Oh, where do I start?
Digging back through the dusty (but happy) corners of my memory, we were departing for Periyar Tiger Sanctuary... at 0530 hours. The morning light was a ghostly grey when we climbed into a beat-up 4x4 jeep (the kind that any planter would be proud of) and I recalled being thankful that I wore my fleece jacket. The fresh wind woke up the senses but it would be pretty uncomfortable should we had only worn our shirts alone. The rocky gravel bumped up our empty stomachs as we roared and wheelied towards the checkpoints.
On both sides villages were only stretching up to a wake-up, tiny lights dotted a house here and there but the smell of milk and tea leaves boiling was evident. Periyar had answered the call of another blissful day in India. I would later on the journey back, stared mouth agaped at how the same village path had looked so different in broad daylight.
Right now our jeep halted to a stop outside of what looked like a commotion of red and blue stop lights. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw, alike us, many had woken up early to make the long drive to Periyar's virgin garden to catch what we would hope to be some luck at the wild. I was very lucky to have hubby who spoke fluent Tamil and it made our interaction with our driver and the locals such as the chai shop owner easier. Between hot invigorating sips of the local brew, we joked about anything and obviously, everyone was in high spirits.
The drive had been unique in a sense that very little honking (thank you India!) was done to not scare the animals away. I remembered just the day before we took a small walk in the other end of Periyar near where we stayed, we stalked quietly amidst hoons of macaques above while we spotted wild boars. It was the code of the day. No honking, no shouting. The latter I did exactly in my excitement and I felt absolutely like a dumb tourist. I saw an Indian bison for the first time. Heck, it was the first time I ever saw a bison in form munching away! Mental note to self: Be quiet!
The landscape was purely a gift from the Gods. Not even the greatest artist in the world could ever connote such a wild yet subtle combination of hills, trees, flowers and stone all acted as a purdah shroud to cover what laid a massive plate of wildlife teeming to the brim. Only the trained eye could spot a movement out of the ordinary and it was our very driver who pointed out a gentle giant, again taking in its breakfast on top of a hill, hidden behind some tall grass - an Indian elephant, much smaller ears but huge animal nonetheless. I was touched (call me a soppy sod) to see its magnificent form in the wild. Shouldn't all animals be that way? Both hubby and I absolutely hate to see particularly birds in captivity and here, it was heaven for us. We heared so many chorus of variants, all sounded strange to our human ears but I was definitely sure they all meant a form of language only the initiated would understand. This jungle was a chaotic order, things just grew here and this little road that wound its way upwards had brought about a cooling day that was wonderful for us to be out soaking the sun while we learned of our whereabouts.
I loved particularly what I had nicknamed "flames of the forest" - a tree that shot up into the sky with blood-red blossoms pulsating like a hundred hearts. Our driver paused and pointed out to me a secret waterfall in the distance. It swelled up in the rain from the previous night, crashing down breaking the rocks and forming a dance of fertility that seemed to shout across the valley. From a close distance, I saw for again the first time, my Malabar squirrel - this fellow was grooming his big bushy tail in a cradling motion, quite vain I would say but if I looked like him, I would too! He was beautiful, with white lining cutting the sides of his face, he must had been as big as a small dog. Away he hopped like a seasoned athelete onto another branch. Further up, a pack of Lion-faced macaques sat staring at us. Being quiet did have an advantage. Our jeep took a while to reach the top but being away from the main group meant we had a good space in the forest.
Upon reaching the registration centre, we had ourselves a hearty healthy breakfast. That was necessary as we said our introductions to the rest of the group, some German and Swiss hikers as we took on foot a 10km hike into the jungle. This was to become a fantastic workout for me. Of course I got to meet my nemesis again - the jungle leech! In between stuffing my socks with rock salt and flicking off two of them (fat as sausages, no thanks to bleeding me) I enjoyed the hike tremendously. The jungle was unlike others that I had seen in the Equator but for the lack of tigers that we spotted, we learned a great deal from our guide the local trees that the tribes here made use of for things such as Sambrani, a bark peel that we took from a tree and throw in a lighter, it melted into a liquid that emanated the exact smell that was used in pooja. Another two different trees producing various pepper fruits, another one giving cinnamon! I was used to buying cinnamon sticks and to see them on a tree (obviously the bark rolled up was the end product) was a mind opener for me. We saw a tiger paw print, leftovers of honey by a bear, but overall, just fantastic undulating terrain. We hugged around the lake and took stop at a river bed. I thought it was quite funny that our guide (poor chap) must had felt a bit of pressure to spot some wildlife for us that he made some huge masala action about "do you hear that?", "do you feel that?" when I had to stifle a laugh as he went on to put up his act by asking his fellow guide if what he thought he heard was the sound of elephants breaking barks. In Tamil, his innocent friend replied "oh, I thought they were trees!" (translation thanks to hubby) and it was trees, swaying high above creaking under their weight as the wind took hold. Really, he was determined but I thought the animals were more adamant than he was. Anyway, our hike culminated with a hike uphill akin to Mt Abu and we descended towards the lake, only to take a sampan back to the main centre.
By now I was bumped and flattened. Happy but tiredly waiting to get back for a good shower and watched the evening bats head out. In the late afternoon, our jeep took a merry ride downhill back to our place. What a wonderful day and what a stunner!
So, here I sit, reminiscing about our days just maybe a week ago in the jungle? It was so different from Varkala, what not with the inflated horizon of the Indian Ocean, lined by a stretch of the Malabar Coast. But before I share further, let me take out a page from our times in the backwaters... and our 8-hour journey by slow boat towards Kollam, or for the old romantic at heart, Quilon (one of the oldest ports on the Malabar Coast, mentioned by Arab and Chinese travellers from as far back as the 9th Century).
From Periyar, we endured a winding Grand Prix-styled drive with some Italian road curves for three hours towards Allepey. Our driver, Ajit, funny guy but one ferocious driver. Once we got through the formality, he was much more comfortable revealing his real personality - a veshti donning Schumacher. In between educating us the lines between a dhoti and a lunghi, he wheezed and turned while hubby and I quickly but surely clicked on our safety seat belts (bless!). I saw what was introduced as a Levi's jeans wearer to a true Tiger so much as the local machan tag would go, he really was a fantastic guy to have with the journey. He loved his music and we sat through what must had been the Tamil and Malayalam's top 40 classic hits non-stop medley CD that he played over and over again. Oh, did I mention too that his reverse gear had a Tamil tune too? We do miss him, he was great - arranging for us to be dropped off nicely at the harbour before we took a slow boat out, but not before we got our tickets out to Kollam by boat (decided to give the 3-hour train a miss).
If anyone told you there was nothing to do at the backwaters, then you need to take it just so lightly. Yes, you do recede in a "do nothing" mode because it was just so nice to do nothing but kick back, with a book, dangle your feet off the boat, plant your teeth down a slice of juicy pineapple. Doing nothing had never been busier.
But if you invest some time to break the ice with the locals, you can learn a lot more. There was a vault of bird species to spot. From the split-tailed swallows to white egrets that were aplenty, we saw herons posing as stoic as a statue, webbed cousins of theirs diving gracefully for a river snake or two, a congregation of sparrows chatting away on power lines as my eye saw from the corner, a red spotted heron that must had been a giant spanning the height of half a metre. The padi fields opened away in miles, neat boxes that fed again nations. This was truly coconut land as everywhere I looked, their gentle arms swaying in the air fanning us with their shade. We chatted with our boat guys, happy to learn that the Keralan government ensured the livelihood of the locals who built their homes along the river - evident from the women in their tireless rounds of scrubbing utensils, beating their laundry and bathing their little ones - and men bobbing up and down the river, spotting the surface lines with their heads as they come up for air during catching for little fish and crabs - night time was strictly off limits for our sail as they moved out in their boats for bigger catch. Here, you truly understand that the river feeds many a mouth, and in return, how we manage that fine balance will determine how much our future generations get to enjoy a bit of the backwaters that had channelled so many travellers not only in Alleppey, but in between to other towns too. Tourism couldn't have been balanced more with reality and daily living more than here.
I remembered the late evening sun resting onto the horizon sizzling off the day's remaining heat as quickly as a hot plate. We just returned from a short walk into the padi field once our boat docked for the night. We had a quiet dinner of prawns and some local Keralan chutney and rice. Very simple, very peaceful and then it was bedtime. This was when the drama began.
From time to time, our bed rocked gently from side to side, caused by passing boats' ripples. But the overhead fan snapped with an ugly loud "tap" and the humid heat cut through our window while the mozzies whined mournfully around my ears (why dear Lord, were they ever created!). Accustomed to now, what is an Indian institution, power interruptions would be a normality. We waited, a few moments turned into a long side-turning marathon on the bed. In the end, we decided to wake our boat guys up and well, he nonchalantly decided to generate some power from what was a dead power generator (huh?). Anyway, to avoid more masala conjuring up, we went back to our room and laid our heads precariously on our pillows. Then the machine, being resurrected, coughed and pitted, rumbled and thumped, our whole bed was convulsing violently and my mind shot back to the Ben Hur epic 30-hour train ride to Bengaluru, when our heads rocked and bounced off our pillows from the bumpy ride. Ah, sweet memories!
And it rocked, groaned, somehow in that chaos, I fell back to sleep but hubby kept up, much to his advantage, to welcome a wonderful sunrise. I guess the early riser does have more in the bag of goodies! He saw boats ferrying the busy traffic. Women in colourful garments carrying bags and children across different sides of the river, fishermen throwing out nets for the morning flipper, school children in their starched uniform waiting for the boatmen. All here and everywhere, African moss floated and covered our water highways. I got up a bit later and with a cold shower (it's still river water) I settled happily to rest before our long crawling journey to Kollam.
We decided to take a cut through the villages via a slow boat to see more and meet the friendly owners of the land - in the faces of villagers and herded animals. They come out, especially the little children, running to the pier with shouts of delight and amusement. We waved until we couldn't anymore. Some stared some smiled but all knew that we were crossing and we came with full admiration of how these locals made a life out of the river and the land. It was raw and beautiful but it was also hard. You don't get fresh water without collecting it from a well. You don't get a flushing toilet, you just get out there on a little deck built suspended on a few planks and well, privacy came in the form of a torn gunny sack stitched tightly around some long sticks poked upright in four corners. But people existed, people went about their usual business of opening their shops, selling, buying, catching, schooling, washing, gossipping, crying, laughing and when the day got too much you can always sit under a hammock to chill and get away from it all. The cows and goats seemed to perfect that formula.
Most parts of the ride went through green fresh lanes but as we came closer to Kollam, it was unsettling to see certain sites were used as dump areas for mountains of rubbish and discardments. The smell stung you before you could see it. Hence it was a relief (at least for us on the boat) to sail on but I thought about the people who popped out of the local sand factories to wave us on our journey. They had to live here, use the water, make somehow a way through amongst those dirt and "aim to have a healthy, happy life" - all seemed quite difficult a concept for my mind to observe but again, you do try to not fit what is a different nut into what is yours, a different bolt. I try to recall the parts of the river beds that we stopped for lunch, the water was as clear as glass and it was brimming with fish. Hope, to not lose it is to, maybe, have a chance.
Our ass-numbing stretch came to a conclusion when we closed in on the port. Out of the evening ripple as the sun (I must had seen too many sunset variance since arriving in India!) broke in between the waves, creating golden layers of sparkle while shadows of fishermen hung above their boats. Two what looked like pipe-fish shot through the air in a skipping stone format. They were flying fish, minus the "wings". Fast and furious, they flew away. Quick as the eye had to catch it, I was riding high. My mind was still settling from the wildlife I saw from the jeep ride in Periyar, seeing another species of flying fish (compared to what we saw in our Borneo trip) was the cherry on the pie. We got off the boat and haggled a bit with our local cabbie.
This turned out to be our first ever, Indian Ambassador! It was a monster in the making, it was mean and it was rusty white, bearing the war marks from weaving deftly through the rough traffic. I couldn't wait. The tiny Ganesh adorning the dashboard gave me a sense of comfort (real or otherwise I didn't care) that we would make it to Varkala by dusk! He wore the rudimentary dhoti and thick microscopic lens. His fake gold watch hung loosely on his wrinkled arm as he peered above his steering wheel while muttering curshes in a dialect that was as strange as eating dhal with chopsticks. As the garland of seashells that hung from his rearview mirror swung smashingly as our Ambassador flew (yes, you read correct) across the sandy road, our driver honking for other cars and pedestrians, cows and fowls to get out of his way because he carried two travellers clinging onto their seats and he needed to make it to the final destination some 30km away, time just ticked away.
The only time that we stopped during the journey, no times, were twice. Firstly in a town where some huge road diversion took place. Somehow certain religious parade was going on and as our car tortoised with the passing human traffic foot-by-foot overtaking us, I saw a long line snaking into a tiny "Government-approved" shop, obviously partly I couldn't see the other remaining painted signboard. Hubby proudly told me it was the same shop he saw in Munnar - a shack basically, with the interior design of a hold-up cell. What laid behind bars was what was precious cargo: booze! This wasn't the sight blinding stuff, this was probably approved liquor that anyone could purchase but I still giggled at their labels "French vodka!", "Local Champagne!", maybe it was a better idea to stick with chai. On the other side of the car, I saw this huge platform of the Goddess Durga, riding three tigers loudly growling away with the works. Disco ball lights shimmered and reflected, casting spotted glows on the Goddess as the tigers hissed out smoke. The pyrotechnics were stunning! Beat this Broadway! Behind her, it seemed to be a baddie giant holding a princess, with some other floating mythical prince chasing on a chariot, brandishing bow and arrow, all decked in fake gold. There were people swarming around like angry bees only that mum and dad, kids and grannies, all toothed grins and smiles. Candy floss and popcorn permeated the air, here a lime juice wallah yelled out a cheap drink for all, there some roasted peanut sellers piped away repeatedly and quickly in a tune that I could only imagine meant "peanuts, peanuts, peanuts". It was a huge carnival and proof that Brazil exists everywhere there is a decent human population!
The other time was a long wait before the train tracks. It was dark, none of the gaiety we had earlier. A tired looking veshti-wearing cyclist walked past with his bike while some saree ladies waited by the bus station, a small little hut with a lone white lamp casting shadows on their youthful faces, making them aged at that very moment. Our train hooted and trumpeted across the tracks, sending rumbles of gravel teethering nervously off the lines. Once the barrier lifted, our driver kicked in the start and our trustworthy Ambassador came to life again. He was determined to go for the checkered flag. As we neared Varkala, we saw by now, the dark yawning sea, dotted by tiny yellow diamonds of fishermen boats. They formed a modest version of what we saw at Mumbai's Queen's Necklace. While we neared our stay for the night, I stared at disbelief at the passing sight. Here, the night air brought to life action. Action in the form of movement, sound, light and shadow.
Smells of tumeric fried fish came out from a loving home, children ran back with a curfew to hold. Men gathered to exchange news by the local tea stalls, while a few women closed in their last bargains for the day by the market. Goldsmith shops looked expectantly at passing traffic, rusty bicycles parked by the coconut trunks. Life here was safe, the village mentality protected and promised like how every panchayat would, with their set of laws and codes. The smell of red plums and jasmine filled my lungs and I took my fill. By now, I could not see the road as I could only make out the oncoming traffic by their headlights potruding beams of yellow light through the dust that worked up from the single-traffic road we were on. Many a time, our driver had to play eyeballing with the other driver. Sometimes, as hard-willed as we can be, the lure of getting home to chew on some paan and another cup of chai proved to be an overcoming factor. Hence, he mainly let them passed as we got to our place.
There you have it. Here I sit, in front of another beautiful serene midday. The waves were swelling and crashing up against the red cliffs as I pulled back my gears. You really don't want to go fast. You begin to discover the gift of slow here. I caught myself saying "we thought we would come and stay for a few days, I want now to stay for weeks".
There'll be more to come for Varkala. That's for another chapter and it took us quite an adventure to get here, but this place is truly stunning. I didn't travel to "find myself" or for things like that, but this little stretch of heaven perched on the reddish towers, with wild waves banging on their hems, it's quite something out of this world. Maybe I was here, somewhere beyond my usual world, taking it all in, one thing at a time.
