It was an early morning flight to Cochin- and I had to argue with the cab company to come pick us up at such an unheard of hour. Finally they over charged me and then raised the price when they had to call back three times to get directions in three different languages. I gave the guard a tip for explaining how to find the place twice and then finding someone off the street to explain in another language.
Hindi and English are the official languages of India; the problem is here in the South each state protects its regional language or languages with a vengeance. It’s their right, but it makes things difficult when business people only speak Kanada or Tamil and you want something in English (or Hindi I suppose.)
The driver from GK Homestay met us at the airport and packed us away into an old Ambassador. (Is there any other type of Ambassador?) The Ambassador was the first car made in India in 1948- It seems an entire army of 1948ish Ambassadors are
still roaming streets and paths all over the subcontinent. I had no idea how long the drive would be, but I suppose I had mentally pictured it being about an hour, maybe an hour and a half- two and a half hours later we were running out of road, but we were still going.
Road trips in India are bound to be interesting, and strangely enough not fun. While every other vehicle on the road is belching out black fumes our Ambassador seemed to leaking all it’s exhaust into the car. We drove through cities and villages and when pk s
aw an elephant working on the side of the road (which like the camel in Bangalore had escaped my notice) she commented on it forgetting that lots of people here have at least a rudimentary understanding of English- the driver stopped for a work elephant photo op- that was the oldest elephant I’ve ever seen- but he was working away as his tiny brown human commanded- moving huge logs from one pile to another pile.
We drove through rubber plant plantations- with trees dripping latex and pale rubber sheets drying on clothes lines all around us. We drove past coconut groves and over big wide rivers and kept on driving.
Eventually the paved road became a rutted dirt road, and the dirt road became a pocked tire worn path then it became nothing more than what looked like a foot path through the jungle and on past a rice patty. Thankfully the car stopped just before we had to wind our way through the trees. We had reached the end of the road and George Kutty was there to great us.
George showed us our room in his back yard- facing the quietest, greenest, only-est rice patty I’ve ever seen. George showed us the room, how to use the chalk to ward off the ants, how to turn on the shower, and how to warm water in a bucket “only if we needed it.” We noticed the hammocks stung up between a row of coconut palms before George whisked us off to second breakfast, (we’d already had first breakfast on the plane- Indian flights are lovely in that even if you only have a one hour domestic flight, they serve drinks and a meal- even though the drink was spiced butter milk, which is one of the nastiest things I’ve put to my lips the entire time I’ve been here- it’s a nice practice.)
Second breakfast, like every other meal, involved some form of coconut- as well as pineapple and bananas.
We proceeded to go collapse in the hammocks for the rest of the afternoon- when we roused ourselves to try to eat lunch- which was good but after two breakfasts- completely unnecessary.
That evening we took a canoe tour and visited the “Snake boats.” Our guide/rower was low on the English skills so we tried to make guesses as to what his gesticulations about the boats might indicate. We guessed that the numbers painted on the boat indicated seating positions- one of the boats held over 100 people. One on each side of the longest canoe you could imagine. We understood that the boat rode very low in the water- that the metal work was gold- I think.
We rowed on past neighborhood children- beautiful girls shy and hiding behind trees and boys waving as they splashed in the water. Occasionally they would ask for pens and practice their English lessons on us. “Hello! What is your name?” They would giggle when we answered. Each house along the water way had steps down to the water. Sometimes children splashed around in the warm water, in other places men descended the steps for a quiet bath- women scrubbed laundry on nearby rocks and we floated past curious fish traps and under foot bridges held up by massive palm trunks.
The backwaters in Kerala are considered as the Venice of India. People live and work all along the water- some villages don’t even have roads or paths, as all transportation and livelihood is made on the water. It’s an area of giant tiger prawns the size of lobsters and a steady diet of fish, coconut and rice.
On Christmas day we took a ferry down to the coast. The waters and the house boats we couldn’t afford were beautiful.
Hindi and English are the official languages of India; the problem is here in the South each state protects its regional language or languages with a vengeance. It’s their right, but it makes things difficult when business people only speak Kanada or Tamil and you want something in English (or Hindi I suppose.)
The driver from GK Homestay met us at the airport and packed us away into an old Ambassador. (Is there any other type of Ambassador?) The Ambassador was the first car made in India in 1948- It seems an entire army of 1948ish Ambassadors are
still roaming streets and paths all over the subcontinent. I had no idea how long the drive would be, but I suppose I had mentally pictured it being about an hour, maybe an hour and a half- two and a half hours later we were running out of road, but we were still going.Road trips in India are bound to be interesting, and strangely enough not fun. While every other vehicle on the road is belching out black fumes our Ambassador seemed to leaking all it’s exhaust into the car. We drove through cities and villages and when pk s
aw an elephant working on the side of the road (which like the camel in Bangalore had escaped my notice) she commented on it forgetting that lots of people here have at least a rudimentary understanding of English- the driver stopped for a work elephant photo op- that was the oldest elephant I’ve ever seen- but he was working away as his tiny brown human commanded- moving huge logs from one pile to another pile.We drove through rubber plant plantations- with trees dripping latex and pale rubber sheets drying on clothes lines all around us. We drove past coconut groves and over big wide rivers and kept on driving.
Eventually the paved road became a rutted dirt road, and the dirt road became a pocked tire worn path then it became nothing more than what looked like a foot path through the jungle and on past a rice patty. Thankfully the car stopped just before we had to wind our way through the trees. We had reached the end of the road and George Kutty was there to great us.
George showed us our room in his back yard- facing the quietest, greenest, only-est rice patty I’ve ever seen. George showed us the room, how to use the chalk to ward off the ants, how to turn on the shower, and how to warm water in a bucket “only if we needed it.” We noticed the hammocks stung up between a row of coconut palms before George whisked us off to second breakfast, (we’d already had first breakfast on the plane- Indian flights are lovely in that even if you only have a one hour domestic flight, they serve drinks and a meal- even though the drink was spiced butter milk, which is one of the nastiest things I’ve put to my lips the entire time I’ve been here- it’s a nice practice.)
Second breakfast, like every other meal, involved some form of coconut- as well as pineapple and bananas.
We proceeded to go collapse in the hammocks for the rest of the afternoon- when we roused ourselves to try to eat lunch- which was good but after two breakfasts- completely unnecessary.
That evening we took a canoe tour and visited the “Snake boats.” Our guide/rower was low on the English skills so we tried to make guesses as to what his gesticulations about the boats might indicate. We guessed that the numbers painted on the boat indicated seating positions- one of the boats held over 100 people. One on each side of the longest canoe you could imagine. We understood that the boat rode very low in the water- that the metal work was gold- I think.
We rowed on past neighborhood children- beautiful girls shy and hiding behind trees and boys waving as they splashed in the water. Occasionally they would ask for pens and practice their English lessons on us. “Hello! What is your name?” They would giggle when we answered. Each house along the water way had steps down to the water. Sometimes children splashed around in the warm water, in other places men descended the steps for a quiet bath- women scrubbed laundry on nearby rocks and we floated past curious fish traps and under foot bridges held up by massive palm trunks.
The backwaters in Kerala are considered as the Venice of India. People live and work all along the water- some villages don’t even have roads or paths, as all transportation and livelihood is made on the water. It’s an area of giant tiger prawns the size of lobsters and a steady diet of fish, coconut and rice.
On Christmas day we took a ferry down to the coast. The waters and the house boats we couldn’t afford were beautiful.
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