Positive Strides. Baybush Publishing
we’re going to get this a lot. You’d better get used to it.” But these weren’t looks of curiosity; utter horror would be more fitting. Then, it struck me! I’m left-handed, and was using this hand to eat my food. In India and other parts of Asia, this hand is only ever used to clean oneself after bodily functions! “Oops!” I quickly switched hands. It’s difficult enough to master eating with your fingers when you’re not used to it but trying it with your less dexterous hand is twice as hard. I had more food down my front and on my lap than I managed to get in my mouth.
Gokarna is a small, sleepy village, with a few narrow dusty streets lined with ramshackle houses and colourful temples. It’s a very religious place. We crossed paths with a procession of Hindu worshippers on a pilgrimage to some holy site in southern India. Dressed in long black robes, and their faces adorned with orange paint; they looked rather sinister. We stood and watched as they filed into the main temple. A small, frail man dressed in a dhoti (a square piece of cloth, wrapped around the waist and between the legs) eyed us watchfully. “Want to see some more temples. Come with me,” he ordered. “Come, come.” We followed him through the streets as he took us from one temple to another. “This one for the worship of Shiva,” he said, pointing to a symbol of the great Hindu God. He led us briskly through the village, then pointed to the hills.” ”Want to see holy men in caves?” he asked. “Come, this way. Not far.”
After about twenty minutes, we reached the caves and crawled inside. In the first chamber, icons of Shiva and the elephant God, Ganesh, stood in recessed crevices along the cave wall. As the cave sloped upwards, the second chamber, with its shrine to Shiva, became visible. Flowers and candles surrounded a pool of water beneath the Shiva lingam, a phallic symbol depicting fertility. From the darkest reaches we could hear voices, chanting repetitively. Here live the “holy men,” devout worshipers who give their whole lives to the worship of Shiva. They were crouched or lying down in tiny crevices; we could barely make them out. They depend on people from outside to bring them food and donations. Feeling intrusive in their midst, we backed out and placed a donation in the box. We admired the beautiful view from this place for a bit, but then it was time to get back down the hillside and out of the oppressive heat.
Moving on the next day, we stopped for a break in another tiny village. This time our presence attracted about forty curious onlookers. ”My God, I think the whole town has come out to see us!” I laughed at Garry. Big, inquisitive brown eyes stared at us from every corner. I tried to see us through their eyes; two pale-skinned people on a large motorbike, with three huge rucksacks strapped to the sides and back. Had they ever seen white people before? Probably not, and certainly not on a big motorbike. Why would anyone stop at their tiny village? Where did we come from? Where were we going? We tried communicating with them, but apart from a few giggles and some shy smiles, we didn’t get very far. Udipi was our next destination. This was just an overnight stop to refresh ourselves for the long journey we had ahead. It was much more affluent than Gokarna, with expensive jewelers, electrical shops and silk merchants, but in spite of this, the poverty and pollution were still rife. Open sewers ran the length of the streets, children were dodging Brahman bulls that feasted on the mounds of rubbish lying around and the flies - those damn flies; unavoidable and a constant nuisance.
After a week of driving from town to town and stopping only to rest and eat we crossed the border into the state of Kerala, one of India’s most fertile states. Cashew nut trees, mango trees, rice paddies and above all coconut palms dominated the landscape. Our destination was Kovalam, at the southern tip of India. Here, we were meeting up with a good friend of mine, Maeve. So the next few days were spent covering as much ground as we could. We were a far cry from Goa now, in the “thick” of India. There were no other Westerners to be seen, so as we pulled into yet another dusty, chaotic town, dirty and exhausted, there was always an audience to welcome us. Like cowboys, we would waddle uncomfortably until our legs were properly stretched. Anyone who has ever traveled long distance by motorbike knows the feeling of the vibrations still running through your body hours after dismounting. Badly needing a break from the grueling Indian roads, we stopped at Fort Cochi. This relaxed little fishing village is just what we needed for a couple of days. Set on a narrow peninsula, it overlooks a cluster of small islands. Rows of Chinese cantilevered fishing nets are strung out along the shoreline. These huge spider-like structures, made from bamboo, are lowered into the water at high tide, left for a few moments, and then hauled out with trapped fish inside.
Cochi is famous for its Kathakali dance performances, so we went along to one. The dancers put on colourful face make-up and adorn elaborate costumes. Two or three drummers and a singer provide the musical accompaniment. Through the use of facial expressions, the performers mime to enact old Hindu stories of battles fought between Gods and demons. These dances were at one time performed for the Maharajas and could last for anything up to ten hours. The performance we saw was compelling; eyes flashing and drums rolling, but thankfully, it only lasted an hour and a half. Not having brought any mosquito repellent, we were eaten alive and left itchy and uncomfortable. However, the mosquitoes weren’t the only ones who were hungry, so after the show we found a small restaurant for our evening meal. ”What can I get you to drink madam?” ”A coke for me, please.” “And for you, Sir?” ”I’ll have a Kingfisher beer.” ”Shh! Shh! Quiet Sir, please,” the waiter replied, looking around, nervously. “Beer not allowed here, Sir. But if you like, I get you special tea,” he whispered. “What’s special tea?” Garry whispered back. The waiter leaned closer. “It’s beer, but you must call it special tea, if you want to order.” “Okay, I’ll have a special tea then!” We looked at each other and shrugged. The waiter returned with my coke, and a large china teapot, a teacup, a saucer and a spoon. ”Your special tea, Sir,” he said with a wink. A group of Westerners came into the restaurant. After a few more “special teas,” we invited them to join us. ”Is that beer you’re drinking?” asked one man. ”Shh,” said Garry, laughing. “It’s special tea.” ”What?” He looked puzzled. Garry explained the set-up to him. Many the convivial pot of “special tea” was consumed that evening!
When it was time again to mount the Enfield, we did so with trepidation. It’s a long journey south to the seaside town of Kovalam. To our surprise, stretched out ahead of us was a road, with two lanes, devoid of potholes; acceptable by any standards. What a luxury it was to have some relative comfort on this drive! But a few kilometres on, we realised that no sooner do drivers get a bit of open road than the collisions occur in earnest. Here, we encountered more accidents than anywhere else. On either side of the road were mangled auto rickshaws and overturned trucks and buses. Indians adopt a very bizarre logic when it comes to driving. Before embarking on journeys, they get their vehicle blessed showering it with petals, and putting little statues of their favourite God on the dashboard. This, they believe will protect them from any accidents, and if one does occur, then it was meant to be. For close on six hours, we drove along this highway with diesel fumes belching in our faces and the dirt of the air clinging to our skin and clothes. Relieved to have finally reached Kovalam, and with our bums aching from the vibrations of the motorbike, we were eager to find somewhere fast to rest our weary bones. At the bottom of a narrow lane-way, a man called out to us.
”Come, come. I have very nice place. For you, special price. My wife; she cook very good food.” ”Let’s take a look,” I shrugged. Garry parked up the bike, and we followed the guy up a narrow dusty lane. At the top was a lovely guesthouse with airy, spacious rooms set in a garden of palm trees. It was exactly what we were looking for after our long dusty drive. ”Perfect!” I said. ” Do you have another room for my friend?” He did, so we took two rooms. Maeve was coming in by train to Trivandrum, not far from Kovalam. She had arrived in India about a week before and had traveled down from Mumbai, via Goa. Had it not been for the Internet, we would never have met up. Over the last week, e-mailing had been the only way of keeping in touch to arrange where to meet.
Feeling human again after a long, soapy shower, we strolled down to the beach to have dinner. Small wooden fishing boats lined the seafront. Finding a lovely restaurant, we watched as the fishermen took their fleet of boats out to sea. They battled against the waves before getting out on the open sea to start the evening’s fishing. We, on the other hand, tucked into a fine meal of king prawns and we were relaxing, enjoying a few beers, when the fleet returned. The fishermen struggled with