Mumbai Moments

Very early on International Women's Day, we leave Varkala for the Keralan capital city of Trivandum.We're booked on a flight to Mumbai where we'll spend a couple of days before flying to London and then home.

The airport is buzzing and full of women heading to Mumbai for meetings, conferences and celebrations in honor of March 8th. I'm impressed by the age range here from a group of young, "jeans and tee shirts" daughters to a quintet of "brief case carrying sari clad" grandmothers. You can feel their collective energy and strength.

We board an Airbus 320 and in the spirit of the day, are informed that our captain is a 25 year old woman who happens also to be a famous racing car driver. As well, one of the flight attendants has been just honored as the airline's best. We find ourselves in heady company.

As we land in Mumbai, we are immediately struck by the paradoxes of India's largest city. Slums line either side of the causeway and we learn from our taxi driver that of the 18 million residents, nearly 60% are, in fact, slum dwellers. Unbelievably, "slum tourism" has gained a significant toe-hold and you can sign up for an organized "tour" or simply wing it and go on your own. This is a city of enormous wealth and enormous poverty and we will see many examples of both during our brief stay.

We check into our hotel and arrange for a visit the next day to some of the places we've wanted to see.  Of course, we're interested in Bollywood--the film capital of the world--but this time we'll have to skip it.

Our first stop is at Gandhi's home which has a library of 50,000 books and some amazing memorabilia including a letter to Hitler respectfully asking him not to go to war. On our way further into the city proper, we come upon a huge Punjabi wedding complete with a brass band and a gorgeous white horse awaiting the groom's arrival. Soon afterwards we're beside an enormous flat park some 2 kilometres long, full of dozens of cricket matches. These are serious affairs with players in white uniforms and well-dressed spectators lining the sidelines.

In the distance, we can now see historic India gate and our car is soon moving along the street directly behind the Taj Mumbai hotel where the terrorist attack of November, 2008 left 166 people dead and over 300 injured. We see guards armed with AK47 rifles sitting in doorways and a tank at the ready. We are scanned and frisked as we walk into the hotel through the single entrance which is open but after a quick look around, decide to move on.

We stop for lunch at famous Leopold's, a cafe nearly two hundred years old, which was also hit in the terrorist attacks. It's a very crowded, cosmopolitan place and you can hear a potpourri of languages over excellent Indian and European food served by efficient waiters. We could easily linger here for hours. It's time, though, for us to get back to our hotel in preparation for a 3:00 am departure.

Late in the evening, we are packed and ready to go. We are given an incredible send-off by the hotel staff who tell us they will wait patiently for our return and promise a "penthouse" upgrade "next year."

Just after midnight, we approach Mumbai's stunning new international airport. Our driver has been telling us about the realities of his life--15 hour days, 7 days a week for $200 a month, if he's lucky. There's an election coming but he holds out little hope for change. We listen to him as we approach the departure terminal which sits like a gigantic luxurious spaceship hovering above the ground. It's a stark counterpoint to the story we've just heard.

We leave India reluctantly. Perhaps of all our overseas trips, this one has been the most interesting and satisfying. We've loved everything about our adventure--the food, the travel, the new experiences. Most of all, though, we've loved the friendships we've made and these, more than anything else, will be the greatest incentive to bring us back.

Namaste.

Varkala and the Vancouver Canucks

Sitting high on a cliff overlooking the Arabian Sea, Varkala is well known as a temple town and a favorite destination of backpackers and old hippies. Nothing, of course, will compare to our eight days in paradise but we feel that this could be a good fit for us.

We've found a great place to stay right on the beach away from the busy tourist scene above. Our room, we are told, has been built from the timbers of an ancient house originally owned by a wealthy man whose son first disappointed and then bankrupted him. Whatever the story, we like the room very much. 

Directly in front, the sea pounds the shore. Jagged, black rocks abut a sandy beach where it's possible to have a swim in bathtub temperature water. Our terrace opens out onto a breathtaking vista and once again at dusk, the sun will fall into the ocean directly in front. To make us feel even more at home, we're not here long before we've met the three resident yellow dogs who will come to spend a lot of time sleeping outside our door.

Early the first morning, we are amazed to look outside and see a dozen older fishermen manipulating a huge net secured by a massive rope on either side of the rocks. Slowly and with great effort, they begin to pull the net in, chanting as they do, until the catch is up on the shore. We learn that this ancient fishery is dying. Commercial vessels harvest the bulk of the fish and the younger generation has little interest in such labour intensive work. We feel lucky to witness this tradition.

The hours of our days are marked by the muezzin's call to worship starting very early in the morning and ending promptly at 8 pm each evening. Our curiosity gets the better of us and one day, we follow the call to the mosque itself, a gorgeous turquoise and cream turreted building set spectacularly just up from the water.

Most days, just after breakfast, we grab a tuk tuk for the steep ride up to the clifftop where we see para-gliders sailing high above the water, eagles flying close beside them. We walk along a narrow path to the many shops offering bedspreads, drums, jewellery, and tours of every description. The selling is pretty relaxed here and it's possible to actually look around with no hassle. We've found a very favorite cafe which serves great Indian food and the best people watching anywhere. The hours slip away.

Later in the afternoon as the sun sets, we sit out on the beach and are served dinner at a candlelit table by one of the many young men who work at our place. Our dogs lie at our feet and accompany us back to our room in the pitch black night.

Although we are far, far from home in a most exotic place, we can't help but still be pretty interested in hockey and the vagaries of the Vancouver Canucks. As a die hard Edmonton Oilers fan, I always find it hard to wish Vancouver well and have been known, quite frankly, to cheer against them...loudly. I am, therefore, alarmed to read a story in one of the Indian newspapers about the arrest and jailing of some 60 university students for "sedition." Their crime? Cheering for Pakistan in a local championship cricket game.

This item has given me pause for thought. I'd never thought of my behaviour as criminal but maybe, just maybe, under a panoply of dazzling stars over nighttime India, I can make the decision to change my hockey loyalty. I'm good at cheering for losers, I don't want to be charged with sedition, and the Vancouver Canucks may just be my new dream team.

The Gold Bracelet and a Friend For Life

On the eve of his wedding, our son Robin gave me a wonderful gift. Knowing how much I love bangles and wanting to commemorate this very special occasion, he presented me with a royal blue velvet box. Inside was an exquisite gold bracelet.

I've treasured this bracelet ever since.

In getting ready to leave for India, I grabbed a jewellery case I always take with me when we travel. In it are bangles and earrings from Vietnam and Africa, "wash and wear" type jewellery that has sentimental but no monetary value whatsoever. The good stuff stays home.

When I unpacked in Fort Cochin, I was horrified to find my precious gold bracelet tucked into the folds of the jewellery case. How it came to be there will remain a mystery forever but be there it was.Knowing that I would never wear it on this trip, I wrapped it in tissue and packed it back into the case. Next time, I would be more careful.

From Fort Cochin to Munnar to Alleppey and the backwater rice barge, the jewellery case was always in sight and opened every day. When we settled in at the "phantom resort," however, I really unpacked and placed the case on a shelf below the bathroom sink, out of sight.

The days lazily slipped one into the other and our routines were those of two vacationers completely relaxed with virtually nothing to worry about. The jewellery case was never opened and was far from my mind.

Our departure neared and I repacked our bags. We were on our way to Varkala, our next stop, well past the point of no return, when I remembered the jewellery case still sitting safely on the shelf under the bathroom sink. I had just turned to tell Peter what I'd done when our driver Sobit's phone rang.

"Madam," he said, "you have left something behind."

******

Two hours later we arrive at the place we've booked for a few days, just below the cliffs of Varkala. I am out of the car and into the manager's office before the engine is turned off. Quickly, I tell him the story of the missing bracelet and just as quickly he tells me "not to worry...it will all work out" and hands me a glass of lemonade.

There are frantic phone calls to and from Rajesh (of the phantom resort) who agrees to courier the jewellery case and the problem appears solved. Because it's Saturday, however, the courier can't be reached and it will be at least Tuesday before I have the bracelet in hand.

On Sunday, there are more phone calls. Rajesh is worried that because we are leaving Varkala on Wednesday, there is little room for error should the courier be delayed. We decide on the spot to stay for another 4 days.We like it here and it won't hurt anything to give the courier some breathing room.

Monday morning, I am called to the manager's office. Rajesh is on the line and there is a new problem. The courier has refused to take the package because a scan has shown there is "something gold" in it and the drivers are not to be trusted. After much discussion and major hand wringing, I persuade Rajesh to simply package the case up and mail it to Canada. It's certainly not an ideal solution but appears to be the only one. He reluctantly agrees.

Early Tuesday morning, just as we are getting ready for breakfast, I hear Peter laughing. "You'll never guess who's here," he says as he opens the door. And there before us, grinning from ear to ear, is Rajesh, my case in his hand. He has caught a 4:30 AM train from his home for the 3 hour trip to Varkala station and has come the rest of the way by tuktuk.

We are overjoyed to see him again and after thanking him profusely, settle in for a long breakfast together. We sit out on the beach and have a great visit. He will soon be on his way to a new job near Munnar but will return as manager of the phantom resort when it officially opens next fall. We marvel more than once at the coincidental events which have allowed our paths to cross and given us the chance to become friends.

The sun glints off my gold bracelet and I am happy.

The Phantom Resort

Following our trip to the backwaters, our Indian "I can arrange anything" friend has a suggestion. He's getting to know us pretty well by now and has a better sense of what we do like and what we don't.

"I know a very good place for you," he begins, "no other travellers, no other white faces, no English." He suggests we have a "look" and if we don't like it, he'll find something else.

We drive through a very winding road on the outskirts of Alleppey and before long, are bumping over a narrow lane and into a small village full of friendly smiles. One more turn, an even narrower lane, and the car stops before a solid wooden gate. The driver honks and the gate is opened by the "manager" of this mysterious place, the charismatic Rajesh who will come to be a wonderful friend.

We drive into an absolutely stunning tropical garden. Framed by gigantic palms, the Arabian sea pounds a makeshift retaining wall directly in front. To our immediate right, sits a gorgeous bungalow which can be ours for a reasonable price. No one else is here except Maya and Philomena, the maids, and Josef, the gardener. As it turns out, Rajesh is an accomplished chef and will be "more than happy" to prepare all of our meals.

We can't quite believe our good fortune and are still in shock when out bags are unpacked and we are here to stay.

This "resort" has no name. We learn that the place has been opened just for us and will close after we leave in eight days. No permits are yet in place but courtesy of our Indian "arranger" friend, we've flown under the radar and landed in paradise.

Before we know it, we've found a pretty nice routine.

 

Every day at dawn, Peter walks down onto the beach to watch local fishermen landing their small boats through the huge surf. With a lot of cooperation, they unload their nets and bring dozens of small, herring-like fish to shore.

Soon afterwards, Rajesh arrives on our patio with milk coffee and hot water. Within half an hour, he'll call us for breakfast, a cornucopia of delicious Indian foods. Breakfast is served on the terrace of the "mother house" which holds the kitchen and a gorgeous great room where we'll come to spend many hours in the evening reading and writing.

Most days, we'll wander back down the narrow lane into the small community which is our neighbourhood. Tiny shops selling fruits and sundries open onto the side of the road and lazy dogs occasionally lift sleep-filled heads to bark at us. We cut through the yard of a Catholic school on our way to "Simon's Shop" and are always surrounded by curious children wondering who are are and where we've come from.

In the late afternoon, we sit in comfortable chairs and watch a huge red sun drop into the ocean. A flock of crows amuses us every day with a game of "pick up the sticks" which have fallen from the thatched roof above. We notice haphazard nests being built high in nearby trees but conclude that the game is more about fun than hard work.

The days pass slowly and we feel that we could stay here forever.

Inevitably, though, the time comes for us to leave and on a dazzling Saturday morning, our bags are loaded in Sobit's car for the journey further south to Varkala.

There are tears and hugs as we say goodbye to our new friends. and the most incredible experience we've ever had anywhere.

The gate closes behind us and "poof," our slice of paradise is gone.

Backwater Blues

From the day I booked this "passage to India," we've looked forward to boarding a picturesque rice barge for the highly touted cruise through the Keralan backwaters. We've read conflicting stories about the experience including those from travellers who were profoundly disappointed to be part of a huge procession--there are, after all, 1,000-2,500 barges afloat (depending on your source). We learned that you have to strongly advocate for a good boat and a cruise away from the hordes of other tourists.

Our Indian friend, the one who can arrange anything, is aware of our concerns. He has promised us a good basic boat but a spectacular trip.

We arrive in Alleppey, one of the main cruise "hubs," and are taken to a homestay on the water where we'll spend the night before boarding the boat in the morning. This homestay is impressive. The property has been in the same family for 14 generations, some 500 years. Our room is simple with two narrow beds and mosquito nets. Outside, however, the gardens are beautiful and serene. In a gorgeous gazebo hanging far out over the water, we eat an amazing Indian dinner, prepared and served by the homestay's friendly owner.

Early the next morning, we drive into Alleppey proper and down to the rice barge docks. The "captain" of our boat hoists our suitcase onto his head and leads us on a very brisk walk over red roads, through a village, and finally, down to the water's edge. There we climb over large rocks and up onto one barge, which we will walk through, before stepping across the water to another: our home for the next 24 hours.

The "captain" gives us a quick tour of the boat and introduces us to the cook who hands us an ice cold glass of lemonade.  We can see that our "no frills barge" won't stand a comparison to the other more sophisticated models but, we say to each other, the cruise is the main thing, luxury be damned.

The engines are fired up, reversed, and we are off.

To our horror, we immediately join the back of a long line of barges and are very relieved when the captain, through sign language and a few English words, tells us that we are stopping for gas before heading into the backwaters proper. We are smiling as he pilots us away from the gas dock, against the flow of the traffic, and down into a narrow channel barely wide enough for the barge.

Soon we are travelling through spectacular scenery with emerald green rice paddies on either side of us,close enough to touch, as far as the eye can see.

The waterway eventually leads through small villages. We hear the distinctive slap, slap, slap of clothes on smooth rocks as women do laundry the way they have forever. Children dive and swim in the water. Men, both young and old, perform their daily ablutions. We pass small shops, hidden behind clusters of colorful saris, and see the odd water taxi dropping off and picking up locals.

The day wears on and in the late afternoon, the shores are covered in women fishing for and catching dinner.

From our vantage point, on our very own rice barge, we have watched a diorama of daily village life unfold as it has for centuries, right before our eyes.

As the sun sets, our captain ties us up to a makeshift dock in the middle of a rice paddy. The cook quickly jumps to shore and hooks up our power. Before long, we are served a very perfunctory dinner. Then it is time for us to retire to our "quarters" where we read and have a laugh or two about the bedding which is only half the size of the bed.

Several years ago we cruised the waters of Inle Lake in Burma, close to villages, witnesses to the highs and lows of daily life. We were uncomfortable about that experience and are about this one as well. The impact of the rice barges along the inland waterways is a double edged sword. Economically, the tourist influx has, no doubt, been a boon; environmentally and socially, however, the benefits seem less clear to us.

We sleep with ambivalent feelings about this backwater cruise. We'll not soon forget the beauty of what we've seen but like guests who've turned up uninvited at the door, we're not sure how welcome we've been.

On the Gringo Trail

From our earlier trips to the developing world, we've learned that in any country with travelling challenges, there is always a "gringo trail." This is the route that many foreigners opt for whether because of government restrictions, economics, and safety issues or just for the ease of getting from one place to the next with a minimum of hassle. It always includes major tourist attractions.

We'd resolved to stay clear of the gringo trail in Kerala but decide to make a notable exception--travelling to the famous backwaters, often touted as the highlight of any trip to southern India.

We are really sorry to leave Munnar after three nights and wish we'd planned to stay longer. It's a spectacular place and we've enjoyed every minute here.

Early on a Tuesday morning, Sobit picks us up and we are on our way. He knows a shortcut which takes us back down through the tea plantations where we see pickers already hard at work. We marvel at their sure-footedness on some of the steep slopes and wonder, really, how they do it. The women have attached brightly coloured umbrellas to their head scarves, a guard against the blazing sun, and the odd one smokes a cigarette as her hands work at lightening speed clipping the tea bushes

Down and down we go reversing our earlier journey, this time on a narrower, bumpier road but with less traffic. Sobit has found the perfect CD of background music for our travels and he smiles at us as it begins to play. Classic temple tabalas intercut with sitars and flutes make us feel like we're in an Indian movie as we criss-cross one of the most beautiful landscapes we've ever seen.

Finally, we hit the highway and Sobit speeds up. Our destination today is the tourist hub of Kumily on the edge of the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary. En route we stop for lunch at a roadside diner beside a huge "Welcome We Are Air Conditioned Family Room In Back" sign.

A friendly waiter greets us with open arms before slapping an extensive menu on the table closest to us. A huge notice on one wall warns us that "Smoking and the Consumption of Alcohol Will Not Be Tolerated."  We're feeling a bit conspicuous as the only customers but order our lunch nonetheless.

The waiter disappears into the kitchen and we overhear a very loud conversation. Minutes later he rushes past us to the open door, grabs his bicycle and pedals quickly out into the busy traffic. He is obviously on his way to the market to buy the ingredients for our meals which, when they arrive much later, have been made from scratch and are absolutely delicious.

Some two hours after we stopped, we carry on and finally enter Kumily in the mid-afternoon.

The town is full of tour operators promoting mini-safaris to the wildlife sanctuary and offering options to bathe and ride the elephants. We haughtily disdain the whole thing prefering to remember our "purer" experiences in Africa. We'll overnight here before carrying on to Alleppey and the backwaters in the morning.

The homestay we're booked into is grubby with torn sheets and pillowcases, a stark contrast to our pristine place in Munnar. The surly proprietor points us in the direction of main street where we find dozens of souvenir shops and a huge dining hall packed with European tourists. Reluctantly, we sit at the only empty table.

There is little doubt that we are in the thick of the gringo trail here and we're not liking it much at all.

Q

Never Say Never

After several hair raising car trips on earlier visits, we make a solemn promise to each other that we will never ever again travel anywhere by car in India. As the days pass in Fort Cochin, however, we find ourselves tempted by a road trip to the hill station of Munnar, some four hours away in the mountains of southern India.

We've made friends with a young Indian who is the manager of one of Fort Cochin's exclusive hotels and who assures us that he can organize virtually anything. He promises us a first rate experience and a driver who has the three keys to success on the challenging highways: good brakes, a good horn, and good luck.

After a fair bit of rationalizing and saying things like, "Well, at least we'll be together if something awful should happen", we book the trip.

On a hot Saturday morning, we meet Sobit, our driver, at the guest house. He exudes confidence and is driving a newish car. We're feeling pretty optimistic as we fasten our seat belts (seat belts!)  and the journey begins. We leave quiet Fort Cochin and enter the city of Kochi which is chock-a-block full of bumper to bumper traffic. Over the course of the next two hours, we slowly inch our way through it.

Finally, we're out of the city and it seems no time at all before we begin climbing into the hills. Soon we are surrounded by rubber tree groves, eucalyptus forests, and cardamon, pepper, tumeric, coffee and cashew plantations. We are reminded that we are in the spice capital of the world and savor the smells and sights surrounding us.

The road narrows as we climb higher and higher and features one breathtaking hairpin turn after another. Sobit leans on his good horn to warn other vehicles that we are just around the corner. We drive through spectacular tea plantations, one upon the other as far as the eye can see, and still we climb.

At a particularly beautiful lookout, Sobit stops and we get out of the car to take some pictures. It is here that he tells us that he has learned by phone that the road is blocked ahead and won't be open for several hours. He knows of a short cut he can take but we elect to wait and see what happens.

The road block is not far away and our trip grinds to a halt. We both break out a book for what will be at least a two hour wait. Our attention is drawn, however, to a large bus stopped right in front of us. The male passengers have all disembarked and are visiting loudly and with much good humor outside the bus. Soon we hear the unmistakable sounds of Bollywood music and before long, there is "dancing in the streets," high in the hills of southern India on a narrow mountain road.

The sun is setting quickly now and we're enveloped in darkness. Up ahead we see headlights approaching, a sign that the road has reopened. Finally, it's our turn to move and we resume the long journey to Munnar.

Nine hours after we started out, we arrive at the lodge where we are supposed to stay. We aren't totally surprised to learn that there's been a change in plans and that we'll be staying "just down the road."

We pull into the Shamrock Guest House, perched high on a hill overlooking a steep valley. We are met by the young manager who walks us to our very private room. It's a suite really, utterly spartan but clean. He opens the doors onto a terrace and says, "In the morning you will see beautiful views. And at night, the sun sets right in front."

He offers to cook and bring supper for us which he does and for which we are very grateful.

The next morning we are stunned by the vista before us. We are literally hanging from a cliff and below us is an unbelievable landscape completely reminiscent of Nepal. We see tea plantations covering the distant mountains and right underneath us, perched on the steep hillside, sits a village full of people, goats, and chickens.

We instantly fall in love with this place and are very glad we took our chances on yet another Indian road trip.