Varkala

So I did it.  I finally mustered the gumption to move on from Kochi – only temporarily of course, I will be going back to meet up with Alex again, who hasn’t quite found it in his heart to wrench himself away.  I have moved onto Varkala, another beach resort, and braved a train to do it.  Which, contrary to the myths, was exceptionally easy, and insanely cheap.  I got to the ticket booth at the train station, bought a ticket, and got on a train that was only 15 minutes late.  That was it.  No drama.  And I got a seat, no one did a shit in the carriage, there was no one transporting buckets full of rotting fish, or cages of enthusiastic chickens, there was space for everyone to sit, and even put their feet up in many cases.  I even managed to get a seat by the window, so could benefit from the breeze and see the beautiful Keralan scenery trundle by at a gentle speed.  Of course it may well be a bit different in a bigger city….I am sure I will let you know if it is.

It got a little surreal for the rickshaw ride to the beach.  There was a temple festival on, and tailing processions of people, trucks and elephants were slowing traffic down, which is nothing unusual in itself.  Having been in India for almost 4 months now it is a common sight to see people taking to the street to protest, proclaim and celebrate.  However, the people in the procession, were a sight I have never seen before.   After passing a long line of young men and boys with 3 metre poles hanging through their cheeks, which had spoon on the end of them containing fire, the rickshaw drove past a truck, off the cab of the truck was a crude frame constructed of metal poles, from which 5 boys hung horizontally suspended by a number of thick hooks pierced through the skin.  Just dangling off the front of the truck, swaying with the lumbering movements of the vehicle.  One of the strangest introductions to a town I have ever experienced.  It made me wonder exactly what was in store from me when I arrived at my destination, which was at the mercy of the rickshaw driver, as I had left the lonely planet with Alex in Kochi.   

But it was no way near as exciting as the journey in was.  This is Goa on a cliff.  Lots of skinny young girls sauntering around in spaghetti string clothes, men with holiday facial hair and quirky hats, dirt laden dreadlocks swishing, executives ‘letting go’ and getting a bit bohemian with white linen shirts and leather sandals, young families with their hot, bothered little oiks, and randy eyed waiters with cheery charm offensives to lure any potential romance into their restaurants so they can flirt as they take orders.   

But it is beautiful.  Really beautiful.  Rich red cliffs wend their way along the coast line, gregarious green plants creep up them as far as they can gain purchase on the crumbling faces.  Natural springs seep through the rocks and trickle down onto the yellow beach, which is melded with traces of volcanic black sand.  And they stretch for miles in either direction of where I am staying.  I have walked in both directions for an hour or so, and found no end to the exquisite beaches.   And they are clean!  Please bear in mind, that after 4 months in India, I may well be getting a little desensitised to muck.  And during one of my walks I saw a group of fat moustached Indian men standing in the sea, the waves softly foaming around their ankles, the sun casting crystals across the surface of the perfect blue, their womenfolk giggling nearby, daring each other to inch further in, as the sea soaked up their saris; the men had in their hands plastic bags.  Staring out into this earthly paradise, each of them shook empty the bags, spewing plastic bottles, paper, and other unwanted detritus into the sea in front of them.  What was quite spectacular was their response to the wavelet that promptly returned their trash to their ankles.  They looked at it, affronted that the sea could be so presumptuous as to render their rubbish back to them, scooped as much from around their ankles as possible, and threw it again at the next wave heading towards them; which rather predictably, brought their crap back to them.  They repeated this process 3 times before giving up.  It was really something special.  There is also a rubbish tree further down the beach, upon which people have tied debris that has appeared on the shores onto the tree.  There is a mobile phone cover, a few empty alcohol bottles, a flip-flop, a bra and a couple of plastic bags, amongst other stuff.  It’s quite pretty, surprisingly.

The resort itself perches precariously on the edge of a cliff, looking down on a pretty bay, and across the sea to the point it drops off the end of the horizon.  A string of colourful shops and restaurants, all boasting Western food and wifi, line the edge of the cliff.  Set back from these, guest houses, bamboo bungalows and heritage homes spread away from the ‘strip’ or ‘uneven cobbled path’ as it is better described. 

It is a lovely spot, and very quiet, even the crows seem to find less to chat about here.  But I am tired of the same conversations with other travellers, ‘where you from?’, ‘how long are you in India for?’, ‘Have you been to so and so place, it is simply amazing?’, ‘done much yoga yet?’ blah blah blah.  And most people are quite frankly, pretty boring, talking tritely of spirituality and ashrams, somehow oblivious to the cultish nature of them.   I was introduced to a few Germans that were devotees to Amma, the hugging mother, who apparently hugs for 12 hours a day while addressing her followers.  To get a hug, tokens are issued, and the huggee then stands in line for a few hours to get a potentially healing hug from Amma.  Is this the Disney land of spirituality?  It is certainly big business.  The ashram is situated in the Keralan backwaters, vast concrete apartment blocks springing up, within which, small rooms are rented out to middle men, and then to the devotees themselves, for 600 rupees a day (£8), and are shared with two others.  Meals are included though.  There are four meter diameter huts being built, that are being sold for £30K to Western devotees.  The rather maniac Germans tell me that Amma has special powers, that she can heal, if the Gods so chose.  And that she is generous too, that she builds hospitals and schools for the poor.  I asked why she didn’t just hug the ills of the poor away if she was so gifted, but apparently it is better that she builds hospitals that use Western medicines than abuse the power given to her by God.  I didn’t really get much further, despite trying, with that argument.  In fact I didn’t get very far with any argument based at a rational level with them.  Amma had found them and they were now surrendered to her will.  For a fee.

I have been quite misanthropic since arriving, and in four days have made only one new friend.  And I am also remembering the difficulties of travelling as a lone female.  The lusty urgings of men on holiday that just want to rut, and the pesky Indians who assume that you want to fuck them because you smile and are white.  Last night some charming meat heads from Kent basically informed me that I could join them on the beach to make a fire, and I would be safe, they wouldn’t rape me.   An Indian who thought that confidence was all he needed to make a bed fellow of me, told me I was arrogant because I spurned his pathetic advances.  And even a man who I have known for two months now, and who also knows Alex as well as two months will allow, asked me if I was ‘making fun’ while I was apart from him.  There is a lot of libido to wade through with polite hostility before you can actually talk to the man rather than his lusty cock.

Alex has now decided to join me, Kochi is apparently losing its peculiar appeal so is going to come here.  Then we are going on a two week holiday with Graham and Sue……..around Kerala, starting in Kochi!  I might actually get round to seeing the tourist sights in Kochi, like the Dutch Palace and the Synagogue.  Maybe…..

The Indian Model of the Complaints System

I am fairly convinced that the infuriating system with in the UK on how to manage and deal with complaints has been directly lifted from the Indians.  The system of absolved responsibility, of another party with whom you should take up issue with, who then use their lack of English/understanding to skilfully evade your wrath.  

So what has prompted this.  My laundry.  The only clothes I have for the next 10 months or so of my life.  My second skin to protect me from the perceived shame of nudity.  Clothes that cost money, a lot of money, when I have a budget of £100 a week to shelter, feed, water myself and travel around.  Which is doable, but doesn’t leave much spare.  Of course the Indians don’t see this, they see white, the colour of money out here.  Pale skinned pounds walking around that are ready and waiting to be milked.  I understand why, I am sat in a bar drinking a beer which costs about a quarter of the daily wage of a waiter here  tapping out my frustration on a netbook that costs almost a month of working 16 hour days.  That I can take a year off to swan around their country taking advantage of the insanely cheap cost of living.  But still, it is very fucking annoying that because of that it is assumed that I am going to be apathetic when things fuck up, it costs me, and they don’t feel they have to make any concessions to said fuck ups when they occur.

So anyway my laundry.  Having run out of clean clothes, I pass pretty much my entire backpack of clothes to be washed to the guys running the guest house I am staying in.  Finally, on the fourth day, I receive them back, pleased that I can now change out of the rather smelly clothes that I have been sweating to for the length of time my other clothes have been absent.  I get passed them, neatly folded, not exactly smelling fresh, wrapped in newspaper.  Unfolding them to put on a new top, I discover that instead of being washed they look like they have been worn to Holi festival.  Holi festival, also known as the festival of colours, is a celebration where participants throw coloured paint at each other.  There is red everywhere.  On all my tops.  Only my black trousers appear unscathed, presumably because they are black, not because they are immune to splattered red dye.  In a wonderful twist, the only red item I have appears not to be sprayed in red dye, but instead has a nice long black smear spreading down my cleavage.  My red top is part of a salwar which I bought to hide my modesty and play down my rather obvious breasts, which now, is perversely cleavage proud with the black smear that runs through the space between.  How freaking annoying.

After making my colourful discovery, I am seeing red.  I take my clothes and try and find the elusive staff, who always seem to be absent when needed.  When finding them, I display my clothes to them, at which, and this is an infuriatingly common reaction to things going wrong, a couple of them laugh.  Oh ha-bloody-ha, all my clothes are ruined.  Even when you suggest that laughing isn’t the best approach when dealing with irked people, it doesn’t seem to abate.  In fact they usually laugh a little more.  I have included a plot to show the laughing to irritation trend.

  

My scowl intensity rapidly increased with the laughing man, also aided by the man who tells me to talk to the laundry people.  Who are in Varkala town.  Who don’t speak English.  They might be along this evening, I can discuss this with them then.  I explain that I don’t know the laundry people, that I gave my washing to them, that as far as I am concerned they are my contact, and they have some element of responsibility in passing my laundry onto them to be washed.  But no, I need to talk to the washing people.  So call them for me and tell them I am upset, and stop laughing.  No mam, the laundry people will be here this evening, talk to them then.  I could of course hand back my laundry and they could try again.  No, that is plain stupid, call the laundry people, and if you don’t stop laughing I am going to get even angrier.  I have to travel for a year in these clothes, I want you to do something.  Please mam, be quiet we are doing Ayevedic treatments and I don’t want to disturb them.  But I am disturbed, what about my disruption, my clothes are ruined! (There is no more laughing)  I want you to recognise that my clothes are fucked and you are partially responsible.  Really mam, there are people in treatments.  I don’t care, I care about my clothes, and I want you to care too.  I look at him in the eye, and ask, are you actually going to do anything?  Are you going to find anyway to compensate me?  Are you going to call the laundry?  Mam, they will be here this evening you can talk to them then.  Do they speak English?  No.  So I can’t speak to them then.  You will have to talk to them this evening.  Oh.  My.  Life. 

And that is it, they turn around sit back down again, and ignore you, now they have stopped smiling.  I am impotent.  Completely fucking impotent.  There is nothing I can do, stuck between excuses and language barriers.  Anger offers only paltry rewards,  if I kick up another stink, they might not charge me for the red dye they have smothered my clothes in, but they certainly aren’t going to give me the forty quid it will cost to replace them.  It is exhausting having to fight for insulting victories, like not paying for washing that isn’t really washed.  

Looks like I am going to be wearing mostly red this year…..

Ponnani Wedding

I am thinking of amending this blog and entering it into a competition, so it cannot have been availble elsewhere.  Let me know you want to read the unamended version, and I will send it through to you.  I warn you though, it is quite long.......

I can put up the photos though as a teaser!