Land Ho!

KERALA, INDIA - Allepey has probably been saved by its canals. A medium sized town on the coast, it has a city center criss-crossed by canals, forcing most train and taxi traffic to the outskirts of town, along with high-rises. The end result is a city center where you can walk without an impending fear of being mowed down. In fact, it's downright pleasant, with pedestrians filtering in and out of storefronts. The only traffic light was a cop with a ping pong paddle painted with a "Stop" insignia.

Shop shacks selling cabbage, carrots, celery, apples, radishes lined the main road. A lot of the selection could have passed muster in the midwest, except that produce was twice the size and the sellers hacked it up with machetes.

Neighborliness reigned. "Don't let him give you those bananas," one man warned pointing at a trunk filled with fruit, "They are not ripe." Not to worry. The owner gave us his best, along with a pumpkin-sized cucumber.

Blankets thrown on the sidewalk displayed pans and bundles of cardamom, nutmeg, pepper, star anise, tumeric, and cinnamon. "Hey, you, mister, give me ten rupees," a kid asked me. It was the kind of question that we were asked about ten times a day. My heart went out to him, but, as in most places, he wasn't a loner. Around ten kids lurked in the background. I had to say no.

"United States, right?" he said, "Do you have hobbies?" "Yes," I said. He was a good conversationalist "I ride a bike at home. Do you have hobbies." "Yes, I ask people from the United States for 10 rupees. Now come on and give."

Monika, however, became increasingly perturbed by some sexist overtones. Men never addressed her. They addressed me and, if they had a question for her, they asked me too. "Notice our seating," she said at the India Coffee House, "We got hustled into the room with the families and kids." It was true. An all male enclave held sway in the front room.

She went to the bathroom and came back shaking. "Let's get out of here," she said. "Don't worry about the attitude. It's not that bad," I replied. Besides, the food, as everywhere, ruled: pools of delicious spicy mud with rice or chapati. I wanted to savor a milk tea. "No, it's not that. There's a rat in the ladies room."

Back at the hotel, we ran into a middle aged couple from Sydney. She was from Bombay originally. He wore short pants. Not many tourists came to Allepey since the fall of the Soviet Union, Tom told us. "Back then, the government used to send junkets of scientists down here. None of them had any money. Instead, what they'd do is come down here with extra suitcases full of vodka and clothing and then sell stuff on the street," he said.

"The locals hated it." He then started to sing the Rice a Roni ditty. "Rice a Roni, The San Francisco Treat. From the Gay Area, eh, Har, har har." "Sometimes, when he gets too rambunctious," Serena, his wife, told Monika, "I put a extra pepper into his food."

Stanly- I Want To Help You Do Things Right

Stanly approached us on our second jaunt that night. He was a guide on the river boat earlier in the day. "I have a degree in marketing," he said. "That is why I am unemployed."

He himself could not get married. He had no dowry. Hindus, Muslims, everyone adhered to the dowry tradition. Contrary to what we thought, he said the men paid the dowry. His dad received fairly sizable dowries for his three older sisters, but used it to pay for their education. Most families he knew lacked the funds to marry; hence, he was stuck.

Polygamy was also common; his father, in fact, had two wives and both lived with him. "My mother, wife number one, is not too happy about it."

Naturally, the next day we found ourselves at Stanly's for breakfast, a three room home in the Muslim quarter. Winston could have easily passed for a dad in Indiana. He told incessant, meandering stories about his childhood in Sri Lanka, the job at the fabric store, and his letter writing campaigns to American captains of industry.

Winston, as well as Stanly, passed the time sending letters to Americans of note. For fun, he wrote letters to American businessmen and politicians, some dating back to the 70's: Sam Walton, George Bush, Ronald Reagan, Dave Thomas, Massachusetts' governor William Weld. President Clinton, if you are reading, he's still waiting for your reply.

Their favorite figure? "Thomas Whalen III, said Stanly. "The mayor of Albany." Albany under Whalen had made humanitarian contributions to Tula, a sister city in the Soviet Union. "For that they have earned my evergreen respect for their glittering caliber."

Another was Stanley Gordon founder of the Stanley Tool Company and Stanly's namesake. "Good thing you weren't a fan of Snap-On," Monika said.

Tina, Stanly's charming 14 year old sister, whisked Monika off at one point. She returned with a dhoti on her head. 'It's meaningless," my wife said, "Now just a sign of beautification." More importantly, she found out there were two women: the woman who had nodded and hid behind the curtain in the living room and a slightly older, more shriveled woman in the kitchen.

Around the Bay

On the advice of a friend of Stanly's we met in the street, we plotted out a course for going north. Getting these directions was like listening to two diesel engines communicate. They spoke in Malayalam, a low-toned guttural run of grunts and barks. I thought they were fighting.

"He comes from there. He is glad you are going," Stanly said. The man smiled. Unlike the boat ride between Kollam and Allepey, we could now take local ferries, flat scudding "Apocalypse Now" boats painted a hideously bright blue, all the way to Cochin.

The local ferry system acts as the regional workhouse, floating hundreds of field workers, merchants and school kids daily. The men sit ahead of the engine. The women sit behind it, carving plugs of tobacco and betelnut with their scythes. The crews consist of three men, a captain who drives the boat and two porters who remain on the roof until dock time, when one then jumps to shore to secure the ropes. (From the open air bathroom in the back, you can talk to them too!) During the rush, boats pile up two and three deep, forcing passengers to cross hulls to get to their correct boat.

Champakulam became our first stop, a small farming village with two local claims to fame. The cathedral, built in the 15th century, remains an important shrine for local Christians and art lovers: inside, saints and archangels ride ragas of cobras while fish gods spit forth from the pulpit. Thirty to forty kids led us around. It amazed me how boys act in universal ways. Without a priest present, they clambered over everything in flippant defiance. We drew the line at running through the graveyard with them.

Champakulam itself actually consisted of two villages, said Joshua, a local who let us use his canoe. Technically, the south bank was Champakulam. The north side was the village of Meru. As in many Keralan villages, they sprung up opposite of each other but kept separate.

Traffic had been a constant through their history. Taxi-canoes continually made the run back and forth. In the main canal, a man barked out a song on the fish he had to sell. Another drove two water buffalos across and, for our entertainment, nearly onto our boat. Within the villages, people waved at us from their backyards or on the bridges over the small canals.

The town is also a traditional powerhouse in the annual snake boat races. A large outdoor boathouse tells the story: victories in 1993, 1991, 1990, 1988; the boat stretches 105 feet and can hold up to 25 oarsmen.

Joshua lived in Kerala on temporary basis. The floods literally flood everything, making farming or other industry impossible. To survive, Joshua worked in a lab in Rajasthan for eight months out of the year. "I come back here to row for four months of the year," he said.

Riding the ferry service turns out to be a fairly simple task, except for one aspect: communication. The 91 percent literacy rate, we learned, was exaggerated. Even in Allepey, English was difficult to come by outside of a hotel. In fact, so was Hindi. Most spoke only Malayalam.

Even if common language were possible, we came across even a more formidable barrier: the Indian head bob. A combination of the up and down yes motion and the side to side no motion, the Indian head bob involved rocking the head in a fluid rhythmic motion, almost as if someone where drawing infinity figures with their head.

The motion is deliberately ambiguous, Joshua and others told us. When done vigorously, it means no or absolutely correct. When done slower, it indicates the bobber agrees, but to a point. What makes the gesture difficult for the traveler, of course, is that you really have no idea what's going on. "Is this the boat to Kumarakom," I asked at the stop in Chengannur. Two different people bobbed in reply. Yes, I thought. Instead, it went to Kottayam.

Tableside Service

Kottayam is the Detroit of the Kuttanad. Although surrounded by luxury suburbs, plantations, and game reserves, the aging, knob-shaped town has all the attraction of a dump site. One of the main attractions, we were told by our cabbie, was that the town had two bus stations, one public and one private. We ended at the best hotel in town, the Venbanad Lake Resort. We were the only people there.

We had four waiters. At first, it approximated royalty. We'd make our request to Bobby, and he'd order the waiters to their stations. Soon, though, oppression sent in. You can't imagine the small tasks that can be assigned to another. They hovered over our table as we ate, dashing over to serve rice before we could grab the spoon ourselves. They insisted on pouring our beer. The next day at breakfast, when it took three people to bring us toast, we had had enough.

Conversation, of course, was a kick. "Do you have a job, sir?" "Yes. I am a writer."

"Is the missus a housewife?"

"Yes, she is." (kick under the table).

"Does missus intend to have babies?"

Journey to Chaos

The following day, as we started to venture into the Cardamom hills, it began to dawn on us that the road had been taking its toll on us. Both of us had been having nightmares. I dreamt one night that my brother and I made our living stealing car stereos and hung out in sports bars. The next night, I had my old job back, but found myself on a business trip to the worst parts of Harlem the night of a gang summit. "I dreamt that we got married, but everyone at the ceremony was Filipino," Monika said, "and they didn't know us."

She also continued to be the critter magnet. So far, it was the roach, two rats, and several dead animal sightings. By this time, I had taken the job of entering the room first to inspect. "Clear," I'd yell.

The Cardamom hills, unfortunately, is not the place to grow weary of travel. 100 kilometers of twisty road took four hours through some of the worst poverty in Kerala. Dust, garbage and diesel increased as we climbed away from water. Even the beggars were more abject: we were approached at one stop by a midget, a leper, and a woman with extra thumbs.

Bats, large, screeching bats with four foot wing spans crowded the skies. The Cardamom hills have been nearly denatured of all trees or wild bushes. The land is given over to tea plantations and occasionally waterfalls, attractive until you notice the legions of stoop labor. The flatlands seemed like paradise.

The grinding ride and smell of diesel numbed us by the time we reached Kumily, a shockingly brown town. We decided to splurge and stay at the hotel within Periyar Nature Sanctuary, an elephant sanctuary which is the main attraction at the top of the hill. It looked like Camp Curry in Yosemite. Never before had I seen such a beautiful sight. So what that I had to bribe the travel agent back in Kumily to get me in here. The hotel let me run up a tab. And even better, we had run into Tom from Kovalum.

"What's there to do here," Monika asked.

"Nothing," he laughed, "I'm leaving."

Tom informed us that Periyar ran by very specific rules: No hiking without a guide and beyond the proper hours; no private boat rentals for the lake; no riding the rental bikes along the trail or to the town. Periyar presented only two recreational options after 9:00 a.m. Drink "Knock Out", a fortified beer whose label features a prone boxer, or take the diesel boat ride. We made the wrong decision. We did both.

The teeth rattling, lung rotting four hour bus ride got complimented by the two hour diesel boat ride. We saw a family of elephants, three warthogs and some deer, but, so help me god, all I wanted to do was cry. We counted the minutes until we returned to dock. When we did, a rainstorm broke out. When we got back to the bar, the power went out. The only generator died. "No hiking tomorrow," said the bartender. "Not allowed. Leeches."

"Can we get out then," Monika asked.

"Yes. Bus comes at 6:00."

Escape

Driving up was a nightmare: going down the same road in the fog after a severe rain storm meant death, if anything by panic. Our options were limited, said the concierge. The 6:00 bus sometimes came at 6:30 and the fog might clear by then; a 6:30 express bus served the area, "but that usually comes around six." We opted for a private car.

Immediately, we were thankful we didn't take the bus. Not only did the car have windows, it had a horn, an important device when stuck in a cattle drive. Scores of Brahma cattle occupied the road. Feeding time had arrived and every herder in the area was taking his fifty plus brahma, each with horns painted in shades of blue, red or green, to eat in lower lands. Whips cracked in the dung scented air. Clouds slunk around the valley below us. I loved it.

Our driver wove through several hundred Brahma until coming to an abrupt stop. He rear-ended one. A back hoof went up. This is it, I thought, Bossie's going to kick the radiator and then stomp us. Miraculously, it ran, taking companions with it and clearing the way.

Sadly, that drew an end to the miracles. The dizzying, punishing, random chaos of Indian driving took over next. Most of the time I couldn't figure out why we were slowing down or weaving. Four hours later, we arrived at the train station. Using the separate ladies line, we got tickets to Cochin.

Our second class tickets put us in with an Indian family of six adults, two kids, and the all the lost naugahyde Samsonite luggage in the world. We had six seats for the ten of us. The fans above did not work. And, although it was only 2:00 in the afternoon, the dingy yellow tube interior made it seem like night.

I began my three head wag test. The first person knew no English and shook violently. The second person spoke English fluently, and said, "I have no idea if this train stops in Cochin." The third person confirmed it. "We will stop in Enarkulum, the city across the water from Cochin. This is the Superfast!"

Indians consider the Superfast a miracle of engineering and national planning. Running from Trivandurum to Bombay and New Delhi, the Superfast is India's most efficient and luxurious common passenger train. In reality, it was no better or worse than any other Indian train but, since more people took it on account of its reputation, it was in reality far more uncomfortable.

Nonetheless, I liked my companion, an infantry soldier on his way back to Delhi. "I grew up in Trivandurum and go home as much as possible," Benot said. His wife and children still lived there. Like many locals, he didn't like the North, only Tamil Nadu and Kerala. Up North, they had a stronger caste system, "the curse of the Indian people."

He recommended the same for us. "People, they will help you here. Himchal Pradesh is good, full of mountain people. But in Uttar Pradesh, Rajasthan, these people will grab you, hi hi...And do not go to Bihar. Banditry is part of their nature."

Almost Made It

We pulled into Enarkulum station after seven hours on the road, thirteen if you count the day before, and a few days in total if you added together all the boats, taxis, trains and planes since we left. I looked up to Monika. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I can't take this constant traveling. I can't...I can't."

A large soldier volunteered to help. "Fine," I said. "We want to stay in Cochin." "Ah, you see, that will not be possible," he said as he opened up a guide book. "You see, you are a visitor, and most of the visitor stay in Enarkulum. It is easier." I wanted to tell him, look, I have the same guide book. I know most of the visitors stay in Enarkulum, the mainland part, but I want to stay on Cochin, the old world peninsula that most visitors come for. I wanted to be away from cars and tables with sport clothes for sale. But I didn't tell him that. Instead, I let him ramble for five minutes until I spied a pay phone.

This being India, the pay phone was really an ordinary phone with a guy who made and collected change. Hired help he was, he would not, however, look up numbers for me. That no doubt was someone else's job and they had the day off.

The Sea Gull in Cochin had vacancy. We were going. G.I. Joe got us a rickshaw that took us to the docks. And standing in two wrong lines (one ladies only I had the misfortune to stand in and one to another island) we finally found the right ticket window and made it onto the ferry.

Cochin bay so far looked like Alameda Naval Shipyard: lots of aluminum siding and twisted metal. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the wrong ferry and we ended up in South Cochin. The town itself turned out a dazzler: a fifteenth century port that had not been revitalized since. Pastel storefronts spilled out into the street, featuring sacks of the world's spices. Chalkboards hung on walls telling the day's quotes for pepper, cardamom, cinnamon and others. Muslim men haggled over the balance of a scale and smoked cigarettes over their milky tea. At one point, we got misdirected and ended up near "Old Jew Street," the heart of the Jewish district. Occasionally, shouts of laughter could be heard from the pepper brokerage. Up the street, we knew, was the synagogue. It was beautiful. It was just not the time to experience it.

It took nearly an hour to find the Sea Gull. And what did we find: rat turds on the window sill. The place was infested, shouted a German tourist. We bustled toward the nearest dock, with the hotel manager following. Young Indian men stepped in our path to slow us down. We resorted to looking straight ahead. Like a game of chicken, they would part at the last moment. He was pleading with us as we boarded the ferry to Bolgatty Island, a pastoral island and home of the Bolgotty Palace hotel. It is also the only place in India, we concluded, without any cars.

"I love it," my collapsing wife exclaimed. The Dutch built the hotel in 17th century and it showed: twenty foot ceilings soared in the dining room while glass terraces graced the side rooms. Devotees leaving Mata's birthday had it booked. Another ferry and a taxi later, we were back where we started, at Enarkulum.

A Single, Shining Hope

We had one shot left for a good night's sleep. We hopped another boat to Willingdon Island, home of Cochin's luxury hotels and a naval base. Go figure. We had been traveling 10 hours now. Miraculously, we took the right ferry, but could not find a cab for the Casino Hotel. Dura attached to us. He was a freelance writer and had clients there. They were fellow writers who worked a campaign to halt construction of a dam in Himchal Pradesh.

The mile walk had driven us to exhaustion. The empty air conditioned lobby of the Casino was like a fresh blast of Las Vegas. They were full. To be honest, I think it proved one of the rules of travel: never wear a Grateful Dead t-shirt if you want to be taken seriously. Still, they offered to get us a cab for the Malabar.

As the Malabar is one of India's most expensive hotels, it should have come as no surprise that the five minute cab ride would cost more than most meals I had in the country. "We will go shopping first," said the driver. "NO ONE GETS PAID UNLESS WE GET TO HOTEL FIRST," I said.

"Shopping it is then."

"NO ONE GETS PAID. NO MONEY. GOT IT? SHOP AND STARVE." He got the message.

The sun was setting as the footman opened the door to our grubby selves. "Do you have rooms," I asked. Yes, he replied. We walked straight into a board meeting of the bank of India. I had not seen this many suits in ages. Before we could speak, the woman offered: "We have no rooms..well, really only suites, and they cost $225 a night. We could give them to you for $200 a night, but, as you know, there is a luxury tax."

It was a much more clever brush off than the Casino. They put the ball in our court so to speak, chalking our homelessness up to poverty. Unfortunately, it wasn't clever enough. "I'll take it," I said in my best refined accent as I whipped off my sweat stinking money belt.

They checked my signature five times and each of our passports twice. Our money was good. Hot showers brought out the beauty of Cochin, separated by a small bay channel to the left.

Chanters were calling devotees to the Mosque. Fisherman were coming in on their boats. Five stories below our deck, hotel help was unloading costumes from a boat for "Punjabi Night." The four room suite, which came with two tv's, two newspapers, lots of towels, and fruit basket, stood for everything against the usual traveler's ethos. And at that moment, we loved it.

Be sure to read:

Swami River Part I - Michael's Adventures in India

Practical Information About Kerala, India

Moonlight Guest House, Kovalum - an excellent bargain. Four poster beds with mosquito nets evoke the glory of the Raj. Staff will organize excursions, laudry, rides etc. They also know of good seafood. Staff is easy to find, they sleep on the lobby floor.

Allepy Prince, Allepy - Still a bargain. A little more difficult to recommend, although one of the few options in town. Small rooms, cement ambiance. Imposing desk clerk looks like 60's comedian Marty Allen. Restaurant next door, however, is excellent and comes complete with a men-only drinking establishment upstairs. Night market is perhaps the best in the entire Kerala area.

Kumakorum Palace, Kottayam - Don't go alone. Waiters hover and they want $18.00 a night (expensive by local standards)! We also found an old rat turd in our bathroom.

Periyar Wildlife Preserve, Periyar - The reserve is separated from the nearby village of Kumily by a kilometer of forest and a guard station. It is peaceful and tranquil and few cars roam. If you get up early, you can see the wild boars munching in the garden. The reserve has two hotels, both of which are excellent. It is also possible to camp in one of the ranger towers. Contact any travel agent for details.

Bolghatty Palace, Cochin - Simply the world's best $11.00 a night sleep (at least when this was written in the mid 90s)! They have turned a 250 year old palace into a hotel. The Bolghatty is located on its own island. There are no cars. Fishermen ply the shore just off the beakfast room. A guide book rumor that the place is run down is unfounded. Unfortunately, we forgot to get a room there.

Malabar Coast, Cochin - 1/4 of what we spent in two weeks in India was spent on one night at this hotel. Unfortunately, we neglected to check out the Bolghatty. Despite the costs, you will appreciate the air conditioning, potable water, four room suites, clean beds and complimentary fruit basket. At sunset, you can hear the chants from the nearby mosque on nearby Cochin Island. Uppity service and a bad exchange rate, though. However, it's the only game in town, go for it.

For Information on India in General:

• Government of India Tourist Office (New York) 212-586-4901
• Government of India Tourist Office (Los Angeles) 213-380-8855
• Government of India Tourist Office (Toronto)416-962-3787

Fabulous Travel Recommends:

Lonely Planet's Asia & India, A Travel Survival Kit is the indispensable bible for the country. It'll save you ten times its cover price and is exhaustive in every respect, no matter what your budget.

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A Camel Safari in India