12.5.11 – Trains Indian-style (Calicut and Alappuzha, Kerala, India)

12.5.11 – Trains Indian-style (Calicut and Alappuzha, Kerala, India)

The station is seething with a solid mass of people, stalls selling popcorn, water, sweets, line the platform.  It’s 12.50 and its extremely hot.  Sweat pours off me, my clothes stick to my body everywhere.  Although we have left two large cases at the hotel, our pile of luggage is at least three times the size of anybody elses’s.  Two station assistants, red shirts and red cloths wound around their heads, have staggered in with it from the taxi outside.   

Bill has fallen into conversation with two Muslim lads, clad in white shirts, lungi, with round white crocheted prayer hats on their heads.  I can hardly breathe with the heat, and we have 45 minutes to wait for our train.  Molly on the other hand, is coping without apparent difficulty.  Catriona pours bottled water over her little red head to keep her cool, and she laughs and watches all the coming and going around her with fascination.  Molly has been a constant source of amazement and pride to us all.  At two and a half years old, she has coped with all the changes of venue, totally unfamiliar settings, heat and noise not just with stoicism but with actual enjoyment.  So long as she knows that mummy and daddy are there, she relishes all the new experiences this trip throws at her – a natural adventurer.  She sits in her car seat on long journeys of three or more hours, drinking in the coloured houses, palm trees, careering traffic, and she laughs, comments on what she sees, plays with Teddy and falls asleep.  She has been the delight of all our taxi drivers, who take sad farewells of her when they leave.  But now she has to go on this busy, chaotic train for five hours.  How will she cope? 

The train finally arrives.  It’s pale blue, somewhat battered outside, with a large green diesel engine.  Most of the carriages are not air conditioned, and have no window, just metal bars, like the buses.  Molly points and laughs.  People clamber in and pack themselves tight together for what is going to be a long, hot haul for them.  We have booked seats on the only air conditioned carriage, but we have to wait to board while the train is cleaned.  At last the door opens.  Our rescuers in the red shirts appear again through the milling crowds and load the heavy cases in, lofting them onto the chromium shelving above the brown leather seats.  The train is broad – wider rails that we have at home.  There are three wide, comfortable seats of one side of the aisle, two to the other.  Molly is delighted.  She wriggles around, plays with her drop down table, looks out of the window.  I flop into my seat, and breathe more easily in the air conditioning.   

The train sets off, rocking gently.  Like all Indian transport we have experienced, it takes much longer to get anywhere than we are used to. The trip to Alappuzha is only 250 kilometres (about 150 miles) but it will take five hours.  But it's very comfortable.  About every fifteen minutes, railway chaps come through the carriage, offering fizzy drinks and water for sale, fresh lime juice, samosas, biriyani in foil containers, chocolates, doughnut-shaped things which are slightly savoury and very nice.  We don’t buy anything except juice as, not knowing this would be available, we have brought the faithful standby of British travellers – the Almighty Sandwich, in this case peanut butter or jam.

On the lines

We pass through stations, platforms crowded with people.  People stroll across the tracks in front of the train.  They wander along the edges of the embankments, children in their arms, or piles of shopping, at times carried on their heads.  Here and there maintenance work on the line is underway, people digging and shovelling in the heat, not a hard hat or high-viz vest in sight.  

I settle down and enjoy the ride, but an anxiety is how will we know where to get off?  We know the name of the station, and only very roughly when it should arrive.  The few stations we stop at are marked with large yellow and black signs, but it’s easy to miss them as there are not very many.  My fellow passenger in the next seat gets off and another gets on.  He’s a smart business man, and is soon talking on his mobile in fluent English.  When the call ends, I grasp my opportunity and ask how far it is to Alleppey (the station for Allapuzha) and which station precedes it.  He tells me, and advises us to get our luggage ready as the train leaves the station before ours.  I tell Bill, who is now in conversation with a civil engineer who has spent time in the UK and thought it was just fine, so long as you could sit right beside a central heating radiator.  I told him I felt much the same about the air conditioning here.

Alleppey Station

The station arrives, and we tumble out, making a mountain of our luggage on the busy platform.  I attempt to find the driver who is to meet us – I have his phone number but as he does not speak English it’s proving a little difficult to locate him.

Meanwhile Catriona has got into conversation with an English girl – the first white face we have seen in eight days, the last being a German girl who came through immigration with us at the airport when we arrived.  Contrary to my expectations, this has not bothered me at all, probably because of the kindness and friendliness of the Indian people we have met.  Also, I quite like the 'papparazzi effect' occasioned because we look so different in colour, dress and behaviour.

At last I find Udayan, our driver.  His car is minute.  I point to the luggage, and despair.  ‘No problem, no problem’ he keeps saying and, sure enough, a few moments later, we set off, wedged into the seats, Molly as usual delighted and sitting on Daddy’s knee, our luggage towering and swaying on top as we negotiate the bumpy, twisty road.  It’s not a long journey to our hotel, which turns out to be a great, comfortable hotel with Mr. Kumar, a kind English speaking manager, who at once takes us under his wing and goes to great lengths to look after us, charmed of course by Molly.  And so we settle in for the night, taking it in turns to dine out in the restaurant, and packing our overnight bags for tomorrow’s adventure on the Kerala Backwaters.

11.5.11 – The Wedding (Calicut, Kerala, India)

11.5.11 – The Wedding (Calicut, Kerala, India)

Bincy in her wedding dress

The enthusiastic cockerel has been replaced at 5am by the Muslim call to prayer from the Mosque opposite the hotel.  Unfortunately, the drugs Catriona was given have not had a chance to take effect, and she’s not in great condition to be bridesmaid at the wedding.  After a shower, we help her into her clothes and I go with her to meet Bincy’s dad, who drives us to the house nearby where the bride is being prepared - a pretty house set up a slight slope off the main road, surrounded by palm trees and other vibrant vegetation.  Bincy is in a small bedroom, putting on the beautiful satin dress, trimmed with blue beads, which Catriona had worn when she was a bride, six years ago.  She has always wanted to give it to another bride, and so, resized and transported to India, here it is.  Bincy looks beautiful, her dark skin and gleaming black hair contrasting with the shining white.  Catriona and I lace up the back of the dress, hauling on the cords to make sure it stays in position.  ‘Can you still breathe, Bincy? Yes? It’s not tight enough then!!’  The house fills with relatives – every time I look round, there are more, milling about, children running, adults talking excitedly.  Bincy’s mother Usha swathes Catriona in a beautiful plum and gold sari, her sister places little glittering flowers in her hair.  Yet more relatives arrive.  We are served rice cakes with sauce and tea in a side room.  Catriona is beginning to feel slightly better, and hopes she will be able to make it down the aisle.  In the entrance hall cum living room, the family stand in a wide, tightly packed circle, as the priest, who has now arrived as well, begins to pray.  Murmured responses, haunting singing – we can only guess at what is being said in Malayam, but we try to join them in spirit.

Calum and Molly with Subhash

Then Bincy walks down the dusty dry earthen path to the car, pursued by Catriona, attempting to dust off the wide white train of the wedding dress.  And then we are off in a torrent of cars, twisting and weaving through the city traffic to the Cathedral.  As soon as we swing into the car park, I see Bill, kilted and wearing an open necked traditional Scottish kilt shirt.  He must be hot but he doesn’t look it.  And there is Calum, similarly clad and holding Molly, in a little white chiffon dress, her red hair shining, ready to carry her little basket of flowers that Usha, Bincy's mum, has prepared.  I pass her to Catriona, who is waiting with the bridal party to go down the aisle.  The large cathedral is absolutely packed with well wishers.  A host of white robed priests huddle around the doorway, Molly is handed her flowers, Bincy’s father Isaac stands with his lovely bridal daughter, the music plays, and the massive procession comes slowly down the aisle to where Subhash is nervously waiting.  I kneel at the side ready to take Molly, and she runs across to me and her daddy, who is able to reassure her with chocolate, supplied subtly by Bincy’s sister, Sincy, sitting nearby. 

Catriona with Bincy's parents

Bincy, Subhash and the priests

And so the wedding proceeds.  We can’t understand much, but get the sense of occasion and sanctity loud and clear.  Catriona, Bill and I have been asked to sing to the congregation, and we make it through two songs – ‘The Lord’s my Shepherd’ and ‘If religion were a thing that money could buy’, getting the first verse of each horribly wrong but managing to bring it together for the finale.  A sea of brown faces stares at us, not a smile among them – apparently you don’t smile in church much here. However, to us, smiling and celebrating God’s love comes naturally, and we smile throughout the singing – I hope we haven’t caused too much offence by the cacophony and the grinning.

Opposite where I am sitting is an arched window, open to the warm air, palm trees and brilliant tropical flowers making a shaded walkway down which a family, mother in a scarlet sari, father in a crisp white shirt and lungi, stroll with two little children running and jumping at their side.  It seems to fit with the moment, as a new family is created in front of me, here in lush, colourful and steamy India.

Stage and thrones

Soon, the wedding march, and out again in a hubbub of people, to the hot sun of the car park.  A friend (Gerald) takes us back to the hotel, so that Molly can get into the cooler air.  The reception is to be in the same hotel, so soon we go downstairs.  We enter a huge hall full of seats in rows, and a balcony, all of which are crammed with people – about 1,100.  Sincy leads us to the very front row, where seats have been saved for us.  There’s a stage, set with flowing shining white satin, lights, and the words ‘Subhash with Bincy’ pinned to it.  There are two chairs – more like thrones – and an immense four tier cake, elaborately decorated in white, pink, green.  There’s excited chatter, a loud musical group playing Indian pop music, waiters at the side ready to serve an immense buffet.  Suddenly Cliff Richard is singing ‘Congratulations!’ and Bincy and Subhash emerge and mount the stage to the thrones.  Rapturous applause.  They step forward to cut the cake, and suddenly some of Subhash’s friends rush forward and cover both bride and groom in white foam – head, shoulders, bridal veil – everything.  Huge laughter and cheering.  Fortunately I’m told it’s only an ice mixture, and indeed it soon disappears.

Anil, Sincy and Meg

Molly dancing

The buffet is served, the band plays on, loud Indian music.  I’m no good at eating with my fingers, as is traditional here, although Bill and Catriona are by now quite accomplished, so I get hold of a pink plastic spoon.  A procession of people go onto the stage to greet the bride and groom, who shake hands with them and pose for photos.  This goes on and on, and people leave gradually after they have done this.  The hall begins to empty out, but still the queue to shake hands and be photo’d grows and grows.  Meanwhile, Molly, now in the little maroon and gold dress that Usha gave her at Christmas, decides to dance.  I realise that the Indian music perfectly lends itself to Scottish dance steps, so Molly and I dance together on the floor beside the stage.  Soon the vocalist from the band espys us, and comes over, kneeling to sing to Molly, holding out a yellow microphone.  A crowd gathers to watch us, people produce cameras and we are famous yet again.  Even the official photographer asks to have his photo taken with Molly.

Bincy and Subhash

Bincy leaves and changes her white bridal gown for a sari of glowing gold, red and green.  She looks lovely, swathed in gold jewellery, and continues the hand shaking.  Is this the same nervous young girl I met at Glasgow Airport, eighteen months ago?

At last we go up and greet her and Subhash, hugging them.  They look pretty exhausted by this stage.  At last they are taken to a separate table and given some food.  Then a man starts to dance on the stage, arms flailing, legs kicking.  Soon more people have joined him, including the bride and groom.  We are encouraged to go up too, and soon a spontaneous melee has developed, Indian and Scottish dancing combined, till the sweat pours off us, discretion takes over, and we leave the stage.

Catriona in her sari with Calum

Bincy and her family come over, hug us, and explain that now they must go to a ceremony at Subhash’s family home.  The tradition is that Bincy will now be ‘handed over’ to her in-law’s family, to live in his house with his mother.  It seems odd to Western eyes, but that is how the culture works here.  It has been an exciting and moving day.  Our Indian daughter, a married woman, and to an excellent, handsome and caring young man.  We are honoured to have been part of such a personal family experience.

And so we retire, exhausted, to our rooms, to prepare for more adventures tomorrow.

10.5.11 – Lakes and doctors (Wayanad and Calicut, Kerala, India)

Family with Kuttan (right) and Stephen (left)

10.5.11 – Lakes and doctors (Wayanad and Calicut, Kerala, India)

The lake

Awakened by our faithful cockerel, it was time to move on back to Calicut, to prepare for Bincy’s wedding tomorrow.  Our car wound its way down the precipitous twisting road to Calicut, stopping briefly at a lake.  Hot though it was, we piled out of the car.  Crowded with Indian tourists, little children carried by their parents (we haven’t seen another push chair since we arrived), bright eyes staring at Molly, brown faces, black hair.  The children here are exceptionally beautiful.  The lake was calm, sheltered within a bowl in the surrounding mountains.  Pedalos and rowing boats with coloured sunshades moved slowly across its shining surface.  We walked round a shaded path under the trees, returned to let Molly swing in the little playpark, while Catriona and I looked at the little stalls, selling coconut ladles and spatulas, carved crocodiles, and Indian sweets of every description, mysterious to us in their cellophane wrappings. A little garden centre displayed flowers and plants in glowing profusion.

Molly at the swings

Lunch at a quiet restaurant, a fish tank which fascinated Molly, standing on a chair, her little hands spread across the glass, her eyes fastened on the sinuous silver fish meandering about on the other side of the thin pane.

Molly sleeping in transit

We re-entered Calicut with a sense of familiarity.  Even in this very different culture and environment, it’s surprising how quickly one settles down to a sense of the known.

Unfortunately, Catriona was beginning to succumb to the inevitability of ‘Dehli Belly’, the well known scourge of Western tourists in India.  Molly also had a little cough, although seemed bright, cheery and healthy in every other way.  I texted Bincy, and in no time, one of her fiancé Subhash’s friends, Daniel, volunteered to take the Millican team to the hospital for treatment.  They returned later, medicines in hand, to report on an efficient and professional health service.  Catriona had a range of pills and potions to take.  As a protective, Molly had antibiotics, although the doctor was not convinced that she did in fact have an infection.  The constant exposure to the drying effects of air conditioning seemed a more likely candidate.

We laid out our clothes for the wedding, got ready in every way we could think of, and went to bed.

Ghat Mountains

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.

8.5.11 – Mountains and Molly’s green house (Wayanad, Kerala, India)

8.5.11 – Mountains and Molly’s green house (Wayanad, Kerala, India)

Our shiny white taxi, loaded sky high with cases, folding cot, push chair, left the hotel driven by a charming and helpful taxi driver, Kuttan.  Soon we had left the hubbub of the city behind, and were heading up towards the towering mountains of the Ghats Range.  Thick trunked coconut palms, wide, split leaved banana palms accompanied us.  The road, which, although bumpy, was surprisingly good, hairpinned its way upwards.  We squeezed past lorries, zigzagged around rickshaws and motor bikes, tooting our horn at every occasion possible.  Traffic does not travel very fast here – 30 or 40 kilometres per hour.  It’s fascinating to see the process in action – you want to overtake or turn a corner.  So does a rickshaw and a bus.  You all head for the piece of road you want to occupy, tooting to alert the others to your intentions.  The one that gets in front first is considered to have ‘won’, and the others fall back.  In fact, the system, which bears more resemblance to how crowds negotiate pavements while Christmas shopping, works surprisingly well.  We have seen tens of thousands of vehicles since we arrived, and only twice have I seen one with obvious accident damage.

Tea plantation

Soon, the palms give way to rubber plantations, plastic bags tied to the trunks to collect the precious sap.  Then tea plantations, round pillow-like bushes, rich with green shiny leaves.  Taller and even shinier were the coffee plants, larger and darker leaved.

Ghat Mountains

The mountains rose up to our left, blue and sheer, their jagged tops towering above the greenery all around.  At last we entered a little village, shops crowded along one side of the street.  A gap between two shops gave entry to a sandy path, at the end of which was a bright apple green house, enclosed by a wall, and backing onto the jungle.  At the double gates to the enclosure, a man awaited us, whom we later learned was Stephen, and who remained with us for our stay, helping us in every way he could.  

Our car drove into the courtyard and stopped.  And so we arrived at Wayanad Homestay, our residence for the next two days.  The house was lovely – a living room and dining room, comfortably furnished and air conditioned.  The kitchen was off this, and there was a downstairs bedroom and two more upstairs, all en suite.  Stephen, the man who had welcomed us, brought us lime juice and so we settled in.  Upstairs, there was a sunny balcony, overlooking the courtyard and surrounding jungle, where a few cattle grazed.  Stephen told us to make sure that we closed the door leading onto the inside landing, as the monkeys might get into the house and create havoc.

Glad of the chance for a rest, we settled in.  Catriona went shopping with Calum, Bill and our helpful taxi driver, who stayed with us all the time we were there, ready for our every beck and call.  Returning, Catriona cooked for us, while Stephen helped us find whatever we wanted and was of course enchanted by Molly, who had claimed her ‘green house’ as her own territory.

Molly's Green House, Wayanard

7.5.11 – Elephants, live and wooden (Tirur, Kerala, India)

7.5.11 – Elephants, live and wooden (Tirur, Kerala, India)

Early into the taxi, Molly tucked into her car seat, in pride of place at the front.  Our luggage was again tied on the roofrack, in a huge pile of purple, blue and pink cases.  The road wound out into the country, past the little stalls, open fronted, selling everything you could think of and some things you could not.  The now familiar jumble of rickshaws, motor bikes, bicycles, brightly patterned buses, pedestrians  and cars wove their usual swerving traffic dance, accompanied by the incessant beeping, which apparently is required by traffic law, in order to let people know who is coming.   Bincy and her Great Uncle came with us.  Out in the country, wide rivers with sandy shores accompanied us, in the distance, people digging for building sand in the burning midday heat. 

Meg and elephant (elephant is the one at the back)

At last, the elephant park.  Decorated ornately in gold and all the colours of the rainbow, with red and gold umbrellas above them, elephants are used in Hindu festivals, surrounded by immense crowds, fireworks and blowing horns.  For some, this is just too much, and they become stressed and depressed.  They come to this centre for treatment, and also to be prepared for future use in festivals and temples. A huge mixing bowl is used to mix medications for the elephants, a replica of which was in a shady enclosure.

Meg and Catriona at medicine mixing bowl

Elephant bath time

We parked, put Molly in her pushchair, and at once became the centre of attention.  Everywhere we went, people pointed towards her, smiled, laughed, waved and took photographs.  It was like being a film star.  As usual we were the only Europeans to be seen and as such, we were famous!  There were elephants everywhere, dark brown with pink spotted ears and foreheads.  There were about 50 – far more than usual –as there is a festival imminent.  They were everywhere – not in enclosures, but moving about naturally under the palm trees.  Some slowly, gracefully ambling across our paths, carrying bamboo logs with their trunks.  Others were being washed, their trunks curving across their massive backs, water fountaining from them.  Yet others were feeding, tearing thick, cream sections of  bamboo, stripping them of bark and twisting them into their mouths.  Molly watched fascinated.

Dancer outside temple

The Hindu Temple in the adjacent town is a focal point for pilgrims.  Non-Hindus can’t approach too near the Temple, so we mixed with the rainbow throng outside, again the focal point of attention, particularly Molly, who was in a froth of excitement about every brilliant sight she could see.  Bincy bought two little decorated wooden elephants, complete with brilliantly ornate festival garb, and gave them to us.  Just a little further along, a dancer sinuously danced for a huge crowd, one of whom was a spellbound two year old Scottish lass.

A restaurant, cool and dim, plates of burning, fascinating fragrances and tastes.  And then on to Calicut, the endless chaos of traffic, jewel coloured saris, palm trees -  and briefly the sea, gleaming silver to our left.  Suddenly we were out again in the humid heat, unloading cases, cots and buggies, and checking in to the Calicut Towers Hotel.  A hubbub of enthusiastic young men were suddenly all around us – Bincy’s fiancée Subhash, dark eyes smiling – and all his pals, helping him with every task he had to do before the wedding.  Nothing was too much trouble for them, bringing up cases in the small lift, ensuring that the hotel addressed the problem of non-functioning air conditioning in one of the rooms, offering phone numbers and all kinds of assistance. 

Indian street

6.5.11 – Poets and parties (Tirur, Kerala, India)

6.5.11 – Poets and parties (Tirur, Kerala, India)

Bard's pool

A lush green garden around sandy ground enclosed by red stone walls.  Coconut palms, leggy and supple, coconuts clustered at the tops, Jackfruit trees, their jagged yellow fruits the size and shape or rugby balls, clinging to their tall trunks, the twitter and whistling of birds; a building open to the palm trees, ornate pillars supporting its red tiled roof. This is the birthplace of Kerala’s famous bard, whose impact during the 16^th. Century ensured that Malayalam became a recognised language.  We made sandy footprints across to the museum building, removing our sandals on the smooth steps, to view the brilliantly coloured images of dancers, the glass cases of ancient musical instruments, dark wood and ivory glowing with the patina of centuries.  Outside again, and the pool used by the bard remains, steps leading down to still, green water.  Scholars grouped in the shade of the verandah, books on knees, delicate veils over their heads as they studied, turn their eyes fascinated at the sight of our obvious and unusual European faces.

Mango trees

Back through the boiling torrent of rickshaws, buses and motorcycles, while pedestrians casually strolled with loping strides in and out of the melee, women in jewelled saris, men in white garb which seemed to be worn much as a kilt would be, although it can be let down to ankle length or looped up to the knees, making a sort of loose pair of shorts.  Heads turn everywhere to look at us, photographs are taken, especially of Molly.  It’s a bit like being a film star, gazed at from every street corner.

Weaving our way through the endlessly moving mass of people on the rugged pavements, we arrived at a dress shop.  The assistant emptied box after box of diaphanous, bejewelled dresses onto the counter in front of us, till they formed a large frothy heap through which we ruffled in indecision.  Later, Catriona decided to buy a salwar kameez.  A large department store, long glass counters, numerous smart sales assistants, fans constantly circling in the ceilings and on the walls, dresses and fabrics in neatly folded piles or carefully boxed.  Indecision and the technicalities of sizing resulted in us trekking from room to room and floor to floor, collecting intrigued sales people at every turn, until eventually Catriona was surrounded by no less than six, all scratching heads and conferring on how to satisfy this unusual Scottish customer, while she and Bincy disappeared behind an ever growing pile of rejected sartorial possibilities.  At last it was agreed to measure her and make three salwar kameezes for her – this was about 3 pm and they would be completed by 7 tonight.  

Catriona, Bincy and Molly with family

Back in Molly’s beloved taxi, our destination three houses filled to bursting with Bincy’s wonderful, laughing, welcoming relatives.  Molly handled the adulation she received at every turn as being her rightful entitlement.  Everywhere people shook our hands, hugged us, offered us delicious fresh fruit – pineapple, mango, jack fruit – so fresh that the juice ran down our chins and over our fingers – served us coconut milk, drunk from the coconut, tops slashed off, straws inserted.  The first house was Bincy’s uncle’s home, photos were taken, presents exchanged, the warmth of the welcome even rivalling the heat of the day.  The next house, embedded in the forest, was the ancestral home of the family, a lovely building, teak ceilings, shuttered glassless windows, cool black smooth floors, made of crushed shells.  Palm trees curved over the red tiled roof, papaya and mangos - lush vegetation of all sorts everywhere.  Then on to Bincy’s great grandmother’s home, where a meal awaited us amidst more excited and welcoming faces.  It’s hard to describe how amazing it felt to be so welcomed, so far from home. 

Drinking coconut juice with Bincy's relatives

5.5.11 - Arriving at last! (Tirur, Kerala, India)

5.5.11 - Arriving at last (Tirur, Kerala, India)

Long-haul flights of three hours or more are an endurance test, and this is tenth such we have made in less than twelve weeks, so arrival in India was a heartfelt relief.  Two and a half year old Molly perched on my knee, copper coloured hair plastered to her head, pyjamas damp with sweat, blue eyes large and dark with exhaustion.  Calicut Airport thronged with masses of people, mostly men, returning home from work abroad.  Crisp shirts, shining dark faces, they formed queues snaking from end to end of the humid Immigration area.  A little boy, at most eighteen months old, screamed his protest, a shy teenage girl practiced her English by asking why we were visiting.  This is not a tourist destination, so our pale faces identified us and at last we were directed to a desk marked ‘Foreigners’, where three laborious passport checks and much stamping of documents eventually propelled us into the baggage collection area.  The carousel was invisible beyond a densely packed mass of dark heads, trolleys piled high criss-crossed the area, like dodgem cars, the air full of the humming of voices and the clanking of machinery and the thudding of arriving baggage.  A lot of this appeared to be in the form of large cardboard boxes tied up with rope, a high percentage of which announced their contents as being sizeable flat screened TV’s, which apparently can be purchased much cheaper in Dubai than in Kerala.  Slowly – oh so slowly for poor little Molly, we retrieved our mountain of luggage piece by piece, while I kept up a flow of texts Bincy, who was waiting for us outside.  Bincy, a beautiful, feisty Indian girl, full of life and brimming with Christian faith, has lived in our flat in Glasgow since 2009, while studying at Glasgow University.  She became our ‘Indian daughter’.  Now she is getting married, so here we are, complete with Molly to be the flower girl, Catriona to be a Bridesmaid, and Calum, to cheer them on, and, along with Bill, to demonstrate the wearing of the kilt in temperatures of 30+ degrees.

Saris on motorbikes

At last we are outside, hugging Bincy, bright in her plum coloured salwar kameez (tunic) and white trousers, carrying a lovely bouquet for me.  The air is heavy and humid, the sun bright, the palm trees huge and dense.  The taxi trundles up and the driver, leaping barefoot onto the roof, tackles the intimidating task of loading our six cases onto the roof rack.  And then we’re off, Molly proudly in her car seat beside the driver.  Everywhere there  are people, walking, running, packed tightly into brightly painted buses, arms hanging out of the windows, or precariously astride tiny scooters, often with a lady in immaculate jewel coloured sari, sitting on the back, apparently not holding on at all and often with a baby on her knee.  And everywhere the little motorised rickshaws – a motorbike enclosed in a tiny black and yellow metal frame with leatherette top, and two seats in the rear for passengers.  And at last Tirur and our hotel, where Bincy’s mum and dad await, having booked the rooms, and prepared a sumptuous meal of curry, chapattis, rice, dahl and much more.  And so a chance to catch up on much needed sleep, in the blessed relief of the air conditioning.

Ubiquitous rickshaws

At 5, Bincy and taxi return, and we’re off, twisting and weaving among the endless rush and crush of people and traffic.  Driving here resembles a Strip-the-Willow or Dashing White Sergeant - Scottish dances which involve much twirling and weaving in close proximity with other dancers, and always at risk of an inelegant collision.  On either side, little shops with open frontages display piles of fruit – huge water melons, yellow apples, coconuts, bananas hanging in fat clumps still on their original branches.  Others are piled high with packets of biscuits, rice, chocolate; yet others are hung and stacked with metal or earthenware cooking pots; others reveal people at work on lathes and drills, making who knows what sort of complicated equipment.  A buffalo is tethered to a post outside one shop, goats outside others or in fields between houses, which peep half hidden from palm forests, or behind immense piles of logs.  At the roadside, small boys operate machinery which looks a bit like treddle sewing machines upside down, but which is in fact for pressing sugar cane to produce juice, sold at the roadside.

Bincy and Catriona at Bincy's church

Banana palm

Then we’re at Bincy’s house, welcomed by her mother  Usha (Amatchi  (Gran) to Molly), father (Apatchi (granddad) to Molly) and aunt, shown round their lovely airy white church across the road, garden full of cuckoo song and Cashew Nut trees, amazing for the yellow fruit surrounding the nut, (about the size of a tangerine, and apparently edible, although few people bother, we are told).  Then into their large, welcoming house, where Apatchi showed us his garden, overflowing with greenery – banana and coconut palms, papaya trees and tapioca, a root of which he harvests for us, while the frogs chirrup their endless nightime serenade.  The meal is coconut fish curry, ghee rice, semolina (fresh cooked, and like potatoes, cooked with mustard seeds and curry leaves), idli (little round rice and chickpea flour cakes), coconut chutney, mango chutney, date pickle and spicy pickle, all home made by Usha.

Fruit stall

And so back to the hotel, past all the little shops, now lit by paraffin lamps or petrol generators, the way busier than ever, people walking calmly down the road oblivious of the traffic mayhem all around, rather than try to negotiate the earthen pavements, strewn with merchandise, children and litter.  There’s vibrant life everywhere; energy and activity on all sides. Perhaps we’ll have some of it after a night’s sleep.

1.5.11 – Bluebells in the wood (Millport, Isle of Cumbrae, Scotland)

1.5.11 – Bluebells in the wood (Millport, Isle of Cumbrae, Scotland)

The Enchanted Woodland

We went to find the Secret Stairs in the Enchanted Wood, Katie and I.  The spring sunshine kissed the rough stone walls, down which Ivy Leaved Toadflax flowed in torrents of tiny, delicate lilac coloured flowers, tipped with yellow.  Not satisfied with this, the same sun kissed the wavelets in the bay into diamonds, while the wind ruffled them gently, roughening them into frosted glass.  Hand in hand we walked, talking as only an eight year old girl can, about the mystery  and secrecy of the enchanted woodland we had set out to discover. 

Cathedral of the Isles

We turned up the road to our tiny island Cathedral, grey stone spire reaching up towards the white tufts of cloud drifting by.  At once, the peace and serenity of the place took hold, and Katie and I whispered our comments, heard only by numberless birds, twittering amongst the gently swaying branches above us.  A little path, cross-hatched by thick roots, led us deeper into the sun-dappled woodland.  On one side, drifts of wild garlic, the pungence of their scent contrasting with their delicate heads - white balls made up of tiny star-like white flowers.

Wild Garlic and Bluebells

On the other side, bluebells crowded amongst the tree trunks, their blue cups dangling from their green, curved stems.  Katie ran ahead, the sunlight picking out her golden hair, as it danced under her pink sun hat, her purple dress swaying with her lithe, energetic young movements.  Where were the stairs?  Was it far?  Who else knew about them?  Why were they there? 

Path among the Wild Garlic in the Enchanted Woodland

Suddenly the path fell away like a cliff top, and, approaching, yes, there it was, old worn sandstone slabs, swathed in moss, leading down into the depths of the woodland, to other narrow paths, wending their way here and there amongst the bluebells.  She skipped down, full of awe, thrilled to find the stairs, made secret by her bright mind, the woodland enchanted by the innocence of her imagination.

The Secret Stairs

We choose a narrow path, nearly overgrown by fresh green leaves, here and there nettles, as yet soft with new growth.  Brambles extended their curved branches across the path, making us stop to part them and pass on.  The trees were bright with early spring leaves, the teasing breeze making the sunlight flicker and dapple the forest bark she ran across.  Suddenly a little rabbit bobbed out of the grass, and froze at the sight of us.  Katie stopped, breathless, watching the wind stroke his soft grey-brown fur.  And then he was gone, darting into the bushes.  Every flower was a joy to her, every bird fluttering across the path, a surprise.  Celandines lined the track, their shining golden petals pointing sharply.  And then a crop of wood anemones, white as starlight, their six petals backed with green, and a minute coronet in the midst of each, sporting dainty yellow stamens, like jewels in their crown.  She picked one gently, carrying it carefully all the way back down the road, commanding me to place it gently in an egg cup of water, so that mummy could admire and share her wonder.

Kames Bay, Isle of Cumbrae

And so we turned towards the beach at Kames Bay, where on the pink, flat sands, mum, dad and little brother were digging.  A small river runs across the sand, twisting and meandering slowly towards the sea.  Generations of families have realised that its gentle progress across the near-level beach makes the engineering task of dam building an easy challenge, soon rewarded by the developing pools, large enough to float plastic boats.  So red and blue plastic spades and buckets, aided by the occasional heavy garden spade, make a family race to build up walls and direct the glittering water this way and that, shouting to one another to repair breeches in the little sand walls, splashing barefoot in the trenches, until the sun fades into the sea behind the blue Arran mountains, and the gentle gloaming light announces bedtime.  Of such is the magic of childhood on a Scottish island in springtime.