9.5.11 – The island, the monkeys and glow flies (Wayanad, Kerala, India)

9.5.11 – The island, the monkeys and glow flies (Wayanad, Kerala, India)

Our alarm clock

Our alarm clock was a large black and cream cockerel in the next enclosure.  Unfortunately, its alarm clock was clearly broken as it started on its work at about 3am.  The next enclosure is two breeze block shacks, where a family can be seen, burning wood for charcoal, brushing out the enclosure with palm frond brushes.  Here, relative poverty (in Indian terms, Kerala is an affluent state) sits right over the wall from considerable wealth – the next house down the path is a large pink building, clearly the property of quite wealthy people.  And across the road is another shack, where the family start early caring for their buffalo and chickens, and fetching water from the well in our enclosure.

Buffalo in the jungle

Later, our ever ready taxi driver, Kuttan, took us further into the hills to visit a local beauty spot – the Island.  An hour’s drive ended at a bumpy, earthen car park, full of little, battered stalls, selling sweets, fruit, drinks, and anything else that the tourist might be expected to want.  And tourists there were, milling about everywhere.  As usual, we were the only non-Indians, the others coming from distant parts of this huge country, mostly North India.  One lady approached Bill and asked in English if he knew what was on the island - presumably she did not speak Malayalam, the local language.

Calum and Catriona on the ferry

The rocky river

Bill went off to investigate what there was to see other than the car park, and came back proudly waving ferry tickets.  To island dwellers like us, a ferry trip is a frequent occurrence, and mental images of a large white structure, passenger compartment below, bridge above with radar, computers and crew floated unbidden into my mind.  We got Molly out of the taxi and into her pushchair.  It was intensely hot, and she was a bit tired.  We trundled her over the uneven ground and down the stairs to the landing stage.  It proved to be a broad but shallow river we were to cross, to a leafy island beyond.  The landing stage was crammed with people waiting to go over.  We were of course the centre of attention as usual.  Then I noticed the ferry approaching.  It was a large raft built of bamboo logs roped together, propelled by ropes pulled by some men aboard, and overflowing with people.  I rapidly decided that this was not a trip to be undertaken with a two-year-old, who was by now protesting loudly anyway.  Retreating to the taxi, which was large, comfortable and blessedly air-conditioned, I sacrificed the joys of the island adventure for an hour spent telling stories, singing and feeding juice to my soon cheerful little companion.

Bamboo

The others returned with stories of the raft, loaded so heavyily with passengers that the bamboo logs were nearly underwater and Bill’s socks got an unanticipated, if necessary, wash.  On arrival, they took a shady walk across the little island - immense bamboo ‘forests’ that creaked like a sailing ship in a storm.  Eventually they came to a beautiful rocky glade where the river bubbled across boulders in a refreshing torrent.  As Calum pointed out, this kind of river is commonplace for us Scots, albeit in a somewhat cooler form, but for the Indian tourists, this was a real delight.  They sat about in the water, splashed and played in it, one woman immersing herself, fully sari-clad, in its cool freshness.  A group of young men and a young Muslim woman played about on stepping stones, the lads shouting and teasing in a good humoured attempt to get her to fall in, sari, veil and all.  For their return journey, Bill, Catriona and Calum had the log-raft ferry to themselves - a less nerve wracking journey for Catriona, who, as a naval architect, knew altogether too much for comfort about the likely stability of overloaded rafts.

Monkeys near our enclosure

Back at Molly’s green house, relaxing and drinking tea on the upstairs verandah, along came the monkeys.  Beige and grey in colour, about the size of a small dog, they wandered along the top of our wall, some carrying babies clinging to their fronts.  They looked over with curiosity into our patio until Kuttan, our taxi driver, washing his car, shouted at them, and they sprung lightly away, swinging with ease into the jungle’s depths.

The soft, humid darkness fell, and Stephen and Kuttan’s voices hummed outside as they chatted on the patio.  I went out, and as I was speaking to them, I noticed a tiny fragment of ash from their cigarettes, floating up into the night sky.  Then I realised that no-one was smoking – it was a tiny, glowing insect, flying up towards the overhanging palm tree.  Fascinated, I called the others, and we watched as these tiny glowing lights flickered amongst the branches, like minute moving Christmas decorations.  Our driver caught one, and gently held it in his cupped hands to show us.  It was very small, and emitted a pulsating light of surprising brightness, filling his palms with its yellow glow.

And suddenly, a text from Bincy.  She has been accepted for scholarship for a PhD in Adelaide, South Australia, whose pretty streets we walked only two months ago.  We are delighted for her, but with a nagging sadness that we will lose her from Scotland – our Indian daughter, soon to be on the other side of the world.