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.