Positive Strides. Baybush Publishing
down and gathering around the boats. Bedlam ensued as restaurateurs and fishermen haggled over the price of the catch in a frenzy that would match the Tokyo stock exchange. Within a few minutes, the deals were done, and the beach became quiet once again.
Kovalam is where the old hippy trail moved to when Goa started to become too commercialised, and “uncool.” Nowadays, it is just as commercialised as anywhere in Goa. More and more resorts are being built, placing a huge strain on the resources. Small, impoverished shantytowns where the poor carefully measure every drop of water, lie a few minutes walk form big resorts, where tourists lounge beside large swimming pools. Little by little, villagers are being pushed back from the sea front, which was once their home to make way for new developments.
The next day, we drove to Trivandrum to pick up Maeve. Shattered, after a fifteen-hour train journey, she was thankful to have finally arrived. It was great to see her again; it had been six months since we had last met. She had traveled from Mumbai and along the way, she had befriended two Dutch guys, Ferri and Arand, who were now with her. Somehow, we all managed to squeeze into a taxi and drove back to our guesthouse where they booked in. Over the next few days, we all chilled out, with Maeve and I catching up on all the overdue gossip. Two other Western men had moved into the guesthouse: an Irish guy, Neil, who was taking a few weeks holiday from his job in the Middle East, and Marcus, a German, touring India alone on his Vespa scooter. By hiring two more bikes, we formed a convoy, and took off to explore the area. Neil had never driven a bike before and we warned him that the roads in India were no place to learn. But he wasn’t convinced and proceeded to hire his own bike anyway.
Group travel puts personalities to the test. Marcus’s German efficiency, and adherence to plan clashed with Maeve’s laid back “we’ll go when we’re ready” attitude. We’d only been on the road for twenty minutes when Maeve wanted to stop for food. This irritated Marcus greatly, seeing as she was on the back of his bike. After her third request to stop, Marcus was visibly getting annoyed. ”We must go or we’ll never get there!” he said. ”Maybe I should travel with Neil, he’s going slower.” Maeve suggested. ”Good idea,” said Marcus, and he sped off. With no signposts we had difficulty finding the falls and finally stopped the bikes at the end of a dirt track. Garry and Marcus went on ahead. When they heard the sound of cascading waters, they yelled for us to follow. I longed for some cold water, having burnt my leg on the exhaust of the bike. Reaching the falls, we were greeted by about twenty drunken men, who upon our arrival became very excited, shouting and yelling. Maeve and I went in for a swim, trying to ignore their jeers. Obviously wanting more attention, they started smashing their empty bottles against the rocks, shards shattering into the water. “Stop that!” Maeve and I both yelled at them. Garry and the others shouted at them to stop also, but this seemed to just fuel their amusement as they continued smashing their bottles. Needless to say, we didn’t stay too long, but it had been a nice drive, so it wasn’t a totally wasted day.
Marcus, who was heading to Madras, parted company with the group later in the day and that evening, the rest of us decided we’d head to Kollam, from where we could take a trip along the famous Kerala backwaters, a network of canals, lagoons and rivers that fringe the southern Keralan coastline. A day trip along these backwaters was a must. Our boat drifted slowly from its moorings and headed for the maze of canals that lay ahead. It was early morning and so still. The water was like glass, only broken by our boat and the beating wings of cormorants as they skimmed the surface. Beautiful, wooden houseboats rocked and creaked as we floated by. By 9am, the rays of sunlight were streaming through the tall palms that lined the banks of the canals. Women sat by their little homesteads making chapattis for breakfast, smoke bellowing from their clay ovens. Disgruntled farm animals squabbled over scraps of food. ”School pen, school pen, school pen!” Excited cries rang out from the banks as children raced along sure footedly trying to keep up with the boat, in the hope someone would throw them over a pen or, for that matter, anything. The boat drifted along these meandering waterways at a lovely easy pace. I lay back and watched the sky through the over-hanging palms; a million miles away and totally at peace.
At our hotel that evening, the manager, Sundar, invited us to join him for a few drinks. He was a pleasant man with excellent English, and was curious to find out about the general ways of life in our part of the world. He marveled at our freedom to travel, and especially at our attitudes to relationships. ”You are very lucky; in your country, you can make your own choices. Here in India,” he said, “it is too strict. Old traditions and customs are still so important. Take, for example, arranged marriages. I do not agree with this. I had to marry somebody I did not love.” Looking distant, he started telling us his story. When he was a young man, he fell deeply in love with a girl of a lower caste than him.
Ignoring convention, he brought her home to introduce her to his mother declaring, with all the ardent passion of youth, that he intended marrying her. What followed was emotional blackmail of a most vicious kind. His mother swore to take her own life rather than face the shame that such a union would bring on her family. Out of respect for his mother and her religious beliefs, he let his young love go. Eventually, he was married to another woman of the same caste chosen for him by his mother. He rushed to assure us that he has no dislike for this woman, and he has worked to make the marriage a success. However, not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of what might have been had he been free to make his own choice. Sundar now has children of his own, but is adamant that he will not arrange marriages for them. In the future, he believes, that young people in India will have more say in the way they run their lives. They will be free to make their own choices in marriage, without the pressures of religion and tradition being brought down on them. With this, he bade us goodnight and wished us well on our travels.
Enfields and Elephants
Enfield Rally Kottayam
The great wonders of travel are not the palaces, mountains or monuments you see, but the uncanny coincidences and the moments that can neither be foreseen nor rec aptured. One such time led on from the breakdown of our Enfield a few hours after Garry and I had left the others in Kollam. The plan was to go to Kumily and the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary . Maeve was traveling with us but when the luggage was loaded up, the bike would only accommodate two. She would go by train to Kottayam, meet up with us for an overnight stay, and then continue her journey to Kumily by bus. Just before Kottayam, hot and thirsty, we stopped at a little stall. Attracting the usual crowds of inquisitive onlookers, we downed our drinks, and mounted the bike. Garry routinely kicked his foot down to take off. Nothing. Not a splutter. He tried again, and again. ”It’s the bloody kick-start,” he said, dismounting to examine what could have happened.
I got off to have a look; not that I was much use on mechanical matters. “What the hell are we going to do?” I asked. “Of all the days for this to happen, it would have to be Sunday, wouldn’t it. There will be nowhere open.” ”Give me a hand with the bags Rach, I’m going to have to try and push start it,” said Garry. Getting the bags strapped on to the bike every morning was a chore. Everything had to be perfectly balanced and then tied down tightly. We hadn’t been able to locate bungy cords so the bags were strapped on with old motorbike inner tubes. My heart sank, at the thought of going through the whole process again now. After unloading our luggage, Garry ran alongside the bike, while I gave it a shove from behind. The sound of the engine starting again was a big relief. Garry hopped on, and keeping the engine running, we began packing on the bags again.
We made it to Kottayam and headed straight for the railway station to pick up Maeve and take her to the bus depot. Garry waited outside with the motor running. A young Indian, also on an Enfield, pulled up beside him. ”You here for rally, Sir?” ”What rally?” asked Garry “Oh, big Enfield rally, start tomorrow. Many people like you here.” Did he mean tall and handsome? Probably not. ”No, I’m not here for the rally. I’m actually looking for a garage. The kick-start on my bike is broken.” ”Ah,” said the young man, smiling. “No problem. I take you to Enfield garage now. Come, come.” Delighted at having come to the rescue, our hero led Garry around the corner to the garage. Maeve and I were standing outside the railway station wondering what had become of Garry. After