As we sat getting our bearings in the Alleppy train station, a woman wearing a burka sat down nearby, watching us. All I could see of her were two big, dark eyes behind a small oval mesh screen. I tried to imagine being her, based on what I've heard and read. I thought of the sticky heat of wearing a black sheet in such hot weather, having to turn my head to see peripherally (it's said this is so one's husband knows where one is looking), breathing in the lunch smells of my own own breath, feeling invisible, perhaps having known a freer time, having been encultured or perhaps beaten into believing that this was for my own dignity and protection. The California Girl in me wanted to throw off this woman's shroud, take her hand, and drag her laughing and dancing to the Lilith Faire. Then hand her a few books. I know a few wimmenz who would help.
Alleppy is a busy little town with two major canals running through it. Ferries, tour boats, and houseboats run the town canals and into the Keralan backwater canals and a large lake. The last street along the canal in town winds into a shady lane full of friendly people, their homes dilapidated, modest, or middle-class, tiny shops, guesthouses, cows, dogs, goats, and chickens. After 2.5 km, the lane intersects the road leading to our guesthouse, Palm Grove Lake Resort. On one trek into town, a crew of 10 boys, ages six to ten, dragged Eric into a game of football (soccer). People of all ages came running out of houses, yards, and even a churchyard to talk to us. One woman, standing in front of a small, dark home, said that her husband is working in Boston. What different worlds he lives between.
Palm Grove consists of five lovely bamboo cottages along a canal on three acres of family land owned by Mr. Abraham Philips and his wife Maria. Mr. Abraham seems the quintessential gentle-man, kind and soft spoken. He took us on an impromptu tour of his property: coconut palms, banana and mango trees, green peppercorn vines, a fish pond. While I've cooked with my share of cinnamon sticks (from the bark of the tree), I'd never seen a cinnamon tree before. The leaves were bright green, shaped like bay leaves, and tasted of sweet, vibrant cinnamon. Mr. Abraham also turned me on to my first betel nut. Betel nut is a mild stimulant, good for digestion, turns red in the mouth, and over time causes tooth decay. It is shaped like a kiwi and is similar in texture to raw coconut. After our tour, the chef surprised me with betel nut as the locals partake of it: small chunks of betel nut wrapped in a betel nut leaf with a spritz of lime, and folded into a neat little package. The idea is to pop the whole affair into your mouth, chew away, then spit it out when you're done with it. As I was still having residual tummy troubles, and wasn't used to having so much raw leafage in my mouth, I took a few bites and handed the rest to Eric. Once you have it all chewed down, the taste is bright and tart but not to the point of bitterness. And I have to say, afterwards my stomach was better and I felt downright perky.
We spent two days in gliding meditation on a houseboat slipping through the Keralan backwaters. The boat was constructed mostly of wood, thatched palm leaves, and bamboo, with a comfy bedroom and bath, Aneesh's kitchen domain, an upper deck, and a lower deck with two throne-like chairs (ours!) right behind Suresh, our captain. The shores of the canals were stuffed with palm and other trees.
On the small strips of land between canals or between canals and rice paddies, small houses made of cement, thatched palm, or both contained the human life of the backwaters. In front of each house, a few steps led down into the canal. At all hours, in front of most houses, women performed laundry: standing ankle or knee-deep in their saris on the steps, scrubbing clothing or bedding with soap, dunking it in the olive green canal water, swish swish swish, grabbing both ends, twirling, twisting, then THWACKing it on the granite steps, over and over, in a circular motion. You could hear the thwacking, like gunshots, from far down the canal. Then more dunking, swirling, twisting, until finally the woman stepped out of the water, snapped the article open and flat, and hung it on the line.
The canal also serves every other washing purpose for the family, from teeth brushing, hairwashing, and bathing to washing up after the family meal. Women wore their saris or salwar kameezes to fully immerse themselves while bathing and while washing pots and dishes. Men bathed in shorts. Small children were bathed in shorts or nude.
At night we pulled up along the bank, tied the anchoring ropes around coconut trees, and Aneesh fixed us a wonderful dinner of thalis. Before dinner the first night, as it was starting to get dark, Eric and I took a walk along the canal path, between the canal and a rice paddy. People living along the bank came out of their houses and yards to greet us. Many had set out and lit white candles in front of their part of the canal bank in preparation for one of their festivals of lights.
In the early morning, groups of children dressed in English-style school uniforms and backpacks marched along the banks or were ferried to school.
The usual Indian wildlife of goats, pigs, cows, and chickens ran along the bank. We also saw some huge flocks of ducks, like a thousand or more at a time. At one point, a couple of men in canoes attempted to herd the ducks. We wished them good luck.
Canoes seemed to be the main mode of transportation here; they carried families to and fro and once in a while men in canoes loaded with prawns pulled up to us for a sale.
We stopped to see a couple sights. One was a Catholic church built in 1590. The mix of traditional European Catholic and Hindu art featured a colorful serpent's head coming out of the wall, its tongue lashing up for 10 feet to create the pulpit. The neatly kept graveyard in back housed about fifty fresh-looking, marked mounds. The dead are kept here for five years then exhumed, their bones added to a mass grave in back, making room for new occupants up front. We also stopped to see a snake boat that had won the Nehru Snake Boat Race. The snake boat is a long canoe, seating 100 rowers plus an orchestra.
I am typing this into my Treo via my fabric keyboard, as I sit cross-legged on a pillow at a cafe on Paloem beach in Goa. Directly before me lays the white sand beach; about 200 feet from me gentle waves break with about as much effort as anyone else is making here. The sky is clear, the air warm and breezy. Someone just handed me a lemon soda. Slow life good.
This is definitely a tourist beach, with some locals enjoying the sand and water (these would be the boys and men), and selling wares. It is not the famous Goa rave beaches, though. Most folks here are friendly and mellow. Especially happy was having Jess run up and surprise us on the beach; we had left her and Joel in Varkala and originally met them in Ooty...Okay, I just remembered one annoying tourist group. Five good looking Europeans, svelte, bronze, 30s-ish, who lay claim to five of the twelve or so umbrella-ed beach chairs in front of our cafe, laying their sarongs down then going off to play or eat, then re-claiming the chairs, all day long. One of them had a stand-off with another fellow who took the first guy's empty chair, standing in front of him until the guy moved. It's okay, though. Perhaps in their next lives, they will the ones trying to sell jewelry on the beach to feed their five children in Rajasthan. Or maybe they will be the small fat flies in the bamboo shack bathroom, carefully placing their tiny sarongs somewhere dank and horrid. Not that I would wish this on anyone ~ I'm just sayin'.
And what's up with the dogs?! In Varkala and here, by day they are happy playful puppies. By night, they form a herd, harass the cows (and bulls!), and howl like banshees. Mayhem, I tell you.
Tomorrow we are flying to Bangkok. We'll be there are couple days to run errands (like either get a new digital camera or find a USB cable and charger, and get the pics I've taken with travel cameras digitized). After that, Ko Lanta for more beachy holiday goodness, until around 1/6.
