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…..