Kerala: "God's Own Country""

That's what all of the signs say and, to be fair, they're not far wrong. We'd been hugely looking forward to getting into the state of Kerala - the most socially advanced state in India and with an on-off freely elected communist government -  and it was one of the main reasons we wanted to come to India in the first place. We started our journey through on the island of Fort Cochin, a small town with a very European feel due to its former Dutch and Portuguese colonisers that was amazingly lacking in traffic bar the odd auto or car and was the some-time home of Portuguese explored Vasco da Gama. Testament to the towns European-ness was the man who ran our hostel, The Princess Inn. Freddie was a local man that went to church on Sundays and stressed the fact that Fort Cochin had been this way for centuries, with more churches than temples and was not the product of westernisation.

The slow pace of the town lured us towards its many cafes and restaurants: the cafe-cum-art gallery that was Kashi Art Cafe which served up amazing omelettes, French toast, cinnamon breakfast cake and cold coffees; the high-ceilinged, vintage teapot-clad Teapot whose loose leaf tea and death by chocolate cake hit the spot mid-afternoon; Shala's Keralan food which was cooked by local housewives from the area that were famed in their neighbourhood for whipping up tasty traditional food. We succumbed more than once, if only to escape the heat (Fort Cochin is below sea level, so its humidity is very high - the sweat was rife!).

Whilst there, we also got to experience a bit of Keralan culture first hand. First up was a Kathakali dance show. The Kathakali dancers have brightly coloured faces - vivid yellows, bright greens, deep reds - and so, before each show, make themselves up by grinding down different stones to create their face paints, mixing the powder created with coconut oil. They sat on stage whilst they did this so that we could watch them paint intricate patterns on their own faces. The dance show itself, which traditionally last for several hours, have no words, relying instead on facial expressions and gestures of the hands and arms. So, one eye-lip-hand combo could convey happiness and another anger. The result is a little like an epic game of charades (accompanied by tablas, an accordion-type instrument and singing).

Preparing for the show

The play itself was the classic tale of Princes play a game of dice with their enemies, one bets and loses his wife to the enemy who then uses her to carry out menial tasks, wife refuses to do said tasks and is humiliated by the enemy, wife vows to leave her hair unwashed until her husband (the Prince) combs the blood of the enemy through her hair, husband fights and eventually defeats the enemy, rips out his heart with his bare hands, drinks his blood and has a nibble at the intestines, wipes the blood through his wife's hair, husband feels guilty for his and other killings he's carried our and so appeals to Lord Shiva for forgiveness, Lord Shiva appeases him, reassuring that his actions are the will of God, so it's all fine...you know, that old chestnut. What do you mean you've never heard it?!

We also did a Keralan cooking course with a nice lady call Leelu, where we learned to make traditional Keralan fish curry, green pea masala, vegetable stew, an Indian salad and chapathis (a flat, thin Indian bread). She also gave us her recipe for making Garam Masala, which is normally a family secret making us feel special. Once everything was made, we sat down and ate it all at her table and it was absolutely delicious, particularly the green pea masala, which is surprising as on paper it sounds kind of boring.

The next stop was Alleppey, just a short hour and a half bus journey from Fort Cochin. Here, we were in the market for a converted rice boat to take us onto the Keralan backwaters for 24 hours. We walked straight to the dock, where we met two Swedish girls, Hannah and Christine, who were also after a boat for 24 hours. We paired up with them in the hope of getting a two bedroomed boat for a better price - economies of scale and all that. We wandered along, hopping on and off different boats to see what they looked like inside and what price they were offering. There were tens of rice boats lined up and we must have looked at almost all of them before deciding on ours; it was called Mahata and was the nicest boat moored up. After some serious haggling, we got the price down to 7500Rs for the boat (the equivalent of £27 per person) and included a couple of free beers, lunch, dinner, breakfast and afternoon tea.

Our houseboat

From 12.30pm until 10.30am the following morning, we switched between lounging in the deck chairs on the boats top deck and relaxing in it's seats on the bottom. We watched the world go by and people living their lives by the river - washing clothes, cows and themselves, playing, swimming, rowing - as we pootled along Kerala's backwaters, which are essentially big, blue watery roads (complete with junctions). In the back of the boat, Prince, our onboard chef, cooked up some incredible food - fish curries, pineapple and banana curries, egg curry for breakfast. The smells coming from the back an hour before meal times was amazing and enough to distract you from whatever you were doing.

As we've moved brought India, we've quickly discovered that India is a nation of feeders and so they love to see you enjoy their food. Given Richard's reputation as a human dustbin, Prince too a shine to him constantly offering him more at meal times and, at dinner when all the food was gone, serving him up some of his own dinner - a "very spicy" fish curry. We felt kind of bad, but he insisted!

Just before dusk, we put down anchor in the middle of an enormous lake surrounded by palm trees and, as we watched the sun set, dark, heavy clouds rolled in and eventually broke into a heavy 15 minute downpour. This was the first bit of rain we'd seen in India and we were probably in the perfect place - on a covered boat, in the middle of a lake, watching it hammer the surface of the water. Once the rain had cleared, we jumped off the boat and into the water, which was incredibly warm and went for a swim around the boat before finishing the night drinking bottles of Kingfisher and talking with Hannah and Christine, listening to the sound of tablas and shouting in the distance as a nearby town celebrated its temple festival.

A quick dip in the lake before dinner

We reluctantly left our little taste of paradise behind after an enormous breakfast and caught a three and a half hour local bus to the small but idyllic beach of Varkala, where we stayed in the amazingly well run (and incredibly cheap - £5 for the two of us per night) Shiva Gardens. Spending four lazy days lying in the sun, we ate fresh fruit, read, Richard got mildly addicted to cold coffee,  and decided where to go for dinner, as well as bumping back into two amazingly fun girls we met back in Hampi - Della and Lisa.

Sunset over Varkala beach

Whilst our hostel was excellent (supplying both a ceiling fan and a plug in fan in our room - oh the luxury), it seemed to be a stop off for the 'found-yourself-types', most probably due to its proximity to a yoga ashram. One such character was Thomas, a Belgian chap that spent half an hour talking at us in his hippy-dippy 'yeah man' voice. Here's just a small chunk of that diabolical conversation:

"Last week it was the supermoon and so me and my healer went on a pilgrimage up a mountain with other people and there healers. The energy up there man...the energy up there was incredible. I was just wearing this [he was wearing a lunghi, a white cloth, serrong-like garment wrapped around his waist that didn't pass his knees] and I started to get cold. My healer told me to lie on the rocks and I thought to myself 'why?', but when I did it was so warm. It was amaaazing. My healer told me not to bring anything with me and so I said 'okay, but I will need my toothbrush, no?'. He said 'no, I will show you what we do' and he did. We took the leaf of a tree and we used it to clean our teeth. Everything we need is around us. Not far from here there's a green valley which is sooo beautiful after it's rained - so green! I go there and collect things in the mornings and it's such a beautiful experience."

He wasn't lying either. The following morning he was pushing a wheelbarrow full of coconuts and various branches through the hostels back garden. A couple of days later, as we ate breakfast, he passed us whilst walking along the cliff-top and playing a recorder to himself...

We left the sea and sand behind for the last time in a while, a bus taking us to the train station from which we'd travel to the hill station of Kodaikanal. Seating on Indian buses is almost always an issue as they're always so busy - we still haven't figured out where everyone is always going, be it at 8am or 8pm. We were lucky enough to have a seat on this one though and, as we got up to leave, a man who was standing put his briefcase on Ashley's seat to save it for himself. That's fair enough. It was what he did next that was ridiculous, literally defying every ounce of common sense a person could have. Before Ashley had even moved out of the small walkway where you put your feet whilst you're seated, therefore trapping her in. We tried telling him to wait, but he just stood there, poised and ready to take his seat. With no other option, Ashley grabbed the shoulder straps of her backpack, dipped her shoulders and charged the man aside. We couldn't help but laugh as we waited for the train that would take is closer to the end of South India.

Happy Holi!

We always knew we were going to go to Goa after Mumbai, but until we met Jonny and Ali in Aurangabad, we weren't sure where exactly we'd be ending up. Goa is a surprisingly big place, with beaches running from its north to its south end and offering everything from package holiday resorts in Calangute to almost complete seclusion in Palolem. When Anjuna was suggested, almost in the middle of Goa and famed for it's Wednesday flea market, we were sold. Further tales of its quiet beaches and great food had us chomping at the bit to get there.

Staying on the beach normally means there is little to report as we spend the majority of our time sipping sweet lime sodas and cheap beer and taking a dip in the sea when it gets too hot. Anjuna was no exception and we pretty much camped up outside Cafe Lilliput, a bar and restaurant, for 4 days solid. Our biggest decision of the day was usually "do we want a fresh pineapple now or in a few hours?" or "where do you want to go for dinner tonight?". On a really bad day, we'd have to decide on an answer for both questions and, in fairness, we also had to be sure to get rid of any left over fruit to ensure we weren't accosted by the cows roaming the beach.

"I'm gon' eat yo' watermelon

Being (as we're slowly discovering) creatures of habit, the answer to the second question was always Shore Bar, where they cooked incredible freshly caught grilled fish, Goan curries and crab masalas, cheap beers and a crunchy muesli with fresh fruit each morning for breakfast. We ate here every morning and evening whilst in  Anjuna and do not regret it!

We eventually peeled ourselves away from the beach on the Wednesday to attend Anjuna Flea Market. The market seemed to span for miles and had well over 100 stalls, which sold everything from jewellery and pashminas to knock off watches and all kinds of Tibetan paraphernalia. Richard had his eye on a beautiful mosaic Tibetan teapot, but with an outrageous asking price of 4,000Rs (nearly £60!), he wasn't interested in our equally outrageous opening offer of 1,000Rs (£15). We bought a couple of bits and Ashley went back to the same stall 3 times (always a mistake. They can practically smell your desperation for their product) for a bangle that she really wanted. We haggled hard, but couldn't shave off the final 100Rs and so Ashley ended up paying just over a pound more than she wanted to, but was worth it.

After Goa was Hampi, an alcohol-free town surrounded by rock formations which have eroded over millions of years, leaving boulders balancing on top of other boulders as if they've placed there intentionally. It's comparable to Bedrock, home of The Flintstones. On the train there, we met a small group of people which had formed whilst in India and was made up of Niamh and Robert (both from Ireland but traveling separately), Sophie (from London) and Graham and Maisie (a couple from San Francisco). We were invited to tag along with them in finding a place for stay and we did, which, in hindsight, was an excellent decision.

"Yabadabadooo!"

By a stroke of luck, we had managed to coincide our visit to Hampi with the Hindu festival of Holi, a celebration of Spring that is a year old's dream festival - an enormous paint and water fight.  We knew this was happening whilst we were in India, but had read that it wasn't really celebrated in the south to the extent it was in the north; we were wrong. We found out from the guys at our hostel - a chilled out place called Sunny Guesthouse, which served excellent food, showed nightly movies and was run by two men that, no matter what the time of day, would greet you with "gooooood morning!" - that it would be happening Sunday morning. We also heard that there was a bonfire taking place the night before, where the locals gathered together and enjoyed the one night of drinking that they allowed themselves each year.

We wanted to go and check this out, but it was happening in Hampi Bazaar and the set up of the town was potentially restrictive. Split into 2 parts by a 100 metre-wide river running down its middle, Hampi Bazaar, which holds the majority of the shops and sights, sits on one side and on the other sit most of the hostels (ours included). From 9am until 6pm, an engined boat runs people from one side to the other every few minutes. After 6pm, however, you're on your own. A bridge would be a seemingly simple solution to this, but Hampi's not there yet.

With the bonfire not scheduled to start until 9.30pm (Indian time, meaning it's more likely to start between 10 and 11pm), we needed an alternate means of crossing. We also needed to source some alcohol to get into the spirit of the festival, which one of the blokes from our hostel was more than happy to do, bringing us back a litre of Royal Stag whiskey. Apparently Hampi is almost dry; you just need to look in the right places

The bonfire

Our transport across the river, organised by Sophie and Niamh, turned out to be an 'illegal boat', which was essentially a giant, wicker bread basket manned by a chap holding an oar. The seven of us piled in, forcing the lip of the 'boat' very close to the water, and enjoyed the journey across (as quietly as possible so as not to alert the suspicions of the police). Safely across, we asked of the same boat would take us back at 2am and Richard arranged a secret signal to summon him - the classic pigeon call.

Once across, the celebrations soon began, with groups of men playing tablas (drums) whilst throngs of people surrounded them and danced, clapped and screamed to the beat. With some of the crowd a few beers down, a few guys were really going for it, pulling out some excellent moves and shapes (other than travelers, women were completely absent from the festivities by the way). Before long, we were all dancing with the rest of the locals, with arms round shoulders, hands in the air and feet off the floor as we jumped around. The mass of dancing bodies began to move towards the bonfire, following what was very similar to the Guy that we burn on November 5th. We went with it and watched the piled up wood catch alight.

The party seemed to finish as abruptly as it started and so we walked back to the riverbank to meet our 'boat'. To begin with, the police tried to turn us away, but we eventually convinced them to let us call our man to get us back to our beds. On the riverbank though, despite some serious pigeon calling, we were left stranded on the wrong side of the river. Thankfully, another two friends of the group we'd met, Amy and Kyle, were staying on the right side of the river and they tool the 7 of us back to their hostel, where it quickly became obvious that 9 of us were not going to be able to sleep in a double room. Instead, we were able to get onto the roof of their hostel and got some sleep there.

The next day was Holi proper and, having surface at around 8am, we saw that many of the local children were already in full swing. We created a very basic water pistol by piercing holes in the cap of a water bottle with a fork and armed ourselves with bags of paint powder before excitedly hitting Hampi Bazaar ready for multi-coloured warfare. Adults, children and travelers were crowded together and caked in paint, throwing powder and smearing it on others (without any sort of animosity either. This is the sort of thing that could turn into a riot elsewhere). The children all wanted to get on our shoulders for a better vantage point, especially Richard's. At one point, as we was talking, one kid started trying to climb him like a tree. Also, Ashley got a little over confident and put a girl who was only a foot smaller than her up there - she was the second and last child to sit on her shoulders. 

The aftermath

No one was safe from Holi, as demonstrated by a couple of gents who drove straight into the middle of the crowd. Needless to say, they were immediately covered in paint. The driver then put his hands above his head and began to clap and chant. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" The crowd joined in, clapping their hands and stamping their feet in the build up to a big crescendo, which was: "HAPPY HOLI!". There was an enormous cheer and the bike drove away. It was as if the crowd had been expecting them.

Our last couple of days in Hampi were spent exploring it on hired motorbikes (320Rs or £4.50 per day). With Richard  driving and Ashley on the back, we rode through Hampi's small villages where the children asked for "school pens", paid a visit to the Monkey Temple and found a large, flat rock that sits about 10m above a lake - perfect for lying on and jumping off. We actually ended up going back here a couple of times as it was a great way to cool off. The scenery in Hampi was incredible and, for the most part, we just pootled along whilst we took it all in. You wouldn't expect to find scenery like this in India - it looks more like Nevada.

Graham and Richard jumping into the reservoir to cool off

On the second day with the bikes, whilst taking the long route back to our hostel, the back of the bike started to slide from side to side and it quickly became obvious that we'd managed to get a puncture. The others went back to find someone to help whilst Richard pushed the bike back in the direction of our hostel, with Ashley walking alongside him offering her moral support.

After about 20 minutes, a Dutch guy pulled over on a Royal Enfield motorbike and offered us his pump, which we tried, but to no avail. A small white van with two Indian men inside also passed, asking if we were alright. We explained that we were fine and just had a puncture. They nodded and drove on, but 20 minutes later they were back and offering us a lift to our hostel. We gladly accepted and they helped Richard lift the bike into the back whilst emphasising the important of not scratching what was the drivers work van. Bike in, we both sat in the back to keep it upright. Minutes later, we heard a horn beeping behind us. We turned round to see Graham on his motorbike and, sat on the back, an Indian man with a pump in one hand and an inner tube in the other. 10 minute later, and for just 100Rs (£1.40), we were back on the bike - quicker and cheaper than your average RAC call out!

Richard and our short term rescuers

We could have spent another week in the surroundings and company of Hampi, but, after saying our goodbyes, we had to move on to our next stop - Mysore via Bangalore. Because we'd cancelled our train to have one more night in Hampi, we were unable to get one to Bangalore as originally planned. However, no thanks to the helpfulness of the railway staff at Hospet station, we were able to get ourselves onto an overnight sleeper bus. It wasn't as comfortable as a sleeper train, the bumps of the Indian roads sending your sleeping body a foot into the air (which, for the record doesn't aid the digestion of a heavy cashew curry) and your sleep being punctuated by the incessant beeping of the coaches horn, but it did the job.

Back on track, we were in Mysore the following morning and checked into the clean, functional, slightly characterless Hotel Dasprakesh for the night. Mysore was a busy city and its main attraction - The Maharaja's Palace - wad visible from quite a way a way, its domed peaks sticking out of the top of its skyline.

The palace is completely walled off within the city an is in fact a remake/tribute to the original palace which burned down in 1897. Rebuilt by English architect Henry Irwin, the new palaces outside is all reds and golds, but it was the inside that was particularly impressive. Brightly coloured stained glass windows showing peacocks sat alongside dark, wood-carved doors (as well as 3 ornate solid silver doors), an infinite number of chandeliers sat above tall, painted pillars produced and shipped from Glasgow and murals by various artists showed various scenes of life in Mysore during the 1900s. All of this made for a gaudy, garish interior that was verging on camp, but it all made for a visually exciting tour. Unfortunately, cameras weren't allowed inside, so you'll have to make do with this stock photo from Google.

Durbar Hall inside The Maharaja's Palace

Also in Mysore was one of India's most colourful and lively bazaars - Deveraja Market - where the stalls zig-zagged up and down the streets with vendors selling spices, dried vegetables, perfumes, fruit and veg, flower garlands, bangles and paint for religious festivals and services (like the ones we used for Holi). As always, everyone wanted us to take a look at their stall, so their was lots of shouting and attention grabbing, with the most common greeting being "Yes, what do you want?", said not with any tone of annoyance, but of expectancy. Our favourite, however, had to be one of the store holders responses when we told him we were from England. Putting on his best mockney accent, he shouted "Ah! Well come 'an 'ave a butchers then!". Brilliant.

Beautifully arranged gulal (paint powder)

We were only in Mysore for just over 24 hours, but had some excellent food whilst there, particularly the thalis. For around 60 Rs (a little less than 90p), you're served a meal of rice, various vegetable curries and poppadoms on a banana leaf and the beat bit is, thy keep coming round and filling it up until you're full. We had some of the best thalis we've had in the South whilst here.

We also had a chance to send a package home. When sending a package in India, it's not normally just a simple case of buying a box from the post office and piling your stuff in. There are small shops that package your contents before stitching it into a hessian bag for safe sending. We found one such 'shop' (although in reality it was a cupboard at the bottom of a set of stairs) run by a man named Syed who said he'd box, wrap, stitch and send our stuff home for a good price. After proudly running us through almost everyone person he'd ever sent a package to through use of his book filled with photos and emails - "Jenny, UK, Wales - 15 days", "Britney, America, sent 3rd April, arrive 24th April" and so on and so on. After thy, he asked if we'd care for a samosa and a chai, which we happily ate and drank - all part of his customer service routine. We watched as he went to own on packing our stuff into 2 old sari boxes, packing in polystyrene, wrapping it in string, then plastic, then more string before placing it into a essay sack and stitching it up by hand (before tying on a bit more string for good measure). Once he'd finished, it was certainly more secure than you're usual Royal Mail box.

Syed's handy work was second to none

A businessman of the 21st century, Syed showed us how his phone synced his emails and promised to send us the tracking code within he next 24 hours before proceeding to run through his past customers again - "Daniel, Italy - 19 Days". We managed to stop him before he got too into it and got ourselves out of there to head to the train station. Leaving a parcel with a man in his cupboard office sounds sketchy, but he seemed legitimate and took what he did seriously.

And just like that, we were moving on to Kerala.

X

P.S. The package made it home in just 10 days!