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.