Kochi kochi koo

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March 16th

We woke in Ernakulam, the adjacent town of Kochi. We were greeted with the usual hustle of, “taxi, sir?” We assessed the town and realised we wanted to stay in Fort Cochin. This was where most tourists stayed and for good reason. This area was a hub of trade to and from Europe from the sixteenth century onwards. The Portuguese mainly controlled it and there are a few relics left but they are crumbling into the sea. We, lazily, took a tuk-tuk to Fort Cochin, (the other alternatives were a bus and a ferry, but the ferry was quite a walk and we had our lives on our backs).

After checking in to a lovely place called Santa Cruz and finally getting clean, we went next door for a holistic Indian healthcare experience; an Ayurvedic massage. It was not what we were expecting. We stripped off down to our birthday suits and were then covered in healing oil, rubbed and massaged for an hour. It was a slight molestation as they rubbed in a wave motion over our groins and bee-hinds. K said that she was stammering like an idiot and then had to shut up and try and enjoy this apparent slice of decadence.

Then it was a wander through the old town. There were narrow streets that really gave an impression of Europe somewhere. Neither of us has been to Portugal, so we cannot say but we guess it has a similar atmosphere to Fort Cochin. We came across huge, elegant Chinese fishing nets that hang over a very polluted Lake Vembanad. The water was such a dark shade of brown. The nets looked very intricate and worked like a riverbed excavator with the four corners dropping down and trapping anything within the square.

It was getting hot and with nowhere to swim, we headed for an Italian restaurant that served beer in a teapot. This was due to the fact that the police frowned on public alcohol consumption. In the afternoon, we wandered into the artists’ district and there were many hippie-type clichés pottering about stroking their beards. We ended up in a very sketchy area. It was a bus station we think, it was getting dark, there was more rubbish lying around than usual and men wandering in all directions. A quick discreet look at the map got us out and back to Santa Cruz.

March 17th

Woke and got a few essentials of laundry back which was hand washed for a handsome fee.

Bus ride. India’s bus network is not famous for its 100% safety record. We hopped aboard the 1140 from Ernakulam Bus Terminal and we were to take it to the end of the line, Kumily. Our bus driver was a middle-aged man with a mission. We raced out of Kochi driving pretty much down the middle of the road slaloming around pedestrians and auto-rickshaws.

We sat on the empty bus taking up three double seats - one for our bags, and one each to allow us to press our faces out the windows (no a/c). About three stops in, it became apparent that this was not specifically a long-distance bus journey. It became a multi-connected local bus, which looped and wandered around at high speeds with many emergency stops for six hours. Our bags were quickly relegated to the back, and after a young Indian girl refused to let George back into his seat next to her, the two of us sat together. Kochi is much bigger than we’d imagined, and we were stuck in traffic for a good while, inhaling way to much pollution (but there’s no smoking throughout Kerala, so…)

Then the bus burst out of the crowded city passed extensive fields of marijuana, both wild and cultivated. We’re in spice country, and every breath now tastes like a different colour in the culinary rainbow.

The entire journey was a race, passing auto-rickshaws full of school children at full speed around blind corners just to come to a screeching halt 100m later to let someone off. As the alighting passenger struggled with the ‘door,’ the rickshaw would zoom past, wildly honking. On three separate occasions, we overtook local ambulances. Narrow head-on shaves with vehicles were a common occurrence. At one bus stop, we crashed into an empty loader lorry, and some men (after looking at the collision for a good minute) finally pushed the van out of the way with about a hundred people looking on curiously. On one lonely road, we crashed into a motorbike. The husband almost got his foot run over, and the wife (riding side-saddle, no helmet for her) was forced to disembark with panic. The road was consistently too narrow for two-lane traffic. George’s laptop, which had started above our heads on the steel luggage rack, was now pressed against the front of the bus ten rows in front. Katherine miraculously managed to sleep for about ten minutes before getting bounced almost out the window and suffering a mild concussion.

We stopped halfway to get lunch. All we could buy were two packets of crisps and about forty small and sweet bananas (1kg being the minimum weight). A two-year-old girl sitting in front of us had swivelled entirely around and had her chin resting on the seat, staring at us. We gave her a banana, and she chucked the skin out the window so we followed suit. There are no garbage bins in India, the litter decorates the streets and is often on fire.

Katherine saw a mongoose being kept as a pet cat in someone’s yard. We had a lovely real estate tour. The fancier houses, which are painted and have glass windows, seem to be in constant competition to have the most crisp, fresh, and outlandish paint job. Neon orange, purple and green were the favourites.

The bus climbed all the way, through the clouds, and the air became as cool as a Scottish summer. To save on petrol, many of the hairpin corners were driven using momentum, and the pendulum effect. The hills were an endless game of “no brakes, no gas.”

Somehow, we made it. We were both glad when the bus driver tapped George on the shoulder (we were the only people going the full journey) and told us that we were approaching Kumily, the end of the line. We staggered off and into a tuk-tuk, pausing briefly to assess the bus schedule. When you’re safe at the end it’s easy to think that the bus isn’t a bad way to travel. Maybe the bungee jump is still having its effect.

Our room is a marble palace. Granted, we’re paying a fortune (700Rs per night) but the marble veranda looks out onto the green forest. Last night, three wild boars wandered past as we sat on our hanging wickers eggs watching the red sky turn purple.

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Photos

Chinese fishing nets
Those fish don't stand a chance

Portuguese church
In pretty good shape

Beer in tea pots
Guide book referencing - it's a way of life

Comments

[anonymous]

its not marijuana....its tapioca