Kerala Backwater tour

Whilst enjoying a lull from the monsoon in Kochi we signed up for a day trip through the famous backwaters, where rivers merge with the sea through a labyrinth of channels framed by dense jungle and small villages.

In peak season there are luxurious houseboats decked out with double beds, hot tubs, chefs and every other conceivable trimming. As it wasn’t, there was just the option of a smallish boat filled with wicker chairs pushed through the channels by two men wielding long bamboo punts.

It was an early start – we left at 7.30am. There was an hour’s drive to the start point of the boat trip, most of which was taken up circling around town picking up more tourists. An Indian family got on at the second stop and immediately busied themselves with a carrier bag holding their day’s snacks. The bag was solely filled with crisps of every description. The grandmother dutifully tore open packets of what looked like Nic-Nacs and funnelled them into her grandchildren’s open mouths until their little faces were shaking for her to stop. Not satisfied with stuffing her little angels’ faces to bursting point, grandma finished the packet off by shovelling the leftovers into son-in-law’s mouth without asking if he wanted them.

The bus came to a stop causing a brief interlude in the crisp munching and we all filed off along a muddy lane past dwellings by the side of the river and onto the boat. The boat was much prettier than I had been expecting, with intricate latticed windows, a roof of platted palm leaves and miles of coir rope holding the whole thing together. Two thin looking men expertly pushed the boat away from the river bank with the bamboo poles, guiding the boat effortlessly toward an impossibly narrow looking channel bursting with reeds, huge lily pads and coconut palms.

Crashing through the foliage on either side of the channel, everything was close enough to touch. The man punting from the front of the boat stopped and pointed, sitting completely still: on a low branch was a kingfisher, a flash of electric blue near its eye making it stand out from the greens and browns of its surroundings. There was a stunned silence as people snapped away with their mobile phones, finally interrupted by the tearing noise of mum opening an enormous bag of crisps.

A short while later we came to a stop where a team of loincloth clad men were busy at work shifting large piles of minute clam shells around. The clams had been caught in a nearby lake and the meat sold at the local fish market. Once cleared of flesh the shells were baked with petroleum coal for 8 hours until they turn white. This turns the shells into pure calcium carbonate which they also sell. It was an impressive and sight and seemed an excellent way to make money out of a clam twice. Happily there was no pressure to buy any of the calcium carbonate or fresh clams and we moved on.

We were next taken to a small village and shown the art of Coir making. An old man and his wife stood by a pile of dried out coconut husks and pulled the fibres off into balls. Then, using a contraption very similar to an upturned bicycle, spun the fibres into a thin rope. The way the rope was appearing out of the ball of fibres looked unreal, as if it was a magic trick, but it was definitely happening. It was incredible how quickly the rope was being produced. And just like the tiny clams it would appear that coconuts can be sold twice. Once for the nut and once for the fibre. Very impressive.

Back on the boat we slid away from the village and into a wide waterway. The man at the front asked if anyone would like to try punting so I shot my hand into the air, kicked off my flip-flops and made my way to the front. At the start of the day I had thought it looked pretty easy and not particularly strenuous. Eagerly I grabbed the bamboo and began pulling it up out of the water, but the thing didn’t seem to end. Eventually the pole burst free and I lobbed it hard into the water in front of the boat, yet the pole rapidly slipped away from me. Running back down the boat to catch it from falling into the channel my feet were on fire. The uncovered deck was scorching hot and from the sun adding to the difficulty of the task. Determined to not look like a complete berk, I persisted for a good 5 minutes to prove that I had it all under control. By which point my shirt was dripping with sweat and I was knackered. Happily giving the pole back to the professional, it made me realise my initial theory wasn’t bang on and punting for 7 hours is not easy and is very strenuous.

I made my way back down the boat through an applause of lip smacking potato snack annihilation, closed my eyes and began to drift off. The chips supplies must have run out as the boat fell completely silent, save for the light thud of the bamboo punts hitting the river bed. A minute or so of quiet passed which was clearly too much for a group of English medical students, who began discussing if tuna was the a type of fish or a brand name and if it was a brand name, what fish did tuna come from? Not essential knowledge for a doctor to know, but if it was up to me none of those students should be allowed to practise medicine.

Thali on a banana leaf

Sights of Hampi

Stunning temple, nearby there is an enourmous elephant (no pictures allowed) who will pat you on the head if you cross his trunk with silver.

Laura had just told a pant-wettingly funny joke.


This is where bananas come from.

Aloo Gobi and chapatti on a banana leaf.

The train to Goa; or, how to spend 35 hours not being at your destination

The main lesson of this blog is that you really shouldn’t ever take a train in India if you are in a rush.

We decided to get the train from Kerela to Goa, an 18 hour journey. There weren’t any first class carriages available, and none left with air conditioning either, so we opted for the cheap and cheerful 6-berth sleeper carriage with a fan. The train was due to depart at 10am, but arriving at the station nice and early we saw a new departure time had been written on a whiteboard. ‘Delay. 6346 will now depart at 22.00h’. A 12 hour delay seemed an awful lot, but we sucked it up and did the sensible thing – checked into a 4 star hotel and prepared to sit out the wait in relative luxury.

Mindful that a 12 hour delay could well have turned into a cancellation, we asked the hotel to ring the station at 9pm, to check everything was on time. They assured us all was well so back we went, heading straight to the platform with confidence. Needless to say, 10’o’clock came and went. We asked at the front desk. ‘Definitely after 11’ they said. The train actually arrived at 2am, by which time I was asleep on the floor, probably in one of the platform’s many puddles of wee, and Joe had nearly finished the book which was supposed to have lasted him the whole trip.

The carriage was filled with about 70 bunk beds, with no dividing walls or curtains. The beds were sheathed in blue vinyl and we weren’t offered any pillows or blankets. Against the odds I was straight out and only woke up 8 hours later. The next day was an extremely long one. We sat opposite a well-heeled young couple who threw all their litter out of the window and invited their little girl to join in. It was frustrating to sit back and watch, but no doubt they found our habits equally offensive.

This act of disposing of one’s rubbish through the nearest window is a rather popular pass time here. Regardless of wealth and social status, when it comes to abandoning litter, everyone is equal. It’s the same on the streets and in the towns, there doesn’t seem to be any bins or a collection system. As a result, large piles of colourful plastic line the streets and countryside alike. Despite all the litter, as the train whizzed along we passed a wind farm of well over 200 turbines, it could have been the view from a train cruising through European countryside. I am not aware of the costs of 200 wind turbines and the positive impact they have on cutting carbon emissions, but I can’t help but feel that the money spent on the turbines could employ an army of bin men for years.

After 1 taxi ride, a rickshaw, 12 hours in a hotel, another rickshaw, sleeping on the platform for 4 hours, 22 hours on the train interrupted by a landslide – bus diversion, and one final taxi, we arrived in Goa. Tired and fragile, the hotel beckoned and a deep sleep ensued.

Waka Waka World Cup 2010 Review

India is in full world cup swing and there is no escaping it, especially if you are not at work and have plenty of spare time (like us) . Although not fielding a team this tournament, India’s enthusiasm for football is very much in evidence. Driving along even small country roads we’ve seen huge billbords and posters, proudly showing support for the teams local business are supporting (Argentina and Brazil mostly). Since being here we’ve watched virtually every game, scoring us enough taxi chat points to last a lifetime.

Despite my lack of football knowledge I have a few points I’d like to raise.

England’s poor performances – Thankfully we missed England’s or rather: ‘Team Capello’s’ first game as it was on at 2am and there was some kind of alarm clock malfunction. However for England’s second game we were less fortunate. England are the most miserable team I’ve seen, lead by sour faced captain Steven Gerrard. The Algerian team on the other hand looked genuinely pleased to be there, being paid to play a game no less!

Apparently England have some really good players, but fail to ‘gel as a team’, hence the poor results. I think I know what the problem is. And there are a few. Firstly there is no one on the team with the X-Factor. Beckham had it, Shearer had it, but Rooney, hasn’t got it. No amount of Hello photo shoots will change this either. It’s clear Wayne is having trouble scoring goals because he’s up all night with his and Coleen’s new baby. I know this because its plastered all over some magazine. Less photo shoots more kicking practise needed.

Secondly they got the wrong guy out of retirement. I can’t remember if Carrick kicked the ball once the whole game, but I’m sure if they had got Gazza on the pitch, even if England had still lost, he would have got into a fight that we could all have been proud of.

And finally the team don’t like each other – something to do with them all sleeping with each other’s wives (Official term: WAG swap) . That’s why they couldn’t link a pass together all match. I’ve seen wheel chair rugby with more fluidity.

One ball to rule them all - FIFA don’t seem content with using inflated pigs bladders and stitched leather any more. Instead they’ve employed someone from the Italian Space Agency to come up with the ‘Jabulani ball’, capable of bending through time and space to trick the opponent. Yet, as far as I can tell this million Euro ball is much like kicking a balloon inflated with helium making scoring a goal as likely as wining the Euro millions draw. Jabulani should stick to making Roman candles.

Shakira – I have mixed feelings about Shakira and her world cup anthem ‘Waka Waka’. The tune is undeniably catchy, and there is something slightly more visually appealing about her than Baddiel and Skinner ever were. But I keep getting a re-occurring dream that in three months time I’ll be sitting on a bus going to work, when a bratty school child pulls out his phone blearing out ‘Waka Waka’, I garrotte the child and throw his phone under the wheels of the bus. Bad Shakira.

Crap attempts to win free kicks – It would appear that the most highly regarded footballers are, as the commentators put it the ones who ‘earn free kicks’ from being fouled. Christiano Ronaldo - The most expensive player in the world happens to be the best at this. He can trip over thin air quite beautifully which the referees can’t help but fall for every time. If he’s going to win all these free kicks the opposing team should at least make the most of ‘injuring’ him with a team pile-on him until he really is injured.

Kerala India

This is the final part of our journey through Asia. We’ve left Bali and now face the monsoons of Southern India. Naively, I assumed the rainy season in Kerala would consist of a short burst of rain once a day with glorious sunshine and blue skies the rest of the time. In fact we were both counting on good weather, as we’ve only just started to get tans after 3 months of travelling, and lugging a year’s supply of aloe vera gel doesn’t feel worth it if its constantly raining.

We considered taking the surfboard with us over from Bali when we found out there was good surf during the monsoon season, but out of laziness, decided to leave it behind thinking we could always rent a board if it looks good (real reason is we’re both crap). Looks like it was the right decision as the sea here is like nothing I’ve seen before: gargantuan waves break haphazardly, some far out at sea and others smashing into the sand churning the water and making it murky and green. The sound of the waves crashing into the cliffs can be heard a mile off and I’ve not seen a single person go in. On the way to the beach, a girl gutting a bucket of small Pomfret told us her dad was a fisherman, but that it was a very dangerous job and they made no money.

I am now on to my third pair of flip-flops, which works out at one pair per month. It’s a mystery as to what happened to the last pair. As normal I left them outside the door of our hotel room to keep the sand in the bed to a minimum – a sandy Laura is not a happy Laura. The next day I woke to find one of them was missing. A wave of sadness swept over me as it became apparent that someone or something had stolen it. I felt genuine anger that I would have to buy another pair of flip-flops and wanted to lash out. A kid must have run off with one of them as a dare. There were no kids around to strangle, probably for the best, as I’m no warrior and would have come away worse off. The hotel manager thought it was most likely that a dog had gone off with it, which is probably true, as there are at least 10 dogs for every person here. If this is the case in the rest of India, that makes approximately 10 billion dogs on the subcontinent.

Anyway I have some new flip-flips now, they rub and my feet feel like they are slowly being grated away with each step. I reckon they’ll be perfectly broken in, in a month’s time.

Travellers tash

In the maul-like queue for the flight to Trivandrum I noticed that every man had a moustache. I’d forgotten that virtually all men and quite a few boys in India have moustaches, and if I was to be taken seriously and not appear like a boy on a school trip I would need one too. So far I have shaved my chops and am now the proud owner of a faint shadow on my upper lip. According to Laura, my micro-tash looks a bit ‘Mexican’, but once I nip the ends off and it gets a bit thicker I might just have the makings of a young Edwardian gentleman. Bravo I say!

(Pre-tash photo)

DIY dudes

Despite our best efforts to look the part, as soon as we get in the sea Joe and I immediately betray something of the all-the-gear-no-idea persuasion of surfer dude. To combat this, we continue to practice, aka play the long game. In the short term, we take steps to give the impression to our fellow surfers that we are, in fact, as gnarly as they. By ‘take steps’ what I of course mean is make props.

A key accessory if you’re a surfer dude is to wear a horrible necklace of some kind: sometimes a shark’s tooth, but more often an incomprehensible symbol made from shell, rock or coral. These are sold everywhere by earnest salesmen who will give you a boring monologue their items’ symbolism if you so much as blink in his direction.

Or you can make your own, which is what we did. For the benefit of fellow wannabe beach posers, here’s how:

1. Go to a beach
2. Find an enormous piece of dead coral, the bigger the better
3. Attach it to a piece of weathered leather string
4. Spend a few seconds coming up with some meaningful statements about its background/magical powers/the fantastic surfing trick you were engaging in when you found it

Once you’ve completed these 4 steps, all you need to do is let it dangle casually across your naked chest and wait for other dudes to approach and give you respect. Here’s the one Joe made:

Finding Hansel

After a short spell on the Gili islands, and a failed attempt at enjoying Lombok, we’re back in Bali where the food is cheap and the people are cheerful. We toyed with the idea of sailing or flying to Borneo or Sumatra to track down wild orang-utans, but it all seemed like too much effort as we’d have to take at least two extra flights and endure bus rides... far too much like hard work. I’ve promised Laura I’ll dye every hair on my body orange and only eat bananas from now on to compensate for not seeing the real thing.

With two weeks to kill in Bali, we’d left ourselves no choice but to buy a surfboard and become proper surf bums. With a meagre budget I went out with strict instructions not to come back without a surfboard, preferably one over 8ft tall – a good size for learning. I was keen for Laura to come along as chief negotiator as I was wary of falling in love with the first (and most probably unsuitable) board I saw and agreeing to pay whatever the shop was asking for it, yet I couldn’t raise her interest in the dealings so went along solo.

The process of buying a surfboard is much the same as buying a snowboard, pair of skis, any sort of sporting equipment in fact. In other words, it helps enormously if you know what you are talking about. If you don’t, the sales person usually picks up on it quickly and goes for the hard sell on the most expensive and ridiculous thing in the shop. This may have happened, but I am not completely sure as I know virtually nothing about surfboards.

I walked away from the shop positive I’d struck gold and sure that Laura would be most impressed. It was only 2ft shorter than requested and 50 percent more than we had agreed to spend. It must have been the canary yellow that distracted Laura from these pitfalls as she appeared genuinely impressed with my purchase. Unfortunately this only lasted until we took it out for a spin and discovered it’s virtually impossible to catch a wave or stand up on the thing. Perhaps it will grow on us...

Adding to Laura’s Introduction to surfing, here are a few new-found afflictions that accompany the activity:

1. On top of having to wear a rash vest I’ve splashed out on a pair of Speedos. I stress these are purely for medical reasons, I wouldn’t want my nether regions grated off by the board. Watch out London fields lido...

2. My nose has become a storage tank for a large percentage of the Indian ocean. Hours after leaving the sea my nose will leak salt water like a broken tap onto anything and everything in front of it.