Queen of the Arabian Sea

**NOTE: The following events were in 2017. Catching up on old posts before I leave for another adventure in a couple of weeks! Stayed tuned for new adventures soon!!**

Day 751 – 21 March, 2017

The Ernakulam Railway Station was as close as we were going to get to Fort Kochi by public transport. The train from Alleppey was short. I sat by the open window, allowing the hot dusty air to tussle my hair into a sweaty rat’s nest. Jill sat opposite me and fell asleep sitting up. She had picked the hostel after overlooking several others. I had kept quiet when she scrolled through the options, selecting the one with the least remarkable reviews, with the least desirable location, and with the lowest price. While she slept, I checked the listings for alternatives. I had been picking my own hostels for more than two years and while I’m sure her choice was adequate, I was partial to another place called Happy Camper that had better reviews, a better location, and a full $3USD more expensive per night. My gut feeling told me I would be happier at the second option. This was the last city we would travel to together – the time had come to make a break for it.

Ernakulam is the more industrial cousin to Kochi’s Old Fort tourist district so when we disembarked the train, we were not quite where we needed to be. Jill wanted to find a local bus to take us the rest of the journey so I shuffled along behind her, still trying to protect my shoulder, knowing there was a bus station a short distance up the road. Unfortunately, the road came to an abrupt end with a graffitied concrete wall that was conspicuously absent from the map. A turn to the left would lead us through a residential neighborhood; a turn to the right would cross the train tracks. Jill began to follow a few other people that were heading across the rail yard in the direction of the tracks. In my flip flops, I stepped over broken bottles, plastic waste in varying degrees of weathered decomposition, a sleeping dog, and loads of what we will just pretend was animal waste. I nearly slipped in a neon green liquid that formed a steady stream downhill. I was concentrating so hard on the placement of my feet and my balance that I hadn’t looked up to notice the next obstacle in our way.

We had reached the outermost train platform with a concrete sidewalk relatively clear of trash and debris, but there was about a five foot gap with a brown sludgy liquid that smelled like exactly probably exactly what it was. The other people in front of us were all hopping over the river of poo. Jill turned to look at me just before she leaped over too. I hesitated at the edge, mentally calculating (rotator cuff x 30 lb of luggage + unreliable flip flop grippage – swimming in Shit Creek). Yeah, no. I didn’t mean to cause a problem or make things more difficult, but the negative outcome was just not worth the risk. I told Jill I was going to turn around, backtrack through the residential neighborhood, and meet her at the bus station. An instant frown seemed to embody her entire face. I turned to go just as she brushed past me stomping through the trash and debris. Here we go again…

In no time, we had reached the bus station via our alternative route only to learn that we were at the wrong station and there weren’t any buses departing to the Old Fort. The next best option was to take an auto rickshaw. I’m not sure what exactly happened next, but there was some confusion in negotiating our fare with the driver, which started with Jill and I both talking over each other to clarify an amount with the driver and ended in a full on screaming match with each other as our bewildered driver puttered along through traffic. Four weeks worth of stifled frustrations and miscommunication came out as word vomit that couldn’t be taken back. In less than sixty seconds, everything that shouldn’t have been said was said and the rest of the journey we sat in silence.

I didn’t tell her, however, that I would not be staying at the hostel she picked until we arrived. We got out together and paid our driver. I said my decision to stay elsewhere had nothing to do with our recent outburst. I wished her luck in the rest of her travels, that I was sorry that something had broken down along the way, and I walked the four blocks to Happy Camper. The last time I saw her she was scowling and huffily turned on her heel and walked away.

The rest of the afternoon I felt free for the first time in India. I wandered through the kitschy tourist market, walked along the coast watching the large Cheena vala (a type of stationary Chinese fishing net) hauling their catch, teenage boys skipping rocks at low tide, young girls gossiping and watching the boys, a dog nosing a discarded fish carcass while a flock of seagulls tried to pull off a robbery. Mostly, I just sat and watched this sleepy port go about its usual routine. The guilt of making my own decisions had just vanished. I reflected on how much I had loved this country and all of its unexpected treasures. I still had two weeks, but I would be leaving the sultry south for the cacophony of the north. I loved the warm hospitality of the people and the way the smell of curry would forever make my mouth water like a Pavlovian dog. I loved the cows that would brazenly disrupt the flow of traffic, but yet were treated with such deference and respect anyway. I loved the wide-eyed, barefoot children that unashamedly stared at the tourists who didn’t look like them or anyone else they had ever met. I loved how everything took three times longer than it should and how nearly every transaction involved a careful game of negotiation. I loved how the oppressive heat would ever so subtly abate in the evenings and that the polluted air would give the sunset a stunning red glow. I even loved the sound of honking horns and the pungent smells of raw sewage (only in the sense that these were part of the clandestine experience, not because I’m a masochist).

I woke the next morning with a text message from Jill. It was a lengthy diatribe of everything I had done wrong, why our falling out was entirely my fault, and basically she was sorry that I was such a miserable traveler and hadn’t enjoyed India. I was inclined to delete the message and forget about it (and her) for the rest of my life, but it was the baseless accusation that I hadn’t loved my time in the south that encouraged my response. I knew I wasn’t innocent; however, these things are rarely one-sided as she seemed to suggest. We were clearly not cut from the same cloth. We should have parted ways weeks ago or at least confronted some of our miscommunication before it was elevated to such an ugly level, but I was absolutely enamored with India. I had fallen in love with this place in spite of Jill. In fact, she wasn’t even more than a passing thought as I savored every memory. I absorbed all of the negativity that she felt compelled to type out in a message and let it dissipate during my morning meditation. There was no benefit to a rebuttal. She was irrelevant to my forward journey.

I spent the day at a local art exhibit put on by university students. The art expo was housed inside Aspinwall House, a British heritage property facing the sea that used to house a global trading company. I’ve never claimed to be much of an art aficionado, but the interior rooms had big industrial fans that made you forget, even for just a second, that you hadn’t felt air con in weeks…so it was kind of heavenly.

When I got back to Happy Camper, I saw that I had a message from Donal. He had arrived in Kochi and wanted to take me to dinner. I knew his intention was probably to make it a date, although he pretended it was casual. Nevertheless, I was in need of a positive vibe and I liked his company so I agreed. We ate at a seaside seafood restaurant. It wasn’t fancy unless you use the backpacker scale in which case it was five stars. They even served alcohol, a rarity. I remember laughing a lot and sweating and mosquitoes and the salty smell of the ocean and talking about where we might travel to next. I was flying to Delhi the next morning. Donal would spend more time in the south. It was a perfect evening.

The next morning I took an Uber to the airport, which I can now attest is a great way to get around India. It was early and there was no traffic. The driver drove as if he had just robbed a bank. He was playing music on the radio, but I could barely hear it. I asked him if he would turn it up. He said, “But it’s Bollywood music, madam.” I said, “Great! I love it!” With a big smile, he cranked his “Bollywood” music to 100 decibels and while the sun was rising to the east, I stuck my head of out the sedan and said goodbye to southern India…for now.

Backwaters

Day 749 – 19 March 2017

A short train from Varkala pushed us back further north into the backwaters of Kerala. Alleppey sits on the coast with a wide flat beach, but the true draw is the network of canals that link rural life to the sea. I gingerly carried my pack on an aching shoulder and shuffled along the dusty road as my pink flip flops turned a dingy brown. Jill and Mel lagged behind.

We had prearranged a hostel that appeared to be deserted when we arrived. It was the cleanest and most modern hostel we had stayed at in India so far, but oddly, there were no patrons, nor staff. The open air restaurant in the front at least provided some shade. The menu of banana, mango, pineapple, and pomegranate lassis was just taunting us as we waited for someone to appear. Finally, a short, gregarious gentleman bounded down the stairs and without taking our names, led us around to a dorm room in the back. For the first time since Mumbai, we were finally sleeping in a traditional hostel, meaning that we each had our own bed. No other bags littered the floor and the shoe rack outside was empty, save for our three pairs of dirty sandals. It was obvious we were the only people staying here.

I was ravenous so I stowed my bag and went back out to order one of those lassis. I ordered pomegranate, being the first time I had seen one on a menu. The man bobbled his head, “Sorry, we don’t have pomegranate today.” Of course. I wasn’t surprised. Not just in India, but lots of places have optimistic menus that can’t be accommodated.

“That’s ok,” I said. “I’ll take mango then.” Again, he bobbled his head. “Banana?”

“No, ma’am. So sorry”

I chuckled, knowing the answer, but I tried anyway, “Pineapple?”

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow.” No wonder this place was so clean.

Jill and Mel planned to go for a walk toward the beach and seeing as I was still hungry, I opted to join them. Today was Mel’s last day in India before she was due to fly home to New York. They were both making a big to-do out of it and, in fairness, I could definitely be accused of caring too little. I did like Mel and she was kind of an innocent bystander in the tension between Jill and I, but I had said so many goodbyes over the previous two years. It was draining and way too easy to sort of get used to it. A common flaw in way too many nomads like me, we are notoriously self-insulated from the inevitable separation, a heart not easily penetrated by such things as emotional goodbyes.

We ambled toward the beach, a wide stretch of eroded sand full of food stalls and gangly teenagers. As the only three westerners on the beach, we drew our fair share of attention. Women, men, children, and babies, unabashedly staring with wide eyes and slack jaws. I was still quite hungry as I trailed behind Jill and Mel. The smell of spit-fire corn was particularly enticing, yet we kept walking. It was sweltering outside and after walking a good distance down the beach, I decided to turn around. I couldn’t ignore the aroma of that sweet-smelling sustenance any longer.

Before I could make my way back toward the blackened corn, I ducked inside of a restaurant to buy a bottle of water. The restaurant was completely empty save for four staff members who jumped to attention the minute I opened the door. The bottle of water was ice cold, a luxury that is not easy to describe. As I flipped through my wallet to hand over ten rupees (15 cents) for the 2 liter bottle, one of the servers turned on the big commercial fan directly in front of me. And with that, I immediately pulled out a chair, sat down and asked for a menu. Ice water AND a fan? I completely forgot about the corn. Since I was the only patron, the service was bordering on obsessive. “Do you need anything, ma’am?” “Is everything all right for you, ma’am?” It was almost like service in America, overbearing, attentive, and a little bit desperate. At one point, they even moved two more fans in my direction that created somewhat of a tornado immediately over my table. I had to pinch my napkin between my thighs or it would have been whipping in a circle over my head. Through the open door, I saw Jill and Mel approaching on the sidewalk. Looking back, I’m ashamed to admit that I put my head down in my Kindle and hoped they wouldn’t see me as they passed.

Jill and Mel went to dinner that night to celebrate her last night in India. I didn’t not go because I was trying to be a jerk. I just wasn’t hungry after my late afternoon meal. Of course, this was not the right decision because it wasn’t about the meal – it was about saying farewell. However, it seemed whatever good will I could capture at that point would be fleeting so I selfishly chose to revel in the silence of a room to myself for a few hours. When the girls came back, I was just laying down for bed at our usual bedtime of 8pm. I tried to say the appropriate number of goodbyes, but we all knew the ship had sailed. I was an asshole.

Mel’s alarm buzzed early in the morning. Jill and I dragged ourselves out of bed once again to send her off in the morning dawn. Almost immediately after Mel stepped into an Uber and whizzed away, a vacuum of sour feelings filled the air. Jill and I went back to our room, only speaking when necessary. We were polite to each other, but it was obvious our buffer had gone.

We gathered ourselves to be ready for our day on the backwater canals. This was the whole reason to be here. Tourists usually rent a houseboat and spend a couple of days touring up and down the rural communities, but we had opted to take the more budget-friendly man-powered canoes. With Mel gone, I really wanted to make more of an effort with Jill. We had two more nights left with each other and there was no reason to ruin it by a bad attitude. Throughout the morning, we slowly warmed up to each other and it truly felt like we might actually end on good terms.

An auto rickshaw dropped us in a huge mass of other foreigners that were being herded around as if we were cattle. Jill and I were assigned to a “group leader” with a few other people while we were then sent off with other groups toward one of several large ferries. There was no explanation as to what we were doing, but we all followed our leaders obediently while he kept checking to make sure we were still there and yelling something if we started to stray. The ferries didn’t resemble canoes in any way so it was difficult to be sure we were even in the right place as we faithfully handed over some rupees to pay for our tickets. The ferry was definitely over capacity, lilting starboard, as we cruised through several wide rivers; occasionally one of the “wranglers” would get off, bark incomprehensible orders at his bewildered “cattle,” and they would disappear as the rest of us cruised on. Jill and I kept watchful eyes on our guy to see when it was our turn to disembark as if we would somehow miss the commotion. The river seemed to be a superhighway of ferries and houseboats, chartered by Europeans with aspirations of seeing authentic India from the comfort of a deck chair. Eventually, in perpetually organized chaos, our guy somehow located all 12 of us that were scattered throughout the boat, gesturing to follow him at the next port.

Three lounging boatmen were waiting for us. They had slender muscular arms that looked like they had been born rowing. Our boatman wore a paisley button-down shirt with the traditional South Indian masculine sarong, presumably to let the hot humid air circulate freely down there. He didn’t speak any English and communicated with us by pointing, grunting, and the occasional smile. The canoe was painted green with a yellow awning that would protect us fair folk from the sun’s rays. Four photo-snapping tourists were loaded into each.

Within moments of setting off, we had meandered into more narrow canals. Naked children splashed in the water. Women squatted while scrubbing their laundry. Cows stared. Other canoes cruised by carrying barrels of petrol or fish destined for market. Sometimes a motor-powered canoe would interrupt the placid channel and the melody of the oars pushing through the water. A gentle breeze from our slow pace was just enough to keep the mosquitoes at bay and to keep the sweat in a state of suspension. It was perfection.

Our cruise lasted about two hours, followed by lunch hosted at the home of a local family. Their teenage daughter, speaking perfect English, entertained us with well-timed humor and gentle mocking of those red-faced and sunburnt. She was assertive and seemed to relish the audience. She planned to become a doctor and move to America. Her mother quietly moved around the table serving us thali on banana leaf place settings, never speaking a word.

Our tour ended back at the main ferry terminal and Jill and I decided to walk back toward town. It was only a couple of miles and there’s no better way to get a taste for a place after all. I was in a good mood and seemed she was as well. I was due to fly to Delhi in two days and Jill would be on her way to Nepal so we talked about future plans and how much both of us had loved the south, omitting any reference to our animosity.

Later that evening at the hostel, I had heard from our friend, Donal, that he was arriving in Alleppey that day. Donal found our sad lonely hostel and immediately decided to stay across the street at a place with a much more vibrant atmosphere. But meanwhile, he came to hang out in our dorm room and catch up. We hadn’t seem him in two weeks so he told us about how he had stayed in Hampi long enough to celebrate Holi, the Hindu spring festival commonly referred to as the Color Festival, and I told him about how much we had loved Varkala. Meanwhile, Jill had lain down in her bed and closed her eyes without even greeting him. He tried to ask me what was wrong, but I could only shrug.

On the Cliff

Day 746 – 16 March, 2017

Varkala is a sleepy little touristic beach town towards the far southwestern edge of India. It’s uniqueness lies in the remarkable cliffside views overlooking the Laccadive Sea and the Indian Ocean beyond. I had randomly picked one of several almost identical guest houses where I could rent a private room, bathroom, and porch for 450 rupees/night ($6.50/night). Jill and Mel shared a similar room next door. This time there didn’t appear to be any animosity about the separation; nevertheless, I was silently stewing about my shoulder injury from earlier that morning and needed some privacy to decompress and assess the damage.

Recalling nine months earlier and my week long stay at an Ayurvedic resort in Sri Lanka (and the fact that Ayurvedic medicine is promoted in India like Cialis is in the United States), there was no question that I would make a visit to an Ayurvedic doctor to see if anything could be done to ease my pain.

The doctor was young, perhaps in his mid 20s. When I arrived, he was handing over a brown paper bag stuffed with orange-tinted vials and small plastic baggies with brown-colored powders and dried leafy herbs to a middle-aged woman. She listened intently while he softly spoke to her in Malayalam, explaining the use for each of the potions. When his attention turned to me with kind almond-shaped eyes, he effortlessly switched to English and offered me some tea and a place to sit in his office before he even knew why I was visiting. The office was a two-room cottage, one half of which was a cluttered sitting area, the walls shelved with medical journals and a pharmacy of sorts. The other half was the privacy room for women if there was any need to get undressed. A teenage barefoot girl sat on the edge of a massage table swinging her feet and proclaimed to be the doctor’s sister.

He methodically checked the mobility of my shoulder until I winced in pain. He nodded as if this validated what he already suspected. He said something to his sister so that she disappeared behind the privacy curtain. And then he told me I needed to get a massage (doctor’s orders!) and that I should return in a few hours when he would have some medicine prepared for me. His sister peeked from behind the curtain where she had lit some lavender incense and said she was ready for the massage.

I paid about $5USD for the medicine. There was a bottle of brownish green oily liquid. It smelled slightly floral, but also a little like pumpkin seed oil. I was to rub it on the shoulder area 2-3 times a day. The other medicine was a bag of capsules that tasted herbal. I was warned to take these with food or it may cause an upset stomach. Mostly, I was cautioned against lifting anything heavy for a couple of weeks. I nodded understanding even as I counted how many times I would be taking buses, trains, or planes (presumably with backpack in tow) over that same period of time.

I met up with Jill and Mel for dinner on the edge of the cliff. They had spent the day frolicking in the surf and shopping in the kitschy storefronts on the cliff. After having spent some hours apart, it was fun to catch up and I was feeling relieved that we seemed to be getting along so much better. A rarity to find a restaurant that served alcohol, we ordered two for one Kingfishers served in palm tree souvenir mugs. As the sun dropped behind the horizon and the sky changed from marigold to amber to dusty pink, you could just see a whole pod of dolphins ducking and diving in the calm sea.

I love places like this, where the pace of life is so conducive to marathon coffee breaks and sitting for hours while time stands still. The three of us had breakfast together the next morning, but I remained long after Jill and Mel had gone on to other things. The oil I was applying to my shoulder was meant to stay out of the sun and I began to contemplate other things I could do out of the sun…maybe now was the right time to get another tattoo?

A few hours later, I was admiring the newest addition to the collage on my body. It was half way completed and random tourists would occasionally peek their heads into the shop to gawk and praise the work of the tattoo artist. Not willing to leave much to chance, I had carefully selected a stencil online that the artist could copy. Suddenly, as if it was the first time I realized India doesn’t (usually) operate on a barter system, I looked in my wallet and realized I was embarrassingly shy of our agreed upon fee. I spent the second half of the appointment, trying to figure out how I was going to pay this guy and what I could leave as collateral while I made a trip to an ATM.

When he was finished, I sheepishly smiled and gushed about how satisfied I was. He, too, seemed very pleased. I pulled out my passport and reluctantly admitted that I had forgotten to bring enough cash. I said he could keep my passport until I returned with enough money to pay him. He gently pushed it away and said no. He insisted it was ok that I could return with the money whenever I had it, that leaving my passport was unnecessary. The trust that is constantly demonstrated in developing countries always surprises those of us from capitalist nations, but it is infinitely refreshing and at least for me, a principle that mandates you prove the blind faith is deserved.

I immediately rushed off to an ATM, determined to return to the tattoo shop before the artist would have time to doubt me. I walked back and forth from one end of the cliff to the other, not seeing a single cash machine in sight. I returned to my guest house to ask the proprietor if he could give me directions. Sympathetically, he shook his head and said the closest ATM was in town. It would be too far to walk and the prospect of finding an auto rickshaw on the quiet dirt paths of the residential area was nil. Seeing my despair, the owner of the guest house checked his watch and said if we hurried, he would just have time to drive me himself. In a flash, he grabbed his keys, jumped on his motorbike, and patted the back. I threw my leg over behind him and once again I was treated to the kindness of strangers while he drove me to not one, not two, but three ATMs to find one that wasn’t broken or devoid of cash.

I missed dinner that night with Jill and Mel due to all of the running around, but we only had loose plans anyway so I really didn’t see the harm. As we prepared to leave Varkala for Alleppey, it seemed again that I was getting the cold shoulder. Meanwhile, I silently counted…two nights in Alleppey, two nights in Kochi, and then I’m free again. Just keep the peace until I’m free.