Munnar to Kottayam

Sun 24 February

My laundry is back, all compressed and neat, and I persuade the hotel to fry me eggs (sunny side) instead of the standard vulcanised omelette. It's a good start to the day broken only by the gloom of the Sunday Express (rather more serious and intelligently written than its English namesake. But sombre, apart from the picture of David Cameron looking silly in one of those bandanna things they sell to pilgrims at Amritsar). I'm leaving Munnar all too soon and as I wait for the taxi make a mental list of all the things I would have liked to do - visit the Tea Museum, the RC Church (despite its externally broadcast noisy services), the twee CSI (Anglican) ditto and (maybe) that Club, take a cycle ride, eat some dhosas on the street, get a rickshaw to the Toddy Shop to try the local palm spirit. But this is the drawback of whistlestop tours. Next time I do a trip like this, perhaps I'll do fewer places in more depth. Or maybe not. I suffer an irresistible urge to try and do everything, which is a bit silly.

Munnar town from "David's Regency" hotel. More practice with the panorama button.

Josip (Joseph?), today's taxiwallah, wears his faith on his dashboard. No discrete fish symbols here; they're strictly for fishers of fish. J has ornamented his car with a plastic Our Lady and a St. Francis, two crucifixes (one glued, one  dangling), a yellow Lamborghini, a cherub wearing a bobble hat, and two rosaries. The longer (five "mysteries") of the latter swings from side to side and once, when we swerve to avoid a juggernaut on a bend, gets caught in J's wristwatch with potentially dire consequences. Josip, like most Indian drivers, also has an unshakable faith in his own ability to see round blind bends. This is an matter (not the only one) on which I take an heretical view. I'm glad we're not in a Lambo.

After an hour or so we hit the level and I ask to pull up at a roadside stall, where I buy a hand of five finger bananas, a slice of strongly-spiced pineapple ring and a cup of chai. Another customer has them make up what looks like a uniquely horrid drink - half milk (or curd), half soda water, with crushed red and green chillies and salt. Must give him fire in his belly.

Josip takes a series of minor roads rather than the main road route shown on my map, but we duly make our pre-arranged stop at Ettumanur, not far short of Kottayam. Ettumanar is famed for its 16th century Hindu Shiva temple, whose traditional Keralan style is quite different from temples elsewhere. The inner sanctum is shut (opens 6 pm), but I wander sandalless round the outer courts. There are no "Hindus only" signs, but notices politely ask men to remove their "shirt, beniyan and lunki" (?) and switch off their mobiles before entering the shrine (when open). The outer areas have modern roofs to north and south, to shelter vast crowds for major festivals. This is one of the richest temples in the region and can muster an army of elephants for its festivals, as well as two gold ones.

Most ritual-based religions have a thing about flames. Here there's one on a gold-plated pole that has not gone out for 450 years. Back home in Wymondham we have a candle "pricket stand" where the faithful few leave their little flames burning. At Ettumanur, the outside walls of the shrine are entirely covered in shallow oil bowls, shaped like open Roman oil lamps, and as I "circumambulate", two men are replacing the wicks in each one. It will take a long time. There are 2,500 lamps on each side - I counted them (well, not individually) - making a staggering total of 10,000 candles.  How's that a mega-symbol of light and life? When I return to my sandals I discover that the soles of my feet are black with oil from the plinth round the shrine.

16th century Shiva

On to Kottayam. From Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things I'd formed an impression of a rather cosy, laid back little town. Not at all. The Rough Gide is right - you wouldn't stay here unless you were passing through and really had to. Which I suppose is the case. Tomorrow I hope to be able to catch a ferry from here to Allepey (Allepuzha). I put up in a "bottom end medium" (like the haircut) hotel next to the ferry jetty, though the boats are entirely hemmed in by a dense growth of water hyacinth (?) and don't look as if they've moved for a long time. 

My room has aircon (hurray) and two single beds with thin, firm mattresses. I pile one on top of the other, hoping it may feel softer. It doesn't. The TV offers a rich variety of channels, either Hindi with Malayaman subtitles, or vice versa. But the Hotel Athira International ("near municipal bus stand") advertises a Rooftop Bar and Restaurant, which is one of the reasons for my choice. It is a breezy affair, dimly lit principally by the light of a large but empty fish tank whose former residents have possibly been consumed as "chilly fish" or "fish curry" on the menu. But I am able to consume two bottles of Kingsisher Gold (first alcohol for over a week) and Ginger Chicken, the first of 25 chicken dishes on offer, more than doubling the tally of the  famous "Twelve Days of Christmas Turkey" rhyme. It is delicious. The last named on this list is a little troubling in this ecumenical age: "Catholic Chicken".  I may hold heretical views, but I don't want to eat chickens from different theological traditions.

No walking on water at this temple pond