Old Kochi—our last stop.

We left in the morning with the sun cresting the tea plantations. People walking to work with loads on their heads trudged along wearing woolen head scarves. The bus was a similar model to the one we came on, and we each took separate seats making room for others to fill. Going down the mountain was faster and it was better to not look out the front window but the side ones as it seemed that every car we passed was a near miss. We arrived in Kochi—rather Ernakulam in the early afternoon. It was a long rickshaw ride over several bridges, from island to island. Old Kochi is an island. We had the name of a “home stay” which means a simple hotel. We were pleasantly surprised. The rooms were brightly painted with enamel paint and the beds comfortable. It was run by a Norwegian woman who had biked from Norway. She has traveled all over and was strong and wirey and friendly. She lived there with a young Indian man who owned a new rickshaw along with his battered one. There was a long term guest staying there as well from Sweden who appeared very stoned everytime I saw him. We left our gear and all went our separate ways. I roamed from art gallery to art gallery—impressed to see so much local art. There were even some good water paintings. The cafes had showings and the work for sale. Nothing like that in Chennai. I went into a restaurant at the intense urging of a young man. Tired, I ordered rich thick coffee and chicken curry for lunch. The waiter sat down with me and invited me to a party that evening. “It’s free for you—everyone else, 200R. It is a partners party though. You would be my partner.”
I looked at this kid bewildered. “What are you talking about? What are you thinking? How old are you anyway?” It was at this moment I realized that there are a lot of gigolos in India. I think they must think that old white women are easy marks—or that we would willing pay for the services of young men. The last thing I am interested in.

Back on the street, every shop has someone that begs pleads and pulls you to come into the myriad of shops. I learned later that they get a commission for bringing foreigners inside. It was fun shopping there though. There was much more variety of goods, strange pants and shirts. Jewelry and jewels. Pottery and pictures. Antiques and furniture, in every price range. There were the first truly beautiful things I have seen for sale.

A man insistedly escorted me into a great find. It was a wax museum of the costumes of the Kathacali dancers—specialized in Kerela. The man patiently took me from statue to statue explaining the characters, their make up, hand gestures.
He played every drum and strummed each string and told me the stories they perform. He asked me to dinner, and when I declined insisted I must come to the show that evening. I had every intention of attending.

I wandered past the grand churches St. Francis constructed in 1503 by the Portuguese Franciscan friars. Vasco Da Gama died in Cochin in 1524 and was buried on this spot. There is an imposing Santa Cruz Basilica built in 1506—rebuilt in 1902. There were posh resorts made from restored ancient houses and buildings. I met up with Erin on the way home and felt I was getting a urinary tract infection. No problem. I stopped at a pharmacy (every other building) and told the man and he gave me a rehydration drink and antiobiotics--$.60. ( Something to be learned here for American medicine.) I went back to the hostel and took my medicine. I decided to decline the evening out and stayed back. Lina and Sabu invited me to eat with them, and bought a bottle of beer to toast his new rickshaw. We sat and Lina told me tales of biking there and how she ran away from her predictable life in Norway. When I asked her about the young men, she said that really they seem to find older women interesting. She is 20 years older than Sabu and they have been together 2 years. She was easy to talk to and the Swede smoked pot and stared vacantly nodding his head to comments made. She said she would like to cook Briani for us all for lunch the following day. I went to bed early feeling as though I had swallowed burning coals.

Infection gone in the morning! We all felt refreshed from a day apart and wandered down along the shore watching the fishermen haggle and hustle their fishes freshly caught. Vendors just setting up their stalls beckoned to us—“Good deal Madame! First sale of the day!” We heard that line all day. We took a rickshaw to “Jewtown.” Stepping out the vehicle sped away when Erin realized that she had left her back pack with passport and all of her money in it! A man handed her his bike and she whizzed off looking for him. Everyone whipped out a cell phone and started calling everyone they knew to tell all of Kochi. The crowd grew, and Erin returned on the bike to be whisked away on a motorcycle of a policeman. When she returned there were over 50 people gathered—including the local television station. A short while later the rickshaw returned to deliver the goods—all intact refusing a reward.

The TV people interviewed all of us saying how honest and helpful the Indian people are. Smiles radiated and Erin trembled.

Originally built in 1568, the synagogue was destroyed by the Portuguese in 1662 and rebuilt two years later when the dutch took Kochi. We went to see it, but it was closed. It is at the end of a small street. As I looked at the plain building I heard a woman crying and wailing-“What is the matter?” I asked the two police men sitting guard. “Why is that woman crying?”
They cocked their heads, listening for a moment. Both wobbled their heads. “Jew.” Was the explanation.

I bought a silk skirt, old worn Kollu dolls (clay), shirt, and chai pants like I stole from Linda Roberts 30 years ago. I lost my mind and bought a ring with 4 saphires a ruby and emerald for $80. What was I thinking? We went back to the Sublime Roof hostel for a lunch of briani before we headed back to the airport and home. Yes, home. It really felt like I was going home.

breakfast on the balcony before leaving Munnar.

Munnar, communism and the tea plantations.

We left for Munnar on a very rickety looking bus. The seats very worn vinyl over steel seats. There were no windows, and in case of rain sheets of corrugated metal slide down from the roof. We all had seats and watched the country side slide by. Past the rice plantations and the land began to rise into hills. The bus drove for about an hour when it stopped at a bus petrol station. We were informed that we would be there quite a while. There was a cement building about 400 sq. ft. with one wooden desk and a few benches lining the walls.

It was Barbara that noticed they were transporting petrol from a hole in the roof of a tanker and putting it into the gas tank with liter bottles. Hmmm—yes, it could take a while. It was about 45 minutes before we took off again for another 4 ½ hours, the road steeper and the gears grinding we rose p into the chilly hills of Munnar. It wasn’t the cold that took our breath away but the sights of the lush and sculptured tea plantations.

A young man on the bus called a hotel ahead, the Adair and yes, they had one large room with 4 beds and a hot shower—right next to the bus station. It was about 65 degrees. When we got off of the bus, people had woolen hats, down coats, scarfs, blankets, rags tied around them to keep them warm in this frigid country. Walking the very steep road up to the inn warmed us up. We off loaded our gear, exchanged greetings and head off for a bite to eat before we went to bed.

The morning offered us a stunning view of the surrounding hills shrouded in early morning mist. We planned to take a local tour in a van as the sights of Munnar are all spread out. WE headed off to find that each stop had street lined stalls that sold trinkets of Munnar to the tourists, except for us who were Indian. We stopped first at a beautiful lake surrounded by forest. The most tranquil natural scene I had yet witnessed—Except for the sellers, there were no people or houses in view—government land. The road was blocked off and armed guards let cars and buses through. Upon asking, we found out it was to stop poachers from poaching sandalwood. There was a lot of cutting of wood there none-the –less. We rounded a corner to see a person riding on an elephant. Domestic. We went higher in the mountain past waterfalls gushing out of the rock faces. Flowers growing abundantly, yellows and pinks. Spots of color in the virdent green. Even the bougainvillea have thorns growing on them here. Tough flowers to withstand the environment. On the road we were stopped by a local to look down the hill where 4 wild elephants strolled eating the lush vegetation. Delightful. They are protected by the forest rangers.

In the afternoon our tour took us to the Eravikulam National Park home to the rare but almost tame Nilgiri Tahr. At the entrance of the park we waited in line to buy tickets with hoards of highschool groups draped in beautifully embroidered Kashmir shawls. The kids were like groups of kids anywhere, fooling with their phones, taking pictures with them, wearing headsets and showing off for each other. The difference is that the boys and girls stay in separate groups. To enter the park we had to board a bus that belched further into the forest and up the hill. It dumped us all at a clearing where we could look into the mist of Tamil Nadu. The Nilgiri Hills. Everyone got off the bus and headed up the paved path into the hills. “Stay on the Paths!” the signs instructed. We entered into the “pristine” wilderness with the pack of people as you would only find in India. Everyone laughing and yelling and talking loudly—so much for animal sightings! In any regards it felt liberating to be away from towns and housing and we dutifully followed the switchback upwards for 2 K. where the path was blocked off by private property. We photographed the tahr, and the other tourists photographed us, another exotic and rare species in the Nilgiri Hills. A crowd of beautiful young girls crowded around Erin to talk to her which was more interesting to them than the park.

That evening we went into the town of Munnar, the spice capitol of Kerela. We shopped, and ate in a small café and then poked about. I was asking someone where I could buy a flag of Kerela (the communist flag) and was over heard by a tall thin man in a ragged sweater. “Can I be of assistance,” he offered. I explained my quest. “Come with me, I know where you can get one. Not at these stores.” As I started to follow him he said, we’ll just go to my house.”
“Wait a minute,” I said slowing mu step. I’ve got to check with my friend. Barbara was intent in the buying of spices, and I asked her. “Barbara, this guy says he will take me to his house. I’m not sure that’s a good idea—what do you think?” And we both laughed. “ I’ll take someone with me”—and fetched Erin, who readily agreed. We followed at a fast pace through winding alleys behind ‘John.’

“A short rickshaw ride, and then we’ll go to my house.” We giggled. It was a short rickshaw ride up a hill. We got out and literally went underground down a ramp to a series of well lit offices—The Communist party headquarters. There were many men in white shirts reading papers and sitting chatting in the sparse rooms. John proudly introduced us around. His new friends.

“What is the party doing for the tea workers?” I asked. The tea plantations are owned by Tata, and they make 100r./day. (About $2.00) The work is grueling and there is no way out once they take the job. “I owe my soul to the company store,” I heard Tenessee Earnie Ford sing in my mind. The schools provided for their children and their housing is very crowded and substandard.

“Oh course, it is the primary concern of the people in the hills. The only hand to feed also keeps the people hungry. It is a very complex issue.” No argument there. What is with Tata though? They own most of India, the auto industry, the communication, the cable TV satellites, the tourism. . .I have to investigate this more. I had a dream of starting a great school there for the tea workers children.

Erin and I were given flags, and John turned and left quickly. Passing through a lane of shops he stopped a beautiful woman. “My wife!” he introduced. Somehow that was calming news.

His house was up a winding street with very old homes built into the sides of hill. We climbed steep steps to a door. John’s mother answered the door. We went in and had a seat on the couch while John went to make us tea. His mother was a slight woman with white hair and an elegant posture. “My name is Margaret Julia,” she introduced herself.
“Oh, and my youngest daughter is Julia Margaret,” I answered.
“That is no coincidence,” she affirmed. John returned with scalding tea and we all sat with our knees almost touching in the little room. “Do you like poor people?” she asked me leaning closer.

“Why, yes I do.” I answered, and as I said this it set off a series of queries into my mind. What is that I find alluring about the poor? Why am I more attracted to sitting in this room that a well lit comfortable room? My favorite moments of India are such.

“I can tell,” she said.

Her husband Abraham came out of his meditation room in a lungi. “In five days we will know the outcome of your election which could change the world. We hold our breath for Obama.” So do I. I wonder how many Americans know anything of Indian politics. Every where I go here people ask and revere Obama and the America that would honor and trust and elevate a man of color.

We had to leave, although I could have sat there all evening, because we left Melissa and Barbara in the town. They were dutifully, and annoyedly waiting for us, but forgiving when they heard our great adventure.

We wrapped ourselves in blankets and memories and anticipation as we went to bed. Dreaming of the last leg of our trip—Kochi.

map of kerela

The backwater trip

We went downstairs where a rickshaw was waiting for us. I sat on the single seat with the driver, and the other three women squeezed in the back seat. On the way to our houseboat the driver sang loudly—“A love song!” he told me as we weaved in and out of traffic. You better take notice Tim!

When we arrived, we saw the boat yard where they were repalming a boat. Every year they replace all of the palm work. No small feat. The boat we were to travel on had 3 attendants, the captain, Sonny, the cook, Anthony, and the ? What was his role? Who knows. It felt a little like a floating boudoir. The front of the boat had the classical steering wheel, with a raised mattress and pillows behind, with a table and four chair on the front deck all in a shaded palm cover. There were two bedrooms behind, each with 2 beds, mosquito net, and separate toilet, sink, and shower. Behind those was the galley where they concocted delectable delicacies and waited upon us like we were royalty.

It was a hot sultry day, and we lazed languidly about on the front deck feasting our eyes on the sights around us.

Occasionally we exchanged thoughts and perceptions, but mostly we drifted. This was far different quality from the day before. We watched Indian life drift by—the houses, the fishermen wearing these umbrella modifications for hats. A fisherman approached our boat to sell us giant prawns (they looked like little lobsters) for our dinner that night. WE drank a lot of water, and lime sodas—I in the sun any time I got.

We passed endless rice paddies—all worked by women in saris. The green is startling, and their saris as well. The lake we were traveling on is about 1 km. from the ocean. The land on both sides heavily used. Little tiny spits of land, about 100 meters wide have houses right next to the water. Kerala is the first (and only?) elected communist government. It has the highest reading level in India—91% (supposedly). We saw many pictures of Che Quevera along the river. He is a hero in these parts.

We stopped at noon, so the men could take a siesta, and I swam in the cool murky waters. Floating on my back looking at the clear blue sky with occasional puffs of clouds. It was a lazy day, and then we arrived at the village where we tied up to land.

My camera lost power.

I followed a young girl to the temple. Nothing like the ones at “home” in Tamil Nadu. It was spare—a dusty court yard with many tall brass candle holders, characteristic of Kerela. There was a Ganeesha statue and another Krishna in pagoda like shrines. We walked leisurely back, meeting a man who spoke English. “I am a poor man. See my house? (It was indeed simple) I work in Alipuzhia weaving mats now, so I can build my home better. I have one son. See how strong he is? And Obama! This is good for everyone, don’t you think?” Yes, I think.

When we arrived back at the boat there was a man with a canoe waiting for us. He took us weaving through the canals of the village. We watched families coming home—children from the school, women cooking, and men talking. We bought a bottle of “toddy” a liquor, or beer made from coconut palms—gross! People paid us very little mind but we could observe them living along the canal. Each house had a stair way built to the river, and there was a government break wall built along the canal. People bathing in the river, washing dishes and clothing, and talking to their neighbors on their stoops. Many of the very simple houses had TV, and music is in the air everywhere. Watching how normal people live is my greatest joy and biggest interest here. There was a feast for the eyes. We arrived back at the boat to find a candle lit dinner ready and waiting for us. The freshly caught prawns for the others and fish for me. We ate and sat in the candlelight marveling at the accident of history that allowed us to be in such a spot. I am traveling with 3 strong and wonderful women. Frogs were a symphony to sleep by.

The morning only allowed a quick walk, and swim before we ate our breakfast and were headed in a streamline back to Allapuzhia.

Time is funny here. What seems like a lifetime can be only minutes. I think of the string theory, and how time is warped. It is proven here in my mind and experience.

We arrived back at Allapuzhia to catch a bus into the mountains to see the tea plantations at MUNAR!

Deepavali Break! Escape to Kerela

The plane was delayed an hour and a half. We checked in at first class, not noticing the sign. “No guns, brass knuckles, fireworks, gasoline or crowbars allowed on board.” Hmm. These Indians are so particular. We landed at dark—6:oo p.m. Many cars and rickshaw drivers waiting to do our business. We took a prepaid cab, meaning that the government decides what is a fair price for our fare and laughingly left the airport in a new city in India. Thiruvananthapuram—or Trivandrum. With the windows rolled down it immediately felt different. The world was full of green. Trees hanging over the growth and it felt that nothing could stop the plants—they were wild. We wove through small streets, trash, hotels and eateries that could fit in your bathroom. Amazingly the driver knew our hotel. It is billed as a quiet spot at the end of a small lane—colorful, with wicker furniture. That might have been a stretch. There was a lot of color in the sheets, which smelled clean, but were stained from a variety of activities. The mattresses felt as though they were made from piles of newspapers. Melissa was waiting for Barbara, Erin and me to arrive. She had caught an early morning flight and had already cruised the city, taking pictures of the Chinese influenced architecture with red tiled roofs built with a pagoda tilt.

We walked down wet dark streets and poked into shops, stopping to eat at a small café. The wasps were busy building mud nests in the windows and everyone stared at us as we ate and laughed. We went home and tried to find a new hotel for the next night up a ways north. I had booked this hotel it cost $2.00/night, and no one was too happy with me. “This sounds GREAT!” I exclaimed. “Wafting in the remnants of faded grandeur, this Raj relic has immense, crumbling rooms with high ceilings and wooden floor. Or how about this, ‘the rooms are run-down and slightly dysfunctional, but sanitary and have balconies overlooking the backwaters. . .’ “ We rolled with laughter on the beds. We settled making an arrangement with a hotel billed as “an estate crowning a breezy peninsula surrounded by leisurely backwaters on 3 sides. The enormous rooms enjoy the views of the extraordinary vision of the pert bosoms, of a misshapen sculpture—the Goddess of Light—the Valiyavila Family Estate. It was difficult for me--$8.00/night per person.

Although this was supposed to be a quiet street, it was Deepivali weekend, and there were a lot of firecrackers going off. Melissa went to talk to the guys in the front office, who I think had quite a bit of “toddy,” the local brew, and were giving her the run around practicing their
English by repeating themselves as they made no sense. She was very gracious and polite and lasted a lot longer than I did. Kollam we decided. About 40 miles north by train.

We all pretended to sleep, and a beautiful 3 inch moth joined Barbara in our room with a myriad of mosquitos for the night.

We got up and left about 7:30. Down streets with broken pavement a lot of trash and interesting woodwork on houses and stores. We arrived at the train station and purchases our 3^rd class seats onh the train leaving in 2 hours. We went to the Indian Coffee House for breakfast.
This is a fascinating building. A tower with a spiral inside, no steps but an incline. The booths on the outside edge with windows opening up to the street and tower. The waiter was quite decked out, and had waited on Melissa the day before. We all had our picture taken with him and drank a lot of coffee before we headed over to the train station with an hour to spare. It took us quite a while to realize we were in the wrong spot. IT was so quiet, and were directed down to where we should enter the train. Of course all of the seats were taken. We could have sat above on the racks, ”Hmmm…no underwear.” AS we stood pondering our situation, a coffee vendor hustled us into the airconditioned car and sold us coffee. “Ahhh. . .” We watched the country turn from the city to the country, and we were on our way to Kollam. Shiortly after the conductor stopped by to charge us each 3 dollars on top of our 25 cents we had already paid. Ouch. The price of luxury.

When we arrived at Kollam, we took an auto rickshaw to the jetty for Valiyavila
Family Estates where we were unindated with offers for a backwater tour. We had read that this was the end of the backwaters, and tours were organized there. 4 of us. Each went with a different vendor, listening to their pitch assuring us of the best trip. Back together, telling what we had learned. We decided to go with Suresh. A package deal, an afternoon tour by canoe, night in a hotel on the beach, and then a ferry north to Allapuzia A(Venice of India), where we would stay the night in a hotel, and then catch a house boat for an overnight in the backwaters at a village—all for $40/person. A spurgle—but what the heck? As we were talking with him the man from The Family Estate of Valiyavila appeared. He was extremely disgruntled, saying we promised to stay at his inn. We said we would go with him, but he changed the rate we were expected to pay—doubled it. “Oh, forget it!” I told him. “I’m not going with you if you cheat us.” We were interrupted when our taxi arrived to take us to the canoe. We gathered our bags with the hotel man arguing with me. We were upstaged by the taxi man, who appeared to be hopped up, yelling at Suresh. Suresh kept a pleasant face, telling us to not worry—it would sort out, when the taxi man slapped Suresh in the face, yelling and carrying on in Malayalam the local language. He hit him in the back of the head as Suresh headed back to his office. As he posed to hit him again, I stepped in between them and faced the taxi driver. “Stop it! No fighting!” There was an instant crowd around us, and the taxi driver disappeared into it. We went to sit down. “I’m not riding with him,” I told Suresh.

“No problem. I’ll call auto rickshaws for you.” Suddenly we felt tired, but the hotelier from Valiyavila suddenly loved us. He was a good friend of Suresh. Fighting is a rare occurance here.
“You must fill out a police report!” HE crowed and led me back into the office. Many people crowed into the little space the size of my bathroom to watch the event of me writing a report. I wrote specifically what happened, even though I was egged on by many onlookers to embellish. I signed it and then had to write it in triplicate.

We were ready to zoom away in our little yellow chariots off to the inner reaches of Astamurti Lake where a young man was waiting with a dugout canoe to pole us through canals into the back waters. It was still and green and lush. The canal cut through small villages where 80 percent of the men are gone to Saudi Arabia to work. Small farms, spice farms, fish farms and egrets. It was quiet.

A water snake ssssed away from the boat. The young man had such poise and grace. He took us see where they make coir out of coconut innards. A rough hemp rope. We all tried our hands spinning it. We stopped at a spice farm where they grow pepper, turmeric, peppers, and other exotic spices for their own use. We had a coconut drink. The old man used a curved 8 inch blade to whack the top of the coconut off. “Do they ever hurt themsel ves?” I asked the guide. We watched people spin the coconut mesh into rope, and build the houseboats, replacing the palm.

“Oh yes,” he answered. “This man only has 9 fingers!” I gasped, until I realized he was teasing. IT was a slow and beautiful day. Like a dreamscape. The canal followed the village paths at time covered by palm trees—the young girls in their colorful safis floated by, laughing and covering their mouths as they peaked at us. Flowers hung over the water, so still, and egrets stood erect, alert. The road back to town took us through a valley so green, dripping colors.

We were tired when we arrived back in town and were pleasantly surprised at our hotel.

The hotel, which was part of the package was lovely by my standards. Right on the beach. We offloaded our gear and headedoff tofind a local restaurant. People on the beach celebrating the day. Kids with kites, children running and families laughing as they stood in the surf covering their fine clothes. No one wears bathing suits but swim fully clad. Such a festive feeling. Selling cotton candy. People all too glad to talk to us and invite us to join their celebration of the day. The sun setting in the Indian Ocean. We found a small restaurant where we ordered hot Kerela chicken. Yum. Hot! Wandering back to our hotel, full of the day and food and food of the soul. The beds were still hard, but the pillows soft.

In the morning there were rickshaws waiting to take us back to catch the ferry up the Astamundi Lake to the Hugging Mother’s Ashram. When I stepped off of the rickshaw immediately a young man took my arm and ushered me ahead of our group, “This way, Madame. Quickly! They are waiting.” There was a large crowd there this morning, smiling and nodding at me.

“Wait! I want to buy some water,” I tried to pull away, but his grip was firm.

“No—for you, Madame, we give water—no worries.”
In my usual docile manner, I followed him through one ferry on the next. I noticed there was a man filming me with a large conspicuous camera. “TV, Madame,” my escort whispered in my ear. He took me to the front deck, where I could ride in the sun. I sat down and settled my bag, all for the camera.
“Now, interview! Tell the good story!” And so I told the story of how the taxi driver slapped Suresh, and how he tried to walk away from the fight, only to be followed by the very agitated man. Words of encouragement were whispered in my ear, “Tell him that Suresh is a good man! Tell them that you were afraid for your life! Tell him that it is bad for tourism but you are so courageous!”
Next, they interviewed Melissa, Erin and finally a bewildered Barbara, who got on last and didn’t know what we were doing.

“Can I have your autograph?” an English couple laughed. We all laughed.

The ferry chugged along leisurely, past the statue of the Goddess of Light and her pert breasts. Slowly out of town past several small churches on the banks and the graceful Chinese fishing nets, hung on poles with a light to shine in the night to lure the fish. Most of them were on bamboo poles, but a few modern ones had metal poles and hydraulics to raise them. The ride was beautiful and peaceful. People on the shore waved to us as we passed. Spots of color in the green foliage. We rode for 2 hours and stopped at a small restaurant on the banks for a lunch of fresh grilled fish and vegetables before we got back on to ride the last half hour to get off at The Hugging Mother’s Ashram. She was visiting Europe. A fascinating woman who performs her ministry through hugging people. She has a huge following of people from all over the world and has raised a lot of money which she has built a school for art, and provided a lot of homes for people suffering from the Tsunami and other tragedies. Her ashram now houses 20,000 pilgrims. There was a palpable spirit there as people bustle about. I plan to return next September for her birthday celebration—or maybe just another time to meet her and get some of that hugging.

We walked through the grounds, through the neighboring village to catch a bus back to the main road where we planned to catch a bus or train to Allepuzhia—the Venice of India! The town was a scratchy dusty town, with no train for 4 hours, and so we settled in at the bus station to catch a ride from there. It was hot, and dusty. I opened the little book I carried by ‘The Mother.’

“Never grumble. All sorts of forces enter you when you grumble and they pull you down. Keep smiling. I seem always to be joking but it not mere joking. It is a confidence born from the psychic. A smile expresses the faith that nothing can stand against the Divine and that everything will come out all right in the end.” Hmmm. That fits. The bus came and people crammed into it like I imagine they do in subways in Tokyo. People pressed so tightly together, you can lift your feet up and not fall down.

It was a hot hour and half to Allapuzhia. Our hotel, (part of the tour) was right next to the bus station. I was totally charmed that we were on the third floor which was constructed out of woven palm fronds. The cheapest construction and yet the most endearing to me. Like the Swiss Family Robinson’s treehouse. Enchanting. We dropped our bags and wandered down the streets. If not exactly Venice, one of the primary modes of transportation in the town is on boats in canals which spread long fingers into the land emptying into the ocean. We took a rickshaw to the ocean—again filled with families and picnickers and people too happy to be alive. We watched the set for the second night into the ocean. Barbara wandered and poked into shops and marveled at the exquisite displays of spices for sale. We stopped and bought silver ankle bracelets.

Back at the hotel who was there? But Suresh! I could see he had a few drinks as he pulled me aside.

“Good to see you Suresh! What are you doing in town?”
“I had to see you, Madame. I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t know other woman like you.”
“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Do you want me to go on your backwater trip with you? I can be your guide!”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, but thanks for the offer.”
“We could have a bigger boat! No extra charge! 3 bedrooms—two for your friends and one for you and me.”
It was all I could do to not let out a huge guffaw. “Suresh, thank for the offer, but definitely no.”
He shook his head sadly and held my hand. “Maybe you’ll come back and we can have our own tour.”
I guess I’m not dead yet.
In the morning—our house boat tour.