12.1.2012 Bikes and Germans (Lanzarote)

I like Lanzarote.  Its black glittering beaches, its conical brown mountains, its sea - royal blue and warm, its square white houses, its pitch black rocks pock marked with holes like Swiss cheese.  Not everybody does – ‘Lanzagrotty’ some call it, shocked perhaps by its violent geology, its brutal volcanic landscape, its black gravel replacing grass.  When I first saw it, I was unsettled by it too.  But it needs a second take, a chance to absorb, a determination to abandon one’s assumptions that landscapes should be pretty, soothing, green.  Then you become thrilled by its difference, excited by its drama, charmed by its architecture, awestruck by its volcanic power.  Well named ‘ Lanzarote - the Flame Thrower’

On arrival in Arrecife (capital of Lanzarote) we decided to go cycling.  This seemed a good antidote to the endless buffets, afternoon teas, five course evening meals, midnight suppers etc. etc., available night and day on just about every deck of the ship.  Not that we have over-eaten.  Well, not a lot.  Ok – a lot.  We had tried to fight back by avoiding using the lift and climbing from our cabin on Deck 2 to the Sky Lounge on Deck 12.  But as we had not packed oxygen cylinders, we didn’t try it again, and instead reverted to scones with jam and cream as a restorative.  Hence the bikes.  

We met at the desk on Deck 4, kitted out as best we could.  One fellow cyclist was waiting already, a chap about our age.  Good – he’s likely to sweat and puff as well, we thought.  However, brief conversation revealed that he got rid of his car some years ago and now pedal pushes everywhere, rain, hail or shine.  Then Raoul turned up, a Brit with a similar figure to ours, but considerably less of an antique.  Somewhat intimidated, we suddenly recognised the attractions of the Lido Cafe, by now serving morning coffee - but we resisted.  Perhaps because we were suddenly joined by our guide, whose lithe and muscular physique appeared to have been poured into red and black lycra, whose sleek black hair and golden skin denoted many a mile spent on the saddle.  His designer sunspecs reflected rainbows making him inscrutable.  He told us he was Brazilian and that his name was Abraham.  The cycles were produced, along with red and white cycle helmets, and so down the gangway, we followed Abraham into the desert.  Having nearly fallen off my bike in the dock car park, Bill and I took up position at the rear of the party, a position which we maintained throughout the day, with varying distances separating us from the rest of the group.  In fact, Abraham proved to be an excellent guide, long suffering of his puffing, red faced charges, and providing local information as we went along, although often we were too far behind to hear it.

Abraham surveys his charges

But it was exhilarating, gliding down hills past the fat little palm trees; gardens in which the snake-like irrigation systems refreshed the cacti, aloe vera, and red hot pokers sprouting from the black gravel; the jagged black rocks over which the sea broke in mists of sea spray which brushed our foreheads.  Costa Teguise, our objective, was reached at last - a little resort with lots of charm and golden beaches on which red and blue sunshades sprouted like colourful mushrooms.  The sea was rough; grey green waves which gobbled up the few windsurfers, and, curving like polished glass, exploded onto the soft sand.  

As Bill and I collapsed into the nearest cafe, there arrived another group of about twelve cyclists - slim, muscle bound, lycra tight, sinews taut, not a bead of sweat or a tomato coloured face amongst them.  These, Abraham told us, were a group from the large German cruise boat berthed behind ours in the harbour.  It has 1,900 passengers as against our 1,450.  Unable to manage the arithmetic, I was hopeful that our four against their twelve did not reflect too badly on us Brits.  Abraham then told us that this was only one of three groups of cyclists from that ship – in total there were at least 70 German cyclists out today, and the others had all gone to the volcanoes, a 50 km route up inclines that would terrify any sane person.  Ah well.  But Abraham used to work on that ship, and he says he prefers cycling with fat Brits any day.  So our national pride remains intact.

Back on board, feeling very virtuous and fit we stroll to the Lido Cafe past the plump forms of fellow passengers occupying the deckchairs all over the pool deck. Until we spy Raoul, our fellow cyclist, already in the pool, arms powering through the water, feet producing a froth of bubbles behind him.  Maybe we should join him?  Maybe...  But those scones smell awfully good.... And then surely we deserve a deckchair too?

11.1.2012 Goats in trees and snakes in boxes (Morocco)

Tree climbing goats

City walls

The dawn had drawn a rumpled, fleecy blanket – fiery red – across the sky as we clanged down the silver gangplank and made our first ever arrival in Africa.  A light mist of smoke hung over the city below us; a square orange castle clung to the hillside above.  Obediently herded into the bus by Hassan, our guide, cool in his flowing cream robe, we watched as Morocco unfolded – white or terracotta cube houses, wide open plains stretching dry between the blue Atlas mountain ranges,  which trimmed either horizon.  The dryness was punctuated by prickly trees with dusty dark green leaves and small yellow fruits, by plump, dusty sheep herded by men in flowing black or brown robes, and goats perched high in the trees, cropping their sharp leaves.  Rich terracotta walls, battlemented with rectangles that made you want to jump up and walk along them – up, down, up, down - their straw and mud manufacture conjuring up pictures of Pharaoh and the Israelites.  Here and there, weather and years had worn away their neat corners, leaving a row of orange teeth, bared against the open plains all around.

Mint tea

An hour later, an elegant entranceway of cool tiles, a ceiling decorated with the twisting plasterwork patterns, and into a tranquil cafe, its greenery an antidote to the dust outside.  Open tents of thick, rich fabric - maroon, gold, blue – settees upholstered in peach and red velvet; a man serving mint tea from the curving spouts of silver and gold teapots - pouring it, sparkling amber, from shoulder height and with complete accuracy, into tiny glasses, filled with fresh whole leaves of mint and stacked on embossed silver trays.

Then the walled city, its cream ramparts shaped as in a children’s fort, square battlements, wide curvaceous gates, arched at the top, pinched in the middle, like a plump lady whose corpulence is nipped at the waist with a tight belt. 

And so into the souk or market.  Narrow passages under a high roof, the pungent mix of herbs and spices fills the nostrils.  Stalls crush and compete.  Piles of plump dates, shiny nuts, dried prickly pears (don’t eat too many for fear of dire effects on the digestion) all piled high; spices in drums, each carefully shaped into neat cones at the top – orange, yellow, black, white – every shade of each.  Boots hanging neatly in pairs from the ceiling; robes and scarfs of every colour and pattern; leather shoes, with long pointed upturned toes, in yellows, browns, greens.  Carved wood, butchers stalls with meats hanging above the counter, metalwork produced while you wait.  A whole alley of furniture makers, chiselling and sawing, create small tables, huge dressers, wooden spoons; elsewhere are baskets, two handled, in all sizes; woven panniers for the donkeys which are to be seen in the streets outside, laden and pulling carts while the bikes and motorcycles weave between them and the long glossy tourist buses.  Vegetables of every colour and shape, some recognisable, some not.  This year, the rains which should have arrived in October and lasted till mid-February, have not yet appeared, and it’s early January, so fruit and veg have quadrupled in price as a result.  Pottery, mostly brown, and featuring everywhere the shining tagine pots, with their typical conical shape and tiny chimneys. Fish, displayed packed tight like silver leaves; velvet cushions in high wobbly stacks, purple, blue, gold.  The stall holders call out, entice, beseech.  Bill tries a bit of bartering, but the deal does not turn out to our satisfaction, so no purchase ensues. 

Music!

We arrive in a broad, open square with trees scattered across its cobbles.  There’s a man with a cobra in a wooden box.  He sits on a carpet, trying to drum up business before beginning to charm it with his pipe, but interest is sparse, and apart from once raising its sinuous silver head briefly, the cobra makes no further appearance. Two musicians entertain, broad smiles, long striped gowns and pill box hats.

Groups of men, swathed in the traditional robes – long, with a pointed hood, wizard style, at the back – are sitting in the shade of the trees, talking and smoking.  A group gather around a tall, dark man, a blue turban wound loosely about his head.  He has a carpet thrown out on the cobbles, covered with dried herbs and small bottles, and he’s doing a hard sell on what appear to be medicaments of uncertain origin.  He soon draws a sizeable group of men to watch, little white woven hats, like small baskets, leaning forward and nodding.  He’s doing much better business than the snake charmer.  There are men everywhere, bartering, smoking, sitting at the round cafe tables, laughing on the pavement.  But very few women.  Pondering on this mystery, we depart, airconditioned, to the high white walls of the Destiny - a little bit of Britain, roped to Morocco by seventeen stout ropes. 

Some of the other passengers have refused to leave the ship today, staying by the pool, anxious, they say, about the culture, the country, the people here.  For us, admittedly cocooned as we were in a tourist group, it was not as much of a culture shock as we expected.  The hubbub was not as relentless as India, the market similar to Romania.  But yet different it certainly is.  60% Berber, 39% Arab, the population presents a mixture of history and culture that is largely unknown to us.  Worth the visit without a doubt.

9.1.2012 - Moonlight on the water (Madeira)

On board ship at Madeira

Like a torrent of amber gemstones, tiny lights flood glittering down Madeira’s steep ravines into the black sea below.  Slowly they shrink behind us as we power our way along the road the moon has laid towards Morocco, 399 nautical miles distant.

The day started wet and dark in Glasgow Airport, and progressed uneventfully towards the soft palms of Funchal, and the technicolour of Bourgainvillia, flowing over its walls and roadsides. 

Madeira is steep.  That is the word, but not one that really conveys the narrow winding streets that rear up at what seem near vertical angles.  Yellow buses, no way discouraged by the mountaineering task before them, twist their tortuous way upwards – on one side of the street the roofs spread below them, on the other, steep gardens with houses perched atop.  Every home in Funchal has a spectacular view, down the precipices to the harbour.  There the cruise ships lie, great white swans amidst the tiny fishing boats, which foam in and out past their towering sides, while their fishermen in orange T-shirts and work roughened jeans heave fish boxes across decks tangled with ropes, floats and nets.

Viewed from the wide wooden decks of our ship Destiny, the city look like a child’s ambitious lego creation, tiny box homes scattered, one above the other, over a rumpled green blanket.  Here and there a thread of road hurls itself from cliff to cliff, lightly springing across spindly concrete pillars.  High above, a fringe of tall trees marches through the clouds.  Had I not been here before, I might have assumed that this was the peak of the mountain, instead of only the lower foothills of a volcanic giant.  Madeira is steep, steep, steep.

Towel elephant

Destiny is an old boat.  But her thirty years of providing holidays afloat have imbued her with an atmosphere of calm and welcome that makes you forgive the occasional dented table or section of scratched deck.  The crew are numerous, neatly dressed and endlessly friendly, cheerful and humorous.  Food is good and everywhere – you mount the stairs to yet another deck and find yet another buffet confronting you.  Likewise entertainment – a full scale musical performed with a dizzying range of twinkling costumes and energetic singing and dancing on one deck, quizzes, dance classes, even towel folding tuition available on others (when we arrived back our cabin tonight, a towel elephant welcomed us).   

Tomorrow the day starts with compulsory tuition on how to abandon ship, to be provided in the CanCan Lounge.  Hopefully we will get through the night without needing the details of this – the sea is gentle, and the boat rumbles on, rolling softly as she goes.

And so we will see if Destiny can do her job of refreshing us after what has been a pretty frenetic autumn.  As we watch the ruffled silver sea below, this seems quite possible.

5.1.2012 The Winds of Time (Millport)

There are winds and there are winds.  Some are gentle, soft, brushing your cheek and ruffling your hair like affectionate hands.  Some are brisk, fresh, making your face tingle and ruffling the sea into diamonds.  And some are roaring ferocity, rumbling in the chimney like a monster trapped, making the curtains tremble in terror, hurling rain like bullets against the glass.  They tear down aged grey trees, swathed in soft moss, and leave them, branches twitching, to die on the wet grass.  They torment the ashen faced sea into a fury and then smash it against the wet rocks into ragged, sharpened shards.  

And they rip up the spindly heights of pylons and hurl them onto the forests below, and so condemn us to the silence and the darkness.

So here we sit, faces orange in reflected firelight, the flickering shadows like children’s drawings on the walls, little oil lamps glowing on the mantelpiece.   Dependent on battery, candle, paraffin and coal, we are refugees to a bygone era.

It was yesterday morning, after a night when the gale hammered on the roof like a giant possessed, that I reached out for the light switch and nothing happened.  That was 40 hours ago, but still I reach out to the light switches and wonder why nothing happens.  I think I’ll find out when the power will return by just turning on the TV...... The man from the power company even advises (by 'phone - amazingly still functional) that they’ll keep us informed on the internet – of course, why didn’t I think of that.  Just turn on the router – oh ah.  He asks for my account number.  I visualise trying to search through the filing system by the light of a guttering candle.  I decide it can’t be done and he is a bit disappointed.  He’s sympathetic but he’s also in Portsmouth, about 500 miles south.

This morning at the town grocers, a generator greeted me with its rumbling hum as it sat on the pavement.  That and a lantern illuminated the shop while we queued at the tills, which of course were not functional, and our purchases were laboriously calculated on scraps of paper.  Tonight the pubs were open, lit by the glow of candlelight, and no doubt providing a bit of welcome warmth, internal as well as external, for their besieged customers.

This evening at home, pork chops and onions cooked over the coal fire in the living room, and eaten by candlelight, was our cordon bleu meal for the day.  Meanwhile, our freezer, full of future meals, thaws slowly and silently in the kitchen.

But heating by portable gas, or being cold, lighting by tottering candlesticks or stumbling in the dark - this is the stuff of which accidents are made, especially for the town’s population of numerous elderly people.  Last night we watched as the helicopter’s lights grew larger and brighter, at last enabling us to make out its grasshopper outline as it bounced onto the dark wet turf of the football pitch, to take an injured islander to a mainland hospital.  But at least our little island hospital does still have power – it glitters on the hill behind our house, shining alone against the blackness, its generator glad of a chance to show what it can do.

And yet there are unexpected pleasures in this involuntary step back in time.  There are so many things you can’t do – hoover the carpets, do the laundry, wash the dishes, waste time and money on ebay, get the gossip on Facebook, watch meaningless TV.  

So I settle down to crochet a bedspread for my granddaughter Molly’s teddy bear.  Bill starts a crossword.  Time even to write this blog.  Simple pleasure we wouldn’t have made time for if we had had electricity.  It makes you think..... 

Right, I’ll just upload this blog now.  Uh oh.......

28.5.2011 - Rubbish and politics (Millport, Isle of Cumbrae, Scotland)

28.5.2011 - Rubbish and politics (Millport, Isle of Cumbrae, Scotland)

We had an election in Scotland while we were in India.  We knew it was happening, and scuttled down to the tiny internet cafe cubicle in Tirur, sweating it out in more ways than one in order to get the results as soon as we could.  And what results they were!  The Scottish National Party won handsomely - a landslide of formidable proportions, forming a majority government, something that Westminster had tried to make impossible when the form of proportional representation was chosen for us eleven years ago.  I was delighted, even though I could not take part, as my postal vote got lost.

Politicians will do a lot for a good photoshoot - look at Barak Obama and David Cameron, manning the barbecue in London last week.  The press photographers were hunting in the usual packs, and got the shots they and the politicians wanted.  I wonder how many sausages they burned before the genuine cooks took over - we shall never know.  But there are more ways than that of getting to know your local politicians.

Shoreline, Isle of Cumbrae

So today, at home in Millport, I got very close to my local Member of the Scottish Parliament - there are few things more personal than clambering over rocks, falling into rockpools, slithering on seaweed, in the company of your newly re-elected representative.  Today was the annual event of volunteer rubbish collecting on our beaches, which Kenneth Gibson, MSP, master-minds each year.  So as the sun glittered on the sea, we donned our yellow 'Keep Scotland Tidy' tabards, grasped our litter pickers in one hand and tried hard to hold onto our black bin bags in the other as a brisk wind attempted to tear them from our grasp. 

Kenneth's car deposited us at a somewhat inhospitable section of the island's coast, where brambles curved over our path as we scrambled down to the rocks and shingle coves.  Amazing how much rubbish you find when you look - plastic bottles, multi-coloured straws, bits of green and blue rope, sections of tattered black polythene, flapping in the grass like wounded birds.  All mixed and mingled with the white and brown razor shells, the pink nodding Thrift flowers, the pebbles of every hue, size and shape. We picked at it with our litter pickers, we wrestled it into the disobedient bin bags which were forever making a bid for freedom, we foraged further and further along the shoreline, buffetted by the wind and occasionally soaked by showers that appeared from nowhere in the otherwise blue skies

Holy Island and Wee Cumbrae from Great Cumbrae

As we stopped for a breather, Kenneth remarked, (slightly acidly, I thought) "And people ask me why I went into politics! It was for the glamour, of course!!!"  And then he spied a bent drink can wedged under a rock, and dropping on his knees in the slimy weed, began to haul it out.  And not a newspaper man or snapping camera in sight....

24.5.11 – You never know what to expect.... (Millport, Scotland)

24.5.11 – You never know what to expect....  (Millport, Scotland)

The thing about our Scottish weather is you never know what you’re going to get.  It’s always a surprise, sometimes a welcome one, sometimes not.  So waking up at the end of May should have meant calm, peaceful warmth and gentle sunshine, flowers glowing in spring colours, baby birds safely in their nests in the trees.  In fact, what we got was rain - splattering off the glass, filling the gutters to overflowing.  And wind, which scooped the gutter water out and flung it at the window so that it flowed down the panes making the view of the houses opposite ripple as if viewed through frosted glass; so that it blew the water out of the puddles on the pavement, and bent our little rowan tree nearly double.  

I decided to go out, to get some fresh air.  This was coming at me in chunks, travelling at a windspeed of about 100 mph (and later, the TV news confirmed this estimate).  I leant on the wind, and progressed along past the beach at an angle of about 45%, biting off pieces of air to breathe as it rocketed past me.

Isle of Cumbrae

The sea, pewter grey, torn by tumultuous white rollers, attacked the beaches in a fury of foam and spume.  A lonely yacht, moored in the open water of the bay, bucked like a rodeo horse.  (I later met the owner of this boat, a tall, cheerful, bright-eyed older man - a bit of an ageing hippy, his long grey beard decorated with coloured beads, a red, yellow and black knitted had on his head.  He had stayed on the boat during the storm, holding things together as best he could as the contents of the cabin crashed about him.  He is moored here in order to fix his rigging prior to sailing to the Canary Islands and thence to Belize.  A genuine sea dog).  

The masts of other boats sheltering behind the Eileans (small islands in the bay) snapped and cracked, describing near 180^o semi-circles with their tips.  One of them split right through and fell onto the deck, forming a metal triangle.

The tide was quite low, but still immense waves crashed against the pier, thrusting up huge fans of white water, which hesitated in the air before crashing down, drenching the wooden beams and then cascading into the sea again to get ready for their next assault.  The orange light flashed its notification that there will be no escape from the island today – the ferry is moored up at Largs and will not be moving again until tomorrow.

At the Garrison House, its grey stone walls black with moisture, the tall, wide ash trees bent and creaked as the gale compelled them into unnatural shapes by the force of its violent will.  One of them succumbed, its vast roots protruding naked from the wet ground, a circle of brown earth tipped up leaving a colossal gash in green spring grass.   As it tumbled, squealing and groaning, it had crashed through the aged stone wall, coming to rest with its thick trunk across the road, its top branches touching the house opposite.  

Discretion won the day, and I retraced my steps home, choosing the back street, littered with leaves and twigs, a green autumn of leaf fall.  The house windows creaked ominously.  The TV screen went blank.  The electricity flickered.

In distant Perthshire, Bill and Donald were struggling to get back home, facing roads blocked by immense trees, branches, mud.  Arriving, they discovered the house without any electricity.  Donald lit the wood stove and they heated soup.  Then a brain wave resulted in him unearthing a two ring camp cooker.   Survival is thus ensured for another day.

And so night fell, and a watery sun in the early morning sheepishly announced its apologies for yesterday’s unseasonal anger.

Sun on the sea, Millport Bay

18.5.11 – Time to go home (Calicut, Kerala, India)

Calicut Planetarium

18.5.11 – Time to go home (Calicut, Kerala, India)

Planetarium Gardens

Our plane is not until 9pm, so we have time to visit Calicut’s Planetarium.  This is only half a kilometre from the hotel, and Reception suggest we walk, or take a motor rickshaw.  But we are wimps, and don’t want to leave our air conditioning behind, especially as we don’t know if there is any at the Planetarium, and we might need to take Molly back to the car quick to cool her down.  Taxi drivers here are very happy to wait, and so he drove us for about 5 minutes and then waited an hour and a half, to drive us for 5 minutes back again. 

Inside the Planetarium

Molly at Planetarium

The Planetarium proved to be more of an outside science park – palm trees, grass, aviaries, with buildings around it. In the garden were numerous exhibits the children could experiment with – a hanging xylophone which delighted Molly, balls that rolled up and down tracks of painted metal, large red dishes that enabled you to hear the person at the other one, far away across the grass.  A group of Muslim school children – boys, with the round white crocheted hats we have become familiar with - were on a school trip.  They came with us to the 3D film, and screamed with delight as snakes and monsters shot out of the screen apparently right towards their faces. 

We had meant to go on to the beach on leaving the Planetarium, but Bincy and Subhash phoned and arranged to meet us at the hotel for lunch, so we rushed back. 

Lunch together

Lunch was a happy affair, much focused on talking about Australia, as Bincy has been accepted by the University of South Australia in Adelaide to complete her PhD, and leaves in July.  Strangely, she is moving to the area where Bill spent his childhood, and of which he has fond memories.

And then it’s into the taxis, off for our last swerving, twisting ride to the airport.  We’ve got quite used to the traffic now – even though you overtake around blind corners, and in the face of on-coming lorries, someone always good-naturedly gives way and you get to your destination surprisingly intact.

Molly waits for her plane

And so starts the long pull home – leave hotel at 4pm, flight at 9pm, 4 hours to Dubai, 8 hours waiting in the airport there, seven hours to Glasgow.  Hard for the adults, a real trial for little Molly, which she copes with cheerfully in the main.  Calicut Airport proves to be a tour-de-force for beaurocrasy.  Our passports and tickets are checked to get in the airport door, then again to get into departures, then our luggage goes through security and we are checked again, then to the check in desk – more checks, then immigration (why? We aren’t immigrating anywhere! We’re trying to go home!) The customs, then hand baggage check, and of course I get searched, both me and my luggage.  At last into the departure lounge, Bill declaring that his passport has been checked no less than eight times.  Once in, the lounge is actually very nice – air conditioned, spacious, with plenty of chromium seating, a large carving occupying the whole of one wall, and immense fish tank full of fish sized to match, a little playroom for kids. 

The flight uneventfully takes us to Dubai, where Calum carries Molly, still sleeping, through security and into the courtesy buggy supplied by Emirates.  After some minor protest from her, I sing her to sleep again and so we settle down for the long, long wait.

And so we come home.  The air at Glasgow Airport is fresh and cool, like a long drink of cold water on a hot day.  India was wonderful.  Scotland is beautiful, its trees green and covered in white blossom.  Home is special. 

And as we reflect on India, the images come back vivid to our minds – the brilliance of the colours, the anxiety of the culture shock, the energy of the people, the rush of the traffic, the intensity of the activity, the beauty of the mountains, the peace of the Backwaters, the warmth of the family, the joy of the wedding – so much crammed into so short a time.  It all started nearly two years ago with an unexpected email from a girl in India, looking for somewhere to stay in a far away, very different country.  We are grateful that God brought us together, led us into this adventure, joined us as one family across the miles.  The challenge now is to keep in contact over a much greater distance, but we will, not least because Molly loves her Auntie Bincy and her Uncle Subhash.

Bincy and Subhash

17.5.11 – Long roads and a good driver (Thrissur to Calicut, Kerala, India)

17.5.11 – Long roads and a good driver (Thrissur to Calicut, Kerala, India)

Our lovely driver, who has already driven for about three hours to get us to Thrissur, has stayed overnight, and is now waiting for us as we complete our breakfast.  We’re getting used to and enjoying (for the most part) the spicy food here, which is usually extremely well cooked and presented.  However, curry for breakfast is a bridge too far, and rice cakes or boiled eggs usually appear or can be requested, or the ubiquitous cornflakes. 

Our driver loads up our as usual mountainous luggage and proceeds to drive us the next four hours to Calicut.  He’s now eight hours drive from home.  This total trip – sole use of the large, comfortable, air conditioned car and driver for two days – costs us 6,200 rupees (about £62).  Bill gives him an extra 1,000 (£10) rupees as thanks for his endless patience and attention to our needs.  We were well warned before we came, not least by our Indian friends, that we had to be careful of people who might try to take advantage of us because we are foreigners, and rip us off.  No doubt there are people who are keen to do this – there are such people everywhere – but we have found honesty, kindness and care everywhere we have been.  People who have had the opportunity to take advantage of us have not done so; some have refused tips, insisting on only taking exactly what they were due. We have had wonderful drivers, all of whom have placed themselves totally at our disposal for days at a time.  Without their help, this trip would have been scary and probably impossible.

Molly having coffee

We ask to stop for coffee, at a little hotel/restaurant, which advertises the essential (for us) air conditioning.  Molly loves cafes, and enjoys her juice, while I relish the rich and milky Kerala coffee, grown locally.  Bincy recommended it, and she was right.

Our return to the familiar hotel in Calicut is again a source of excitement to Molly.  As soon as we see the road the hotel is on, she asks to sit on her ‘yellow chair’.  She has remembered exactly which hotel this is of the many she has been in this holiday, and remembers that the seats in the foyer are indeed a creamy yellow colour.

We decide to go out shopping.  Indian cities can be scary places to the uninitiated.  The roads are sources of hidden man-traps, with large holes exposing deep and sometimes somewhat smelly depths below, with ridges which catch you unawares, and pavements which suddenly disappear with no warning, leaving you tusselling with the traffic.  You have to keep your eyes firmly on your feet, which makes you vulnerable to the low-hanging advertising boards slung out across the pavement at irregular intervals, and I have the bruises to prove it. 

We take Molly out in her pushchair – the only pushchair I have seen here, and a source of much curiosity to the other shoppers out today.  As usual she is the cause of the rapid production of numerous phones and cameras for the inevitable photos.  But she’s too hot and I’m too nervous so Bill and I head back to the hotel with her while Calum and Catriona decide to dice with death by crossing the road.  They return about an hour later, and announce visitors.  It’s Bincy, Subhash and his mother.  They stay, talking and laughing and looking at photos with us.  They seem very happy and affectionate, as newly weds should be.  Nice to see them now free to spend time alone together and display their affection openly, something that is not appropriate in this culture before marriage.  

A picture for Bincy

Catriona has done a painting for Bincy.  It shows the palm trees lined waterways of the Backwaters, with a little house peeping out.  But the little house is not Indian, it's Scottish, a highland cottage, similar to Catriona's own house back in Lennoxtown.  On the back she has written 'Where ever you go, God will find you a home'.  She had a home with us in Scotland, bringing her little bit of India with her.  Now Australia beckons, and God will be already preparing a home for her there.

Suddenly, a heavy hissing and pattering noise attracts my attention.  ‘It’s raining!’ I say.  ‘Oh no, I don’t think so’ the Indians reply.  But no Scot can fail to recognise the sound of heavy rain, and peering from our window I can see a torrential downpour, forming puddles in the car park and bouncing off the cars below.  The rainy season is imminent, and this is the climate limbering up.

Bincy and family leave, and an intensive packing session gets underway.  Twenty four hours from now we will be aboard our flight, all going according to plan.  Our amazing adventure is coming to an end.  

16.5.11 – Starting for home (Alappuzha to Thrissur, Kerala, India)

16.5.11 –  Starting for home (Alappuzha to Thrissur, Kerala, India)

Roadside stalls

We had meant to return to Calicut the way we came, by train.  To book this, last Friday Bill and I had taken an early morning walk, dodging the rickshaws and the ragged pavements to a small, hot office on the main street.  A young sari-clad girl, looking about 12, asked if she could help.  She and her mother then cranked up the computer and looked up the availability of air conditioned seats.  We discovered that there are no seats unbooked for Monday.  Or Sunday. Or Tuesday.  So we retraced our steps to the hotel, perturbed.  Mr. Kumar, the friendly, ever helpful and thankfully English-speaking hotel manager conferred with me over this dilemma.  He produced a map, told me that he could find a car and driver, that he would find a suitable hotel half way to Calicut.  In fact, it’s only a journey of 250 kilometers – about 150 miles. According to Google, this should take just over two hours.  We know better – Google has obviously never tried to negotiate Indian roads and traffic.  It will take about eight to ten hours to make the journey, hence we need to make a stop half way, at Thrissur, a city famed for Indian cultural events and for a major Hindu temple, at which an annual festival takes place – immense crowds and highly decorated elephants.  

Indian street

And so this morning we set off, luggage as usual swaying on top of our smart red taxi, Molly happy in her car seat beside the driver.  As we approach the outskirts of Alappuzha, numerous stalls appear selling woven hammocks and swinging seats, made of woven string and bamboo hoops. We ask the driver to stop.  In the dim interior of one stall, a seat is suspended from the ceiling, to allow testing, which we do, rocking to and fro in what proved to be an extremely comfortable chair.  So we further strain our luggage allowance by purchasing several, in the fond hope that our Emirates flight will stretch a point and take them back to Scotland for us. 

Bananas in transit

The journey northward is comfortable, passing through the usual scenery of palm forests, small stalls, houses ranging from small and poor to large and luxurious.  The city of Cochin causes considerable delay, appearing to be a continuous traffic jam.  Molly fortunately has loved all her journeys by taxi, endlessly fascinated by the colourful activity all around her.  For us, it’s been a good way of seeing the country during the heat of the day.

Our taxi driver at last delivers us to the hotel which our good Mr. Kumar has found for us.  The driver will also stay overnight locally, and drive on with us in the morning.  The ability to hire a good taxi and driver for days at a time has made it much easier for us to see the countryside than it would have been by any other means.  To do this at home would be prohibitively expensive, but here the rate of exchange allows us this very useful luxury. 

Meg outside hotel in Thrissur

The hotel is lovely.  An immense foyer, with intricately carved wooden walls, dark glowing wood.  Our rooms on the sixth floor are huge and airy, cool marble floors on which Molly runs and dances with delight. Over dinner, a girl comes in resplendent in a lovely cream and gold gown, folded like a fan over the skirt, her eyes painted in huge almond shapes.  She has probably been perfoming dance in one of the cultural centres.

We watch TV.  We have watched quite a lot of Indian TV this holiday as we took turns to babysit, and one thing concerns us.  All of the women acting in soap operas, romancing in Bollywood films, advertising everything from dresses to cooking pots, are all portrayed as having delicate pink complexions.  Paleness is idolised.  Adverts abhor ‘dark spots’ (freckles) and advise on how to avoid or remove them.  Skin whitening cream is pushed relentlessly.  Papers mount questionnaires as to whether or not you would prefer a pale wife and most people say they would.  Yet here in Kerala the populace is dark, magnificently brown, glowing against the yellows, pinks, oranges, sky-blues and whites of their saris and lungis.  They are beautiful people.  Pale skinned myself, I love this dark beauty.  Why on earth would you value pink skin in this climate, in this colourful country, the rich palette of which needs strong colours to look its best?  Why doesn’t Indian TV play to the strengths of these people, rather than trying to encourage them to value appearances they were never meant to have and should not be encouraged to wish for.  It is sad.  But then again, as soon as I get home, I’ll see adverts for artificial sun tan and for tanning studios, as we so called ‘white’ people try desperately to make our skin darker.  Human being are always discontented with their appearance, I suppose.

Traffic and travel

15.5.11 – Shopping and praying (Alappuzha, Kerala, India)

15.5.11 – Shopping and praying (Alappuzha, Kerala, India)

Patterned bus

Before the burning heat of the day challenged us beyond our limits, Catriona, Bill and I negotiated the broken, ragged (or non-existent) pavements, over the bridge, squeezing tight to the parapets to avoid being swept away by the dusty, patterned buses, the magnificently painted lorries, and the eternal motor rickshaws.  We turned into a side street, beside one of the numerous waterways, covered in green water weed and overhung by palm trees.  

Leafy waterway

Carrying the shopping home

The buildings were older here - a small blue painted mosque, little shops selling ropes, fishing nets (gossamer thin, with white plastic floats), and glittering streamers which appear here and there wherever you look.  A woman passed, carrying a large wicker basket on her head.  It was early Sunday morning, and in this is a predominantly Christian area, few shops were open.  However, one dress shop attracted Catriona like a large multi-coloured magnet, and soon we were in the now-familiar situation of being surrounded by enthusiastic and laughing shop assistants, pulling out box after box and piling the counter high with rainbows of chiffon, gold embroidery, sequins and beads.  I bought a salwar kameze, which delighted the Mr. Kumar, the manager of the hotel, when we returned laden with bags.  I found it to be a very comfortable form of dress, loose and airy in a hot climate.

Megs Salwar Kamese

Beach food

Lunch over (a buffet of mysterious but tasty dishes), we hired an air conditioned taxi and headed for the beach.  It was a long, clean ivory-white strand, people dotted over it with parasols.  Little four wheeled carts, constructed of bicycle wheels and a wooden box, bumped over the sand to sell Indian style delicacies.  Other families were sheltering in the shade of the trees, and so we headed there with Molly, while Calum purchased ice creams.  These proved to be of a fairly uniform taste, but in an array of brilliant colours.  Such is the love of Keralites for bright colour everywhere. The heat was intense, but a little sea breeze kept it in check as Catriona and Calum paddled in the Arabian Sea.

Thence the taxi wove its way through Alappuzha and out into the country, driving on roads perched on embankments above the Backwaters.  There were the houseboats, such as we had been on only yesterday.  The rice fields stretched out on either side, pylons and telegraph poles striding across the water unhindered.  Buffalo grazed at the roadside here and there, a brilliant blue bird flitted across the road and into a tree.  Everywhere, the canals crossed the road or ran alongside, heading for some waterway or lake nearby.  

St. Mary's Church

At last we came to St. Mary’s Church Champakulam, an ancient building, at the side of a wide waterway.  This church is one of seven founded by St. Thomas, and is therefore of great significance.  The actual building was erected by the Portugese around five hundred years ago.  For some reason it called to mind the church in far away Virginia, USA, where I attended an ordination service in December last year - the atmosphere was the same although the culture and style of worship very different.  A service was underway in the shady building, fans spinning in the ancient beamed roof, people crammed in – no pews, only rush matting on the floor.  One one side of the church, men stood, chanting and praying, on the other stood the women and children, their saris moving gently in the slight breeze.  I walked around the church and joined a group of women outside the main door.  I could see the priest in the dim distance at the other end of the aisle, white and gold vestments and altar cloths, candles, incense.  As he chanted and intoned, echoed by the congregation, I was able to join in mind if not in voice with their Malayalam praise and prayer.  An experience of togetherness that I will not forget.

Catriona shopping

14.5.11 – Hotels and heat (the Backwaters and Alappuzha, Kerala, India)

14.5.11 – Hotels and heat (the Backwaters and Alappuzha, Kerala, India)

Man fishing beside our boat

I wake early on our houseboat in the Backwaters, to see the dawn rise displaying dark clouds.  Lightning flashes and thunder rolls, and the expanse of water outside my bedroom window is pockmarked with raindrops.  It drips from our palm frond roof, it makes work for our crew in swabbing our decks.  I get up, misreading my watch by one hour and am fully dressed by 6am.  Sitting quietly at the bow of our boat, I watch a man arrive in a canoe, moor to two long sticks which he forces down into the silt, and cast his line repeatedly – no rod, just line.  He waits patiently, occasionally greeting other canoes as they pass, and enjoying a smoke.   Eventually, he takes up his moorings and paddles off to look for more fertile pools for his endeavours.

Our skipper puts up rain shelters

At last, with everybody up and about, we set off for the end of our dream journey, eating breakfast at the glass table in the prow as we go, staring at all the peaceful activity.  Soon we arrive at the landing stage again.  We unload into our taxi, which is waiting nearby.  Molly is sad to leave her boat-house, but happy to see her ‘nother special house again in the coolness of the hotel.  It’s the end of a magical experience, like no other we have ever had before.  It has a serenity which gets into your bones.

Breakfast on the houseboat

After our return from the wonderful houseboat, we settled down to have a quiet day in the air conditioned peace of this very comfortable hotel.  One difficulty to be overcome was the fact that the train was fully booked for all possible days we could return to Calicut at the appointed time, to see Bincy and to catch our flight home.  While the others were resting, I went down to reception to explain the problem.  The hotel manager Mr Kumar was immediately totally involved with the difficulty.  I explained that we needed to return to Calicut, starting out on Monday morning.  It is only 250 km (about 150 miles) – a distance which in Scotland would take about three hours to drive.  Here, it took five hours by train and will take eight to ten hours by car.  For Molly’s sake, we wanted to take the journey over two days, and stop about half way.  In no time, the manager booked the same taxi driver who had helped us during the delay at the boat jetty, who would take us half way, to Thrissur.  He promised to find a good hotel for us too.  Later in the afternoon, he arrived at our room, with a booking for a nice hotel, and provided us with a list of phone numbers for our use, including his own home phone number.  ‘I look after you as if you were my own family’ he said, smiling reassuringly.

Allaphuza is a charming town, quite industrial in an rural Indian way - small mechanics workshops, sawmills and local craft stalls, all buried under the shade of coconut palm trees.  Catriona and Calum braved the afternoon sun to explore the locality, and came back bathed in sweat.  Allowing the day to cool, at about 5pm, Catriona, Bill and I set off for the roof top pool while Molly rested.  The breeze and the warm soft water were extremely welcome.  From this vantage point, the town stretches out in all directions, palm trees sheltering the roofs below.  A church spire of remarkably British style protrudes from the fronds, reminding me of the influence of the long-gone Raj.

Molly rests in our hotel rooms

A quiet day is a necessary thing for Scots in India.  India comes at you with a dizzying torrent of colour, noise, movement and smells, amid the usual confusion of entering another culture and language, where the usual levers which, without thinking, we use to manage our daily lives are suddenly absent or different.  This hotel, which is ‘recognisable’ from a European point of view, has formed a welcome retreat for us, from which we can venture when we feel like a bit of adventure.

And so calm meals in the restaurant, eating food whose subtle flavours entrance the tastebuds, watching ‘Toy Story’ on TV, accessing the internet for the first time in over a week – all of these restore our self-confidence and ability to cope with fascinating, scary, frustrating and amazing India.

Bow of our houseboat