Seasons on the Move

Malabar Coast – December 20

Fab and I hit the beach in morning with John, Lynn and Imogen. I got bitched by the large waves when I tried to body surf my way into shore. The only person that saw me eat a mouthful of sand was Lynn, who appropriately laughed and made fun of my attempt.

The morning was pleasant enough, except for the usual gang of creeps patrolling the beach looking for girls to stare at. One of them, a kid in his mid-teens, was audacious enough to get within four feet of Imogen, kneel down, and stare directly at her exposed back. We even saw a group of guys on a hill glassing the beach with binoculars. Classy.

In the evening we went to see a theyyam, a ritualistic spirit possesion performance. Me, Fab, John, Lynn and Imogen, headed out to the temple where the performance was set to take place around 5pm. The make-up started soon after. The interesting thing about the theyyam is that the person who takes possession of the spirit is usually from the “untouchable” caste and receives the spirit from someone in the Brahmin caste. The spirit received is usually a god. In this particular case, the spirit received was that of Vishnu.

Drumming and chanting started around 5:30. There weren’t as many people as I had expected at the temple and the setting was a little jarring. The temple was situated by the side of the road. Buses stopped in front of the temple which further took away from the mystical air being conjured up. People hung out the side of the buses and took pictures with their cell phones. Across the street, kids played cricket seemingly uninterested that Vishnu was being channeled in the temple opposite.

After about forty five minutes of dancing and twirling, the spirit inhabited the body of the “untouchable”. I expected it to be a little move eventful, but the Indians in attendance seemed to know when it happened. It was completely lost of me. Afterwards, men and woman lined up to receive a blessing. Fab and I just stood to the side and watched thinking how special the whole thing would have been had it not been for all the traffic roaring by throughout the performance. Just another one of India’s idiosyncrasies.

Malabar Coast – December 19

We didn’t do much our first day at Costa Malabari except explore the surrounding area, lounge around on the veranda and chat with the fellow guests. We took a look at the beach, but since it was overcast and looked like it might rain, we passed on a swim and decided to read instead. I polished off Bill Bryson’s “Short Guide to Nearly Everything” and then started William Sutcliffe’s “Are You Experienced”. Fab was on a recent Ian McEwen kick and was working her way through “Enduring Love” after having recently finished “On Chesil Beach”.

During the night, I had the strangest dream. I was standing backstage at the Royal Albert Hall, a place I have never visited, behind a drawn curtain. I was positioned behind a lone computer keyboard that was perched upon a pedestal. For some reason I can’t explain – dream logic I suppose – I knew that the theatre was empty except for one person. I remember this bothering me in my dream. 

When I began typing, ethereal music floated out from large box like speakers at the side of the stage. As I understood it, dream logic again, each key on the keyboard was assigned a tonal value so that when I punched in the letters to form words melodic lines emamanted from the sound system. I soon realized that I was transposing the words of Keats, a poet I am wholly unfamiliar with, in turn creating the melodic equivalent to the emotional content of the poem. I remember thinking “This is the music of the spheres” – not the Mike Oldfield album but that of Pythagorus – before being struck by how odd it was that I was thinking within a dream, as I were moving through different levels of consciousnsess like the doorways in cartoons that when opened only reveal another doorway.

I typed faster and faster, the music becoming more intricate and beautiful, until I was distracted by the clicking of leather heels on the stage floor. I turned to see Lou Reed, his hair wet and curled, sunglasses dark, smile at me with the greasy charm of a snake oil salesman. He approached without saying a word, took off his leather jacket, heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke, and brushed me aside. He then placed his hands on the keyboard and began playing “Metal Machine Music” from beginning to end. The curtains were pulled aside to reveal a still empty theatre and I receded into the blackness at the rear of the stage, fading out like an image in a film until I woke up to the sound of foxes yipping and yapping in the dim light of dawn.  

Thrissur to the Malabar Coast via Kannur – December 18 

The train leaving Thrissur departed only an hour late, a small miracle, and soon we were heading north towards the Kannur, home of the theyyam, a ritual of spirit possession native to the area. Fab and I had booked a room at Costa Malabari, a place well out of our price range. However, India had been cheap so far and we had been saving up our rupees to splurge over the Christmas holidays.

The train was typically packed. There were no reserved seats available, so we were forced to take an unreserved seat which meant that the ride was going to be hot and uncomfortable. We carved out just enough ass space on two wooden benches facing each other and tried to gather some patience for the ride ahead. Tourists must not travel this route very often because we were the only foreigners on the train or at least in our carriage. Let the staring begin!

Since the fans did not work, I spent the majority of the journey pouring sweat. I tried to steal some of the breeze coming in through the open window, but the man seated next to me was too busy blocking the air flow with the garbage he was tossing out the window – food tins, plastic bottles, paper wrappers, wadded tissues – nothing was spared.

For some unknown reason, and if there was one it would have been vague, the train stopped five kilometers outside of Kannur. For almost two hours, we were trapped in a humid metal box listening to screaming babies and Bollywood ringtones on unrelenting replay. I thought of Mike and Jen and how much they would have enjoyed the scene.

By the time we got off the train, the sun had begun to set.  We tried to organize a ride with a taxi driver, but either he did not know where we wanted to go or he didn’t understand what we were talking about. It was never clear. Luckily for us, we were surrounded by rickshaw drivers throughout the whole ordeal so we had no shortage of options when the conversation fell apart.

The rickshaw sped through the city and out into the darkness enveloping the countryside. Soon, we were on narrow dirt roads in the middle of nowhere. The driver didn’t speak much English and only grunted when we asked him questions. Visions of “Wolf Creek” and mutilated bodies filled my mind. I remember thinking, “This would be a perfect place to rob and murder tourists.” Perhaps the malaria pills were driving me mad. Fab seemed unfazed. Sure enough, within minutes we arrived at Costa Malabari and were greeted by the hotel owner, Kurien.

Within a half hour, we were seated for dinner. The communal dining space was similar to that of a summer camp mess hall. Fab and I were the newly arrived campers, outsiders looking for a way to fit in. After an awkward meal, we had a few beers and got to know the fellow guests: Kimo and Kyra, two Americans from Berkeley; an English family, John, his wife Lynn who looked strikingly like Annette Benning, and their daughter Imogen; two more Brits, Chris and James; and a Swedish couple who kept to themselves and whose names I never caught.

Fab and I made fast friends with the British family due to their mutual appreciation of the arts and their keen interest in film. We traded travel stories and Fab and I spoke about the film we were trying to make. It looked like the next few days were going to be good.

Jeff tries to order room service in the morning:

Jeff: Hello, I’d like to order some breakfast please.

Man on Phone: Yes, sir. What, please?

Jeff: I’d like to order breakfast.

Man on Phone: Breakfast in restaurant sir.

Jeff: Yes, but I have a menu here for room service.

Man on Phone: Yes, yes. Room Service.

Awkward Silence

Jeff: Yes, I would like to order room service.

Man on Phone fumbles with the phone, says something inaudible to a man next to him. He comes back to the phone.

Man on Phone: Yes, can I help you?

Jeff: Uh, yeah. Can I order some breakfast?

Man on Phone: Impossible sir. Breakfast in restaurant only.

Jeff: Okay.

Jeff hangs up phone in frustration. He goes downstairs to the reception.

At the reception:

Jeff: Hi, I just called to order room service and was told that it was an impossibility.

Man at Front Desk: No, room service is possible sir.

Jeff: Thank you. Can I place an order with you?

Man at Front Desk: Of course sir, as you like.

Jeff: Good, okay. I’d like to order the White House Breakfast and the Veg Breakfast. It says here that I have the choice of juice, tea and coffee. What kind of juice do you have?

Man at Front Desk: Yes.

Jeff: You have juice then?

Man at Front Desk: Yes.

Jeff: What kind?

Man at Front Desk: As you like.

Jeff: Okay, I will have orange juice with both breakfasts.

Man at Front Desk looks bewildered.

Jeff: You don’t have orange juice.

Man at Front Desk: The restaurant in on first floor sir.

Jeff: So I can’t order with you.

Man at Front Desk: With room service sir.

Jeff: Yes, but they told me I could not order breakfast.

The Man at Front Desk picks up the phone and dials room service. After berating the person on the other end of the line, the Man replaces the receiver.

Man at Front Desk: Please go to first floor.

Jeff gives up and takes the lift up to the first floor.

In the restaurant:

Waiter: Yes?

Jeff: I want to order breakfast in my room.

Waiter: You can order here sir.

Jeff: Yes, but I want to eat in my room.

Waiter: We have buffet here. Cannot go to room.

Jeff: I don’t want the buffet. I want to order off the menu.

Waiter: Of course sir, as you like.

The Waiter grabs a menu and brings it over.

Jeff: I would like to order the White House breakfast and the Veg breakfast.

Waiter: Yes.

Jeff: I would like tea with the Veg breakfast and coffee with the White House breakfast.

Waiter: Yes.

Jeff: And it says here that I get my choice of fruit juice.

Waiter: Yes.

Jeff: What kind of juice to you have?

Waiter: Pineapple orange.

Jeff: Okay that’s fine. I will have that with both breakfasts.

Waiter: Okay, two pineapple juice.

Jeff: I see, you have pineapple and orange juice. I misunderstood. I will have orange juice instead.

Waiter: Yes, two pineapple, two orange.

Jeff: No, just the two orange juice.

Waiter: No pineapple then.

Jeff notices that the Waiter has his arms crossed and is not writing any of this down.

Jeff: Could you write this down please?

Waiter: Yes, yes, of course.

Waiter retrieves a pen and paper and begins scribbling in a script Jeff does not understand.

Jeff: Okay, so the two breakfastss, one with tea, one with coffee, both with orange juice. Oh, and please put the milk for the coffee on the side.

Waiter: Yes, milk inside.

Jeff: No, on the side, not inside.

Waiter: As you like. 

Jeff: Okay, so have you got that all.

Waiter: Yes sir, please allow for fifteen minutes.

Jeff: Thank you.

Forty five minutes later in Jeff and Fab’s room there is a knock at the door. Jeff opens the door and let’s the waiter in. He wheels in a cart containing: a basket of bread (not toast), two pineapple juices, milk coffee with milk on the side, black tea, and two orders of eggs. There is no sign of the fruit salad included in the Veg breakfast or the bacon and sausage included in the White House breakfast. Jeff shakes his head and signs the room service bill which is, surprisingly, considerably less than what it should have been.

Thrissur – December 17

Well, nothing was happening in Thrissur. Apparently the festivals didn’t really kick into high gear until the new year. In the morning I went and grabbed some train tickets and wandered around. Fab stayed in the hotel and watched movies on television. If Thrissur was the cultural capital of Kerala, it wasn’t evident in the streets and shops. Gone was the laid back romantic cool of Fort Cochin. From what I saw, Thrissur was just another dusty Indian city.

Wind ripped through the city for the entire day, making the palm trees bow and dust swirl. It also made for unpleasant walking which is what Fab and I tried to do in the afternoon. We ventured down to see the Hindu temple situated in the city centre, but upon getting there we found out that we were not allowed inside. It didn’t matter all that much because the temple was largely unimpressive. Instead, we walked around the market area, becoming increasing aware that we were the only fair skinned people in town. We quite liked that and felt somewhat like pioneers for the remainder of the day.

Fort Cochin to Thrissur – December 16

We left late in the afternoon for Thrissur, two hours north and a half hour off the coast. We had heard that Thrissur was “the festival capital of Kerala” so we wanted to check it out and see what all the fuss was about. We were somewhat disappointed that we had to leave Fort Cochin, but our inertia was getting to us.

At the jetty across the bay to Ernakulum, where the bus station is located, Fab and I were separated before boarding the boat. The men were placed in a cage like structure set back from the dock while the women got to wait at the edge of the water. It was like being in a zoo except the men were the spectators in the cage and the women were the animals out in the open.

When the cage doors were opened, the men started pushing and shoving trying to get through the gate as quickly as possible. I waited near the back knowing that such efforts were pointless. Besides, Fab would save me a seat. One man fell to the ground and couldn’t get up. This didn’t seem to bother the crowd of men who walked over top of him in their frenzied attempt to board the boat first. Eventually the man got to his feet, unharmed, and then proceeded to push me out of the way as he got onto the boat.

The ride to Thrissur was another classic. Fab and I took the only two seats left at the rear of bus and spent the rest of the journey getting our spines compacted as we went over pot holes and uneven tarmac at top speed. By the time we got to the hotel, we were an inch shorter and had splitting headaches.

Fort Cochin – December 15

Fab and I spent the day strolling through the streets and browsing the stalls near the water front. We watched groups of men operate the large Chinese fishing nets that line the wharf and then visited the first European church built in India.

Inside St. Francis Church, tombstones of former colonialists lined the walls. All the usual suspects were represented: the Dutch, English and Portuguese. The most important headstone was that of Vasco da Gama, who first landed in Calicut, India in 1498. He died in Fort Cochin in 1524 and was buried there until his body was exhumed and relocated to Lisbon over twenty years later.

Similar to Goa, Kerala has a vibrant Christian culture which comprises about twenty percent of the population. Catholics make up the majority of this group along with a healthy amount of Syrian Orthodox and Nestorian Christians. It is not at all odd to see shops with the image of Jesus placed alongside images of Hindu deities. In fact, a lot of the shops and restaurants pipe Christmas music over their stereo systems and the streets are lined with twinkling lights and illuminated stars.

Fort Cochin – December 14

After doing a whole lot of nothing during the day, Fab and I went to see a Kathakali performance in the evening at a small theatre with a thatched bamboo roof in the evening. Wicks dipped in kerosene and placed in small golden bowls rimmed the front of the stage. Posters and statues of various Hindu deities adorned the walls and hung from the ceiling.  The lights were dimmed and the setting was ominous.

Kathakali is a dramatized performance of a play, usually of some Hindu epic or another, told through facial expressions and body movement. The art form is an old one dating back to around the same time as Shakespeare with elements going even further back to around the 2nd century. The performance that we went to was only a small slice of a larger play designed to give tourists with small attention spans a taste of the art form. A full Kathakali performance usually runs upwards of five hours and can last as long as the entire night.

At our viewing, a speaker introduced us to various elements of Kathakali and what the respective facial expressions and body movements meant. The show began with a demonstation and then proceeded into the play. The actors in the play were done up in elaborate makeup and intricate costumes. Some spectators came early to see the makeup being applied, an art form in and of itself.

The play revolved around a military general who tries to lure a princess in disguise into sleeping with him. When the princess refuses, the general becomes enraged and beats and rapes her. Devastated, the princess runs to the king who in turn disguises himself as the princess and promptly murders the general.

Fab found the performance sexist, but we both found the musical accompaniment thrilling. The vocal accompaniment was particularily great – the singer being a kind of Indian version of Joe Cocker complete with the pained facial expressions and spasmic body contortions.

After the show, Fab and I had a couple of beers at a road side restaurant. Since alot of the restaurants in Cochin cannot afford a liquor license, the beer was served in tea pots and was featured in the menu as “green tea”.

Fort Cochin – December 13

We dragged ourselves onto a bus at 8am on our way out to the Keralan backwaters. The heat was already oppressive. We stopped before reaching the backwaters so people on board the bus could pick up some water. Since we didn’t have time to eat before leaving, I bought some bananas and oranges from a road side vendor. The bananas were still green, but the oranges were ripe and juicy.

When we got to the boat, we had to wait for a group of Indians to get off. The rig was a houseboat that is commonly hired by well-to-do tourists for extended amounts of time. Apparently when the boat is not being used, a family lives on board. Not just a nuclear family, but apparently some aunts, uncle and cousins as well.

Soon enough we were out on the water and traveling a speed that barely exceeded that of a leisurely front crawl. We meandered through narrow tribituaries, canals and lagoons. Small communities pressed up against the shore line. Palm trees stretched up into the sky. Rice paddies covered large swaths of water. Women washed pots, pans and clothes in waist deep water while the men of the villages moved about on long wooden canoes using nothing but a tall bamboo pole to propel them forward. Quite a nice way to start the day.  

The trip was fairly uneventful. There was not much to do except watch the shoreline and wave at the people. We got off the boat a few times to observe some backwater life. Even that was uneventful. Maybe some people find the manufacturing of string interesting, but not me. We also got taken on a tour of a “spice plantation” which consisted of our guide walking around in the overgrowth and pointing out various plants and trees. The highlight of this portion of the trip was a goat tied to a tree that all of the tourists took turns feeding grass and leaves. 

On the way back to town in the bus, we stopped to watch some elephants being bathed in an open stable. I found it really neat the way the giant creatures just laid there while skinny Indian men crawled all over them with scrub brushes. From my vantage point, one man appeared to cleaning the elephants toe nails.