Saturday 28 May 2011

28.5.2011 - Rubbish and politics (Millport, Isle of Cumbrae, Scotland)

28.5.2011 - Rubbish and politics (Millport, Isle of Cumbrae, Scotland)

We had an election in Scotland while we were in India.  We knew it was happening, and scuttled down to the tiny internet cafe cubicle in Tirur, sweating it out in more ways than one in order to get the results as soon as we could.  And what results they were!  The Scottish National Party won handsomely - a landslide of formidable proportions, forming a majority government, something that Westminster had tried to make impossible when the form of proportional representation was chosen for us eleven years ago.  I was delighted, even though I could not take part, as my postal vote got lost.

Politicians will do a lot for a good photoshoot - look at Barak Obama and David Cameron, manning the barbecue in London last week.  The press photographers were hunting in the usual packs, and got the shots they and the politicians wanted.  I wonder how many sausages they burned before the genuine cooks took over - we shall never know.  But there are more ways than that of getting to know your local politicians.


Shoreline, Isle of Cumbrae
So today, at home in Millport, I got very close to my local Member of the Scottish Parliament - there are few things more personal than clambering over rocks, falling into rockpools, slithering on seaweed, in the company of your newly re-elected representative.  Today was the annual event of volunteer rubbish collecting on our beaches, which Kenneth Gibson, MSP, master-minds each year.  So as the sun glittered on the sea, we donned our yellow 'Keep Scotland Tidy' tabards, grasped our litter pickers in one hand and tried hard to hold onto our black bin bags in the other as a brisk wind attempted to tear them from our grasp. 

Kenneth's car deposited us at a somewhat inhospitable section of the island's coast, where brambles curved over our path as we scrambled down to the rocks and shingle coves.  Amazing how much rubbish you find when you look - plastic bottles, multi-coloured straws, bits of green and blue rope, sections of tattered black polythene, flapping in the grass like wounded birds.  All mixed and mingled with the white and brown razor shells, the pink nodding Thrift flowers, the pebbles of every hue, size and shape. We picked at it with our litter pickers, we wrestled it into the disobedient bin bags which were forever making a bid for freedom, we foraged further and further along the shoreline, buffetted by the wind and occasionally soaked by showers that appeared from nowhere in the otherwise blue skies
Holy Island and Wee Cumbrae from Great Cumbrae

As we stopped for a breather, Kenneth remarked, (slightly acidly, I thought) "And people ask me why I went into politics! It was for the glamour, of course!!!"  And then he spied a bent drink can wedged under a rock, and dropping on his knees in the slimy weed, began to haul it out.  And not a newspaper man or snapping camera in sight....

24.5.11 – You never know what to expect.... (Millport, Scotland)


24.5.11 – You never know what to expect....  (Millport, Scotland)

The thing about our Scottish weather is you never know what you’re going to get.  It’s always a surprise, sometimes a welcome one, sometimes not.  So waking up at the end of May should have meant calm, peaceful warmth and gentle sunshine, flowers glowing in spring colours, baby birds safely in their nests in the trees.  In fact, what we got was rain - splattering off the glass, filling the gutters to overflowing.  And wind, which scooped the gutter water out and flung it at the window so that it flowed down the panes making the view of the houses opposite ripple as if viewed through frosted glass; so that it blew the water out of the puddles on the pavement, and bent our little rowan tree nearly double.  

I decided to go out, to get some fresh air.  This was coming at me in chunks, travelling at a windspeed of about 100 mph (and later, the TV news confirmed this estimate).  I leant on the wind, and progressed along past the beach at an angle of about 45%, biting off pieces of air to breathe as it rocketed past me.
Isle of Cumbrae
The sea, pewter grey, torn by tumultuous white rollers, attacked the beaches in a fury of foam and spume.  A lonely yacht, moored in the open water of the bay, bucked like a rodeo horse.  (I later met the owner of this boat, a tall, cheerful, bright-eyed older man - a bit of an ageing hippy, his long grey beard decorated with coloured beads, a red, yellow and black knitted had on his head.  He had stayed on the boat during the storm, holding things together as best he could as the contents of the cabin crashed about him.  He is moored here in order to fix his rigging prior to sailing to the Canary Islands and thence to Belize.  A genuine sea dog).  

The masts of other boats sheltering behind the Eileans (small islands in the bay) snapped and cracked, describing near 180o semi-circles with their tips.  One of them split right through and fell onto the deck, forming a metal triangle.

The tide was quite low, but still immense waves crashed against the pier, thrusting up huge fans of white water, which hesitated in the air before crashing down, drenching the wooden beams and then cascading into the sea again to get ready for their next assault.  The orange light flashed its notification that there will be no escape from the island today – the ferry is moored up at Largs and will not be moving again until tomorrow.

At the Garrison House, its grey stone walls black with moisture, the tall, wide ash trees bent and creaked as the gale compelled them into unnatural shapes by the force of its violent will.  One of them succumbed, its vast roots protruding naked from the wet ground, a circle of brown earth tipped up leaving a colossal gash in green spring grass.   As it tumbled, squealing and groaning, it had crashed through the aged stone wall, coming to rest with its thick trunk across the road, its top branches touching the house opposite.  

Discretion won the day, and I retraced my steps home, choosing the back street, littered with leaves and twigs, a green autumn of leaf fall.  The house windows creaked ominously.  The TV screen went blank.  The electricity flickered.

In distant Perthshire, Bill and Donald were struggling to get back home, facing roads blocked by immense trees, branches, mud.  Arriving, they discovered the house without any electricity.  Donald lit the wood stove and they heated soup.  Then a brain wave resulted in him unearthing a two ring camp cooker.   Survival is thus ensured for another day.

And so night fell, and a watery sun in the early morning sheepishly announced its apologies for yesterday’s unseasonal anger.

Sun on the sea, Millport Bay

Friday 27 May 2011

18.5.11 – Time to go home (Calicut, Kerala, India)

Calicut Planetarium

18.5.11 – Time to go home (Calicut, Kerala, India)

Planetarium Gardens
Our plane is not until 9pm, so we have time to visit Calicut’s Planetarium.  This is only half a kilometre from the hotel, and Reception suggest we walk, or take a motor rickshaw.  But we are wimps, and don’t want to leave our air conditioning behind, especially as we don’t know if there is any at the Planetarium, and we might need to take Molly back to the car quick to cool her down.  Taxi drivers here are very happy to wait, and so he drove us for about 5 minutes and then waited an hour and a half, to drive us for 5 minutes back again. 

Inside the Planetarium
Molly at Planetarium
The Planetarium proved to be more of an outside science park – palm trees, grass, aviaries, with buildings around it. In the garden were numerous exhibits the children could experiment with – a hanging xylophone which delighted Molly, balls that rolled up and down tracks of painted metal, large red dishes that enabled you to hear the person at the other one, far away across the grass.  A group of Muslim school children – boys, with the round white crocheted hats we have become familiar with - were on a school trip.  They came with us to the 3D film, and screamed with delight as snakes and monsters shot out of the screen apparently right towards their faces. 

We had meant to go on to the beach on leaving the Planetarium, but Bincy and Subhash phoned and arranged to meet us at the hotel for lunch, so we rushed back. 

Lunch together
Lunch was a happy affair, much focused on talking about Australia, as Bincy has been accepted by the University of South Australia in Adelaide to complete her PhD, and leaves in July.  Strangely, she is moving to the area where Bill spent his childhood, and of which he has fond memories.


And then it’s into the taxis, off for our last swerving, twisting ride to the airport.  We’ve got quite used to the traffic now – even though you overtake around blind corners, and in the face of on-coming lorries, someone always good-naturedly gives way and you get to your destination surprisingly intact.

Molly waits for her plane
And so starts the long pull home – leave hotel at 4pm, flight at 9pm, 4 hours to Dubai, 8 hours waiting in the airport there, seven hours to Glasgow.  Hard for the adults, a real trial for little Molly, which she copes with cheerfully in the main.  Calicut Airport proves to be a tour-de-force for beaurocrasy.  Our passports and tickets are checked to get in the airport door, then again to get into departures, then our luggage goes through security and we are checked again, then to the check in desk – more checks, then immigration (why? We aren’t immigrating anywhere! We’re trying to go home!) The customs, then hand baggage check, and of course I get searched, both me and my luggage.  At last into the departure lounge, Bill declaring that his passport has been checked no less than eight times.  Once in, the lounge is actually very nice – air conditioned, spacious, with plenty of chromium seating, a large carving occupying the whole of one wall, and immense fish tank full of fish sized to match, a little playroom for kids. 

The flight uneventfully takes us to Dubai, where Calum carries Molly, still sleeping, through security and into the courtesy buggy supplied by Emirates.  After some minor protest from her, I sing her to sleep again and so we settle down for the long, long wait.

And so we come home.  The air at Glasgow Airport is fresh and cool, like a long drink of cold water on a hot day.  India was wonderful.  Scotland is beautiful, its trees green and covered in white blossom.  Home is special. 

And as we reflect on India, the images come back vivid to our minds – the brilliance of the colours, the anxiety of the culture shock, the energy of the people, the rush of the traffic, the intensity of the activity, the beauty of the mountains, the peace of the Backwaters, the warmth of the family, the joy of the wedding – so much crammed into so short a time.  It all started nearly two years ago with an unexpected email from a girl in India, looking for somewhere to stay in a far away, very different country.  We are grateful that God brought us together, led us into this adventure, joined us as one family across the miles.  The challenge now is to keep in contact over a much greater distance, but we will, not least because Molly loves her Auntie Bincy and her Uncle Subhash.

Bincy and Subhash

Thursday 26 May 2011

17.5.11 – Long roads and a good driver (Thrissur to Calicut, Kerala, India)


17.5.11 – Long roads and a good driver (Thrissur to Calicut, Kerala, India)

Our lovely driver, who has already driven for about three hours to get us to Thrissur, has stayed overnight, and is now waiting for us as we complete our breakfast.  We’re getting used to and enjoying (for the most part) the spicy food here, which is usually extremely well cooked and presented.  However, curry for breakfast is a bridge too far, and rice cakes or boiled eggs usually appear or can be requested, or the ubiquitous cornflakes. 

Our driver loads up our as usual mountainous luggage and proceeds to drive us the next four hours to Calicut.  He’s now eight hours drive from home.  This total trip – sole use of the large, comfortable, air conditioned car and driver for two days – costs us 6,200 rupees (about £62).  Bill gives him an extra 1,000 (£10) rupees as thanks for his endless patience and attention to our needs.  We were well warned before we came, not least by our Indian friends, that we had to be careful of people who might try to take advantage of us because we are foreigners, and rip us off.  No doubt there are people who are keen to do this – there are such people everywhere – but we have found honesty, kindness and care everywhere we have been.  People who have had the opportunity to take advantage of us have not done so; some have refused tips, insisting on only taking exactly what they were due. We have had wonderful drivers, all of whom have placed themselves totally at our disposal for days at a time.  Without their help, this trip would have been scary and probably impossible.

Molly having coffee
We ask to stop for coffee, at a little hotel/restaurant, which advertises the essential (for us) air conditioning.  Molly loves cafes, and enjoys her juice, while I relish the rich and milky Kerala coffee, grown locally.  Bincy recommended it, and she was right.

Our return to the familiar hotel in Calicut is again a source of excitement to Molly.  As soon as we see the road the hotel is on, she asks to sit on her ‘yellow chair’.  She has remembered exactly which hotel this is of the many she has been in this holiday, and remembers that the seats in the foyer are indeed a creamy yellow colour.

We decide to go out shopping.  Indian cities can be scary places to the uninitiated.  The roads are sources of hidden man-traps, with large holes exposing deep and sometimes somewhat smelly depths below, with ridges which catch you unawares, and pavements which suddenly disappear with no warning, leaving you tusselling with the traffic.  You have to keep your eyes firmly on your feet, which makes you vulnerable to the low-hanging advertising boards slung out across the pavement at irregular intervals, and I have the bruises to prove it. 

We take Molly out in her pushchair – the only pushchair I have seen here, and a source of much curiosity to the other shoppers out today.  As usual she is the cause of the rapid production of numerous phones and cameras for the inevitable photos.  But she’s too hot and I’m too nervous so Bill and I head back to the hotel with her while Calum and Catriona decide to dice with death by crossing the road.  They return about an hour later, and announce visitors.  It’s Bincy, Subhash and his mother.  They stay, talking and laughing and looking at photos with us.  They seem very happy and affectionate, as newly weds should be.  Nice to see them now free to spend time alone together and display their affection openly, something that is not appropriate in this culture before marriage.  

A picture for Bincy
Catriona has done a painting for Bincy.  It shows the palm trees lined waterways of the Backwaters, with a little house peeping out.  But the little house is not Indian, it's Scottish, a highland cottage, similar to Catriona's own house back in Lennoxtown.  On the back she has written 'Where ever you go, God will find you a home'.  She had a home with us in Scotland, bringing her little bit of India with her.  Now Australia beckons, and God will be already preparing a home for her there.

Suddenly, a heavy hissing and pattering noise attracts my attention.  ‘It’s raining!’ I say.  ‘Oh no, I don’t think so’ the Indians reply.  But no Scot can fail to recognise the sound of heavy rain, and peering from our window I can see a torrential downpour, forming puddles in the car park and bouncing off the cars below.  The rainy season is imminent, and this is the climate limbering up.

Bincy and family leave, and an intensive packing session gets underway.  Twenty four hours from now we will be aboard our flight, all going according to plan.  Our amazing adventure is coming to an end.  

Wednesday 25 May 2011

16.5.11 – Starting for home (Alappuzha to Thrissur, Kerala, India)


16.5.11 –  Starting for home (Alappuzha to Thrissur, Kerala, India)

Roadside stalls
We had meant to return to Calicut the way we came, by train.  To book this, last Friday Bill and I had taken an early morning walk, dodging the rickshaws and the ragged pavements to a small, hot office on the main street.  A young sari-clad girl, looking about 12, asked if she could help.  She and her mother then cranked up the computer and looked up the availability of air conditioned seats.  We discovered that there are no seats unbooked for Monday.  Or Sunday. Or Tuesday.  So we retraced our steps to the hotel, perturbed.  Mr. Kumar, the friendly, ever helpful and thankfully English-speaking hotel manager conferred with me over this dilemma.  He produced a map, told me that he could find a car and driver, that he would find a suitable hotel half way to Calicut.  In fact, it’s only a journey of 250 kilometers – about 150 miles. According to Google, this should take just over two hours.  We know better – Google has obviously never tried to negotiate Indian roads and traffic.  It will take about eight to ten hours to make the journey, hence we need to make a stop half way, at Thrissur, a city famed for Indian cultural events and for a major Hindu temple, at which an annual festival takes place – immense crowds and highly decorated elephants.  
Indian street

And so this morning we set off, luggage as usual swaying on top of our smart red taxi, Molly happy in her car seat beside the driver.  As we approach the outskirts of Alappuzha, numerous stalls appear selling woven hammocks and swinging seats, made of woven string and bamboo hoops. We ask the driver to stop.  In the dim interior of one stall, a seat is suspended from the ceiling, to allow testing, which we do, rocking to and fro in what proved to be an extremely comfortable chair.  So we further strain our luggage allowance by purchasing several, in the fond hope that our Emirates flight will stretch a point and take them back to Scotland for us. 

Bananas in transit
The journey northward is comfortable, passing through the usual scenery of palm forests, small stalls, houses ranging from small and poor to large and luxurious.  The city of Cochin causes considerable delay, appearing to be a continuous traffic jam.  Molly fortunately has loved all her journeys by taxi, endlessly fascinated by the colourful activity all around her.  For us, it’s been a good way of seeing the country during the heat of the day.

Our taxi driver at last delivers us to the hotel which our good Mr. Kumar has found for us.  The driver will also stay overnight locally, and drive on with us in the morning.  The ability to hire a good taxi and driver for days at a time has made it much easier for us to see the countryside than it would have been by any other means.  To do this at home would be prohibitively expensive, but here the rate of exchange allows us this very useful luxury. 

Meg outside hotel in Thrissur
The hotel is lovely.  An immense foyer, with intricately carved wooden walls, dark glowing wood.  Our rooms on the sixth floor are huge and airy, cool marble floors on which Molly runs and dances with delight. Over dinner, a girl comes in resplendent in a lovely cream and gold gown, folded like a fan over the skirt, her eyes painted in huge almond shapes.  She has probably been perfoming dance in one of the cultural centres.

We watch TV.  We have watched quite a lot of Indian TV this holiday as we took turns to babysit, and one thing concerns us.  All of the women acting in soap operas, romancing in Bollywood films, advertising everything from dresses to cooking pots, are all portrayed as having delicate pink complexions.  Paleness is idolised.  Adverts abhor ‘dark spots’ (freckles) and advise on how to avoid or remove them.  Skin whitening cream is pushed relentlessly.  Papers mount questionnaires as to whether or not you would prefer a pale wife and most people say they would.  Yet here in Kerala the populace is dark, magnificently brown, glowing against the yellows, pinks, oranges, sky-blues and whites of their saris and lungis.  They are beautiful people.  Pale skinned myself, I love this dark beauty.  Why on earth would you value pink skin in this climate, in this colourful country, the rich palette of which needs strong colours to look its best?  Why doesn’t Indian TV play to the strengths of these people, rather than trying to encourage them to value appearances they were never meant to have and should not be encouraged to wish for.  It is sad.  But then again, as soon as I get home, I’ll see adverts for artificial sun tan and for tanning studios, as we so called ‘white’ people try desperately to make our skin darker.  Human being are always discontented with their appearance, I suppose.

Traffic and travel

Tuesday 24 May 2011

15.5.11 – Shopping and praying (Alappuzha, Kerala, India)


15.5.11 – Shopping and praying (Alappuzha, Kerala, India)

Patterned bus
Before the burning heat of the day challenged us beyond our limits, Catriona, Bill and I negotiated the broken, ragged (or non-existent) pavements, over the bridge, squeezing tight to the parapets to avoid being swept away by the dusty, patterned buses, the magnificently painted lorries, and the eternal motor rickshaws.  We turned into a side street, beside one of the numerous waterways, covered in green water weed and overhung by palm trees.  
Leafy waterway



Carrying the shopping home
The buildings were older here - a small blue painted mosque, little shops selling ropes, fishing nets (gossamer thin, with white plastic floats), and glittering streamers which appear here and there wherever you look.  A woman passed, carrying a large wicker basket on her head.  It was early Sunday morning, and in this is a predominantly Christian area, few shops were open.  However, one dress shop attracted Catriona like a large multi-coloured magnet, and soon we were in the now-familiar situation of being surrounded by enthusiastic and laughing shop assistants, pulling out box after box and piling the counter high with rainbows of chiffon, gold embroidery, sequins and beads.  I bought a salwar kameze, which delighted the Mr. Kumar, the manager of the hotel, when we returned laden with bags.  I found it to be a very comfortable form of dress, loose and airy in a hot climate.
Megs Salwar Kamese

Beach food
Lunch over (a buffet of mysterious but tasty dishes), we hired an air conditioned taxi and headed for the beach.  It was a long, clean ivory-white strand, people dotted over it with parasols.  Little four wheeled carts, constructed of bicycle wheels and a wooden box, bumped over the sand to sell Indian style delicacies.  Other families were sheltering in the shade of the trees, and so we headed there with Molly, while Calum purchased ice creams.  These proved to be of a fairly uniform taste, but in an array of brilliant colours.  Such is the love of Keralites for bright colour everywhere. The heat was intense, but a little sea breeze kept it in check as Catriona and Calum paddled in the Arabian Sea.

Thence the taxi wove its way through Alappuzha and out into the country, driving on roads perched on embankments above the Backwaters.  There were the houseboats, such as we had been on only yesterday.  The rice fields stretched out on either side, pylons and telegraph poles striding across the water unhindered.  Buffalo grazed at the roadside here and there, a brilliant blue bird flitted across the road and into a tree.  Everywhere, the canals crossed the road or ran alongside, heading for some waterway or lake nearby.  

St. Mary's Church
At last we came to St. Mary’s Church Champakulam, an ancient building, at the side of a wide waterway.  This church is one of seven founded by St. Thomas, and is therefore of great significance.  The actual building was erected by the Portugese around five hundred years ago.  For some reason it called to mind the church in far away Virginia, USA, where I attended an ordination service in December last year - the atmosphere was the same although the culture and style of worship very different.  A service was underway in the shady building, fans spinning in the ancient beamed roof, people crammed in – no pews, only rush matting on the floor.  One one side of the church, men stood, chanting and praying, on the other stood the women and children, their saris moving gently in the slight breeze.  I walked around the church and joined a group of women outside the main door.  I could see the priest in the dim distance at the other end of the aisle, white and gold vestments and altar cloths, candles, incense.  As he chanted and intoned, echoed by the congregation, I was able to join in mind if not in voice with their Malayalam praise and prayer.  An experience of togetherness that I will not forget.

Catriona shopping

Monday 23 May 2011

14.5.11 – Hotels and heat (the Backwaters and Alappuzha, Kerala, India)


14.5.11 – Hotels and heat (the Backwaters and Alappuzha, Kerala, India)
Man fishing beside our boat

I wake early on our houseboat in the Backwaters, to see the dawn rise displaying dark clouds.  Lightning flashes and thunder rolls, and the expanse of water outside my bedroom window is pockmarked with raindrops.  It drips from our palm frond roof, it makes work for our crew in swabbing our decks.  I get up, misreading my watch by one hour and am fully dressed by 6am.  Sitting quietly at the bow of our boat, I watch a man arrive in a canoe, moor to two long sticks which he forces down into the silt, and cast his line repeatedly – no rod, just line.  He waits patiently, occasionally greeting other canoes as they pass, and enjoying a smoke.   Eventually, he takes up his moorings and paddles off to look for more fertile pools for his endeavours.
Our skipper puts up rain shelters

At last, with everybody up and about, we set off for the end of our dream journey, eating breakfast at the glass table in the prow as we go, staring at all the peaceful activity.  Soon we arrive at the landing stage again.  We unload into our taxi, which is waiting nearby.  Molly is sad to leave her boat-house, but happy to see her ‘nother special house again in the coolness of the hotel.  It’s the end of a magical experience, like no other we have ever had before.  It has a serenity which gets into your bones.

Breakfast on the houseboat
After our return from the wonderful houseboat, we settled down to have a quiet day in the air conditioned peace of this very comfortable hotel.  One difficulty to be overcome was the fact that the train was fully booked for all possible days we could return to Calicut at the appointed time, to see Bincy and to catch our flight home.  While the others were resting, I went down to reception to explain the problem.  The hotel manager Mr Kumar was immediately totally involved with the difficulty.  I explained that we needed to return to Calicut, starting out on Monday morning.  It is only 250 km (about 150 miles) – a distance which in Scotland would take about three hours to drive.  Here, it took five hours by train and will take eight to ten hours by car.  For Molly’s sake, we wanted to take the journey over two days, and stop about half way.  In no time, the manager booked the same taxi driver who had helped us during the delay at the boat jetty, who would take us half way, to Thrissur.  He promised to find a good hotel for us too.  Later in the afternoon, he arrived at our room, with a booking for a nice hotel, and provided us with a list of phone numbers for our use, including his own home phone number.  ‘I look after you as if you were my own family’ he said, smiling reassuringly.

Allaphuza is a charming town, quite industrial in an rural Indian way - small mechanics workshops, sawmills and local craft stalls, all buried under the shade of coconut palm trees.  Catriona and Calum braved the afternoon sun to explore the locality, and came back bathed in sweat.  Allowing the day to cool, at about 5pm, Catriona, Bill and I set off for the roof top pool while Molly rested.  The breeze and the warm soft water were extremely welcome.  From this vantage point, the town stretches out in all directions, palm trees sheltering the roofs below.  A church spire of remarkably British style protrudes from the fronds, reminding me of the influence of the long-gone Raj.

Molly rests in our hotel rooms
A quiet day is a necessary thing for Scots in India.  India comes at you with a dizzying torrent of colour, noise, movement and smells, amid the usual confusion of entering another culture and language, where the usual levers which, without thinking, we use to manage our daily lives are suddenly absent or different.  This hotel, which is ‘recognisable’ from a European point of view, has formed a welcome retreat for us, from which we can venture when we feel like a bit of adventure.

And so calm meals in the restaurant, eating food whose subtle flavours entrance the tastebuds, watching ‘Toy Story’ on TV, accessing the internet for the first time in over a week – all of these restore our self-confidence and ability to cope with fascinating, scary, frustrating and amazing India.

Bow of our houseboat

13.5.11 – Magical boat (Alappuzha and Backwaters, Kerala, India)


13.5.11 – Magical boat (Alappuzha and Backwaters, Kerala, India)

Houseboats waiting to depart
It started badly.  Our taxi took us from the Hotel to the landing stage where we were to meet our boat  to cruise the Kerala Backwaters, an area of water and land mixed, where rice fields abut houses and waterways and lakes.  The task sounded easy – find boat, board and sail away.  But we unloaded from the taxi into burning humidity, and a chaotic throng of boats and people.  To add to the frenzy, a crowd of young men on motor bikes arrived at high velocity and noise, celebrating their election victory with fire crackers.  This was all too much for Molly, and for once she lost the plot and screamed.  We sheltered in scanty shade by the waterside trees while Bill and the taxi driver sought amongst the heaving mass of boats for the one booked for us.  One of the boat owners opposite us took pity on poor little Molly, whose face by now matched her bright red hair.  Climbing up a narrow, wobbly gangway, we gratefully settled in the shade of his awning to await developments.  It was a beautiful example of a backwater houseboat in Kerala. Polished wooden floor, canopy of woven palm leaves, comfortable velvet armchairs.  Molly became her usual cheerful self as soon as the shade fell on her and the fan was switched on.  She stared about her in fascination at the colour and activity everywhere, while Catriona was soon immersed in a naval architectural discussion with the boat owner over the design and building of these fascinating craft.  Meanwhile, Bill was frying outside, still searching for our boat.  The houseboats were moored three deep from the rickety edge, as far as the eye could see.  People were everywhere, jumping on and off the boats, loading food, carrying luggage, arriving and leaving in taxis.

Our houseboat
At last, Bill signalled for us to come, and, thanking the boat owner profusely, we picked up our luggage which was strewn all over the deck, and walked along the quay, following our lungi-clad skipper.  At last he leaped nimbly onto the prow of a boat, walked through it to the one behind, repeated the process and so at last we secured our own houseboat, or ‘boat house’ as Molly called it.   Sitting down in relief, we finally had a chance to survey our surroundings.   

Our boat had a black, wooden hull, and a superstructure covered in woven palm branches.  The front was open at the sides, and behind the wooden steering wheel were benches down either side and a glass dining table and six chromium chairs.  A little passage on the starboard side led to two
Houseboat bedroom
Houseboat dining room
bedrooms, each with air conditioning, an en suite shower room aand toilet, and neat, clean, fresh decor – little hotel rooms on a palm leaf boat.  There was also a wash hand basin in the passageway outside the bedrooms – everywhere in India, wash basins appear when least expected.  At the stern was the galley, where two more of the crew were working, already making mouth-watering fragrances pervade the little boat.  A narrow stairway led upwards between the bedrooms to a large, shady top deck, which was empty apart from a velvet padded settee, two armchairs and a coffee table, and bench seats all around the sides.  The boat was a triumph of the combination of quaint and traditional features and modern comfort.  And it was all ours for the day!

Another, larger houseboat
From the spacious top deck, we now had a chance to view our surroundings.  Everywhere, similar boats, some larger, some smaller, were moored.  Every one seemed to be unique – different sizes, their palm-woven superstructures different shapes.  They were moored close, jostling tightly for space and rubbing against each other when any small waves announced an arrival or departure. 

Drinking juice and waiting to sail
Called downstairs to our ‘dining room’ in the prow, we were served orange juice and fruit, and felt the engine rumble into life.  Slowly, pushing off from boats on each side, in front and behind, we gained the open water, and turned to follow a procession of other boats into a broad palm-fringed canal.  The air was at once much cooler, the fronds of the palm trees swishing in the breeze, bright green rafts of water weed with small yellow flotation sacs drifted along beside us, sometimes sporting lilac coloured blossom.  A boat yard appeared to one side, sounds of hammering on wood drawing the eye to bamboo structures of all shapes, in the process of being covered in palm woven covers. 
Sailing, we are sailing!!

And so the leisurely day progresses.  The boat chugs on gently, unfolding the sweet green landscape on either side.  Houses are embedded in groves of coconut and banana palms, peeping out to display their startling colours - orange, yellow, lime green, lilac, blue – white windows emphasising their brilliant colour.  Women in jewel coloured saris stroll casually along the narrow paths, carrying babies wrapped tight, or silver metal cooking pots, or the world wide affliction of polythene bags.  Nearly every house has a black wooden canoe tied outside – cars wouldn’t fit on the narrow strips of ground, so these serve the equivalent role, pushed along silently by wide wooden paddles.  

Kerala Backwaters
The land is wetland, and has over centuries been shaped by human use.  Narrow strips, about 20 feet wide, are raised above the level of the canal on one side and the rice fields on the other.  The latter are flooded and allowed to dry out periodically, and it’s possible to see people working in the dried fields, young rice growing green from the moist earth.  We emerge into a large open lake, other houseboats dotted across the surface.  We moor and our skipper asks Catriona and me to go ashore to choose the ingredients for our evening meal.  It’s extremely hot as we climb across a wide bamboo pole to the shore.  Shaded stalls under the palm trees.  A smiling man opens a box to display large blue-grey prawns, caught that morning, floating in melting ice.  Back on the boat, we chug on, back out of the silver grey lake and into another waterway.  We moor opposite an open area,
Lunch shipboard
where the breeze fans the water and us, and lunch is served, a mouth-watering array of bowls of differently spiced sauces and vegetables, their colours and textures combining with their fragrances in a riot of delight.  Molly is sleeping in her cot in the bedroom, and we carefully select the least spicy items to offer her when she wakes, which she does and eats with obvious interest in all she can taste and see.   
Post prandial rest

Indian Running Ducks
Off again, I see a mass of brownish matter covering the water a little way along.  Vegetation of somekind, forming a dense mat undulating on the surface.  Then I notice flappings and movement within the ‘mat’ and realise that it’s actually birds – ducks – packed so close that they look like one item.  A boat passes through the middle and they part to make space, at once swimming together again when it’s gone.  A man passes on the path above, and ducks that have been on the land cascade down into the water in front of his feet, like a waterfall of birds.  Getting nearer, we can see that they are tall ducks, who run rather than waddle.  Indian Running Ducks.

Frangipani Dance
Afternoon tea is brought to us – tea, coffee, juice, water and a plate of deep –fried bananas.  Molly loves the upper deck, where she can run and dance in the large open area.  Calum teaches her to say the word ‘Frangipani’ after the trees fringing the canal, and she gets it right and dances a ‘Frangipani dance’, her little pink dress and shining red hair dappled in the shaded sunlight.

Washing up
Bath time
As the cooler air of the afternoon arrives, more people emerge from houses on either side.  Each house has a little set of steps leading down into the water.  Some people are scrubbing out aluminium pots, many others are washing clothing, swilling the bundled fabric in the clear green water, and battering it on a smooth piece of rock before rinsing it again.  It looks like hard work to me.  Then it appears to be bath time, and children and adults splash and swim, climbing up and down the stone stairs which are outside each house, water shining and cascading from their brown backs.

Water bus
Washing machine
Commuting
Water buses rumble by.  Like their counterparts on land, these are pretty chaotic affairs, crowded with people, elbows protruding from the glassless windows.  Water taxis gurgle by too, and cargo canoes, filled with logs, or stone boulders, or sand, a frighteningly narrow band of freeboard showing above the water.  These are powered by outboards on long, thin poles.  The small canoes are paddled along silently, sometimes taking us by surprise as they almost graze the sides of our hull.  And all the time, the jewel coloured saris gently float by as with soft steps the women stroll along the waterside, casting reflections of pink, yellow, orange, white, blue – every colour of the rainbow – onto the quiet water at their sides.  People sit on the banks fishing, patiently waiting for their evening meal to emerge from the green depths.

Cargo canoe
The end of a perfect day
We moor for the night under the palm trees, where a cow quietly crops the grass, and two children shout to us and laugh, before running barefoot to their little house nearby.  Molly goes happily to bed, and we eat in the warm darkness of the prow, while jungle birds serenade us.  The evening flows on peacefully.  A misty half moon emerges.  Occasional water buses produce a wake which rocks us gently.  We lie on the upper deck in the dark, playing word games and laughing until we realise that our voices may travel over the water and disturb the quiet little houses on the other side of the water, whose lights pierce the palm fronds here and there.  Glow bugs flit among the palm leaves, tiny illuminations amongst the branches.  And so to bed, in deliciously cool bedrooms.  Our crew settles down on the wide benches in the prow dining area, sleeping under the moonlight. 

This day has been truly idyllic – a dream you can hardly imagine you are part of and from which you wish you need not waken.  A once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Houseboat Idyll