Backwaters, Alleppy to Kotayam

FROM JAN 4th
We rise early to get the local ferry to Kotayam but 5 minutes before we leave our moody guesthouse owner decides we must move rooms! We’re mad!! But no time to argue, we rush to pack everything up for him to move to a new room while we’re on the boat trip. This beautiful colonial house was his family home and we wonder if he resents having to ‘share’ it? Around the walls he’s painted some interesting murals of meditating ½ naked gurus, fighting kalari warriors and dancing bare-breasted women. But there is something decidedly odd about these murals….although they look like ‘devi’s’ they don’t seem to be any of the usual Hindu gods or Mahabarata stories. The cartoonish faces and large limbed figures almost seem like westerners ….big thighs, big breasts, big noses! Is there some subtle caricature going on here? Perhaps he’s making fun of the hand that feeds? But the strangest thing of all is the little white ball of fluff that scurries around chewing on people’s toes! A yappy Indian lap dog? But all the boys who help run the place adore him, cooing and peering into his ‘baby bear face’ …. Jingi ! Jingi!
As we race to the jetty, annoyed at having to move and anxious we’ll miss the boat, we dream up murder mysteries about this strange man and his ancestral home, an Agatha Christie opportunity in Alleppy! Must have been a family feud …. drowned his ½ foreign step mother down the well?
The jetty is crowded, we clamber through a boat to get to our ferry, no seats left …so we perch on the boats edge. Some crazy gringos squeeze their big backpacks and fat first-class baby in designer buggy onto this local boat…. they must be insane!
Heavily laden, we lumbers up the canal past large houseboats made of coir, into the mist covered morning lake. The ladies behind us smile and nudge each other as we turn round, delicate gold earring chains shiver as they giggle at the gringos. Soon a flood of coloured saris sashay by us to get off the boat. They’re teachers at a local school, the one permissible profession for the respectable, educated girl .
We get a bench to ourselves and our cares begin to drift away as the ferry chugs along across the lake, by long boats, houseboats, little fishing vessels with sails made from re-cycled rice bags, swathes of green water hyacinths with long beaked birds nibbling at the edges. At one point we spot a large clump of floating weeds in the distance, as we draw close they magically transform into hundreds of ducks huddled together in the middle of the lake
As we head down the smaller back canals into the remote villages we witness life on the waterways. At the lake’s edge fishermen stand waist high in water spearing fish, boats laden with breezeblocks and red-turbaned laborers head down the narrow canals. We pass a village temple … arches of fluttering white paper and clangy music blaring from load speakers! Then a majestic white church, with blue arched windows surrounded by gracious palms.

On wobbly jetties children stare out through wide kohl-lined eyes, yellow turmeric smeared on their foreheads, while women beat brightly coloured laundry at the water’s edge, laying it over nobbly bushes to dry. A baby goat is tethered in a brightly flowered garden with red communist flag,….a lady rushes out to hand the ferryman a bundle of letters to post, these remote dwellings rely on the canals as their only mode of transport.
Between villages we glimpse brilliant green paddy fields dotted with white cranes, and occasional clumps of people planting rice. Wind blown palm trees lean precariously next to twisted telegraph poles and tangled power cables, proof that electricity, albeit intermittent, has arrived here.
We are quietly able to watch life as it floats by, and on the boat a constant ebb and flow of locals, mothers with children in fluorescent orange dresses or babies gazing over their shoulders, crisply ironed men in smart checked shirts and lungis going to work, old men, knarled faces resting on leathered hands as they doze. A series of little draw-bridges, with CMP slogans and communist flags flying, must be manually hauled up for the ferry to pass Nearing Kotayam, there are some soft saffron coloured houses with Portuguese roof tiles and outdoor porches. The afternoon lulls into the evening and on our return journey, dusk hovers over the lake as large 5 star caliber houseboats head home laden with their luxury cargo of wealthy tourists. We leave the sun setting over the stillness of the lake and head back to Alleppy and the ‘murder mystery’guest house! Our new room is in the back, a large garden area surrounded by a porch and chairs to sit outside. As we’re sipping chai, surprisingly our moody guesthouse owner cautiously befriends us! He explains he’s redesigning the back garden, there’s a tree house and some shaded benches and tables to eat outside, and there’s a large well! (oh no!) …. But we warm to him, he seems much friendlier tonight, or perhaps we’ve mellowed after our day on the water. His name is Schaffi and the miniature white ‘bear-dog’ at his heels is Jingi. He grew up in the house, his father is a well known Malayali filmmaker. He definitely seems a bit eccentric as we sit in the garden and he fries mosquitoes with his electric fly swatter! What a device! And what a turn around, from mean and irritating this morning to chatty and charming this evening. But before I head for bed, I can’t help my furtive glance at the large and deep well in the garden , wondering!

Alleppy At Last!

FROM JAN 3rd

Finally after Rajive’s morning bath, we make our escape from Varkala. Hard to leave him and his mahout, and the boys at Dolphin Bay, but the party is over… it’s time to move on to Alleppy, the ‘Venice’ of India, with it’s lazy backwaters and network of canals.
At Vrindhavanam Heritage home we find a beautiful inner courtyard streaming with purple bourganvillia and potted palms, a bursting oasis of green contained by the white washed walls and terracotta roof tiles of this traditional family home. We are reminded the Portuguese colonized Kerala long before the British ever laid foot in India with their afternoon tea and cricket.
A short walk to the nearby canal, under shady trees, past aromatic gujarati sweet stores and a Jain temple brings us to the city beach. No bikinis here, but it’s quite beautiful … big waves, a few fisherman’s boats and boys, trousers rolled-up, ankle deep in the water. No cafes, no stalls, but as we walk, a simple raised platform, with some chairs and tables overlooking the waves. A little lad in full length pants and buttoned up shirt runs out to us. … “whatsyournamepenplease” … he looks awkward with his laced up shoes in the sand.
“Hellooo” a voice greets us from the platform, ‘ Come, please come!’ so we scramble across the rocks to the tall young Indian man , beckoning graciously with his long lean hands. His name is Anil, he runs the small guest house of four tidy bamboo huts, his only guest, a spaced out, bleary-eyed Brit swings in the hammock below. As we sip Anil’s ‘Special’ …. A mouth watering, milky concoction of tender coconut, a curious little 4 year old appears, scrambling onto the platform, wide-eyed, confident, bangles jangling as she fearlessly reaches for my drink…’ no Alleena!’ Anil says as he scoops her up on his lap. She wriggles and squirms, her shiney short pageboy hair getting in her face. Your daughter we ask? No, my neighbour’s’ Anil tells us….. he’s not yet married. His father, a fisherman was injured when Anil was young and since he has 2 sisters he must work 2 jobs, rising at 4 am to go fishing and returning to run the guest house, so his sisters might one day get married. He will have to wait.
Yes marriage is difficult here in India, where a girls family must provide a serious dowry and a young man needs to be well established with a responcible job in order to find a wife. Often people can’t afford to get married, or go into great debt to do so. Many a girl child is seen as a liablility here, especially in rural India where traditionally married women do not work, despite the fact women are seen picking tea, picking cotton and building roads all over India. Prostitution is a big problem, young girls trafficked or sold to the city brothels. And what are young men to do? sex before marriage is frowned upon, living with a woman is frowned upon, women are always covered up. …. that is, except for foreign women. No wonder there are gawkers and stalkers on the beaches, hordes of young Indian men eager to get a glimpse of tourist flesh. For us it is uncomfortable, irritating and sometimes offensive being the object of their incessant gaze, but who can blame them, to them it must be quite an opportunity ! It’s hard to imagine what they think of us, most self-respecting Indians would never remove their clothes to go in the sea, most don’t even know how to swim, they paddle at the edge of the ocean, saris hiked, lungi’s rolled racing away from the waves. Westerners must seem flagrantly immodest, perhaps they imagine we are all loose women inciting them to immoral behavior? As a result one spends most time at an Indian beach self-conciously dashing in and out of the water, watching for the next batch of ‘admirers’ to arrive on the horizon so you can wrap your sarong swiftly around you rather than suddenly opening your eyes to find some fellow standing a few feet away intently gazing in silence!
As the sun sets we listen to the mulla giving praise to Allah from the local mosque and Anil disappears to bathe and put on a clean shirt and mundu (white sarong) for evening pujas. He is very proud of the new Sree Munnodi temple nearby and invites us to join him. It’s a short walk, through chicken pecked back yards and down a ‘tunnel’ of fluttering silver paper streamers to the temple grounds. Sree Munnodhi is a large new temple with a chinese style roof and hundreds of votive oil lamps surrounding the outer walls.The faithful arrive and walk round the temple 3 times as the frenetic, jangling high-pitched music announces evening prayers. Anil must return to his clients after making his pujas alone, but he dips his finger in the cooling tumeric and sandalwood paste and smears it on our foreheads. He explains we can join the evening ceremony as long as we don’t go inside the temple. We wait, the sun goes down and mosquitoes start drawing blood at the ankles. A brahmin appears to lights the lamps with a long brass stick and people quietly begin to enter the temple, men bare-chested wearing white mundu’s and women in elegant and colourful saris leading children, all fastidiously groomed. We stand outside, hands folded in Namaste, peering into the shrine of Durga, tiger riding Goddess of Power. First there is music and a durge like chanting, then the conch sounds to announce the ceremony’s firey climax. The flaming torch is lit and the inner sanctum opened to reveal the golden image of the Goddess. To a cacophany of conch, jangling music and ringing bells, heads are lowered as the Goddess is circled three times with the firey torch, then the doors swing closed and she retreats into her dark and hidden alcove. We move next to peer into the shrine of Kali, the dark goddess, seen weilding a sword and wearing a necklace of severed heads. Some say she is the dark manifestation of Parvati, Shiva’s consort, or of all three major goddesses together, Lakshmi, Saraswarti and Parvati. The process is repeated, the bells ring and I try to sneak a look at Kali without being turned to stone! But amid the fire and the noise I sense only a wave of heat.
Finally, separate from the main temple is the shrine to Shiva, God of death and destruction… part of the great trimurti of the Hindu religion, Bramha the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver and Shiva the Destroyer, without whom creation could not occur. Inside the inner sanctum is the Shiva Lingum, a phallic representation of Shiva’s creative aspect.
When the ceremony has ended we all go to collect a (right!) handful of the delicious sweet prasad, or blessed food. Today’s prasad is a gooey nutty, honey, cocunut mixture. Everyone is curious but respectful of the 2 foreigners in their midst. Two little boys in short pants, who kept looking back at us during the ceremony, shyly wave goodbye as we leave trying to remember where we left our shoes, searching in the sand at the entrance of the compound.

NEW YEAR's EVE....

FROM DECEMBER 31st

The big night arrives, Ziraj has booked a Mumbai DJ for the New Year’s Eve party so we’re duty bound to go to Dolphin Bay. The first part of the evening is fun, we watch as hundreds of Indians swarm onto the far end of the beach paddling fully clothed in the sea. We wander over to Dolphin Bay where our elephant Rajive stands fully decked out in festival gear with glorious golden headpiece. We take our front seats watching as Indian families stroll by in their ‘Sunday best’ mixed with mottley gringos, some dressed up, some dressed down some dressed in drag ….. all seeming to have a nervous agenda. Our boys at Dolphin Bay are frenzied and distracted, all 5 courses arrive at once! We decide to take a stroll, the cliff edge is packed, there’s a nervous tension in the air, young foreigners in the bars drinking, Russian babouzchkas scantilly clad, young Indian men on the cliff edge oggling and knocking back hard liquor. I begin to feel uncomfortable …too many people, too much alcohol, too long a drop down the unguarded cliff edge!
Back at Dolphin Bay the mucic is pounding ….. instead of the Bangra and Bollywood disco we’ve been promised techno tunes at a deafening decibal pierce the air. Lots of european kids jostling on the dance floor, wielding bottles of beer. I’m not feeling up to this! I’m feeling like peace and quiet and reflection, I want to leave, but stay a while for my pals, Corinne is dancing with the boys. Midnight comes and goes …. It’s New Year and nobody knows! No acknowledgement, no Auld Lang Seine, no friends raising a cup of kindness, no remembering 2006, one of the hardest years of my life. Perhaps it’s best that it’s not remembered, but somehow I want to acknowledge it, the difficulties, the sadness, the loss. The speakers are bursting my eardrums, some young buck sprays beer over the crowd, the police arrive to extract a bribe … …. my cue to leave. I leave Corinne with a New Years hug before walking away to go bury my head in my pillow and make a new year’s resolution, never again! No more drunken New Year’s parties! From now on I will have contemplative New Years in remote and beautiful places.

My Ayurvedic Massage

FROM DECEMBER 30TH

Ayurveda was, of course the first kind of ‘Medical tourism’ here in Kerala, foreigners have been coming here for decades to experience this amazing alternative to allopathic medicine. Along with my new crown, for New Year I get a wonderful gift from Corinne of an Ayurvedic massage. The 11/2 hour treatment was partly keralite foot massage too. The whole process was an intense experience, all inhibitions should be left at the door!
My masseuse took me to a private room, where I was instructed to remove everything, clothes and ornaments, and sit naked on a stool infront of her, fully clothed in her salwar kameez. Loosening my hair she poured a green coloured, roasted coconutty oil over my head, massaging my scalp and ruffling my hair. Then I was instructed to lie on the rubberized floor matt as she spread copious amounts of sweet caramelly oil over my back and legs. Holding onto a rope for balance she expertly proceeded to massage my back in long strokes with her foot. She moved onto my arms then legs with firm confident strokes, repeating the proceedure on my front body. I was helped to my feet to lie on a massage table, a second masseuse appeared, more oil, and then in perfect synchronized rythem there were 2 sets of hands making sweeping across my body, over my breasts, down my legs. The rythmic rocking was mesmerizing, the strokes firm and fast. Although certain techniques were ticklish and made me laugh, much to their amusement! Still they did not break their silence. They made me feel at ease despite my nakedness, but I did feel very naked and very exposed in this land where I am always conscious of covering up, where women are habitually covered from head to toe. I marvel that such an intimate form of massage should have developed here in India where it is impossilbe even for people to bathe in the sea without clothes on.
As I sank into surrender that perfumed sugary smell of indian sweets seemed to waft through the air, I vaguely realized it was the bright pink cream she was using to massage my face. When the session was over both girls lead me to the adjoining shower room to wash off the oil and rinse my hair. This was perhaps my only uncomfortable moment, feeling like a maharani being bathed by her servants, I opted to wash myself instead. I left feeling supple, relaxed and squeaky clean and the next day, very tired! I couldn’t imagine having the prescribed treatment course of 10 days without feeling exhausted, and all from lying down and doing nothing!

Crowning Glory!

FROM DECEMBER 28th

One day on the beach I spot some odd behavior among the gringos…. An older woman in a teeny weeny bikini, first smiling then snarling at herself, mirror in hand…strange?? She proceeds to lift her upper lip and examine her own teeth with intense interest…. Somewhat like examining the teeth of a horse (the analogy is not so far removed…. her chompers being exceedingly long and pearly!) … hmmm? Later in a café on the cliff I see a similar display among to males of the species…. Must be a local custom, I thought… until the next day, climbing to the cliff walk by a different route the truth is revealed! A sparkling new dental surgery offering all mod cons in dentistry for the discerning tourist. There seems to be a new trend in ‘toothy tourism’ …. ‘come lie on the beach, soak up the sun, fix a few fillings and cap a few crowns!’ You can even have your entire smile re-designed at half the price!
As it happens I’m in the market for a new crown myself, having chipped a tooth badly before leaving….. I decide to check it out. I step into a squeaky clean surgery, recline in the chair, feeling a little unnerved by not one but two indian dentists gazing into my open mouth jabbering away in Malayalum. Eventually…. ‘ Yes Madame, actually you need three crowns not one! Oh no, no, no! Much to their disappointment I finally bargain it down to the original one, then have a choice of Indian or finest German porcelain. Well what would you choose?? Not that I’ve any way of knowing! They say they can do it in 3 days ….. and they do! Despite my childhood fear of the drill they tell me it won’t hurt…. and it doesn’t! They’re a little heavy handed but when it costs $120 (including an ultrasonic cleaning!) instead of $1000 I can live with that. I leave with a promise that if my crown drops off I’ll send it back for someone else J and as soon as the others need doing I’ll be on the first plane to Kerala!
Later I read more about this new form of ‘Medical Tourism’ savvy europeans and americans get expensive medical tests and treatments like MRI’s, angioplasty or even cardiac surgery at short notice and a fraction of the cost in Kerala’s well equipped specialist centers. Tours of the future could read “ 7 nights on a house boat, quadrupal bypass surgery, ayurvedic rejuvenation, smile designing, cataract surgery and wilderness trekking!”

Dolphin Bay Fire Dance/ The Little Maharaja

DEC 27 --- JAN 2
Varkala becomes ‘home’ for a week….In my need to unwind, I submit to the scene and fall into an easy routine. On my first visit to India in 1982 Varkala was so remote and unknown it was a nudist beach…. Now it’s very different but once I accept it for what it is the scene is quite curious in itself. Late afternoon the beach is crowded , scores of gringos lapping up the sun, playing frisby, buying carefully cut pineapple from the fruit sellers or sugary white poison from chai walli’s giant steel tea cannister. (sadly served in nasty plastic instead of the earthenware cups of yore) Around sunset, the dogs, who all look related, and have been lazily curled up on the beach all day begin to stir ….. ‘right chaps!’ says the Top Dog, ‘time for some grub!’ and off they trot in single file, to the clifftop. Pretty soon, but with less sense of purpose, the touristas follow suit. The clifftop restaurants display the most magnificent array of fish you’ve ever seen. … Swordfish as long as your arm, ‘ butterfish’ , Red Snapper and enormous tiger prawns. All vie with each other for your custom. One evening a tall self-assured Indian man in a brightly coloured orange shirt persuades us, with his big smile and friendly, easy-going manner, to take the front seat at ‘Dolphin Bay’. Ziraj has a big presence and a large wingspan, which he frequently uses as he waves his arms around to the music like huge albatrose in flight. It turns out this happy-go-lucky chap is the owner, and also, as he casually informs us, a film-maker too. As we wait for our food he bounces back and forth between soliciting new customers and seranading us with Malayalum songs! As we wait for our food he pulls up a chair which, like his english, he uses intermittently and by way of introduction tells us silly jokes about arranged marriage …. one can be almost sure this young man is dodging the draft! As we wait for our food, it’s hard to imagine what kind of films he makes? he seems committed, writing 4 hours a day in his native Maliyali, his last one was called ‘The Stranger’ and he admits it was strange!
As we wait for our food, we overflow our frothy Lime Sodas with a teaspoon of sugar, as we wait for our food, we are promised a Jamaican Firedance, yes dancer coming soon (like the food!) Dancer or no I am getting hypoglycemic and irritable and about to jump up and take a bite from the raw fish display when finally …. at long last the food arrives “so sorry, all fresh, takes time!” (did they catch the fish themselves?) “Yes my father is a fisherman” says Ziraj, whose family turns out to be in big construcion business! Of course it is mouth wateringly delicious, how could it not be, a fried roach would have been tasty at that point. Maybe it is all a ploy to keep us sitting in the front seats waiting for the “Fire Dance”…. Coming soon, (all the way from Jamaica?) A flaming torch is lit and stuck on the pathway dangerously close to the papier mache nativity scene. At around 10pm the fine featured, long haired, lanky young man standing behind the counter gutting fish and squering prawns disappears. Moments later the music pumps up and he re-emerges bare chest glittering with gold and sparkling red. He starts gyrating Michael Jackson style to the smoothe deep techno beats occasionally blowing fire from the torch stuck precariously behind him on the pathway….. I have visions of New York’s hip-hop boys in Times Square. He’s a nutty spaced out hindu kid called Dibou and he’s a good dancer, soon he’s joined by his muslim friend Shah, and the 2 of them dance crazily on the path infront of the restaurant as astounded onlookers try to get by, and their sensitive christian co-worker Thomas, picks up the slack. As with everything else, religion seems at ease here in Kerala, these boys all work side by side and are good friends. They’re all poor boys with aspirations, Dibou wants to be an artist and dancer, he loves Tupaq, although he’s never heard his music! Thomas is a writer and wants to act, Shah, well, he’d be the DJ.
We spend most evenings at Dolphin Bay …. I get used to waiting long hours for my food and playing with my lime sodas! Their cheerful company adjusts my attitude! I talk to Ziraj about the Gandhigiri project, he smiles when I mention Munnabhai but seems to dismiss the film quite quickly. I press him on it but he doesn’t have much to say and I realize he is more interested in his own Malayali films. I begin to see that here in Kerala where the native tongue is Malayalum they have a very strong culture of their own and the Hindi films of Bollywood are not seen as much. Nonetheless I still manage to get some interesting reactions to my project.

THE LITTLE MAHARAJA

At breakfast one morning we are next to a table of well dressed young Indian men. I recognize the clipped sounds of Hindi and guess they are ‘tourists’ from Bombay, “here to watch the girls!” I joke…. the good looking one invite us to join them. His name is Omar, alias Mark, he’s young, dapper and very flirtatious with the self assured confidence that only the wealthy possess. His cousin lives in Tokyo, the friend lives in Bangkok and he is based in Paris, all in the family business, gems…. he is the boss of course. With a playboy’s casual ease he braggs about his visits to Buddha Bar on the Champs Elysees and with an eye on Corinne’s silky blonde hair hints at his adventures with western women! He shows us photos of himself wearing enough bling to sink a ship, the enormous heirloom emerald necklace is usually locked up in the vault! Yes his great grandfather was commissioned by the Maharaja of Jaipur to find gems for the Maharanis necklace and gems had been the family business ever since. Omar hints there is enough in the coffers for the next few gererations.
When I mention the Gandhigiri project it causes quite a reaction. He seems to vehemently dislike Gandhi! He tells us the story of Bhagat Singh and his 2 fellow freedom fighters who were hung in the 1920’s for lobbing a bomb into a British Government office, Omar and his friends seem to think Gandhi could have intervened to save their lives.( I make a mental note to investigate this further online.) He blames Gandhi for ‘hindering’ the industrial development of India by focusing on rural developement, he is intensely nationalistic and proud of the global recognition India is receiving today.But I can’t help thinking altough Omar (alias Mark) os singing the praises of this newly developed India, he does not live here! He lives Paris and wears European designer clothes and Swiss made watches. Even if he did live here he is a ‘King’ to whom nothing is denied, he is the decendant of the private jeweller of the Maharaja of Jaipur. I later remember that these ‘Princely States’ received special privaleges under the British Raj and had some of the worst poverty in the whole of India. Even today, Rajestan, home of the Rajputs, remains one of the poorest states with a literacy rate of only 38% almost half the national average. Gandhi fought to get them to join the campaign for an independent and unified India, but ultimately with Independence the Maharajas had to relinquish their extravagant riches and eventually lost their sovereign status, power and prestige. Or did they? perhaps much of their wealth ended up in a Swiss bank account....those riches never seem to reach the lower classes. What has been most evident to me on my return to India is that even today, although there has been a massive increase in vehicles, cell phones and technology in general, the poverty seems unchanged. The increased wealth in the cities does not seem to be signigicantly reaching the lower castes or classes.

Kerala Calling.... Elephantails....

27 DEC-- JAN
We catch our first white “Ambassador Classic” Kerala cab from the airport through Trivandrum to the rail station, passing street procession on the way, people body painted in yellow and black stripes with tiger masks, some in cages…. Later I find out this is called ‘Poolikali’ or ‘Tiger Games’ But we’re headed for Varkala, the beachof choice for India weary tourists to strip down to their bikinis , soak up the sun and eat ‘gringo’ food. Although ready for a beach, I’m also sceptical of this scene …. So unreal somehow, since we’ve only just arrived I don’t feel a burning desire to ‘escape’ India yet.
Varkala is a cliff top lined with tourist stores and restaurants, bungalows and bamboo cottages. Some 80 or so steps down below is the beach upon which the local lads can gaze from above at the scantily clad girls ….. a bit like being in a fish bowl really! All usual local sensitivities seem suspended here, especially at this time of year when young sun seeking Euros fly in for New Year and prices double. But still, these Keralans seem pretty cool and laid back.
Arriving just before the big New Year rush we manaage to snag a nice room with balcony breeze included, at Oceanic. But by far the best part of the deal is the elephant outside our window!.His name is Rajive, and although he’s a working elephant he’s here with his mahout Sunil for a month to give rides to the gringos. Each morning I eagerly await the soft padding gentle swaying step that lands Rajive beneath our window. It’s shower time….the hose is turned on, Sunil gives instructions in his lilting Malayalum …. ‘Step back, right, a little more! Over here, back a bit' “aleyaleyaley” the splash of water as it drips from the leathery skin, the flapping of happy ears and swishing tail. As his trunk is filled with water the elephant swings it up and sprays all over his back, a process that’s gleefully repeated several times until shower time is over and breakfast begins. I sit on the balcony watching mesmerized as he chomps his way through large piles of palm fronds and occasional banana treats, delicately manoevering them with his curling trunk. I’m amazed at how man and elephant seem to speak the same language, and how this huge wild beast seems so calm and placid even around children who want to stroke him or climb unsteadily onto his back. On our final morning in Varkala, the second day of the New Year and Rajive gets a serious bath! This requires 2 men, one to hose and one to scrub! I watch as he lowers on one knee making a step for Sunil to climb up on his back and scrub behind his ears and down his forehead. Rajive patiently lols from one large padded foot to the next for his pedicure, turns around for a tail splash and around again to allow his trunk to be scrubbed clean and around his solumn pre-historic eyes. Even his tusks are scrubbed clean and the big brass rings around them given a polish. I find myself wondering if he enjoys such pampering like a human would? or is it just a longer wait for breakfast!

Clooneybhai in Transit.....

2/27TH DECEMBER
It's a tight race to pick up our bags, eat and get to the bus station, we arrive to find the bus is late. I talk the the nice gentleman who helped with my bags, he asks about the Lend-a-hand-India T-shirt I'm wearing, so I tell him about the project. He says in his day it was part of the school system to do some kind of 'Community ' service every week, but these days the children don't do it emphasis has been put on academic studies instead. I explain that one of the major components of the Vignan Ashram IBT training is to work on community projects, taking their newly aquired knowledge into the villages and putting their skill to practical use. The graduates are well positioned to seek employment in different fields.
The coach arrives, this is a first for me! a sleeping coach! As we climb cautiously on there's a slightly cheesy smell, but 12 neatly arranged bunk beds with curtains drawn in private cubicles, clean sheets and blankets, a bottle of water and a reading lamp! I feel like a school kid climbing into the bunk and whispering across the aisle to Corinne. Although it's a bumpy ride, amazingly I do have some dream-filled sleep as we roar through the night arriving in Mumbai at 6am in time for our Trivandrum flight.
THe 'Jet' airways domestic terminal is strangely slick and air-conditioned to sub zero temperatures, chai costs 25 Rupees instead of 5, but News is complimentary care of local newspapers and TV networks. There on the front page I notice it..."Clooney wants Munnabai too" ... the Hollywood superstar has expressed a desire to watch the Sanjay Dutt starrer' ..... Yes Clooney seems interested in the film and director Rajkumar Hirani is already working on a sequel, Munnabhai Goes To America!! WOW!! and as icing on the cake, some scenes from Lage Raho Munnabhai suddenly flash across the TV screen above our heads. I ask the young girl next to me about it, she says it is becoming the most popular film in India! She says some doctors had staged a ' Gandhigiri' style protest, with flowers and 'get well' cards in true Munnabhai style.

Ellora and Ajanta

25 DECEMBER
" Be Clean, Be Quiet, Be Respectful" reads the prominent notice in the dirty hallway of this Muslim Gentleman's hotel ... But we are woken at 6am this Sunday morning by a cacophany of male shoats and screams reverberating round the empty halls. SHAHID!! HASSAN!! AMIR!! Off to an outing and no concern for their neighbours!
Our Christmas gift... there's a room at the Sri Maya! We move, breakfast gleefully on the balcony and hit the bumpy road to Ellora. We arrive, assaulted by touts ..... postcards, Ellora guide books, maps of India, miniature cave carvings 'here Madam, just looking, just looking!' Swarms of families, kids, just looking, just looking. The Kailash Temple... almost too magnificent to be true, hewn out of the rockface in AD 700, believed to have taken 7000 men 150 years to build!.... splendidly ornate, awe-inspiringly beautiful. Enormous sculptures, Shiva dancing in the Cosmic circle, Boar-headed Vishnu, all manner of voluptuous Devis and half human creatures, surrounded by a hundred elephant heads. Tales of the Ramayana, Mahabarata and adventures of Krishna line the dim collonades. It is unbeleivable ...... and unbeleivably packed, 'photo please, photo please' at every corner... Corinne, the tall blonde one, steals the limelight to grace the albums of every Indian family! While I lurk in the shadows trying not to get caught.
As we move away from the baroque extravaganza of the Hindu temple , the Buddhist caves begin to get more austere.In a dark hall sunlight flickers on a serene central statue sitting under a huge domed ceiling, the inside of a gigantic rib cage? The heat outside is stiffling, but inside it's cool and slightly damp. The earliest caves have only a Stupa to represent the Buddha. The Jain caves have amazing intricately carved lace-like columns and austere naked statues of the standing Mahavira. The scope and magnitude is quite overwhelming, 32 caves in all, Hindu, Buddhist and Jain, 3 religions sitting side by side for over 5 centuries, the monks and holy men of all three working simultaneously on these caves, a testament to India's history of religious tolerance.
As the sun is setting we go to the Muslim Fort Daulatabad, "The City of Fortune" build on a 200 m high hill that had been known as Devagiri, the Hill of the Gods. Now we're even more the object of attention as we climb past the intricate 'Chand Minar', Tower of the Moon and through the massive walls and barbed doors of this moated fortress. School kids are entranced by us, boys want photos, babies stare over their father's shoulders, wide-kohl-eyed. One mad Sultan built this fort and marched the entire population of Delhi 1100 km south to make it his new capital... many died on the way, and those that survived slowly slunk back north to Delhi, leaving the fort sitting red in the embers of the setting sun.
26TH DECEMBER
On the road to Ajanta we're stuffed in the backseat of our 'Classic Tours' bus with Rafael, an American Jew and a spiritual councilor living in Jerusalem for many years. We had 3 hours of conversation about India, religion, gods and gurus. What is it, this spiritual counciling? the modern doctor of the soul? One of his clients works with traumatized war victims, a job which often puts her in an emotionally and depressed state... with meditation he works to bring her back to balance. He has been involved for many years with Jewish mystical teachings, something I know very little about. Although he said it was hard to explain simply, ones life becomes structured around a complex set of practices, but the highest teaching sees the divine in every aspect of daily existence. This sounds familiar, Imran was saying the same thing about Sufism a few days ago. I wonder why the world has such severe religious clashes when ultimately 'all roads lead to the same God' and in so many cases religions do sit side by side without violence. Gandhi was known for embracing all religions in his search for Truth. "For me the different religions are beautiful flowers from the same garden, or they are branches of the same majestic tree. Therefore they are equally true, though being received and interpreted through human instruments equally imperfect."
Rafael had been to visit 'Amma', one of the few female gurus in India. Known as the 'hugging mother', her darshan or blessing consists of giving thousands of people hugs in all night sessions. Her 'gift' was recognised in childhood, her parents being afraid of it, wanted to disown her and there were many attempts on her life. She is said to have healed a leper by licking his wounds.
At last we arrived in Ajanta, 2 hours late... I bargain with our special 'tour manager' to allow us more time at the caves.... reluctantly he agrees to an extra hour. First we must line up in the midday sun for the special(?) 'pollution free buses', then wait for our jumpy little tour manager to get the tickets. THe bees swarm around ... touts, tourists, coachloads of school kids, families, milling, oggling, hassling ....
Once inside the 'Maharanis' are carried up on chairs with 4 pole bearers, but mere mortals like us must climb the steep steps to the caves. Long lines to see the major caves, much pushing and shoving and smelly feet! We see the first few then the renegade gringos break away promising to return by 4pm.
These caves pre-date Ellora, 30 in all, cut into the rock around a horseshoe shaped ridge between 200BC and 65AD. The oldest ones, some of the earliest buddhist caves in which a footprint, a stupa or a wheel of Dharma represents the Buddha.... incredible to believe today but Gautama Buddha asked his followers not to make images of him. In the gloomy caves Ajanta's famous fresco-like murals radiate a warm antique saffron and rusty brown with a golden hue. Jataka tales, scenes of princes and kings, the Buddha and his disciples, a princess surrounded by her attendants. It seems almost sacreligious that these caves are packed with noisy indian families disturbing their centuries of silence, but their serene beauty admonishes my haughty condescention .... 'these caves are their birthright not yours!'
As we move round the horseshoe the crowds seem more dense, the afternoon heat more intense, the 'hellowhatsyourname' more relentless. We check the watch, it's time to start back, wading through the sea of people... oh for a sedan chair! Reaching the parking lot we start to panic, where is our bus?? so many of them, what was it called? .... are we stranded? At last to our relief we spot Rafael and the renegade group of Calcutta Indians, waiting patiently in the bus. It's 4.15, it's 4.30 .... we wait... and wait... beginning to mumble our complaints. At last around 5pm our 'tour manager' saunters up with the rest of the group, grinning! We're about to say something when a voice comes from behind in a thick Indian english " What dee helll dooo yooo tink yooo are dooowing Yaar!" then our Calcutta lady looses it, the tour manager soon looses his grin as all hell is let loose in a tirade of Hindi! She's furious and won't let up as we all pile onto the bus. We're off toot sweet... belting through the backstreets and jumping over the bumps and watching the clock since we have a nightbus to Mumbai at 8pm. Suddenly the bus slows down and stops, everyone shifts uncomfortably,what now! the boys in the backseat tell us a car has broken down and we're going to tow it! ... I stride to the front of the bus and in my best queen's english address the tour manager " Excuse me, but some of us need to get back for the night bus to Mumbai" "yes, yes, just one moment maa'm," ..... "we need to leave NOW!" ..... Madame Calcutta starts clapping, THANK YOU! she announces as the door slams shut and at last we're back on the road to Aurangabad.

Christmas Caves

FROM DECEMBER 24TH.
Xmas Eve and exhaustion overcomes us sitting in our six am second class seat, chai in hand, I watch the sun rise as we leave the masses of Mumbai behind for the wide open land. A hazy mist hovers over the earth, bullock carts carry people to work, isolated men squat in the fields. On the outskirts of a small town a settlement of raggy tents --- the rural shantytown. But a teepee seems better than corrugated iron and cardboard, to wake with the damp smell of the earth and the song of the birds seems prefferable to the relentless city traffic and exhaust fumes. Surely these people are better off in the countryside than in the slums of mumbai? I think of Gandhi and how he tried to bring dignity back to the rural populations of India, how concerned he was about the loss of village life and urban migration.
We arrive in Aurangabad to find 'there's no room at the inn'... the town is 'full', Unknown to us, Christmas turns out to be the biggest school holiday, the 'Caves', NO 1 destination. Oh NO!
We settle for a dingy, dirty little room for way too much. Grubby walls and dank bathroom, the thought of a shower or lie down is unappealing, even after our long and sleepless journey. It's Christmas Eve and I feel tired and sad remembering Evan's lovely 7 Fishes dinner with my mum in New York.
At the 'tourist office' we're harrassed by a relentless rickshaw driver finally giving in to his plea we take a trip to the Aurangabad caves. His driving is boneshatteringly wreckless as we bump and jump over potholes and narrowly miss bikes and cars at crossroads. 'Hurry, hurry! No discussion!' he shouts as we reach the caves.
This is our first glimpse of cave sculptures prior to the glories of Ellora and Ajanta. Amazing Gods and creatures, Devis and Demons are carved out of the rock face... beautiful and quiet in the stillness of the warm evening air, there are very few people around. Deep at the back of one cave a large Buddha sits serenely in the gloam. My foot reaches down for the invisible floor as I step through the doorway and of the inner sanctuary. Stillness and darkness engulf me, the massive silent figure receding into the shadows.I stand still drinking in the peace and quiet like a thirsty dog.... as I'm about to leave a girl enters with a flashlight, she shines it around the cave and to our amazement the Buddha does not sitting alone. Out of the darkness emerge two huge figures standing either side of him, in the corners more kneeling devis and devotees, and on the ceiling hundreds of hanging bats! Utter amazement! this must have been what they felt, the pioneers of old, discovering these caves with their flamming torches.
As we emerge, the sun is setting, streaking the sky with luminous coral flames behind the white minarets of Aurangabad's miniature 'Taj'. Peace and space at last, away from the noise, away from the city, away from the room .... Christmas Eve.

Bombay Bride

FROM 23RD DEC.
Yes, we've been invited to an Indian wedding party.... great excitement! Corinne finds bling on Colaba Causeway, I find $5 heels, we cobble together some cocktail outfits from our bottomless bags, get 'glammed' and brave the Bombay traffic in search of the 'Golf Club'. Our conservative Muslim driver looks uneasy at the red light, as two bombay bike boys pull up alongside, yellow.... 'hello!' green, they're no where to be seen! Our man stepsed on the gas and we zoomed away. We exchange incredulous glances and look back, yes, they're in hot pursuit! Another crossroad, "Munna and his pal Circuit" are swooping and weaving through the traffic to catch us up, too late we make another escape, laughing out load this time, our driver looks protective and concerned. We shook them! but no! The chase continues, through slums and suberbs, over bridges and under flyovers. Another red .... we're dead! With a death defying swerve they pull up next to our open window. 9568... what? Having left us with their cell no. they disappear off into the Bombay night, leaving us in fits of laughter,our poor driver trying to look poised and dignified.
Finding the 'Golf Club' proves a little tricky, requiring the usual Rickshaw driver exchanges, wagging of heads and retracing our tracks. Arriving at last we find not a coctail bar, but a flood lit lawn, filled with Mumbai's glitteratti, gorgeous sari's, salwars amd suits, bejewelled and sparkling ... not a 'coctail dress' in sight, and certainly no bare shoulders or cleavage! The bride stands resplendant in her jewelled scintillating sari, hennaed hands, bangled arms, flowered hair, next to the groom, very dapper in a black designer suit. Embarrassed, I hug my silk shawl around my bare shoulders as we step on the platform to meet them. They must greet every single one of their 500 or so guests personally before they can party. They must be tired of smiling and shaking hands. It is a love match, we are told, a significant point here in India where 80 or 90 percent of marriages are still arranged. Although Bollywood is full of flirting females, flickering eyelashes and India's answer to John Travolta to fuel romantic fantasy reality remains arranged, but not today.
After awkward introductions hard liquor and Bombay's best bites are on offer. Everyone unwinds to tasty tandoori, delicious dosa and mouth-watering masalas and the Bollywood DJ starts to rock the lawn. Finally the bride and groom are allowed to leave the stage, the music pumps up and sparkling saris and crisply pressed shirts wander onto the platform as I leave in search of the loo. A quick scan of the crowd confirms we are the only two gringos in town. Clutching my shawl I skirt the pool, under the lazor gaze of the lads .... I feel the heat rising, and have a sudden urge to dive in (but no skinny dipping here!) so I dive in the Ladies room instead. Squatting in my finery I thank god for thunder thighs and wonder how these sari-clad girls manage with six yards of silk on the slippery porcelain after a few vodkas?
On my return the dance floor is packed, Imran makes his Kashmiri moves dancing with Corinne, kids weave in and out of swerving saris and the bride groom bounces to the bangra beat taking his last chance to groove with the girls. We boogie on down with Bollywood's best until midnight turns us into pumpkins and Cinderella leaves her Swiss size slipper to catch 40 winks before our 5 am train departs.

Mani Bhavan ....

FROM 23 Dec. MANI BHAVAN .... GANDHI's HOUSE
Mani Bhavan, the house where Gandhi stayed in Bombay between 1917 and 1934 is down a leafy backstreet of the the city. It's an old style Bombay house beautifully preserved and maintained and on the 1st floor is the simple room where Gandhiji stayed, still arranged in the simple manner in which he lived, with a spinning wheel and small mattress on the floor. He used to spin every day, as an example to the Indian people to wear homespun cotton Khadi, instead of buying imported British fabrics. It was here that he learnt to spin and also from where he started the Satyagraha movement. The walls are filled with old black and white photos of the Mahatma, (Great Soul) you can almost feel his presence. The miniature tableaux, exquisitely made, depicting major events from his life are an easy and colourful way to learn about his life and work, from the death of his father to his law studies in London, working for Indian rights in South Africa, his return to India, the famous salt march to Dandi, and his struggle to achieve Indian Independance. I was particularly interested in his efforts to village industry in India. He was most concerned about the erosion of rural life and urban migration, perhaps he foresaw the poverty and degradation of the masses in the city slums. He fought ceaselessly for the writes of 'Untouchables' fasting almost to the death on many occasions.
His prison bowl and eating utensils are here (Gandhi was "a guest of his Majesty the King" as he liked to say, many times, a total of around 6 years spent in British prisons) as are letters he wrote to Tolstoy and one to Hitler, imploring him not to go to war with Europe.

The Kashmiri Connection

FROM 20TH DEC.
Today we met Corinne's friend Imran, the model Kashmiri .... tall, broad-shouldered, good looking, with an international air and an english accent way better than mine! His friends are in town so we are swept off our feet on a grand tour of Mumbai with our four Kashmiri men. First stop the Maha Lakshmi Temple. It's by the sea, but we must struggle through a sea of devotees and stalls selling flowers, shining trinkets and indian sweets, a sea of marigolds, fushia orchids, scarlet saris and gold and yellow cloth. Men in dhotis selling deity pictures, Shiva with his trident, Durga on her tiger, Kali with her necklace of severed heads, Ganesh with his trunk and the beautiful Lakshmi, goddess of wealth and prosperity. Removing our shoes we ascend to the holy shrine. Sweet insence mingles with salty air and a hint of exhaust, the mumble of chanting and tinkling bells. We jostle in line with sari-clad women pushing and shoving, clutching their offerings. ... finally inside, a strangely modern golden Lakshmi looking hard and reflective amidst the bustling brahmins and bowing devotees.As I'm about to leave a brahmin reaches over and hands me prasad, a banana leaf heaped with pineapple slices and 3 round doughy looking balls. I lower my head to receive the vermillion mark on my forehead pushing a note in the collection box. Feeling blessed as we descend barefoot with the crowd and I purchase a twinkling gold sticker of Shiva's feet!
Next stop 'The Haj' this mauseleum of a famous Sufi saint stands white and isolated at the end of a long causeway reaching out into the sea. At night it is covered by water, during the day, by devotees. As we walk, the stalls selling miniature prayer mats, amulets and beads give way to beggers lining the causeway.More and more, deformed, disabled, chanting, moaning, crying. I find it very hard, conversation dries up, it is hard to know how to handle this. Life is cheap here, there is no safety net for the disabled, the mentally or physically wounded from the under class of society. I think of the 'Spastic Society of India' but none of these children will be helped by them, these are the poorest of the poor.I wonder, will India ever deal with this problem, with economic growth will there also be a parallel growth in social awareness? But here, this is not seen as a problem, but more an integral part of the fabric of society. Imran explains to me that so many beggers come here because they know in the Islamic faith it is customary to give alms especially after a pilgrimage to the Haj. He also explains much about his country and culture and I ask him about Sufism. He tells me that Sufism was responcible for the original expansion of the Islamic faith in Kashmir and much of India. Sufis celebrate the divine in every aspect of life through devotional song, poetry and dancing, they did not discriminate against any other religion that wished to join them in their glorification of Allah. They also emphasize living in the present moment, and living peacefully with others, it was only later that the Moguls converted people by the sword. He also told me that at heart Kashmiris are a peaceful people, infact one of their most famous Sufi saints was influenced by buddhist ideas, but it has been caught in a struggle between Pakistan and India. So I ask him about "Gandhigiri" He said he is very interested in the film, he feels the only solution for Kashmir is a non-violent one. How could Kashmir do battle with the two nuclear powers at it's borders? He sites similarities between Kashmir and Switzerland, better to become resourceful like the Swiss.
Over lunch Imran tells us about his project with Kashmiri craftsmen. He and his father have started a school in Kashmir to educate the children of craftsmen, not only in their craft but also with a modern education. He is working primarily with fine Kashmir shawls and is creating a fair trade organization to bring funds in for the school and bring dignity back to the craftsmen. He is passionate about helping his people and is also working in the textile industry. I feel this is a project worthy of a "gandhigiri" interview, so I extract a promise that he will do an interview with me on my return to Mumbai.
We end the afternoon spotting the houses of Bollywood stars and on Juhu Beach for the sunset. ... beset by beach hawkers and a dancing monkey doing the "Michael Jackson" and the sweet persistant Mindi girls. I finally succumb getting my hand henna-ed and paying too much.... but now I am ready for a wedding! So Imran invites us to one!!

Good Morning Mumbai!!!

FROM TUESDAY 19th Dec....6am Colaba awakens, the sound of sweeping then scrubbing outside my window, a soft cooing through the leafy courtyard, a cacophony of black crows cawing. A beat-up old tom cat hobbles down the street below. Gradually the soft mumbling of human voice, clinking aluminium cooking pots, a rickshaw rumbles through the back streets, the beep beep of a yellow-black taxi. The crows are hovering ready to snatch leftover toast from the balcony breakfast as we set out jet-lagged, adjusting to the humid heat.
Gate of India, enormous, grandiose, a vision of colonial might...in all it's glory silouetted against blue sky and ocean. Erected 1924 through which the last British regiment departed only 24 years later leaving an independant India. Today there are touts, hawkers, balloon sellers, begging children, tourists.My dear friend and travel companion Corinne, tall, blonde... a magnet! In moments we are surrounded. Me, chatty with the locals, susceptible to their yarns, although I should know better. We receive our blessing from the hindu priest, the ubiquitous piece of string round the wrist (oh no! this one's so thick it'll never fall off!) Yes 50 rupees please. Ma'm! Ma'm! milk powder for the baby, 150 rupees please. Sightseeing all mumbai Auntie, just looking! just looking! only 2000 rupees.
Escaping, we head up The Causeway towards Kala Ghoda, our first taste of Mumbai traffic... cars, buses, taxis hurtling at top speed, rickshaws, bikes, motorbikes weaving inbetween... pedestrians taking life-threatening leaps to cross the street! Dusty buildings loom round 'Regal Circle' and up Mahatma Gandhi road! Traffic exhaust tinges everything black from buildings to trees to traffic and people.
Leafy respite at last in Horniman Circle, leads to our first Gandhigiri opportunity!
"The Spastic Society of India" (refreshingly Un- PC name!) is having a bazaar. Beautiful items for a good cause, I buy two bags.The cashier, gazing at my freckles in fascination, returns too much change.... I hand her back the 50 Rupee note, she smiles embarrassed. We get invited to the inaugural show to see the kids perform and guided to the cushy front seats. Seemed like a good idea to rest our legs.
Ah.... but.... the endless gift giving ceremony, the speeches, the American consul general, I start to nod, applause, I jerk awake sitting bolt upright, mortified at the idea of nodding off in our honoured guest seats. More speeches, jet-lagged drooping eyes, nodding head, I lurch to the side. Then a prod from the 'spastic kid' behind. He's sharp! nobody else noticed! I glance pleadingly at Corinne and then the entrance... it's jam packed, no escape! We're here for the duration. I think of Gandhi who got away with 4 hours sleep a night, I pinch myself. Suddenly I'm rescued! Miss Bollywood Babe herself is onstage, her high pitched voice and the jangling music searing my ears and shaking my brain as she gyrrates to her latest hit, "Oh what a Babe!" Bollywood's answer to Janet Jackson and my answer to jet-lagg!
We make it through the whole program, the kids in wheel-chairs with dancing arms, the girls school choir with tinsel batons singing 'Silent Night' and 'little Xmas Tree'... and the tree herself with jingling ankle bells and flashing lights. A sense of guilty pleasure as the whole thing draws to a close, the Xmas tree sashays offstage with 'father christmas' loosing her beard and belly. Surely patience is a double virtue when you're jet-lagged and in desperate need of a nice cup of tea!!