Kochi to Allepey, Again!

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We don't know what story you made around the last photographs but this is the two and a half hours of typing (pretty much) which should have gone with them.

New Delhi, new hotel, new day and awoke a bit disorientated to a Chinook coming in. I knew we were close to the airport but then realized it was the ceiling fan doing its stuff from the night before. Our flight to Kochi was a two-parter, a trip which we thought was going to be by road as the taxiing to the runway took 25 minutes. Now, there are many rules and regulations in India, most of which are obeyed and others, at least, acknowledged and adapted, but those relating to flight seem to be those used by Icarus and Daedulus - none. This may be owing to the fact that, according to the announcement, we were guests and not passengers. They also regularly referred to someone on board named Emma Jensey who everyone was calling and texting on their mobiles, even as we took off. Then when we landed ; I know the world over, for some reason there is a race to open the overhead lockers and withdraw hand baggage, paradoxically big enough to require wheels and to hold thirty litre-bottles of Polish shampoo, then to queue for 20 minutes prior to getting anywhere near the exit. Here, not only did they not wait for the seat belt sign to go off but they were all up before we were even on stand. The skipper had to make an announcement as the cabin crew backed him up by slamming shut the lockers of shopping trolleys and two stuffed lions, not real ones, but a quarter life-size. And still some refused to sit.
And to Kochi after a 50Km taxi ride to Biju’s tourist house, a bit of a surprise as it was in fact a four story hotel. Next day was a 5Rs (for both of us) ferry trip to Kochi Fort, still used as an Indian naval base but first built by the Brits in about 1942. That’s what the plaque read, though I know the Portuguese were there a 100 or so years before. I do know however they, the Portuguese, didn’t erect the electricity pylons, few of which remain. In fact those that do were listing a few degrees, rusting and with odd broken cables dangling like Wisteria blindly searching for its next hold as a rust-holed sign read “Kerala State Electricity Board 66Kv GIS substation Fort Kochi”. Powerful stuff!
Our day done, we headed back to the ferry, queuing in the male and female queues in a damp alley lined with hundreds of cycles, waiting to transport their owner’s home after their day on the main land. It wasn’t named cycle alley but must have been mosquito alley, the precursor to the steel framed holding pen into which we were all corralled, each holding our two and a half Rs ticket, a pen which, despite being full of people, we were outnumbered by mosquitoes by about 200:1.
The next day was a poo r start for me, actually collapsing! Still, after a rest we checked out, 4 minutes before the noon deadline and, instead of moving on by bus, we ordered a taxi. With bags in the boot we were about to commence our journey when a large man, sporting long shorts and very floral Bermuda shirt and white beanie hat, with sweat tricking down his face asked me if I spoke English. To my “yes” he said in an Northern accent “Thank Christ for that”. He was obviously someone with great need, greater than mine, as he had clearly struggled thus far and had at last found someone who could speak English and assist him. Enquiring if we had been here long I said we were just leaving which prompted him to ask if there was anything wrong with the hotel. “No, it was fine, we were just off’. He then went on to say that he had just come from the boat (Ahh! I knew what it was like with the mosquitoes) and wanted to know where the centre of town was and if there was an enclosed shopping mall. As I tried to comprehend his predicament, I noticed that he had sort of mutated into several people, each sporting a white beanie hat but specifically, a largish female with bright red lipstick just looking at me in anticipation of my answer and another, smaller with wiry sticky-out hair and winged-spectacles from 1957 (both), again in eager anticipation of my answer. It then dawned on me that they, and now with others, were on a shore-side excursion from, no doubt , the fully air-conditioned, 10-decked, “Seven Seas Voyager”, probably with its own enclosed shopping mall we had seen moored in the harbour. With what was left with my energy I suggested he ask the very helpful man in reception who actually spoke very good English. Leaving them to their consumerist predicament, we left for Gowri Heritage House in Allepey.
Gowri was a fine cool residence where ,without hesitation, we accepted the room as I crashed out onto the bed to rest under the cooling fan. Feeling a little better, I considered a bit of food might help, so to one of the verandas we sat for a light lunch. As the food arrived, I felt the need to return to the room, but as I stood up, promptly collapsed once more, this time in view of several of the worried-looking staff. As I lay prostrate on the deck (I am told) Cathy straightened my legs and, sitting at the table, continued eating her lunch as the several worried -looking staff looked on. “No problem” she said “I’m a doctor”, which may have meant something to those who spoke English but even “Don’t worry, I’m a mechanic”, may also have meant the same! Suffice to say not a lot was done that day.
After breakfast we sought our already booked house-boat, all quite timely as we would be doing little but floating with all facilities close at hand. Taken by tuc tuc down some dirt tracks we reached a backwater where our accommodation was moored. About forty feet long with a twelve foot beam was a rice barge with a hooped superstructure of rattan matting , akin to a gyspy’s barrel-topped wagon (Varda). We stepped aboard onto the cushioned seated prow with table and chairs, then our cabin with en-suite bathroom. (Hillcott on water, for those who have been to the Isle of Wight), even with Liquorice Allsort-pink painted bulkheads. As for the heads, a proper low level cisterned lavatory, a shower and a basin. Three crew (Mr Old, Ratty and Freddie. Mr Old, because he was, Ratty with his rat-like features and Freddie, yet another Freddie Mercury look-alike, of which there are thousands here) accommodation aft and galley aft of that. Although many have air conditioning, generators and engines or motors, for peacefulness we chose one propelled in the original way, by bamboo poles.
Fully victualed, we were underway, having been told that we may just stop when the crew gets tired. Fine by us as we sat with our feet up and had served fresh lemon squash made, (without asking) from bottled mineral water. The “falling over” episode seems to have followed the finding of a small piece of ice in an otherwise lovely pineapple Lassi!!! When later Freddie was told that I didn’t want much to eat as I had a poor tummy, he made us a fresh ginger tea/cordial, all supped as the village folk and fields floated by at an amiable two knots until we were out of the lee of the palms and something of a breeze got up. You can probably imagine the windage on something this size, a force far greater than a couple of bamboo poles could counter as, within minutes, we sailed broadside into the ubiquitous water hyacinths (which now clogs up many of the waterways) and many a monoped’s flip-flop floating in the flotsam. Never in matching pairs. Always alone. Mr Old puffed, heaved and wheezed as we made a couple of yards and lost three to, no doubt, the amusement of the punters with engines and motors. The struggle to extricate ourselves was reminiscent of the boating lakes as kids when, stranded on the far side of the pond, rescue was necessary by the owner in Wellingtons! Having tried several times without success ,still alongside the hyacinths, we had lunch.
A combination of lunch and a dropping of the wind saw us clear of the floating green morass and off we set to temple-chanting in the background which seemed to get louder. We moored for tea alongside a forty-foot coconut palm, not with coconuts at the top but with three huge PA speakers blaring out something which sounded like an American auctioneer’s “Who’d a bid me twenty who’d a bid me twenty twentyfive twentyfive who’d a bid me thirty thirtyfive forty” but indiscernible, apart from what sounded like ”Sedan dungadin”, over and over again and as rapid and as loud as an AK 47 at five paces. Not that I’ve heard one but I can imagine. So much for peacefulness! After tea , we moved on and moored for supper where the distant chanting later turned into a candle-lit procession with drumming and chanting as it wound its way along the footpath between trees and shrubs, passing us feet away, into the darkness and subsequent silence, save for the crickets, chirruping throughout the night and the susurration of the palms and grasses, lulling us to sleep.
Breakfast was followed by a short trip back to our port of departure and so to Periyar Animal Sanctuary.

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