Mahabalipurum – 1

Friday  19 Feb 2010 

The  “Excellent Conference Room” is in use by a bunch of sales managers from MedPharm a pharmaceutical distribution company. Their conference is about “Increasing Market Effectiveness”, which in English means selling more drugs. They are a vociferous bunch, talk loudly and quickly in Hindi – the other common language of India, English being the first – and they do rather dominate the restaurant when all 40 of them arrive at once.  There aren’t enough seats to go around so they eat their Dhosas, Samba sauce and coconut chutney, Hindi style (with fingers), standing up.  The breakfast staff are swamped and the poor, untrained waiters just cannot cope with taking individual breakfast orders for all these fellows and us.  Why they don’t set out a buffet as do most hotels, evades me. They are bent on providing individual service – even putting the milk in your cup of tea, but they can’t cope.  The Maitre d’ is pure Basil Fawlty. He issues instructions and then counter instructions to his waiters who scurry enthusiastically but ineffectually back and forth.  One hour later we are at last served our fruit plates, cereals, omelettes, toast and marmalade and tea – all at once. “No Manuel, cereal before omelette, toast afterwards”.  I am not sure where the Indian equivalent of Barcelona is, but he surely comes from there.  

Our corner of heaven

 

After this it things look up. We set up camp under a shady thatched shelter at the top of the beach, sun cream and paperbacks to hand and alternately jump the waves in the ocean until we nearly dissolve and then shower and  jump in the pool, then steam off the water, then read for a while, then the waves call us again and so on.   All this surrounded by palm trees and Bougainvillea.  It is as close as we can get to heaven on earth. A smart uniformed attendant attends our (and other) shelters.  We are not sure what he does, but he does it in a smart and attendant-like manner so we greet him cheerfully each time he passes by. By lunch time we are suitably toasted and we retire to a patio picnic of cold tandoori chicken (doggie bagged from last night), a fresh papaya from the village and the inevitable Kingfisher beer. The heat of the early afternoon sun heralds a short date with Morpheus and at 4pm we begin our water cycle again. 

A marketing pull strategy

A marketing "Pull" strategy

 

By this time, the Pharmaceutical sales managers have had enough of their “Excellent Meeting Room” or have cracked the secret of “Increasing Market Effectiveness”.  They parade on the beach in their business uniform of smart polished shoes, slacks, short sleeved shirts and ties (yes ties!) and, of course, their badges proclaiming MedPharm and their name.  They are in for some group bonding and team building exercises. 

A tug of war competition would seem to be the perfect metaphor for a carefully thought through customer segmentation strategy.  In round one the “ Elephants” will tug against the “Tigers”, in round two  the “Cobras” will face down the “Eagles”. Their leader produces a length of plastic coated washing line and amid much shouting and cajoling the pitch is marked out with yellow MedPharm baseball caps and our giants of the world of Pharmaceutical sales take the strain.  There is a loud snapping sound and fourteen otherwise dignified business men fall backwards onto the sand. Clearly the metaphor needs upgrading.  A trustee (probably advised by our smart attendant) is despatched to negotiate with the fishermen the loan of a proper hawser rope and the contest begins again.  More shouting and cajoling and now each heat produces a winning team.  There is a final and a runners up competition and amid much screaming and tribal chanting, our marketing men return to their “Excellent Meeting Room” to analyse the commercial significance of their antics.  We watch from or sun-beds, amused and quite amazed. 

The master tailor of Mahabalipurum

Dusk is sharp at 6:15 and is heralded by the chirping of the fruit bats in the palm trees.  We take a motor Rickshaw into the town of Mahabalipurum in search of a tailor to create Sue’s silk clothes.  She has bought out from England a favoured jacket, procured silken materials of different colours with a view to getting the latter made up in the style of the former, it turns out not to be so easy. The task is complicated and requires a day’s work from a master tailor. After much laying out of materials, scrutiny of the original and tutting about the job we seal a deal in the appropriate time and celebrate with a delicious grilled fish dinner in a waterside restaurant at the ridiculous price of about £7 each including beers.  It has been a delightful day and we sleep the sleep of the truly smug.

To Tamil Nadu and holiday land

Thursday 18th Feb 2010 

 Dawns have never been my favourite time of day.  I have been persuaded to see dawn over the Acropolis in Athens (5/10), dawn over Sounion (4/10), dawn over the Sahara desert, viewed from the saddle of a camel (6/10) and so on, but my favourite dawns happen, unwitnessed while I am asleep.  Not so today’s dawn.  Our flight from Cochin Airport to Madras (or Chennai as I must learn to call it) leaves at midday and is but one hour in duration.  It will take us to the last phase of our trip, a stay at a holiday resort hotel further down the east coast where we plan to do very little other than sun-bathe, sea-bathe and generally relax. Our flight is but  a hop from the west coast of the thin-ish southern bit if India to the east coast. In order to board this plane we must drive for three hours along the equivalent of UK B roads – for there are precious few motorway class roads here – largely during the morning rush hour(s) and, of course, arrive in plenty of time to be tormented by the airport security wallas at Cochin. Adding a bit for contingencies / unforeseen events etc. means we must have wheels rolling by 0700 and thus arise, breakfast and say our farewells  between 0545 and 0645. We stumble out of our hot, humid bedroom on the stroke of 6am, shower (what’s the point, we are wet again in minutes) and our taxi is waiting for us. Our man has been a good and loyal servant these last three days and he intends to finish his contract with a flourish.  Three cups of tea, two small bananas and lots of hugs later we are away through the dark streets.  

It is tropical here, so the sun rises and sets very quickly. By 7am the black of night becomes the grey of dawn and then the bright light of day all within about 10 minutes. The tropical vegetation and the rice paddies have a dew-washed look which will quickly burn off. We twist and turn until we reach the main roads and then our man, Thomas, proceeds to overtake every bus (there are hundreds of them), lorry (dozens), motor rickshaw (scores), petrol tankers  (tens) and slower cars (all), by hooting and pulling out into the oncoming traffic. He cuts up other vehicles, queue jumps at bridges and junctions – not that the word queue has much meaning in this land – and takes advantage of his speed, skill, purpose and his cargo’s urgency with all the gusto of a Formula 1 driver.  I have witnessed our son playing some derring- do car race thing called “Grand Theft Auto” on his computer, but it has nothing on this journey. We accelerate, brake, hoot, swerve, accelerate again until, eyes tight shut, I grip the internal grab handles and murmur prayers of preservation.  Sue whispers that she will never complain about my driving again. It is a blessed relief when we arrive, unscathed at the airport and, trmbling, we shake his hand, pay his dues and offer tight lipped congratulation on his roadmanship.  I wonder if he will make old bones? 

After the usual airport indignities we board our plane, this time a smaller, propeller driven beast which bumps along beneath the cloud tops (I believe it is called light turbulence) and curdles the milk in our tummies. However all is well as we are served tiny bottles  of Diet Water. Truly a marketing triumph. Eat you heart out Mr. Coca Cola Zero.  

Diet water: a marketing triumph

We land, collect our bags and rendezvous with our new taxi for the day. This chap, though enthusiastic, is a paragon of courteous driving by comparison and we wend our way south down the coast of Tamil Nadu. TN is, as its name implies, a Tamil state. Tamil is a branch of Hinduism and the majority of people are therefore strictly vegetarian.  No steak houses here. Such cows as there are wander freely along the streets and among the shops.  They are ignored by everyone – especially motorists.  What are they doing in the towns? Who owns them? Are they pets?  Do the kitchen doors have a cow flap? Tamil Nadu is described in the guide books as the most “Indian“ part if India. Its people are not Aryans as are most Northern Indians. They are darker skinned – almost black, have thicker and bushier heads of hair and have the handsome Dravidian slightly squarer faces though they grin and shake their heads from side to side, Indian fashion, just like the rest. The younger men are so slim-waisted that they look almost unnatural.  All have perfect teeth that contrast vividly with their dark skins when they smile. A group of smiling Tamils resembles a piano shop window. The  early  Muslims and later Moguls made only fleeting incursions into this eastern province so there is little Muslim architecture here and the Hindu style flourishes. Ther are numerous amazingly ornate temples with their intricately carved exteriors and soaring towers known as Gopurams

The land of Tamils

Just one hour later our driver delivers us to the reception desk of “The Golden Sands Resort Hotel” at Mahabalipurum, 50 km south of Chennai.  This is to be our last port of call ere we return to England. For the devotees of Fawly Towers, the Golden Sands turns out to be the Indian version. It comprises a row of seaside cottages (actually a terrace of apartments, two storeys high) an open air restaurant, with out door barbecue, being a tandoor oven set into a concrete table – rather as in Pompeii , an “Excellent Meeting Room” conference suite,  swimming pool, hammocks slung in the shade betwen the coconut palms, manicured lawns that lead onto the foreshore of the Indian Ocean. It is a delightful setting, all linked by pergolas covered in luscious Bougainvillea and attended by – well – attendants in crisp khaki garb who were probably trained by Manuel.  

The Golden Sands beach resort hotel

Everything is there, but nothing quite works as it should.  The bedrooms are spacious but furnished as from the charity store, the bathroom fittings leak water onto the generously tiled floors, the room boasts a fridge  – a  full sized kitchen version – up on stilts and with its handle  missing. The electrical fittings are large Bakolite, round pin sockets which defy any known adaptor, the doors are secured by bolts with a hasp and staple padlock, there are no hangers or rails in the wardrobe, though it has floor to ceiling shelves, the woodwork all needs a lick of paint.  It is all very Indian but it is, in fact, quite charming.  Having travelled before in this land, we recognise it for what it is –a period piece – and we immediately forgive it its foibles and fall instantly in love with it. 

Security - Indian style

We wander down the edge of the Indian Ocean and paddle our toes in. It is delightfully warm and less wavy than the Arabian Sea  – maybe because the beach shelves steeply. We shall swim in it tomorrow. It is hot here, the pool is like a warm bath, but the air is not so humid as in Kerala so we don’t feel the temperature quite so much. 

Out there is Burma

We dine on chicken quarters straight from the Tandoor with huge salads and Kingfisher beers, yum, and we fall into a deep air-conditioned sleep.

Out to lunch

Wed 17th Feb 2010 

Today we are out to lunch.  As you might know, there is no such thing as social security in India.  When you get old and gaga it is your family who must support your needs whether that be simply cooking and cleaning for you, or nursing you or arranging (expensive) medical treatments for you.  Family – and the extended family – are at the core of John Philip’s very existence and that is why we are visiting and maintaining relationships with all relatives while we are here.  In the nearby town there is an old people’s home.  It has no income, no state support, no salaried staff and it is run by the church.  It looks after about 140 men and women who have fallen on hard circumstances and who have neither resources of their own nor relatives to care for them.  The local community support it by church collections, donations and (this is why we are here) by sponsoring a lunch for one day for the inhabitants.  

At the old people's home

This is a so well supported mechanism that it is necessary to “book” a day in the calendar for you to give alms.  The custom is to select a pretext to celebrate (wedding anniversary, birth of a child etc.) and use that date as your alms day.  Neetha’s and Bijoi’ parents have elected to offer public thanks by this means for the arrival of their new grandson and their families – and us – are invited to share lunch at the home.  All visitors are in their ”Sunday best” – pretty saris, smartly pressed shirts and so on. Baby Laurel is decked out in a cute blue striped Babygro, is fed and spends the occasion fast asleep – the very definition of a “good” baby.  

The facilities of this home are about as bare as they could be.  Like many of India’s buildings it lacks care and maintenance.  It could really do with a scrub down and a lick or two of paint. The residents are in shared gloomy wards of about a dozen, with only a wooden cot bed and a cupboard each. Some stow a battered suitcase beneath their beds, but they are not going anywhere else.  Many stare at us, wide eyed and uncomprehending at our, or anyone else’s presence, others are chatty and sparkling.  Many have been there for a decade or more. They are very institutionalised. All are in the meanest of apparel and would pass as beggars in our streets.  It is not an uplifting or stimulating environment, but they are there, cared for, well fed and housed and that is their blessing. The alternative would be to beg on the streets and die in the gutter.  

Refectory

At 12 noon, a bell rings and they and we file into the refectory – bare tables, bench seats in rows.  The residents are each carrying their stainless steel bowl, plate and mug.  No cutlery, for they eat Hindi style, using the right hand as spoon / chopsticks / fork,  or what you will, to convey rice and meat and sauces to their mouths in a sort of ad hoc meatball, (great things, fingers).  We are seated at a similarly bare table, but arranged facing the gathering of residents.  A staff member announces our presence and explains who gives alms.  Prayers are said and we sit. I imagine a medieval monastery being something like this. 

lunch on bio-degradable plates

A neatly cut banana leaf is laid before each of us which will serve as our plate. The food is served and is, to my surprise (why am I surprised?) extremely good and well cooked.  Kerala rice, coconut samba – a spiced sauce, thorren – spicey coleslaw, fish masala, spiced chicken pieces and to drink cumin flavoured herbal tea. The kitchen staff are clearly professionals. I recall that I have paid proper money to eat like this in ethnic Sinagapore restaurants.  All that differs is the ambience and the lack of lager to drink. The food items are spooned carefully, and separately onto our leaves and we begin.  Annie (bless her) produces a handful of napkins, spoons and forks for her European visitors, and we are saved the embarrassment of eating messily.  We are served seconds, thirds, until we signal that we are sated by folding the banana leaf over along its midrib and it is taken away.  No tables to wipe, and I suppose washing up is the compost heap – perhaps we should try it at home.  Dessert is a lovely sweet Keralan finger banana eaten as we file out.  It is a delicious meal and we eat well. We chat (via

...and I thought Chris was short

our local interpreters) to the residents and bid them farewell.  Alms have been given. 

The cramped seamstress's shop

To the seamstresses shop for the ladies to collect their now made-up salwa kameezes.  We visit a similarly humble shack no more than 3 metres square – that’s about our garden shed – housing three sewing machines and three machinists who must surely trip over each other if they stand up.  They have finished our commissions and Sue and Christine don their stuff amid much tugging of sleeves and adjusting of shoulders.  There are clucks of mutual approval but there are alterations to be made and our tailor ladies, nod sagely, wield scissors (no pins, no chalk) and machine the necessary adjustments at high speed.  Fitting is approved and we pay about £12 for the creation of four well tailored outfits made up in just over a day.  Amazing value! 

By now we are all shopped out and the oppressive humidity is getting to us.  A murmur to our driver and he leads us to a liquor store where we buy a handful of Kingfisher Beers to take home for dinner. They come in these peculiar 650 ml bottles – about a pint and a quarter, for 70p each.  We stop en route at a street vendor for some freshly made  lime sodas (6p each) and guzzle them down.  They are typical of India and most refreshing.  At home we dine, drink beer and turn in for we must arise at 5am tomorrow. We are off to the coast of Tamil Nadu.

Down home in Maramon

Mon 15 Feb 2010       

After much shaking of hands / hugs of affection we wave farewell to our Rotary friends.  They will take the “Moving Palace” to Trivandrum airport and thence flights to Bangalore or Delhi and on to Europe.  We four are met by our driver, a man called Thomas, with a smart, white air conditioned car. He is ours for the next three days as we spend a while with John Philip’s family in Maramon, a small village in eastern Kerala. There we shall visit friends and relatives and rest awhile.  It is hot (38oC) and very humid and quite unpleasant to move around much. It is what David’s American colleagues call three shirts per day weather.  Our journey takes three hours and en route we stop at a small town for a cold drink and some shopping at another grand department store dedicated to the sale of cotton and silk fabrics.        

Silks and satins a-plenty

 

Indian ladies’ attire has undergone a small revolution in the last 20 years and Christine and Sue are determined to buy some local styled togs. De rigeur for ladies in central and southern India was hitherto the Sari, which comprises a tight fitting cotton blouse (or piece) which must be tailored, a draw string plain underskirt  and a 5m length of cloth which is wrapped around as a skirt, gathered into pleats and secured  at the waist (by tucking and faith or more commonly with a safety pin) and the remainder thrown over the left shoulder, toga style.  It is a most elegant but somewhat cumbersome dress to wear for work, shopping, riding pillion on motorcycles (they do it side saddle) etc. – and it is that which has driven our small social revolution.        

Ladies of northern India more commonly wear the Salwa Kameez  – also a three piece rig comprising a tailored tunic, drawstring trousers and a shawl, thrown backwards over both shoulders.  Both these attires, as I am sure you have seen, are made in an enormous array of colours, prints and embellishments.  Well nowadays more of the youngsters are out to work and fewer marry only into domestic management and the Sari is being replaced in favour of its more practical and easier to wear trouser suit.  It is now relatively uncommon to see the under 30s in Saris except for weddings, and other formal occasions.  So our girls want to buy some Salwa Kameez sets which are sold, in cotton or silk, as three colour matched pieces in a bag, two of which must be tailored to fit, the shawl being ready to wear.  What a curse is choice! We spend another hour in the theatre of apparel sales in which seemingly every available packet is opened and its contents spilled along the counter for closer scrutiny and comparison. Eventually our girls are satisfied with colours, patterns, linings and so on and we negotiate discounts (honour must be satisfied) make our purchases and depart knowing that we are in for a tailors visit to get them “stitched” in quick time, while we are in Maramon.       

3 gerenations: Neetha + Bijoi, Annie holds baby Laurel

 

We arrive at the family home – recently extended, re-floored, new plumbing, new bathrooms etc. – though the resident Geckos still live behind the wall clock and hoover up insects during the evenings.  They (the Geckos) are free-range, organic, pesticide free and environmentally friendly (except to insects) and even green. Must get some!        

Maramon is a rural, large village that straddles a pair of rivers and is built among the groves of coconut palms, rubber trees and banana plants that are most of the flora of Kerala.  Rice paddies abut the rivers and the whole place has a lush and fertile air to it. The family house is occupied by John’s younger brother, Thomas-Kutty and his wife Annie (she is a great cook). Their oldest daughter, Neetha, is staying too, with her cute 42 day old baby boy, Laurel (her husband, Bijoi is working away at present).  Laurel seems to command the most attention and affection of all.  How do they do it, these little mites, reducing adults to giggling jelly by the wave of a little finger? Clever or what!         

Our Billet, Chez Gracie

 

The house becomes our base, though we are billeted out for sleeping with John’s cousin Gracie who has a five bedroom house close by. Gracie is the local Mayor and is much concerned with righting wrongs and encouraging good works generally. From the interruptions to her private life that we witness, Mayoral duties are a round the clock job.  I should love to call our local burghers at 6am to moan about speed bumps or whatever, but I fear I wouldn’t get very far.  Such things are a way of life here.  We spend the evening, for it is cooler to walk, visiting neighbours, drinking fruit juices and chatting of lives, children, health, fortunes and so on.  It is a neighbour who enthusiastically recommends a nearby tailor and even calls her to forewarn her of our requirements.  As night falls (and the insect population sparks up) we retire to our billets and lie down.  It is so hot with no air conditioning and we are wafted to sleep by a rapidly rotating ceiling fan.       

Tues 16th Feb 2010       

After a series of breakfasts – Gracies’s first, then Annie’s , we are allowed out to play.  This morning is dedicated to shopping in the nearby town of Tiruvella.  We need to visit the tailor and a local bank and yet another haberdasher to buy Neetha a birthday present (guess what, a Salwa Kameez set).  Sue and Chris have to deliver their purchases to the seamstresses to stitch.   

At the tailor

 

They are speedily measured in all the necessary dimensions. Details of sleeves, trouser widths, blouse lengths are specified and we leave them to manufacture four sets of Salwa Kameez within 30 hours.  

At the bank

 

 David has to change some more Sterling into Rupees and needs a bank with a foreign exchange till and John has to transmit some Rotary cash to several clubs in Lucknow.  You’d think all this to be quite straight forward wouldn’t you.  No. You cannot “pop into” an Indian bank. You enter a Kafka –esque world of dusty ledgers, serried ranks of clerks writing in them under the stern supervision of the “Under Manager”.  Large wooden booths with high counters and thick glass windows with hooped holes  in them contain the “Savings Teller”, the ”Junior Cashier”, the “Senior Cashier” (for more than 50,000 Rupee (£7,000) transactions), the “Loan Arranger” – no Tonto jokes please – each of which has a queue / minor throng craving the attention of the bank employee.  Side offices house important sounding “Senior Clerical Supervisor”, “Assistant Manager” and, of course, “Manager” – who wears a smart black suit and striped pants.  Each of these important people have large, clutter free, Mahogany desks and appear to do nothing except nod (sideways, Indian style) to the requests of more junior employees. So much for the dramatis personae .      

Act 1 scene 1:  Enter David clutching two crisp £50 notes.       

D:  Good morning. I would like to change some Sterling into Rupees please.       

Forex teller: You must sit over there. You will need your passport, Please fill in this form. How much are you wanting?       

D: I don’t have my passport, only a driving licence.       

FT: Please show (disappears with driving licence for at least 5 minutes.  Returns looking grave)       

FT: I am sorry that will not do. You must have a passport       

D: I haven’t got a passport, but my sister has hers. Will that do?       

FT: Is it her money?       

D: No. It’s my money       

FT: Then I need your passport       

David thanks him politely, leaves, hands money to Christine who joins queue.       

Chris:  Good morning. I would like to change some Sterling into Rupees please.       

Forex teller: You must sit over there. You will need your passport, Please fill in this form. How much are you wanting?       

You get the idea.  These people run on rails and are seemingly incapable of what we call adaptive thinking.  It is small wonder that the call centre industry, which is now Bangalore’s largest employer, has driven to madness more Europeans than the plague.       

I wait quietly while Christine’s (two) notes are counted, annotated by writing on them, counted again, their serial numbers laboriously copied to the three part flimsy which is stamped with a big red stamp, passed to another booth to be checked, stamped again with a smaller green stamp, the passport information copied into a ledger, checked and countersigned, the conversion computation calculated, checked by a junior, the whole docket (notes, chitties, stamps etc) is passed to the junior cashier who types, slowly, into a computer (wow) such data as is required, checks all the paper again, stamps it with a square purple stamp with today’s date on it, signs across the stamp, counts out the Rupee notes, counts them again, hand them to the first chap who counts them for a third time and (YEEEEEES!) hands them to my sister.  David, meanwhile has read two more chapters of his book and probably developed DVT from sitting still for ages.       

It is fascinating but if you are in a hurry, mildly maddening.  The one redeeming feature is that we are sitting in a cool air-conditioned hall as we are driven slowly mad.   I will spare you a similar account of John’s tribulations with bank transfers, save that we emerge, two hours later more or less complete in our requirements.       

Commerce in all its glory

 

Signs, signs and more signs

 

Indian commercial streets are fascinating.  They are mostly a series of small booth type shops with frontages of no more than 5m. Often they are in two storey, rough reinforced concrete developments with balcony access up top, and ground access-well, from the road.  For the average Indian shopkeeper, getting your wares into the eyes and minds of passers by is a real challenge, hence India is a sign writers bonanza.  There are the normal over the shop lintel signs e.g. Madathil House Wares Ltd., There are flag signs – like our For Sale boards – sticking out, there are frames on roof tops with mini hoardings attached, there are fly posters on every vertical structure every spare unglazed part of the shop front and most garden walls.  The senses are bombarded with brightly coloured and completely haphazard signage – often in two languages.  Unless you know the area or know what you are looking for, the only other way is to inspect the wares as they tumble onto the street.  This is OK for cooking pots but not so good for Short Term Loans or Chiropractors.  It all makes for a fun experience, accompanied as it is by the cacophony of car, bus and lorry horns in the alto, tenor and basso profundo ranges. It is very tiring. We retire, tired and seek the quietude of our billet, fans and all.   

R and R

Sun 14 Feb 2010

Hurrah!  We are granted  a day off for rest and recreation.  We arise late, breakfast late – and lo, the postman appears to have delivered Sue a Valentine’s day card.  Good dog points are earned by David.

Beach bar

We slob out by the pool until a combination of boredom and solar power drives us to wander down to the seaside again. We idle – most definitely and deliberately. Midday signals a cold beer (in another rickety shack – this time with a Thai flavour). We idle through the shops and inject small sums of money into the local economy in return for silk sleeping bags and then cold drinks and then ice creams until the power of the sun drops and we slob into the pool again. I could stand any amount of this. Eventually David’s conscience drives him to his Laptop and, emails handled, he sets about his diary and posts another couple of entries onto the blog.  By now nearly all our party, having politely enquired what he is typing, have sworn to lift portions of this epic for accounts of their Rotary activities. I do hope it is accurate enough to be so syndicated.

Chris and John choose the beers

Chris and John choose the beers

Our party are all acutely aware that this is our last day together. We all feel that we have made several new friends in consequence of our shared experiences and we are thus bonded. We elect to have a “formal” – if you can call T shirts and jeans such – evening meal together to celebrate our friendship and to acknowledge our collective work and, not least, to say a collective and public thank you to John and Chris for their efforts in organising this group’s travel, accommodation, visits, attachments, moans, groans etc. for these last two weeks.  We muster – at a different, but similar shack restaurant by the sea, organise another deep sea fish supper and once fed, we raise a glass (we are well practiced in that) and so thank them.  We toast each other, swop e-mail addresses and promise photos etc.  Here David pledges public ownership of this account.

Since we shall leave the hotel early tomorrow are obliged to pack our bags – always a chore – and we sleep the last night in Varkala. Tomorrow we are off inland to stay with the rellies.

To Thiruvananthapuram and back

Sat 13 Feb 2010  

Just when you think it is safe to relax, along comes John and commands a muster for another dose of sightseeing. After breakfast on the lawns (crisp green swards, sprinkled and manicured) we board the coach for a day in Thiruvananthapuram or Trivandrum to the British who found this too much of a mouthful to pronounce.  Trivandrum (population 750,000) means the “city of the sacred snake”, is the capital city of Kerala and is the home to its most ancient monuments (and its Royal Family). With the rise of the Information Technology industry, this highly educated state now hosts armies of clever techies many of whom work in and inhabit Trivandrum.  

Temple carvings

 

The Hindus have a habit of building the most amazing temples, covered in elaborate carved reliefs. Our last visit to India took us to Khajuraho in Madhya Pradesh in which are the 27 renowned Hindu and Jain temples covered in amazing erotic carvings. (Try “Khajuraho” in Google images – but pas devant les enfants).  Those guys knew how to throw a party! Trivandrum’s Shree Padmanabha Swamy temple is much more modest in scope and less flamboyant in its choice of carvings.  This 7 storey, 300 year old pyramid structure is dedicated to the deity Vishnu, protector of life, who reclines on a Cobra (as you do) and is so arranged that no Hindu can see the whole statue at one time (a bit like the slips seats in Covent Garden).  Only Hindus are allowed in and then only if bare chested (men) and wearing clean white lunghis – a sort of wrap around, floor length skirt like a giant tea-towel.  A Lunghi can be worn full length or its hem can be hauled up and tucked into the waist rather as the girls in primary school did when doing hand stands, so as not to show their knickers. The latter is the casual version, the former is de rig for the smart men of Kerala. The women temple visitors must be similarly white robed and pleasantly anointed. They hire white wraps for a few minutes and a few Rupees.  We stand outside looking suitably infidel and are kept at bay by a guard with a stout wooden stick lest we should desecrate this hallowed hall. We are allowed to photograph the action of comings and goings, but no more.   

We visit the art collection of Rama Varma  – not Banana Rama – the last Maharaja of the Travancore Royal family.  It houses an impressive collection of paintings including Tibetan Thankas, 17th century Chinese and Japanese paintings and modern (very blue) Himalayan landscapes by the Russian father and son artists, Nicholas and Svetoslav Roerich. Impressive stuff! This moist tropical climate is not kind to oil paintings many of which are looking much the worse for wear and could do with some tender loving restoration.  

Trivandrum Palace

 

Finally we visit the Horse Palace, named for its rows of hand-carved, smiling horses which support its eaves.  This eighteenth century, 100 roomed exuberance was the former home of the Maharaja of Travancore.  It was, I believe, the late Sam Goldwyn who said, “never invest in anything that needs feeding or painting”. Well this place needed / needs a real decorative make over and the Maharaja wasn’t up for it so he moved out to a new pad.  (Now there’s an interesting concept in housing). The remnant, however, is a must do tourist attraction. We take our shoes off and muster as our tour guide shepherds us in.  He is an ageing, much whiskered gent, who speaks loud, fast formal, military style English with the most staccato of Indian accents.  He is not to be argued with and he takes us around about a quarter of the rooms pointing out their architectural or decorative curiosities and who did what, when and where.  It is a somewhat hilarious tour, rather like a spell on the parade ground in the hands of a drill sergeant for which we are invited (nay instructed) to tip generously.  We do.  

Horse eaves

 

Our Indian in-laws at home in Trivanrum

To afternoon tea! I mentioned that John Philip’s family hail from Kerala and we visit the home of  Mr and Mrs. George Koshy. Kunjumolamama  (Mrs) is John’s older sister. She and George are retired teachers of Chemistry who have spent much of their working lives in Nigeria. They now live in a pleasant suburban house in Trivandrum, and to our surprise are delighted when nine random people (including their kin) descend upon them. Amid much hugging and recollecting we are served with tea and cakes, toffees and other sweet meats which Kunjumolamama has prepared for the occasion.  In the midst of this ad hoc party, John’s younger sister, Kochomol, and her three college aged sons, Jibin, Jobin and Jerrin  turn up so the party becomes a major family reunion.  There is much joshing and encouraging and, of course, posing for family photos.  I guess they are quite relieved when our coach arrives to take us away.  

In his temple finery

Home to our hotel.  Our coach is stopped on the way by a stick waving traffic policeman who gives our way to a temple procession.  Crowds line the road as fifteen elephants, bedecked in their temple finery and surmounted by their smart mahouts are weaving their way along the road to some grand Hindu gathering.  There are drummers drumming, painted spirits cavorting, whirling dancers and numerous pretty maidens, all hell bent on making a big spectacle and as much noise as possible on this, their parade day.  We alight from our coach like so many tourists (well we are) and click away with our cameras until our batteries expire or the parade has passed.  Though we know nothing of what, why, when or where this festival emanates we agree that it was colourful and therefore photogenic.   

Dinner awaits

Onwards! This evening we dine among the aforementioned rickety huts and shacks which have transformed themselves by night into something resembling Soho.  Bright lights (for once) and music serenade the casual diners. Each restaurant has a fishmonger’s slab without, on which are arrayed, on ice, today’s catch of Red snappers, White snappers,  Groupers, Kingfish, Sailfish, Marlin, Tiger prawns (15cm long), Lesser prawns  (8cm), Crabs, Squid and Cuttle fish all in brilliant fresh condition.  We select our meal, negotiate the style of cooking and accompaniments and, of course the price, and sit down with a beer to await our meals.  We can see the lights out to sea of dozens of small fishing boats and canoes chasing tomorrow’s dinners.  Today’s arrive and they do not disappoint. They are simply delicious.  All the while we eat a gentle, warm, on-shore breeze wafts over us and a clear and starlit sky looks kindly down on us.  This has been a brilliant Kerala day.

By the seaside at Varkala Beach

Fri 12th Feb 2010

Varkala Beach is a fairly up market sea-side resort. Its beach is a long clean strand, twice washed per day by the waves of the Arabian Sea breaking quite fiercely upon it. Its sandy cliffs resemble the red cliffs of the Devon coastline, but there the similarity ends. It is hot. The sun beats down almost audibly and life has a slow, indolent pace as befits a small town dedicated to idling about. The sea edge and the cliffs above it are populated with a rag bag of straw thatched, rickety buildings that house restaurants, tea-houses, fizzy pop shops (Sprite, Limca –

Easy life here

lemon, Fanta and Pepsi, not a hint of Indian Tonic water anywhere) and endless vendors of Tibetan jewellery, carved wooden elephants, tie-dyed chemises, sandals and other sun-seeking paraphernalia. Tibetans are the new underclass in India. There has been an influx of youngsters under recently relaxed immigration rules, seeking their fortunes, and where better than in the playgrounds of the wealthy leisured classes? There is clearly much money around here. There is a significant development of new houses as we close into Varkala itself, each built in its their own grounds in that characteristically Indian style – rectilinear, block and cement render but with embellishments – stepped verandas, castellated roofs, columned courtyards, elaborate iron railings, tall “in your face” iron gates and often painted in the most outrageous vivid colours. It is as if a child had taken the Dulux brochure and selected only those signal colours which will most annoy the neighbours. Clearly, planning permission doesn’t include any colour restrictions here.

Beach- side Thai cafe

No sooner are we checked into our comfortable air-conditioned rooms that Sue and I are on the beach, in swimming costumes, wave jumping in the Arabian sea. It is so warm. We just walked in until we floated. We are children again for an hour or so until our thirsts pull us to a cafe where we drink, drip and steam gently dry.  A towel? No need thanks.  It is very humid and to move anywhere swiftly is to invite a sweat bath, but we love it.  There is something erotically seductive about tropical air and we are not the only ones to perceive it.  Varkala Beach has a louche air about it. It is on the hippy trail, and amid the maze of low cost rental rooms, wander skinny European men of indeterminate age but with graying pony tail hair, smoking roll ups and young Nordic looking girls with deep tans, calculatedly impoverished looking cheese cloth T shirts and dripping in handicraft costume jewellery. Also Indians, neatly attired men and sari clad women who, reluctant to strip off and sea bathe, paddle waist deep (only, no chance of a Miss wet sari competition) in their full clothing rig – all very Victorian, but minus the bathing machines.    We adjourn to the hotel pool which is duller but less wavy and just as warm, and a man brings us beds to lie on and a parasol to shelter from the intense sun.  It is only an hour or so and already we are beginning to feel the tingle of incipient sunburn.  We like this place, but we are here for only three nights  and for the 7 Rotarians who are on this phase of the tour with the Rossells and the Philips, it is the end of the line. They will return from here to England leaving the family to its third week in India. We change, pour (and

Sea bathing Indian style

drink) a stiff Gin and Limca, dine well and sleep soundly.

Afloat on the rice boats of Alleppey

Thurs 11th Feb and Fri 12th Feb 2010

 We check out of our de-luxe hotel having packed an overnight bag and head off south  for a small adventure. We are to visit the waterways of Alleppey. En route we are invited to see one more Rotary project – just for fun this time. We are entertained to coconut sherberts in the president’s house – a fascinating construction of sandalwood and rosewood with intriguingly carved stair banisters.  This club tell us about two projects. The first to provide aerobic, organic waste composters (terra-cotta, for under £10 each) and even given free to those who can’t afford them.  These are to solve a municipal waste disposal problem at local level and to provide compost for their already fertile land. The second is to provide cheap, clean potable water from the ground water beneath the canals by clever filtration.

Backwaters of Allepey

Kerala is a land of copious rainfall which eventually flows into the 40-ish rivers in the state, This labyrinthine network of  rivers, canals, streams and lagoons constitute the famous backwaters of Kerala which run almost parallel to the coastline making them ideal for cargo movement and backwater tourism. The local populace live on slivers of land between the lagoons and the rice paddies, just large enough to accommodate a small house and a boat shed.  They survive by cultivating rice (three crops per year), fishing, coir production from the coconut crop and making toddy – a crude fermented beer derived from the nectar of the coconut palm flowers. Everything from bathing to washing clothes to cleaning fish is done on the banks of the waterways and transport comprises house boats, small paddle boats or dug-out canoes.  We take a day and night trip in a house boat (a ketoo vallom) which is a floating motorised thatched cottage – complete with driver, cook, en-suite bathrooms and cold beers.  This is the best way to see the leisurely life style of these picturesque backwaters.

Rice paddies and Coconut palms

Our floating thatched cottage

Neat children on the riverbank

We set forth and spend the day dangling our hands in the water and chugging gently along past the rice paddies and the water dwellers houses.  It is deliciously indolent.

We stop to visit the shrine of India’s first saint ( well you have to ) to find it in the middle of a festival for which loud music booms through horn-loaded speakers covering, it seems,  the whole of Kerala.  You couldn’t pass by and inadvertently miss it! Crocodiles (metaphoric) of school children of all sizes are weaving their way along the paths to the shrine and gathering for some grand religious meeting – it looks like a half day holiday for Founders Day. They are all immaculately attired in their respective uniforms and clearly proud to be so. They smile and greet us in the most polite way.  Oh boy, this is something that we have really lost in England.

The local boat

We eventually run out of waterway at about 5pm and tie up to a random Palm tree for the night. Some opportunist boys – about 12 years old – clearly using Dad’s 20 foot dugout canoe – accost us from the waterline and offer to take three of us along the “small canals” for 100 Rp (£1.20) for half an hour.  We embark precariously and to our amusement are immediately offered paddles to assist in the propulsion.  With 5 oarsmen this vessel really goes and we twist and turn through ever narrower waterways to our captors’  running commentary in halting English. We see Kingfishers perched on tree branches, coconut palms, pepper vines, banana trees, washer-women and workmen. We hear the sounds and smell the smells  of families preparing their meal in the evening gloom. We learn that our lads covet a cricket bat most of all and that this is their means of raising ad-hoc revenue.  As they return us to our rice boats we part good friends and we tip them another 50 Rp. towards their sporting ambition.  Dinner afloat is quite something. A man brings us cold beers and as the sun sets, the mosquito nets are lowered.  We are cocooned on the front deck, around a grand rosewood table and are served an excellent meal of fried local fish (don’t ask me what they are called) in a delicious, gently spiced sauce, rice (what else) and salads. There is even ice cream for pudding.  Our crew trot back

David & Chris canoe team

and forth to the galley and nothing is too much trouble.  I would kill for a cognac with the coffee,

Dinner afloat

but what the hell.

Morning Cha

We sleep to the sound of water lapping gently at the boat side. It is hot, even with the fans going full pelt. 

Dawn afloat

We awake at dawn.  The bird song plus the noise of the river traffic begins just before then.  The lives of the lagoon dwellers- avian and sapiens – are governed by the sun.  They start when it comes up and sleep when it goes down.  Sounds quite clever really and saves a mint on the cost of electricity. Already boats laden with children are chugging along taking their charges to school and workers are setting about their day.  Quel Servcice! As I totter from our cabin onto the deck to inspect the rising sun, a cha-walla hands me a large cup of piping hot tea.  What a hero! We breakfast in similar colonial style as our boat chugs gently homewards and are decanted onto the harbour side by 9:30.  A quick duck and dive around the souvenir sellers and we are back on the “Moving Palace” for a 4 hour run, south, down the coast to Varkla Beach. Yes! Our next destination is a tourist resort hotel by the seaside.

Cochin: Spice city

Wed 10th Feb 2010  

We arise, refreshed, enjoy another rather grand buffet breakfast, with the kitchen clad egg-walla on hand with his frying pans to do your eggs just how you want them.  We must hire one for home. Sightseeing is our plan for the day and we muster in the rather sticky tropical morning and board our “Moving Palace” coach which has now acquired a local guide who regales us with facts, figures, dates and other relevant geographical and historical details at characteristically Keralan high speed.  

Cochin is a large natural harbour and was and is the principal port of embarkation or arrival in this lush land.  The Arabs and Chinese are the first known traders to avail themselves of Kerala’s finest spices. Pepper, ginger, cardamom, cloves and turmeric were shipped from here to the world.  The voyagers also coveted the fine ivory, sandalwood, perfumes and gold. Masefield fans among you will doubtless recall his Cargoes poem:  

“Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.”  

Ophir is, of course, in Southern Kerala.  

The spice capital of the ancient world

 

We visit the ancient area, Fort Cochin. This unlikely pastiche of medieval Portugal, Holland and an English country village is grafted on to the tropical Malabar coast and contrasts wildly with the rather garish neon lights, seaman’s bars and big hotels of mainland Cochin (now called Ernakulam).  We visit the oldest European Christian church in India (1503) which contains the original tomb of Vasco da Gama. He was the first European to reach India by sailing round Africa. The Portugese were a bit miffed to find on their arrival that Christianity was already thriving here and that, furthermore, the Keralan Christians had never heard of The Pope. Vasco’s Portugese pals took away his bones and re-buried them in Portugal. So there!    

Rinse and spin

 

There is plenty of primitive industry in Fort Cochin, the most amazing of which is the commercial laundry.  In a row of concrete booths ageing “dhobi wallas” work up to their knees in soapy water thrashing sheets, jeans, shirts etc. on to a concrete block to agitate them and effect the cleansing process.  It is hard labour and would seem to be most effective if one had a family enemy in mind when swinging heavy sodden clothes over ones head and thwacking them down.  Other wallas peg out the finished products to air in the hot sun. Yet others work their way through a seemingly infinite heap of ironing (Sue’s idea of hell) with the most primitive of smoothing irons – the bare electrical connections must keep their concentration level up or they are done for.  It is a real Dickensian scene but clearly a thriving industry.  

Sheets, blowing in the wind

 

Dashing away with the smoothing iron

We also visit the oldest synagogue in the Commonwealth built in 1568 and surrounded by a labyrinth of narrow streets called Jew Town, still the centre of the spice trade as well as “antiques” and the usual tourist tat.  

Chinese fishing nets

 

 We see the Chinese cantilevered fishing nets lined up. along the shore.  They are laboriously lowered and raised at high tide to reveal their catch. It is a lot of work for a few piddling little fish.  Their profitability is now as a tourist attraction. 

We return by ferry boat across the harbor for a fare of 2 Rp (about 2 ½ p) for the 20 minute ride.  

Cochin boasts an amazing shopping street, Mahatma Gandhi Road.  Every town has an M.G. Road much as, I guess, every UK town has a London Road. In the early evening we trawl through vast emporia, the size of Selfridges, selling nothing but cloth – silks, satins, chikan, and saris for women, and the latest gem-encrusted Bollywood brocade coats for men. It is very busy with (female) shoppers. David feels quite de trop. An army of elegantly clad lady assistants  in uniform saris accost us and direct us to the appropriate counter. Sue wants to buy silks for a jacket of many colours to be tailored for her.  

There is a ritual to all this. Bales of silk are thrown across the counter to show their unrolled, rippling beauty to advantage; colours are juxtaposed for comparison and contrast and much babbling in Malayalam and shaking of heads accompanies the selection. The tailor is summoned to adjudicate on quantities, turnings, facings etc. and eventually an elegant and tiny assistant wields a pair of scissors almost as big as she is to cut the required lengths. Another assistant scurries off with our purchase to be wrapped and billed.  We take a copy of the bill to the cashier on another floor to pay. He (the only male employee in the shop) stamps our chitty, which we then present at the ground floor dispatch counter to be re-united with our purchase.  It is all very Edwardian and most efficient.  We four shoppers, gleefully clutching our wares, squeeze into a motor rickshaw and are ferried to our hotel. We dine and fall asleep all toured and shopped out.

We travel south to Kerala

Tues 09th  Feb 2010

Today is a travel day and not very photogenic. We arise early and set off for Lucknow airport.  It is cool and misty and just raining.  The streets are already busy with people who appear to have slept where they work, abluting and brushing their teeth at standpipes by the road’s edge.  There is a huge gap between the wealthy and the poor in India and it is very noticeable in this poor state. Those near the bottom of the pile live in the meekest of hovels at or near their workshops and apart from a primitive rope cot and the clothes they stand in have almost nothing else.  There are thousands of such people along the road to the airport.  It is not an attractive feature of this country, but it provides a living for them and, I presume, there is some social mobility for we see few old people in such circumstances.  Then again perhaps they don’t reach old age.

Security at this small regional airport trumps anything that Europe can inflict on the paying passenger. Our hold baggage is x-rayed and banded with metalised tape.  The suitcase padlocks are sealed with those irritating labels that break into myriad sticky pieces when you try to remove them.  Our cabin baggage is carefully searched.  Tickets are attached to it and stamped and later on randomly inspected.  We are frisked and wanded, made to turn out our pockets by a crew of dozens of khaki uniformed security men – most of whom (says Sue) resemble Saddam Hussain. There is little humour in these numerous interchanges.  Here the fear is of terrorists from Pakistan and, I suppose, with good cause.  Kashmir and, more recently, the shoot out in Mumbai have made everybody nervous.  It is strange to think that the real victims of the vainglorious “freedom fighters” are the millions of simple travelers who are now permanently embuggered by the new class of security wallas, whose motives are seemingly impeccable but whose manner and whose lack of any apparent empathy with their customers is universally irritating. It is a strange world indeed.

Our airline is called Kingfisher Airways – built upon the profits of the famous Indian brand of lager beer.  Clearly it is very profitable.  I wonder if we shall one day fly Fosters Air or Newcastle Brown Air.  Anyway it flies well and gets us to Delhi on time.  Another dose of airport torment and we board the 3 ½ hour flight to Cochin in the southern-most state of Kerala.  No passenger tubes at this tiny airport. As the steps are wheeled up and the door of our aircraft is opened we experience an inrush of hot, moist, sweet smelling tropical air. Yum! 

Kerala: Coconut County

Kerala should really be called Keralam.  Its name is derived from two words Kera (coconut tree) and Lam (land of), so we arrive in the land of coconut trees. As the aircraft approaches we can see why. We cross the mountains called the Western Ghats, which bound this tropical state and thereafter all below is green lush palm fronds.  Kerala is India’s rice basket and is its wealthiest state. It is so fertile that if you poked a wooden walking stick into the soil here it would probably sprout leaves.

Kerala has a long and distinguished history.  It is said that King Solomon visited it in search of Sandal wood building materials for his famed temple. Jews settled here 2000 years ago.  Christianity arrived in AD52 in the person of (doubting) Saint Thomas and the state has been about 25% Christian ever since.  Chinese traders came in the fifteenth century leaving behind, among other things, a characteristic design of on-shore, pulley-operated fishing nets. The design is still in use to this day. The Portuguese, the Dutch and the British, all seeking spices, used Kerala as a trading station and fought each other in the process. 

Modern Kerala was merged from three Maharajan principalities in 1956 and freely elected a communist government which has governed since 1957 to the present. In consequence of its wealth and the ambition of its people it has a 100% literacy rate and shows none of the abject poverty so evident elsewhere in India. Its local language is Malayalam which is spoken at high speed and with much head shaking. It is great fun to watch and hear but impossible for us to decode.

But most importantly, Kerala is the home of John Philip’s family and is our real reason for being here. During our visit we shall visit every one of his kin who is in town for they are our extended family. We are met at the airport by his cousin, Babu.  He is the travel agent who has handled all bookings to date and provided  our party for the forthcoming week with a 12 seater bus  (called The Moving Palace)+ driver which will take us here, there and anywhere. We spend a while loading 12 suitcases – some on the roof and some in the back of the bus and set off for Cochin centre, about 15 miles away.  It is rush hour, our driver does overtaking anything as his hobby and we rock and roll our way into town. David is seated in the courier’s seat by the driver and spends most of the journey with his hands over his eyes.  Indian traffic manners are a game of push, shove and hoot – but collisions are frowned upon. They drive on the left as in England but our bus spends more time on the right of the road than the left playing chicken with oncoming traffic. Mercifully we get there in one piece. 

Our hotel is on Marine Drive, by the waterside and we have spectacular views of the grand waterways of Cochin harbour from our sixth floor room. Tonight we are met by some of John Pilip’s relatives and we dine privately and pleasantly in the hotel.  We enjoy meeting and exchanging experiences and we are treated to a meal of typical Keralan cuisine. It is delightful and that night we sleep the sleep of the just.