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.