God's Own Country

This is Kerala's state slogan and dear lord is it true! Named as such because of the myriad of natural wonders in such a small, but "wealthy" state, Kerala boasts beautiful white & black sand beaches, lakes, rivers, mountains, canals & forests. Moving north from Trivandrum (read my premier blog about the train experience there), I was so looking forward to the promise of a chill vibe atop sheer, red-clay cliffs in Varkala. A part I forgot to mention about the train was that I was kicked out of the a/c cab as I had unwittingly bought a ticket for sleeper class with just 10 minutes left in my journey. So I waited, where else, in the urinal cab, trying not to breathe and counting the palm trees that whizzed by. So ready to get off that train, I considered just leaping out as soon as I felt the train slow (hey if the kids can do it in "Slumdog Millionaire", why can't I, right?!) But eventually it did slow and I was the first off the train, battling hordes of school kids who ended up hanging out of every train door and barred window.

Steps to the beach etched into the cliff

I grabbed a rickshaw for Rs70 to Varkala Beach and instantly the memory of the train slipped away as the Arabian glistened and beckoned me like the salty temptress she is. Dividing into three areas, Varkala caters to mostly european tourists on the north and south cliffs while Hindu devotees pray at the inland Janardhana Swamy temple before making their way down to Papanasam Beach to scatter the ashes of their dearly departed. In the morning they wade into the waters and the sea around them turns turquoise with the ashes. I didn't want to take photos, it felt too intimate even watching their procession.

The guesthouse I can my eye on was closed for renos, but the owner sent me across the Tibetan Market lane to another guesthouse, Thiruvathira. She doesn't look like much from the outside, but inside she is all cool marble floors, netted four poster beds, clean ensuites and for my room, a balcony overlooking the villagers huts. It was exactly what I was looking for, and for only Rs350/night, it was a bargain.

My morning view, chai in hand, text in the other

Ms. Vasantha runs it with warm, yet independent, hospitality. When I tried to give her a tip to thank her son for carrying my bags up to the room, she misinterpreted and instead brought me a chai tea. This became my morning ritual, sitting on my balcony, watching the birds bathe in the monsoon rain or the villagers put out clean laundry to dry, reading my suddenly interesting textbooks and drinking the most delicious chai I have had yet in India.

Varkala is most definitely a tourist destination but the half-naked white bodies on the beach keep to their side while the devotees worshipping their ancestors keep to their section, seemingly in perfect harmony. The dress code is more lax here, and I reveled in wearing sleeveless long dresses or tank tops over the ever comfortable "ali baba" pant. I spent the first day chilling at a cafe overlooking the water, drinking lemon soda and watching the waves try to carry the tourists out to sea.

I had a proposal to write while I was in Varkala so I spent much of my time cafe hopping between wifi connections. Thank you to the Little Tibet Cafe, Cafe del Mar & People for letting me chill out for a couple hours, ranting when the internet connection was touchy and feeding me wonderful Tibetan momos (dumplings) and thai soups. Shopping at the many vendors became like a sport, bargaining with young girls who were as smart as they were persistent. My favourite girl was 19, had been married for a year and was 5 months pregnant. Over a henna tattoo, she told me how lazy her husband was, how she did all the work while he sat and smoked with his friends. She hadn't wanted to be married but of course her parents "strongly encouraged" the union. She was the eldest daughter of seven children and as such, it was her place to marry. After that story, I was happy to "over pay" for henna and a sarong (Rs700=$14CAD). She asked me if my parents would "make me marry" in Canada. Ha. If we were an Indian family, I'm sure I would have been betrothed to Adam Zroback at age 9, over a few too many beers at a soccer party. I have never been so glad to be Canadian. No offense to Adam Zroback of Powell River, of course. ;)

North beach, Varkala

Waking up (in more ways than one)

Central Bus Station, Trivan

Waking up in Trivandrum was like waking up on the first morning of camping. The unfamiliar sounds, smells and four walls confused me for a minute and I thought I was still dreaming. But NO! I am in F*CKING INDIA!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! It was like Christmas morning, only more humid and my only gift was throwing open the musty curtains of my room to an *almost* sleeping city below. It was 3:30am Trivandrum time (I had been sleeping for 12 beautiful hours) and the streets were empty save for an occasional rickshaw or lean dog prowling for a snack. I sat in bed at TeeKay Palace, watching the sun come up over a hazy city and bed-dancing to Hindi music videos coming from the Samsung flat screen across the room.

Hari, looking suave. He has a beautiful smile too ladies ;)

The day before, the hotel I had wanted was booked full so I wandered up the muddy Aristo Rd and found TeeKay. The room was ridiculously over-priced (Rs.1880 incl tax = $38CAD) but it had a comfortable bed, a/c and an attached "western-style" bathroom.

I'm glad I wandered here too because the jack-of-all-trades, Hari, showed me to my room and instantly gravitated towards the Nikon hanging from my neck. We bonded over photography, he insisting on taking pictures of us and telling me about his new Canon. Even in my sleep-deprived state, I felt a connection to his open smile and his enthusiasm for pretty much everything. He guessed my age at 17 or 18, which didn't hurt either ;)

When finally the sun had graced the city, I made my way down to the hotel restaurant which would be my home base for three days. It had wifi for studying and Facebook, delicious vegetable curries, coffee and a wait staff who became my friends and food critics over the next few days - it had everything I needed. From the windows I could see the chaos of cars, taxis, rickshaws, buses, bicycles, scooters, motorcycles, people, goats, dogs and the occasional police jeep careen through the mud with no discernible traffic pattern that I could identify.

Although I later switched to Greenland Lodging for a much more economical (Rs 380) room rate, I came back to the restaurant at TeeKay to watch Indian families supper and to interact with the staff when they felt brave. Many didn't speak to me directly. Instead, they found me on Facebook and started messaging me from the computer behind the counter. Facebook provided equal footing while also the chance for them to practice their written english skills which were already pretty amazing. Most had learned through a Singapore school, and dreamed of one day becoming a Permanent Resident in Canada (I gave them Red Seal Immigration's website!)

Chalai Bazaar

When I did venture out into the world, I practiced my street weaving skills, avoiding being flattened by buses and cars by never stopping. That is the secret to navigating India's streets during crunch time, never stop moving. Weave between people and cars, hop over puddles and slosh through them, but never stop. Men would call out to me every few seconds and I would smile, wave, say hello or just keep going, depending on my translation of their greeting. Hailing a rickshaw was the easiest and cheapest ways to see the city I found. I went to the Chalai bazaar and moved between the cramped shops selling textiles, spices, fireworks, metals, flowers and fruit.

Cutie-pie!

I hung out at the bus stand and made friends with a young girl, clearly fascinated by such a sweaty, white beast slurping back orange Fanta and taking pictures of her in all of her cuteness. I went up to the public gardens (meh) and walked around the Kanakakunnu Palace (wow), but mostly I just walked the streets and basked in my celebrity status.

Another early morning brought me to Kovalam Beach, a Rs200/14km rickshaw west. I got there around 7am and caught the morning fisherman hauling in their nets and the delicate-legged sea birds catching their breakfast on the black sand. I walked to Samudra Beach and chatted with an elder about his visions of Canada (he offered me drugs when we parted ways, what a sweetie but no thanks). Before the mostly German tourists came out, the beaches were serene and filled with cricket-playing children. I walked through Hawah Beach where young locals were playing in the waves, fully clothed and up the hill to Lighthouse Beach where I took my first plunge into the Arabian Sea. Slightly cooler than the air above it, the sea was filled with white and brown bodies by noon. A man took my hand in the water and taught me how to dive under the waves, between the floating garbage. His wife stood on the shore, taking photos and encouraging him to put his arm around my waist for a photo. I have never let anyone take so many photos of me, in a bikini no less. As I let the salt dry on my skin on the beach, endless pineapple/coconut/papaya/mango vendoresses approached me. I finally gave in when one offered me a mandarin orange. My celebrity status was taking it's toll after about a dozen posed photographs and numerous other covert ones, so I headed up to the white & red striped lighthouse for some serenity, moving through smoke clouds of burning garbage on the way.

Lighthouse Beach, Kovalam

Kovalam introduced me to the Arabian, but I wouldn't recommend it for a relaxing day at the beach. Too many vendors and photo requests! So I packed up and enjoyed a scenic rickshaw through rural Trivandrum back to Greenland Lodge. The rains came then, drenching the city and sending people running for cover. I was glad for the quick shower, salty as I was. Grabbed a dosa from Teekay and then passed out by 8:30.

Moving on!

With that first, slightly "downer" of a post, I am ready to move on and share with you the brilliance that is India through these weary western eyes of mine.

I left Victoria, BC with a third full backpack and absolutely no idea of what to expect when I landed. Luckily, I had 24 hours in transit and several textbooks to prepare me. My first glimpse of India was by the light of a red half moon over a sleeping Mumbai. My apologies to the 80-something Indian grandmother sitting beside me as my face was glued to the window, my breath not half as steamy as the warm water droplets forming already on the outside of the glass. Customs was simple, and I was delighted to receive my first ever Indian Head Waggle (which I am conducting my first field study on in Ahmedabad) from the customs desk when I asked my first of many, dumb questions. "What do I do now?"

Flying over the Pacific towards Seoul Icheon Intl Airport

I wasn't "feeling" Mumbai at that precise moment, I wanted to escape south, where I expected less crowds and a more tropical vibe. Buying a ticket to Trivandrum, Kerala proved to be my first challenge as A) I couldn't pronounce the name right and had to grab my Rough Guide to India handbook (Loser moment #1) and B) I wanted to pay with credit card, but the three men behind what seemed more like a lemonade stand than a ticket desk, said cash only, or "we add mega fine to your Visa".
 I wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't sound good so I forked over 6000 rupees and stood in line for the free terminal shuttle.

The shuttle turned out to be kinda scary. A decrepit bus pulled up behind the dimly lit airport hanger and I, along with about 20 men, got on. Everyone stared at me like I had three heads, possibly because I was white and female but more likely because I was sweating so much I could feel it dripping down from the backs of my knees onto my heel. The shuttle brought me to the domestic terminal, but not the one I needed to be at. So at 2am, I lugged my bag around a dark parking lot filled with sleeping rickshaw drivers and wild dogs. I didn't really know where I was going, but I figured I would end up somewhere near the terminal. Many drivers stirred as I hobbled past and offered me a ride. Luckily I said no because the terminal was about 20 ft around the corner (sneaksy rickshaw drivers). The security at this airport were pretty intense, and wouldn't let me in the building until I produced my passport, visa and submitted to a metal detector and physical search in the "Ladies Only" line.

Mumbai Domestic Airport

Waiting for the plane was an experience. I was the only white person on my plane, and was therefore somewhat of a curiosity to my fellow passengers. To escape the stares, I went up to the "slumber lounge" where I was alone until six 30-something Indian men came up as well and sat on either side of me, and across as well. In an empty lounge, this felt odd but also comforting. They chatted amongst themselves in Hindi, never taking notice of the Canadian who was happily re-organizing her backpack for the 20th time (OCD knows no borders or timezones). About an hour went by before their plane was called and they got up, one by one, and said good-bye to me, as if we had been chatting all that time. I don't know why, but I felt invincible in that moment.

Eventually my plane was called, and along with 200 Indians, I boarded Air India with Trivandrum as my destination. My travel companion was a business man who asked what would be my traveler's script for my time in India: Was I married? Did I have children? What did I do for a living? How much did that pay? How much did I pay for my ticket? Could he have a picture of me? I asked similiar questions of him and found out that he was married, had two daughters who were recently married, and didn't want any grandkids just yet. He made me laugh over the two hour flight because he called the stewardess 8 times in such a small amount of time. Mostly to ask for more water, or more milk for his coffee or if he could get up while the light was on because he "really had to go". The stewardess was stunning, and patient ;)

Trivandrum is the capital of India's most southern state, Kerala. The airport is surrounded by lush vegetation, colourful birds and grey necked ravens. Guards armed with automatic rifles glare intensely as cabs and rickshaws battle out front. A few bejeweled ladies were keen to know where I was from and if I would stay with them next time I was in India (Ok!).

I cabbed into the city center for 300 rupees, past muddy cricket pitches, tethered goats and horned bovine chewing lazily in the fields. Once out of the rural areas, I was shocked by the pace and hoards of people crowded onto the packed earth streets, not to mention the smells and the way the air clings to your skin like PVC. There is no way to describe it, so I won't try. I didn't even navigate it for the firstafternoon I was here, I just found somewhere to sleep and eat (TeeKay Palace on Aristo Rd) and waited for my lens to shift. More on city life after I've had about 12 hours of sleep...






 

On the kindness of strangers

India is not a country that you can begin blogging about instantaneously. It requires time, experience, reflection and, more than likely, a chance encounter with despair. Until you have reached these four steps, it is doing a disservice to India to begin judging it, or viewing it from a Western lens. 

With that said, I think I earned my badge of honour today. I had been in Trivandrum for a few days, enough time to navigate the chaos, meet some wonderful new friends and get my bearings in a culture so very different from my own. But it was time to move on and I had my eyes on Varkala, a holy site about 50km north, a short train ride away. India's train system is insane. It covers nearly the entire sub-continent and offers a cheap and effective form of transportation. I had been warned about trains before I left Canada. They were chaotic and confusing, and the trains and crowds moved in foreign ways. I was excited! I was also warned that men took the opportunity of the chaos to grope female passengers. I was told to yell at him if it happened, perhaps get a swift kick in if space could allow. I was ready.

I get to the train station in Trivandrum, and it is beautiful. I mean, it's grimy, and every pair of eyes are on the only white person in the terminal, but the smell of diesel, packed bodies and the imminent scent of rain was intoxicating. A very nice man took one look at my bewilderment, looked at my ticket, and steered me towards my correct platform.His knowing smile made my heart literally leap, this wasn't going to be so difficult.

I was waiting for the train away from the crowd when another man approached. He too, wanted to help me get on the right train because although I was on the right platform, I had no clue what train I was to board. We spoke for a short while, he practicing his english and I practicing understanding the thick accent. We discovered that we were the same age, that I had a boyfriend in Canada but no children and that he was single and thought that white skin was the most beautiful skin in the world. My train came then, and I thanked him for the pleasant exchange as I got up to board.

The nice man grabbed my bag and hoisted it on the train for me. So nice! He then asked, in the deserted train car, if he could have a photo with me. This was pretty normal. This happens every half an hour in India if you let it. Then he asked if he could have a kiss. Again, this was normal as already twice in my travels had I allowed a friend to grace my lily white cheek with his lips, usually while a photo was being snapped. I said yes, but only the cheek and only once, because he has begun to get a slightly wild look in his eyes, reminding me that we were alone, in a silent train, and that my right hook was not what it used to be. 

Of course he went for the lips, which I turned my head from and pushed him away just in time. He waggled his head in the affectionate way my indian friends had. But I wasn’t smiling anymore and asked him to leave, NOW. This was not his train car and I was getting nervous. A train official came through the door then, and the man backed away and pretended to be helping me with my bag. Again, I told him to leave. But still my voice was hushed. (Why did I feel like I should be polite in this moment? It’s beyond me.) The train official left without glancing back.

Now, being groped on a crowded Indian train is something that many females experience in India. It sucks, it’s icky and it’s actually a criminal offence if the signs outside of the train urinals are any indication. However, I was not groped on a crowded train. Oh no. The nice man who had helped me with my bag took this opportunity to reach around my back like he was going to put his arm around me and instead grabbed my left breast like it was an avocado he wanted to test.

Kind, and also camera shy, man

I was shocked, and angry and wanted to kick him in the junk. Instead, and here I am letting down all of my fierce Canadian sisters back home, I burst into tears. Pathetic, maybe, but it scared him off enough to back slowly out of the train, repeating “I not bad man, no problem madam”. Later he came back, with a 7Up to share and Indian doughnuts, like perhaps breakfast might make it better. Luckily, I was still crying, so he backed away sheepishly again. The man across the aisle from me had kind, old eyes and had been sweetly ignoring the fact that I had been sniffling for 10 minutes. He said “Indian people are friendly. Sometimes, too friendly” and proceeded to ask me questions about Canada until I could manage a sentence without hiccuping.

It has been a few hours since this happened. I’m sitting in the Little Tibet café in Varkala, Kerala, overlooking the wildest ocean I have ever encountered while sipping black tea and watching strange birds circle above the waves, hoping for a meal. Thunder rolls in the distance, signifying that the rain has not given up this fight. I don’t blame India for the train episode today, but it was a wake up call I needed to shake me out of the feeling of absolute security I’ve felt since waking up that first morning in Trivandrum. It reminded me that Western women are viewed differently here and that not all brown-eyed men are as kind as the older man on the train. But, oh, I am thankful to that older man! It would have been easy to be upset about this for days, walking around with a brown cloud over my head, so to speak.

The next train I take is going to be a very different experience. They say you always remember your first, and this trip was most definitely memorable. But I emerge from it, not disgusted with one man’s behaviour, but thankful for anothers' kindness.