13.5.11 – Magical boat (Alappuzha and Backwaters, Kerala, India)

13.5.11 – Magical boat (Alappuzha and Backwaters, Kerala, India)

Houseboats waiting to depart

It started badly.  Our taxi took us from the Hotel to the landing stage where we were to meet our boat  to cruise the Kerala Backwaters, an area of water and land mixed, where rice fields abut houses and waterways and lakes.  The task sounded easy – find boat, board and sail away.  But we unloaded from the taxi into burning humidity, and a chaotic throng of boats and people.  To add to the frenzy, a crowd of young men on motor bikes arrived at high velocity and noise, celebrating their election victory with fire crackers.  This was all too much for Molly, and for once she lost the plot and screamed.  We sheltered in scanty shade by the waterside trees while Bill and the taxi driver sought amongst the heaving mass of boats for the one booked for us.  One of the boat owners opposite us took pity on poor little Molly, whose face by now matched her bright red hair.  Climbing up a narrow, wobbly gangway, we gratefully settled in the shade of his awning to await developments.  It was a beautiful example of a backwater houseboat in Kerala. Polished wooden floor, canopy of woven palm leaves, comfortable velvet armchairs.  Molly became her usual cheerful self as soon as the shade fell on her and the fan was switched on.  She stared about her in fascination at the colour and activity everywhere, while Catriona was soon immersed in a naval architectural discussion with the boat owner over the design and building of these fascinating craft.  Meanwhile, Bill was frying outside, still searching for our boat.  The houseboats were moored three deep from the rickety edge, as far as the eye could see.  People were everywhere, jumping on and off the boats, loading food, carrying luggage, arriving and leaving in taxis.

Our houseboat

At last, Bill signalled for us to come, and, thanking the boat owner profusely, we picked up our luggage which was strewn all over the deck, and walked along the quay, following our lungi-clad skipper.  At last he leaped nimbly onto the prow of a boat, walked through it to the one behind, repeated the process and so at last we secured our own houseboat, or ‘boat house’ as Molly called it.   Sitting down in relief, we finally had a chance to survey our surroundings.   

Our boat had a black, wooden hull, and a superstructure covered in woven palm branches.  The front was open at the sides, and behind the wooden steering wheel were benches down either side and a glass dining table and six chromium chairs.  A little passage on the starboard side led to two

Houseboat bedroom

Houseboat dining room

bedrooms, each with air conditioning, an en suite shower room aand toilet, and neat, clean, fresh decor – little hotel rooms on a palm leaf boat.  There was also a wash hand basin in the passageway outside the bedrooms – everywhere in India, wash basins appear when least expected.  At the stern was the galley, where two more of the crew were working, already making mouth-watering fragrances pervade the little boat.  A narrow stairway led upwards between the bedrooms to a large, shady top deck, which was empty apart from a velvet padded settee, two armchairs and a coffee table, and bench seats all around the sides.  The boat was a triumph of the combination of quaint and traditional features and modern comfort.  And it was all ours for the day!

Another, larger houseboat

From the spacious top deck, we now had a chance to view our surroundings.  Everywhere, similar boats, some larger, some smaller, were moored.  Every one seemed to be unique – different sizes, their palm-woven superstructures different shapes.  They were moored close, jostling tightly for space and rubbing against each other when any small waves announced an arrival or departure. 

Drinking juice and waiting to sail

Called downstairs to our ‘dining room’ in the prow, we were served orange juice and fruit, and felt the engine rumble into life.  Slowly, pushing off from boats on each side, in front and behind, we gained the open water, and turned to follow a procession of other boats into a broad palm-fringed canal.  The air was at once much cooler, the fronds of the palm trees swishing in the breeze, bright green rafts of water weed with small yellow flotation sacs drifted along beside us, sometimes sporting lilac coloured blossom.  A boat yard appeared to one side, sounds of hammering on wood drawing the eye to bamboo structures of all shapes, in the process of being covered in palm woven covers. 

Sailing, we are sailing!!

And so the leisurely day progresses.  The boat chugs on gently, unfolding the sweet green landscape on either side.  Houses are embedded in groves of coconut and banana palms, peeping out to display their startling colours - orange, yellow, lime green, lilac, blue – white windows emphasising their brilliant colour.  Women in jewel coloured saris stroll casually along the narrow paths, carrying babies wrapped tight, or silver metal cooking pots, or the world wide affliction of polythene bags.  Nearly every house has a black wooden canoe tied outside – cars wouldn’t fit on the narrow strips of ground, so these serve the equivalent role, pushed along silently by wide wooden paddles.  

Kerala Backwaters

The land is wetland, and has over centuries been shaped by human use.  Narrow strips, about 20 feet wide, are raised above the level of the canal on one side and the rice fields on the other.  The latter are flooded and allowed to dry out periodically, and it’s possible to see people working in the dried fields, young rice growing green from the moist earth.  We emerge into a large open lake, other houseboats dotted across the surface.  We moor and our skipper asks Catriona and me to go ashore to choose the ingredients for our evening meal.  It’s extremely hot as we climb across a wide bamboo pole to the shore.  Shaded stalls under the palm trees.  A smiling man opens a box to display large blue-grey prawns, caught that morning, floating in melting ice.  Back on the boat, we chug on, back out of the silver grey lake and into another waterway.  We moor opposite an open area,

Lunch shipboard

where the breeze fans the water and us, and lunch is served, a mouth-watering array of bowls of differently spiced sauces and vegetables, their colours and textures combining with their fragrances in a riot of delight.  Molly is sleeping in her cot in the bedroom, and we carefully select the least spicy items to offer her when she wakes, which she does and eats with obvious interest in all she can taste and see.   

Post prandial rest

Indian Running Ducks

Off again, I see a mass of brownish matter covering the water a little way along.  Vegetation of somekind, forming a dense mat undulating on the surface.  Then I notice flappings and movement within the ‘mat’ and realise that it’s actually birds – ducks – packed so close that they look like one item.  A boat passes through the middle and they part to make space, at once swimming together again when it’s gone.  A man passes on the path above, and ducks that have been on the land cascade down into the water in front of his feet, like a waterfall of birds.  Getting nearer, we can see that they are tall ducks, who run rather than waddle.  Indian Running Ducks.

Frangipani Dance

Afternoon tea is brought to us – tea, coffee, juice, water and a plate of deep –fried bananas.  Molly loves the upper deck, where she can run and dance in the large open area.  Calum teaches her to say the word ‘Frangipani’ after the trees fringing the canal, and she gets it right and dances a ‘Frangipani dance’, her little pink dress and shining red hair dappled in the shaded sunlight.

Washing up

Bath time

As the cooler air of the afternoon arrives, more people emerge from houses on either side.  Each house has a little set of steps leading down into the water.  Some people are scrubbing out aluminium pots, many others are washing clothing, swilling the bundled fabric in the clear green water, and battering it on a smooth piece of rock before rinsing it again.  It looks like hard work to me.  Then it appears to be bath time, and children and adults splash and swim, climbing up and down the stone stairs which are outside each house, water shining and cascading from their brown backs.

Water bus

Washing machine

Commuting

Water buses rumble by.  Like their counterparts on land, these are pretty chaotic affairs, crowded with people, elbows protruding from the glassless windows.  Water taxis gurgle by too, and cargo canoes, filled with logs, or stone boulders, or sand, a frighteningly narrow band of freeboard showing above the water.  These are powered by outboards on long, thin poles.  The small canoes are paddled along silently, sometimes taking us by surprise as they almost graze the sides of our hull.  And all the time, the jewel coloured saris gently float by as with soft steps the women stroll along the waterside, casting reflections of pink, yellow, orange, white, blue – every colour of the rainbow – onto the quiet water at their sides.  People sit on the banks fishing, patiently waiting for their evening meal to emerge from the green depths.

Cargo canoe

The end of a perfect day

We moor for the night under the palm trees, where a cow quietly crops the grass, and two children shout to us and laugh, before running barefoot to their little house nearby.  Molly goes happily to bed, and we eat in the warm darkness of the prow, while jungle birds serenade us.  The evening flows on peacefully.  A misty half moon emerges.  Occasional water buses produce a wake which rocks us gently.  We lie on the upper deck in the dark, playing word games and laughing until we realise that our voices may travel over the water and disturb the quiet little houses on the other side of the water, whose lights pierce the palm fronds here and there.  Glow bugs flit among the palm leaves, tiny illuminations amongst the branches.  And so to bed, in deliciously cool bedrooms.  Our crew settles down on the wide benches in the prow dining area, sleeping under the moonlight. 

This day has been truly idyllic – a dream you can hardly imagine you are part of and from which you wish you need not waken.  A once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Houseboat Idyll