably make him buy something.
Brian coped with this wonderfully. But that was only to be expected after years of ignoring my nagging. The constant pleading and badgering fell on his deaf ears. I struggled more, but managed to accomplish a trance like state, fuelled by the knowledge that I would try to beat this child at her own game.
She took an age to give up, but her staying power enabled me to formulate a plan. The plan grew and in later weeks was perfected with use. It was the art of Beggar Baiting. It could be varied to accommodate hawkers as well as beggars, and was quite enjoyable.
Initially I would stop the child in mid flow and say things like: ``What did you say your name was again?'' or ``What was your brother/mother/sister called?' or `` Where did you say you were from?''
She would be well into her sales pitch by this time and it infuriated her that I kept changing the subject. Also the realisation dawned on her that I must be incredibly thick to keep asking these questions over and over. I was soon able to see the confusion on her face.
I am not sure that the child wasn't a 40-year-old midget. She had more about her than most of the people I have ever worked with in sales. No was not in her vocabulary.
Having finally got rid of her she did have the last laugh. Her brother, her sisters and men selling drums and other useless goods continued to drive us mad. I was ready for a fight but Brian just put his Mr. Nasty head on, and that got rid of them.
It wasn't just us; these pesky individuals were bothering everyone. It wasn't going to be easy staying in Varkala if locals were going to drive us mad on the beach in the day, and crazy touting for business in the cliff edge restaurants at night.
We lasted the best part of the day on the beach despite the constant interruptions, but by mid-afternoon we'd had enough. We had some cards to post so we headed off to Varkala Junction where it was rumoured there was a Post Office.
As we approached the junction there was a large Ghat the size of a football field to our left. A Ghat is a large pool with steps leading down to the water on all four sides. These sites are used for washing, both the body and the laundry.
This one was very big as ghats go. We could see some kind of a cafe on the far side. Later we heard it was a restaurant, and it was a favourite place for breakfast because diners could watch everyone bathing.
We thought it very peculiar, we could understand it being a voyeur's paradise if everyone was taking their clothes off, but as the men wear loincloths and the women keep their saris on to bathe, we couldn't understand the attraction
In front of the ghat was a meetinghouse. The overhang of the roof formed a shaded area and this was home to beggars and Sadhu's.
A Sadhu is a 'holy' man, but there were also some women sadhu's.
They travel the country in a semi-naked state, with matted hair, and in the case of men, matted beards.
In some instances there were sadhu's who travelled completely naked, but we didn't see any of those.
They have no possessions and carry only a bowl for food. Some, depending on the gods they worship carry a staff.
Sadhus are individuals on a spiritual search. They may have been successful business people with families or they may have been the village postman, but irrespective of their past they renounce all their possessions and go walk about.
Indians seem to be very tolerant of these people and are happy to give them food and money. We were never bothered by Sadhus; they were not at all intrusive. Brian took a liking to one chap who used to squat on the roadside near the tourist hut. He always used to smile and nod when we walked by and Brian gave him some rupees before we left.
We bought our stamps posted our letters, and decided there was little else to see at the Junction and headed back to Eden Garden where we found we had some new arrivals.
The happy Germans with the pretty daughter who had been staying at the Fort House in Cochin had come to Varkala. They were checking in as we sat on our veranda with Dot, drinking tea. It looked as if they had met up with a younger couple who had a daughter of about the same age as theirs. As they walked by us with their luggage, it was with great difficulty that they managed to acknowledge us at all.
Dot, Brian and I briefly discussed the implications of travelling India with children and we all voiced the hope that these two would not be yelling and screaming the place down during their stay. We went on to discuss Dot's forthcoming Ayervedic treatment which was far more interesting, or disturbing, depending on your point of view.
Dot agreed that she had arrived in Varkala feeling perfectly healthy, but nevertheless she was determined to embark on this course of detoxification in the hope that it would leave her re-vitalised and feeling in tip-top condition.
The five-day plan involved two massages each day. Watching her return from these on more than one occasion, it was clear to see from the state of her hair that she had undergone the 'Let's pretend you are a chip' technique of massage.
On one day she was lucky enough to have oil pumped up her nose to flush out her sinuses. Another day, oil was pumped up her bum as an enema, and not wishing to leave any orifice un-pumped, finally down her throat to induce vomiting. If she didn't feel wonderful enough after all that, there was yet another treatment. This involved warm oil being poured continuously from a certain height on to a particular spot on the forehead. This was to relieve pressure on the brain? [I thought it was a technique used by the Japanese to torture prisoners of war.]
I did voice my concerns to her, firstly, as to the sterility of the tubes used. Eden Garden had difficulty serving warm tea never mind boiling water to clean equipment. Where would the enema tube go next?
Secondly I asked her if she was completely mad subjecting herself to this very questionable treatment from someone who probably just called herself Doctor.
In addition to paying good money to undergo these purgatories, she was also able to enjoy a foul-smelling beverage which arrived outside her room several times each day, served up in a dirty old Thermos flask.
For three days she was encouraged to survive on dishes of ` gruel ' which consisted of boiled rice swimming in scummy rice water.
It was at this stage we began to question Dot's judgment in a number of areas. She looked paler and paler after each session and by the time she left for Sri Lanka she looked bloody awful.
She did grudgingly admit towards the end of her stay that perhaps it had all been a bad idea and one she wouldn't be thinking of repeating.
We did suggest that if she gave up smoking it would be more beneficial and her money would last longer too.
Amazingly the happy Germans and their new friends subjected themselves to the Dot treatment within a couple of days of their arrival.
We watched with interest as 'Limpy'and his dour looking wife became more and more miserable and grumpy. Their friends had looked quite happy and healthy when they arrived, but now the wife looked constantly greasy and the husband could be heard moaning from across the pond when faced with a bowl of gruel for breakfast. The friends had further cause for concern as the two little girls were inseparable and it was quite clear who was in charge, the pretty little dark haired girl. We christened her Bossy Boots.
She would march around the pond and verandas with the little blond girl and the manager's small son in her wake.
Clearly they had to do as they were told. If this meant removing chairs from outside someone's room, Ms Boots would give the order and wait for them to comply with it. Non co-operation would mean a tongue-lashing, one that was understandable in any language by her tone of voice. She was very rarely taken to task by her parents and if she was she would always point the finger at the other two. She was a spoilt little horror but great fun to watch.
One day Bossy Boots appeared in a school uniform, hair neatly plaited and raring to go. We had no doubt that she must have demanded to go to school. Bossing two children around completely under-utilised her capabilities; a whole class full would be right up her street.
We laughed at the thought of her wreaking havoc in the playground and classroom.
Whatever happened, it happened quickly. In less than a week her school days were over. Whether it was her choice, or the school's, we never knew, but she wasted no time in reforming her gang and marching them around Eden Garden to her tune.
It may have been from a desire to save their daughter from BB, or it may have been that they were barking mad, but the friends enrolled their little girl on a course of Ayervedic treatment. We were forced to endure the poor kid screaming the place down one night; if we had been at home I would have reported them for child abuse.
We watched the friendship between the two German families become ever more strained. Eventually the friends removed their daughter from the room she was sharing with Bossy Boots and Limpy moved in with her. Mind you, the miserable wife began to look a bit happier when he did that.
The only time Limpy ever spoke to us was after he received his bill.
Eden Garden had tried to diddle him, and he asked us if we had a problem with our bill. We explained that we never signed for anything and always paid cash whenever we ordered any food. We had the pleasure of adding that we were surprised he hadn't done the same, or at least kept a record of all his orders. It was inevitable the management would try and rip him off. This was India after all.
Eden Garden did try to overcharge us when we left. It seemed that every hotel or lodging house we stayed in tried it on as a matter of course.
The final straw for Varkala beach as we knew it, came on the first Saturday we were there. From our seats in Eden Garden we could see buses and cars by the dozen driving down towards the beach. Horns were blaring and people were hanging out of windows. We wondered if they were driving into the ocean, as there was nowhere for more than perhaps two buses, and half a dozen cars to park, after which the road disappeared into the rocks edging the beach.
We walked down to see what was happening. Vehicles were abandoned everywhere. It was just a case of pull up and go. The small area of beach at the end of the road was awash with Indians. Small children were dressed in dreadful garish clothing, little girls were wearing dresses made of gold metallic fabric with puffed sleeves and frilly underskirts. Women in colourful saris and men in dhotis crouched in groups in front of holy men who were shaded from the sun by palm leaves pushed into the ground. Upon payment, the holy men would daub the faces of the devotees with ashes and red dots to the forehead, then burn some incense and do a little chanting. Absolved of a week's worth of sins, the people would return to their vehicles and try to leave.
We sat and watched until boredom set in, and then made our way along the beach to sit and read. We had learned quite a number of the Tarot cards by now. We practised while waiting for dinner. We also tested each other's knowledge when we were lounging about during the day.
Initially it had been blessedly quiet on the beach that morning and we hoped the hawkers had given themselves the day off.
By mid afternoon all the praying, chanting and incense burning had come to a halt, but the hawkers and pedlars had returned. The weekends, we were to discover, brought another beach hazard; one that we found intolerable.
When we had arrived in Palolem it was impossible not to notice the large number of Indian men who walked around holding hands. We had considered the possibility that we were in the heartland of India's gay scene, especially when we would see them cuddled up closely together when riding on motorbikes or scooters. Due to the numbers involved, we decided that holding hands with their best friend was about the closest romantic thrill they would get, as women were supposedly off limits outside marriage. Most men do not marry until late twenties or mid- thirties. By the time we reached Varkala we had, for the most part, ceased to take any notice of this familiarity among men but that was to change abruptly.
Weekends at Varkala beach attracted hand-holding men in droves.
Slowly but surely Indian businessmen invaded the shoreline. We assumed they were businessmen by their clothing. They wore western suits, or suit trousers, shirts and ties, with proper shoes as opposed to the national footwear of 'the flip-flop' and they paraded up and down carrying briefcases and holding hands. It was baking hot and these fellows did not have cozzies and towels in their briefcases. They had just come to walk up and down hand in hand and stare at the Westerners.
At first we thought it was quite funny, but we soon got over that.
Not only would they stare as they walked past, they would stand just feet away, stare at us, and point and laugh.
It was a bizarre sight. Grown men holding hands, standing under the red hot sun, on a beach, dressed in suits and holding brief cases pointing and laughing at us?
There weren't just a couple of these nut cases; there were loads of them. It was one thing to have a weekend jaunt to the seaside and pull in a bit of praying and absolution, and then follow it up with a giggle at the westerners, but this was so rude. We felt like animals in the zoo.
We couldn't stand it any longer. We resolved to catch the train to Trivandrum the next day on a recce, and dependent on what we found we would move on as soon as possible. Trivandrum was about 50 minutes south by train: it would be a brief stopping point where we would leave our luggage and travel on to Kovalam to see if we wanted to spend time there.
When we returned to Eden Garden we discovered we had lost the key to our room. This should have been quite difficult to do, as it was attached to a heavy brass fob about 1 1/2 ins'' by 3ins. More worrying was the fact that it bore the name Eden Garden and our room number. It would be a lucky find for a thief.
Brian went off in search of the lost key but did not find it. We alerted the manager but there was little else we could do. We always carried our valuables with us, and if someone did break in there were only our clothes and, God forbid, the tea and boiling element that could be taken.
The following morning we set off for Trivandrum, arriving quickly and cheaply and blessedly not laden down with baggage. The station was incredibly busy as were the streets outside. The scene resembled floods of supporters gushing out of a football ground at the final whistle, except here the crowd just kept coming. We were swept along to the main road where waiting rickshaw drivers were shouting for our attention.
The Chaitram Hotel was opposite the train station and next to the bus station. It was fairly modern in a tatty way but it had an e-mail facility and a bank. We went in, I took a tariff leaflet, and we walked next-door to the tourist information bureau.
The young lady at the counter answered all my questions about places of interest, bus timetables and restaurants. All the information she gave proved correct. A first!
We walked a little farther along the road to the inappropriately named Highland Hotel. We couldn't imagine anywhere that would remind us less of any Highlands. I asked to see a room and it looked fine. Large, and clean by the standards I had come to expect. We decided that when we came to Trivandrum we would stay there. It was close to the station so we wouldn't have to struggle to far with our luggage.
That done, we set off an exploratory tour of the town.
As we were heading farther and farther south, each new city seemed hotter than the last. By mid-day the heat was unbearable, and with no shade I suggested we head for the biggest and poshest hotel we could find. Such an establishment was bound to have air conditioning, reasonable toilets and every possibility of a tea bag.
We walked through an interesting market area and past an enormous temple which was probably stunning but its seven stories were shrouded in tarpaulin. We assumed it was undergoing restoration but wondered where the money would come from for such work.
Next to the temple was a huge ghat, but this one was a sacred. It was to feature prominently in the news later that day. We were to learn about it on the front page of the Hindu Times. A picture featured several pairs of feet, some wearing boots and others sporting flip-flops. The caption read: ''Police hiding from rioting crowds at the Sri Padmanabhaswamy Temple tank.''
Apparently a young man, most certainly of unsound mind, had attacked the Ghat Guard and had managed, with one hand, to hold the guard's head under water while brandishing a stick at the gathering crowd with the other hand. A crowd of several thousands gathered to watch this spectacle, as did the police. No one seemed inclined to rush the young man, but someone did send for a lifeguard from Kovalam, ten miles away.
Finally the young man succeeded in drowning the guard and at that point, and now that he had done the damage and had two hands free, the police decided to charge. They beat the young man to a pulp and then the crowd went on the rampage and attacked the police for not tackling the young man earlier. Hence the picture of the feet. What a country.
We had found a hotel and were probably happily gazing at our tea bag when all this was happening.
The hotel was pleasant enough and our sweaty bodies began to dry out. There was only one other family in the restaurant plus the
maitre d' who was dressed very smartly in grey pinstripe trousers and black jacket. He was eating his lunch. The ambience seemed quite civilised until the maitre d' rose from his meal and went to the sink at the back of the room for a hawk and a spit. We were surprised but we were becoming fairly unshockable.
We had hoped that on our return to Eden Garden our key would have been handed in, but the story that greeted us took some beating.
The key had been found. A man had brought it to reception, but refused to leave it as he said he wanted to hand it to us personally. Obviously he wanted a reward.
We couldn't believe that the manager had let this chap walk off with the key, and for two days this went on. The man would come and we would be out, and on the third day I told the Manager, [and anyone else within 50ft] that the key was the hotel property and not ours. We would not be offering to pay for the lost key as the manager knew exactly where it was. Furthermore, if one item of our belongings went missing at any time I would hold him personally responsible.
As for the man who had the key, I suggested the manager should tell him that we did not respond well to blackmail and as far as we were concerned he could put the key where the sun didn't shine.
The next day the manager quietly handed us our original key.
Varkala was given another chance after our discovery of the ' other ' beach.
We had gone for a walk on the cliffs and had seen beautiful virgin beaches below us, untouched by back-packer or hawker. All we had to do was find a way down.
There were some rather attractive properties on the cliff edge and we stumbled around more than one private garden looking for a descent that would not be suicidal. Finally we found a flight of very steep steps hacked out of the rock face.
This was more like it. A deserted beach as far as the eye could see in both directions.
The shoreline was broken by small coves and in the far distance a sea wall had been built of rocks to protect a little thatch-roofed fishing hamlet. Hundreds of lush green palm trees lined the cliff tops and swayed with the breeze, if we were fortunate enough to have one.
We found a place to sit and had a look at our immediate surroundings. Behind us, poking out of the cliff face, appeared to be a piece of pipe with water pouring out. Our obvious reaction was: '' Oh no! Sewage!'' but when I climbed up to investigate I was thrilled to find that it was fresh water.
Someone had pushed a hollow bamboo pole into the cliff and the water that was draining out of the rock face made a fresh water shower. I hate going into the sea and having the salt dry on my body in the sunshine. It makes me itch, but now I could join Brian in the water and then have my own private shower.
Brian was delighted as the breakers that were crashing to the shore were giants. He spent hours diving into them and over them like a big kid.
When we had finished playing and sat down on our mat we spotted a strange sight in the distance. It looked like a man floating out to sea on a Lilo. Brian took it upon himself to mount his own Bay Watch. After a while he remarked that who-ever he was, he had found a hell of a way to keep fit.
He explained that this fellow would float out quite a distance then slip into the water and swim back to shore pulling the Lilo. He would then climb back on to the airbed and repeat the process.
More than two hours later, Lilo Man crossed our little stretch of beach. He was more than 6ft tall and looked like David Hasselhoff. He was quite suave looking, well, as soave as anyone could look with a 6ft purple Lilo tucked under his arm. He made quite a strange spectacle. He nodded and smiled as he passed.
Later in the day we were approached by a group of young men. Because of all the hassle we had been having we were really rude at first. These lads turned out to be from the fishing village and were fishermen. They all looked about 25 irrespective of whether they were 16 or 32.
It was good to talk to people who just wanted to talk without selling anything or begging. We had an interesting chat about religion, marriage, work and wages. They invited Brian to join them on a fishing trip, and also for a game of cricket that afternoon in the village. I wasn't very keen on the fishing, these guys went far out to sea in canoes but I thought the cricket would be a laugh.
Brian declined both invitations.
Back at Varkala, there was a smattering of huts selling goods ranging from incense to toilet rolls. One had tables and chairs outside, so we sat down and had some tea. Before long we were rewarded with a further spectacle.
Two military jeeps festooned with yellow pennants parked, and several uniformed men climbed out. They just stood about, so we guessed they hadn't arrived on a drugs bust. Moments later we heard the approach of something very noisy. It was a large open truck with speakers playing crackling Indian music. On the back of the truck was a mobile shrine which looked like a Wendy house.
It was made of yellow and white fabric and bore a huge portrait of a man in front. The entire truck was covered in yellow and white flower garlands, and shortly after its arrival a stream of cars pulled up, blasting their horns and making a hell of a noise.
The procession was led by the smartest car we had seen in India so far, a very large Mercedes. People abandoned their cars wherever the fancy took them and gathered around the Wendy house, throwing flowers and garlands at the portrait. Most of the women wore cream saris with a yellow sash and some of the men wore yellow shirts. All very interesting but what was going on?
The waiter could see our confusion and came out to explain. He said it was the funeral of the local political party leader and his ashes were to be scattered over the sea. When the waiter left us we both remarked on his resemblance to Omar Sharif, henceforth he was known as Omar and the café as Omar's. But back to the funeral.
In due course a group of people walked down to the beach and out to the sea but we couldn't see if they were scattering the ashes. The men in yellow shirts carried the flowers down to the sea, they had to make several trips.
Nobody had looked grief-stricken at the party leader's demise and that included the widow who had emerged from the Mercedes. Everyone then walked back from the beach, climbed into their vehicles, and drove off in a cacophony of car horns.
After the crowd had disappeared we noticed that two rickety old hand carts had appeared on the opposite side of the road and there was a lovely aroma drifting from them. The Indian attending one of the carts had a good-sized paunch hanging over his stained cream dhoti. We looked at him, looked back at each other and smiled. Brian said: '' He looks just like Robert.'' Robert is a friend of ours, and seeing his double standing barefoot in a tatty skirt made us laugh. From that moment he was called Robert the peanut seller.
Brian went to find out what he was selling and came back with two cones made of newspaper. Inside each one were freshly roasted peanuts, one cone was spicy nuts and the other salty, and they were delicious.
Back at Eden Garden and despite nuts and tea, Brian still had his apple cake. It was all right for him; he was burning off calories diving about in the sea but I was positive I was putting on weight.
I rectified the situation by building a gym on our beach. Each day I sat on our mat and did sit-ups, and I perfected a technique of side leg raises by digging the sand out with the side of my foot to add resistance to the raises. I found some small rocks which I held in my hand and used as arm weights, and I dug a hole in the sand to step in and out. Brian liked that one, and offered to dig the hole. Needless to say it was so deep I had to climb out, not step.
The evenings for the remainder of our stay were taken up with Tarot cards at Sashi's and then down to Omar's before the power cuts.
On the first evening at Omar's we found one of the tables occupied by Lilo Man and two friends.
Lilo Man was Danish but had lived all over the world. He was reluctant to give much detail about himself, but we discovered that he lived in Ibiza and owned a nightclub. He was without a doubt the most stylish westerner we met in India, but he seemed so out of place. It was easier to picture him in St. Tropez. However, he told us that he came to India every winter, met with friends he had come to know over the years, and thoroughly enjoyed himself. He enjoyed comforting all the lonely female travellers that came to Varkala. I told him we would call him Hanky Man.
One of his companions was a well built Austrian who could have been 50 or 60. He was a powerful looking chap and rode about on a large motorbike. He had a property on the cliff, and we described a property we had seen and we explained how we had mistakenly ended up in the garden when looking for a way down to the beach. He said it was his house and garden and he had seen us. He said he had considered shooting us but had thought better of it. Something made me feel that this chap just might do that sort of thing.
The third member of the party was Titsiana, a small dark Italian. She too was exceptionally well travelled but always came to India to avoid the Italian winter. The three were at Omar's most evenings and we enjoyed talking to them.
We had intended to go and see some elephants while we were in Varkala, and the elephant sanctuary turned out to be the best kept secret in the region.
No matter who we asked, no one would tell us where it was. They would offer to take us there, at a price, or sell us a trip on commission. We asked the tourist info man to show us where it was on the map, and we were given the same story. We asked the hotel manager, same story. It made us so cross that we didn't go to see the elephants on principle. Imagine if no one in London would tell you where Buckingham Palace was unless you paid them!
Brian's barber came up with a bright idea for an evening's entertainment. He told Brian that there was to be a traditional performance of Kathakali to be staged in the hills. It would start at 6.30p.m. and continue for up to 12 hours.
On the night of the performance we could hear the drums beating. We set off and could hear the sound of the drumming constantly in the distance. After about 40 minutes the noise was deafening and within a 100 yards we could see why.
There were six poles with loud-speakers fixed to the top, blaring out an ear-splitting drumming noise. But nowhere was there any sign of dancing. It was at this moment that some very large spots of rain began to fall, and within minutes the spots had turned into pelting tennis balls. We looked for cover and we were grateful that there was a building close by. The overhang from the roof offered a tiny bit of shelter hopefully the rain would not last long.
But it did.
After ten minutes we were quite wet and speech was impossible due to the drumming noise. Suddenly a wet brown face popped around the corner of the building and a man said: ''Come around here, it is much better.''
We followed him and found that the building was a barracks. At the front was a veranda running the entire length of the building, and we could keep dry there.
The rain was coming down in torrents and there were rivers running along the road. Along the veranda we could see a gathering of youths sharing a large bottle of liquor. They were becoming very rowdy. One of them staggered towards us, and one of the old chaps let loose a stream of Hindi that turned the young fellow on his heels.
We did not like the look of this at all. It was pitch black and we were stuck in the middle of nowhere with a group of drunken yobs who kept eyeing our end of the veranda in a way we didn't like. We didn't think the old chaps were too happy either, because as soon as the rain calmed a little, they scuttled off. One of them had told us that the dance was cancelled, which turned out to be a lie, but we thought we would be best advised to beat it like the old folk anyway.
We were drenched but we had a laugh. We found an alternate way back, which bought us out at the top of the cliff near Sashi's. We were just in time for the power cut so we had a nice slither and slide in the mud, back down to Eden Garden.
We had one further expedition from Varkala. This happened because on our penultimate day we discovered that Sashi had a house to rent by the edge of the sea at Quillon. He showed us pictures and it looked great, if the rent was reasonable we could perhaps stay a couple of weeks and it would be fun.
Sashi met us off the 6.00a.m. train from Varkala to Quillon. He picked us up in an old jeep and as I climbed into the back I was able to see that there was no tread on the tyres. They looked like inner tubes. The spare, which was in the back with me, was the same but also had a big piece of rubber missing.
Sashi seemed so excited by our arrival that before picking up his brother he showed us the sights of Quillon. He proudly drove us to the Tourist Water Park and asked us to get out and take a look. It was so sad. There were broken wooden benches alongside steps leading to a jetty, where an old tub of a boat was moored. Tied up alongside were smashed and ruined pedalloes. The gardens were overgrown and everything was covered with a layer of litter. Sashi thought it was marvellous and we didn't have the heart to disagree with him.
We picked up his brother and drove to his property via the vegetable market where he said we should shop. We reached a leafy suburb and he stopped the jeep. He led us along a narrow alley between neat huts with freshly swept yards. There were mothers and grannies playing with their kids and the odd cow tethered to poles in the gardens.
Sashi's house was hidden behind a high wall. It was built of brick, painted white, and it stood on rocks with the sea gently lapping against them. It had a palm tree in the garden, and you couldn't have wished for a better view.
Inside was a different story. Battered furnishings and dusty mats gave it an air of dereliction. No amount of money would have encouraged me to sleep in the bedroom or on the bed. A week of painting, scrubbing and cleaning would have made it habitable but I hadn't come away to do that.
Sashi and his brother went outside and I explained my feelings to Brian. I think he was a little disappointed but he could see my point of view. The difficulty remaining was trying to explain to Sashi. This house was clearly his pride and joy and no one could deny that it was a fabulous setting, but how were we to tell him that internally it was just not acceptable? I'm afraid we took the coward's way out.
Sashi dropped his brother off and we were keen to make the 11 o'clock train back to Varkala, but Sashi was determined to take us on a tour of his properties. He took us to a large place that he rented out to a family and we were shown around, regardless of the bewildered tenants and much to our embarrassment.
Within five minutes of leaving that house the jeep started to cough and splutter and then would not move at all. I thought that perhaps we were going to be kidnapped. Weirdly, the jeep had breathed its last around the corner from Sashi's own house. This was all too strange, and it made me feel very uneasy.
Sashi invited us into his home and said he would call for a rickshaw to take us to the station. Meanwhile he shouted to his wife who was introduced and then, at his instruction, scuttled off somewhere.
Within minutes she returned with fresh iddlies and sambar and bananas and boiled eggs in their shell. I tried hard to refuse as I wasn't an iddly fan, but they bore no resemblance to the ones dished up by Maria at the Cyber café. These were as light as air and tasted very nice when covered in sambar.
The likelihood of catching the train seemed to be slipping away especially when Sashi's wife went to fetch Brian more iddlies after he demolished the first batch. By the time the rickshaw arrived the train should have been pulling out of the station. Before we left, Sashi asked when we would be moving into his house. Feeling a complete shit, I told him that we had some business in Trivandrum and so we would be going there first and then we would phone him and tell him when we would arrive. There was no way I could explain to the man what was wrong with the inside of his house if he couldn't see it. Other than making iddlies, whatever Mrs. Sashi did all day in her house, it wasn't cleaning.
All the trains we had caught in India had been on time, with one exception which was a distinct advantage for us. We arrived at Quillon station 15 minutes late, but the train was 20 minutes late.
Very early the next morning we were loaded up and ready to go.
Trivandrum here we come.