Moochin' in Cochin

    Thursday 21 February

Up early for the 8 - 9 am meditation session back at the Kathakali theatre. No instruction apart from squat, sit or lie and let the "ragas" played on sitar and tabla (with background drone from CD) take over. I'm glad when the power cuts, the whirring fans still and the drone dies, but it soon gets hot. One guy removes his shirt and coils himself elastically into a yogic position. This meditation has no religious content, and I prefer it that way. I try to recall the instructions from last year's sessions in Norfolk, but it's mesmerising enough on its own. 

Graffiti, Cochin style

I'm not good at decisions, but this morning I make a good one. After breakfast I tell the manager that I'll be leaving Mother Tree, explaining (he asks) that it's too hot and too noisy. He doesn't seem put out, and only has eyes for the young Belgian girl who arrived last night during a long power "outage". So I tramp off, dragging my little suitcase behind me, its wheels protesting at the ruts in the pavements. Before long, one, then two men on motorbikes stop to offer me lifts to the station or airport. I tell them I don't patronise scabs and strike-breakers. No, I don't really. I would have been glad of the lift if I'd been heading that way. After rejecting a couple of dingy/pricy hotel options, I do a deal with the Globe Trotters Inn and settle into a spacious, airy room with wi-fi, balcony and BATH. A bargain at Rs. 1000, as long as I don't turn on the aircon, which increases the cost by 50%. 

Fort Cochin town is much as yesterday - dead. The hotel man - is he a cynic or a pragmatist? - says the strikers will wait for the 1 pm news, then announce that the strike has been a huge success, sleep off their hangovers, and go back to work. Certainly by mid-afternoon there's more sign of activity and a few shops have reopened. 

Roofscape with coconut palms

There's even a solitary rickshaw driver touting for trade. He offers to take me to the synagogue (no. 1 "must see") and back for a price I can propose. I propose Rs. 50 but we agree on Rs. 100 (a reversal of roles) if he waits and brings me back as well. It still seems reasonable in the circumstances (same as bike hire but an engine to do the work) which probably means there's a catch. About half way there, Driver says there's a great viewpoint he's like to show me, so we pull over and he points up to the roof of a tall old warehouse. If you're an "old hand" at anywhere east of the Danube or south of Algeciras, you've probably already anticipated that this building is a vast CARPET SHOP. And I get the full works - the lights are flicked on, the flunkeys appear and begin to lay out the rugs with the usual patter "So what colour you like best? This one or this one? Money no problem we take card. Carry no problem we can ship, etc." I do not buy into it, don't give them a chance to offer me a free tea, show no interest in "antiqued" furniture, "genuine" sandalwood elephants, papier-mache boxes (no Sara, they didn't have fish-shaped ones, we'll have to go back to Dharamshala). But the view is good and I escape unscathed, smiles all round.

The view of the Synagogue, sadly, is again exterior only. The good lady with the key, who faithfully promised me she would open up today, is nowhere to be seen, and there's another draggle of sore-footed tourists sitting on the steps. A man appears from a closed-but-really-open shop and offers to show me carpets. He says she would never have opened up anyway, she's just born awkward, and nobody ever speaks to her. Poor woman - even the Rough Guide  warns that she's batty. I unkindly stand outside her open window and make some observations to this effect (but stop short of mentioning the Palestine situation, for which she's probably not responsible). 

Back in town, I mooch and watch a little cricket - there are eleven separate games underway on the parade ground. On the seafront, the fishermen are still gently dipping the Chinese nets in and out of the water, but bring up very few and very small fish. I suspect it's a ruse the catch tourists, inviting them onto the structure, being photographed with them, then getting generous tips. Probably far more lucrative that the fish, which are on sale on a stall. The cat looks optimistic. I eat early, then back to the theatre for an hour's classical Indian song. It fails to send me to sleep, but that's mainly because the amplification is so loud. Another day.

An old take on a new structure - see container port in distance

Strike Bound in Cochin - Biennale to Kathakali

Wednesday 20 February

I soon discover the downside of my little room at Mother Tree, despite its high old bed and less-hard-than-usual mattress. It is on the ground floor right next to the street, where people stand to shout into their mobiles (and can see into the room after dark). It suffers regular power cuts, and is close to a very noisy junction. But at midnight last night, quite suddenly, all goes eerily quiet. This is when the 48-hour general strike, or bandh, starts, almost as if a curfew has been imposed. So today, the streets are all but deserted. The Deccan Chronicle reports "In Kochi, tourists were seen freely moving around the streets, some expressing dismay and some helplessness." 

It was hot work keeping cool. Pity the poor punka-wallah

The Anglican Church of St. Francis (originally Portuguese RC, then Dutch Reformed, now CofSI Anglican) is open, and proving surprisingly popular for tourists with time on their hands and little to do. Note the huge punkas, still hand operated through an ingenious series of cords and pulleys. I wonder if they wafted them for HM the Queen on her visit in 1997?

Back on the street, I try not to look too helpless and put on a purposeful air. Maybe this is what to expect in Kerala, which has a long tradition of political radicalism (mostly under Communist rule), a background undercurrent to the Booker Prize winning novel The God of Small Things (Arundhati Roy). Strikes are grist to the (locked-out) mill, and while much of the rest of India treats the national strike as a minor inconvenience for users of government services barely meriting front-page coverage, Kerala state is effectively closed for business. 

Closed shops and deserted streets

Indeed, every shop and business is apparently shut, shutters drawn, apart from chemists, hotels and restaurants which cater for us bemused tourists. I would say "bars", except there aren't any. It's a paradox that this "dry" state which has almost no (official) bars, even in classy hotels, is said to have the highest alcoholism rate in all India. I enquire about the possibility of a taxi, but am told that "the drivers are on strike, so they're all drunk." I never thought of myself as alcohol-dependent, but the non-availability of the golden liquid has me gasping for a beer all day.

In the event, I spot a bike propped outside a closed shop and ask if I can hire it, and so, for Rs. 100 I get some pedal power. It's hard work (no gears) after the Goan moped, and even more wobbly thanks to a misshapen front wheel which with any loss of concentration sends me lurching off at a tangent as if caught in tramlines. It's a good job the streets are all-but deserted without buses, rickshaws or even cars. It's eerily quiet and I feel like a "survivor" in a disaster movie, emerging from my lair the day after the tornado / martian attack / nuclear holocaust. I follow the street which skirts the harbour from Fort Cochin as far as the Matancherry, or Jew Town. For 500 years this quarter was home to a major settlement of Jewish spice merchants and traders. Only a handful of families remain, as most emigrated to Israel after 1945, and the area is now dominated by Kashmiri traders in fake antiques (or it is when they are open!) Even the spice traders have mostly gone as spices are now auctioned online. 

The Synagogue (1524 /1664) is closed, much to the disgruntlement of a steady stream of hapless tourists, but will open tomorrow, or so says the Jewish lady with the key. The "Dutch Palace" Museum, however is open, a bargain at Rs. 5 (6p), especially for its 18th century wall paintings of Hindu scenes. Sadly the "Ladies Chamber" downstairs is closed for restoration, so I don't get to see its famously erotic wall pictures, whose triple-X rated figures are being touched up.  

Interesting photographic take on the Last Supper - almost the only "representational" art on display

On the way back, I go to one of the First Indian Biennale art exhibitions in a former quayside warehouse. This is modern art on a grand scale, full of meaningful "installations" of Turner Prize obscurity. The explanatory text, in Malayalam and Tate-Modern-English sometimes only adds to the confusion. 

But I enjoy many things, especially  the sound-and-light installation with hanging coke cans, bags or beans, etc. which make noises when touched, and a display of little boxes of 366 varieties of rice seeds with accompanying graphics about people being thrown off their land and ending up destitute. There's also a mind-numbingly pessimistic film shot by a group of Chinese activists on a Shanghai building site.

The denoument, where big bad chauvinist is about to get his come-uppance

In the evening, to the little theatre behind the Mother Tree for their evening Kathakali show. This is the ancient formalised classical dance of Kerala, illustrating through music, mime and fantastic make-up and costumes stories from Hindu mythology. Unfortunately, but true to form, I nod off during the initial explanation. I enjoy the show, but am glad it's just the bite-sized version for tourists, not the full nine hour all-night epic.

Konkan to Kochi

Tuesday 19 February

It is now one week since I arrived in India and I'm on the train again. I was due to leave Margao, at 23.10 last night, but predictably it is late, having already travelled over 700 kmd from somewhere "up north". Mangoan Station, as it's called, is very busy despite having just two main platforms, and it seems every other train is late too. Maybe the railwaymen are practising for Wednesday's general strike. But there is an ingenious machine with a touch screen which shows the current location of every Konkan Railway train "in rail time". So I touch in my train's and station name, and it tells me that the Netravati Express arrived at Kudal at 22.50 and is running 1 hr. 28 mins. late. It also says "trains may loose or gain time", though I hope they're not too loose.

Station cartoon, one of many

 I prop myself against a wall until a bench-sleeper momentarily tucks his knees under his chin,  whereupon I pounce and gain a seat. This is where Chris Tarrant got invited into the Ladies Rest Room (which means waiting room, not the American usage) to see the cartoons painted on the walls. Not being a celeb, I get no invitation and content myself with photographing the Beryl Cook-ish (remember her?) cartoons outside. I amuse myself with the camera - station dogs asleep, rates of porterage (Rs. 30 for up to 128 kg. of "head luggage" at a small station, but different rates for big stations and 2 or 4 wheeled hand carts), and one saying "Do not use plastic - it is non-biodegradeable." Should tell an English supermarket that. Even after midnight, all the offices, food outlets, etc. are open and doing brisk business.

AC2. My berth top back, curtain across

Eventually the train pulls in, exactly 1 hr. 28 mins late, punctual in its unpunctuality. Indian trains being long (21 or 27 carriages), there is a chart to show the stopping point of each numbered carriage, from which I've deduced that Coach A1 will be fourth from the front. It's not, it's no 17, fourth from the back, so I have a long walk. Inside 2AC Class, it is dark and the air is heavy with snoring. All the curtains are drawn and I can't find the numbers to locate berth 30. Luckily there's an Englishman with a torch who finds it for me. No 30 is a snug (i.e. narrow) upper outside berth, the least popular type, my penalty for making a last minute change of booking. To re-use my previous description (Amristsar 2011) it's like travelling on the top shelf of a 60 mph cupboard.

I sleep well and don't wake until the first of a regular procession of vendors comes along shouting his wares - tea and coffee, water, nuts and biscuits, newspapers, but no designer wear or spy pens (see last Weds). Coincidentally, there's a story in today's Indian Express about an eletrician in Trivandrum who installed a spy camera in his neighbour's bathroom and watched the "visuals" on his TV next door. "It's all right, officer," he explained, "I'm just keeping an eye on any suspicious activities." Quite so.

Police not popular at the ferry jetty?

We arrive at 3 pm, having made up time. A rickshaw driver hails me on the platform and offers me a "discount" rate of Rs. 200 to the ferry jetty to cross the harbour to old Fort Cochin. Not wishing to be caught out, I decline. The official fare is Rs. 20. On the ferry, the gent next to me is moaning about the impending general strike. "The trouble is," he says, "the government can't govern. They're all buggers. Should have left the British in charge. They gave us everything and then we kicked them out." I wonder if my informant ever worked for the Mail?

Cochin's famous fishing nets, said to be unchanged since the 14th century

After sampling a few hotels and homestays, I wind up at Mother Tree B & B. It's only Rs. 700, including breakfast, and though the room is tiny it has an antique posted bedstead with a truly comfy mattress. It's the mattress than clinches it. More on Cochin (now Kochi) tomorrow.

Fancy a job in Kochi / Cochin?

Beach Bumming, or "livin' in the fun zone"

Monday 18 February

Morning battling with the wi-fi, then head off on the bummel again, following the coast road north. It's a twisty turny affair through coconut groves dotted with holiday villas. Some are quirky and old, others just quirky, like an interpretation in concrete of a Swiss cheese, full of odd-shaped arches and openings. Many are painted in vivid colours (like Tansy Cottages). Illustrated is the best of the bunch. I dive down four separate beach roads, and though they all lead in effect to the same long beach, they couldn't be  more different. Just north of here is Colva, which the Time Out guide calls scruffy (it is), but Footprint puts it on a footing with Benaulim. So glad I chose Benaulim, which is characterful and villagey by comparison. 

Fatwah about to descend?

Colva beach, however, is where the action is, and the beach is quite crowded with people in and out of the surf. Choose from a menu of delights - banana boat (squishy yellow thing that bounces along the waves while everyone screams), parascending from the beach, which does a brisk trade despite costing Rs. 700, or about one rupee per second. There are also jet skis for hire (with or without skipper) and plain ordinary boat trips (with or without drenching depending on how the waves catch the boat on leaving the beach). In a rare concession to safety, lifejackets are provided. I'm too late for dolphin-watching, which leaves at dawn. Unlike Benaulim, which is an Anglo-Russian enclave, Colva is almost entirely Indian. 

The banda - an idyllic spot for meditation, or a beer

The next section of beach, however, is entirely different. Instead of a parade of beach shacks (restaurants) on stilts, it boasts a single beach banda (Swahili for shelter with thatched roof supported on bamboo poles) with a small bar serving snacks of Goan sausage in a "traditional" bun. A uniformed attendant labelled "Security" sits at a desk by the entrance, but he only looks about 14 and skinny with it, so I doubt if they get much trouble. Today the shack/banda is patronised by wrinkly Germans with flabby tums - and me. The Germans all have their heads buried in weighty books, possibly Schiller's Wallenstein's Tod from the frowns on their faces. I take my first of three dips in the sea, dry off in the sun, then draw breath over the sausages whose spiciness catches me unawares.

Hedging his bets

Back to the Tansy Cottages before sunset and later return the moped. Tonight I catch the train 849 kms. down the coast to Cochin. Goa has gone.

Name of boat on Benaulin beach: "Anally Parascending" - strictly for beach bums. (Spotted late on, but no camera, sadly. Never go anywhere without the digicam).

Brumming About

Sunday 17 February

The moped - and time to spare with no appointments to be late for - give me a rare sense of light-headed freedom. I am still learning to lean into corners without wobbling or slewing across the road. Just when I think that man and machine have become one, I stop on a slope, forget how heavy it is, and it crashes to the ground dislodging the wing mirror. I find a mini-market for super-glue, which seems to do the trick. 

Mackerel on the tarmac

I've discovered the 'ped's lockable luggage compartment, so no longer need to carry a backpack and can let my shirt flap free. First off, I head up to the next stretch of beach, take a dip in the surf (it's windy) and dry off in the sun. The tarmac lane down here is quiet, and used for drying fish, from silvery whole mackerel to thick reddish steaks of filleted big fish. As I approach one such display, a lean dog appears from the undergrowth, checks that the fishwife is not looking, and jogs off into the paddy with a big strip of fish flapping from his jaws. I'd always wondered how all the feral dogs survive. 

Then to church, it is Sunday after all. Benaulim's star architectural attraction is the Church of St John the Baptist, built 1596, on a low hill behind the village. (This was the so-called "golden" era of Goa, which was ruled by the Portuguese from 1510 to 1961.) The church is closed on Sundays, but open for Mass at 5 pm, so for now I head back to the Tansy to sort out my train ticket for tomorrow, then on to the beach (again). 

Evening Mass. Note chairs for overspill.

I get back to the church 10 minutes early (!) for evening Mass, but the church is already full (500+) and rows of plastic chairs are being assembled as an overspill outside the west doors. But I sneak in and find a gap on a bench along the wall. I'm pretty conspicuous, the only white-bearded white face, and definitely the only male in (swimming) shorts! The men, to a man, have sombre grey trousers, and the girls and women wear smart western style dresses. The little girl in front of me is draped in satin like a Jane Austen bridesmaid with delicate lace ruffs round her shoes. 

Songs of Praise, Goan style

The service is familiar, if mainly for the order of proceedings. The Goan language (Konkani) seems to be linked to European languages by no more than its script, and the only word I recognise is Amen. My sermon-meter clicks into action and registers a full 30 minutes of loud hectoring, with only a single joke (laughter) when the priest pauses mid-way to drink a glass of water. I can grasp a few words only, as he preaches in "Engoan" - i.e. Goan with the occasional English idiom thrown in, e.g. ".....goan goan goan womb to tomb goan goan goan well he would wouldn't he goan goan goan". (I'm not just making this up.) The collection is taken in plastic washing-up bowls. There is music in Cliff Richard style (simple, joyous, inclusive) apparently taken from the Catholic Charismatic song book (there's an English version too) accompanied on something that sounds like a cross beween a melodion and a Jew's Harp. As Mass ends, a life-size purple-draped figure of Christ bearing the cross is carried out, shoulder-height, and a procession forms to follow it up a winding path to another white chapel on the opposite hillside, intoning the rosary through a megaphone all the way. I should say that the church is beautiful, a rectangular Renaissance hall, light and white with an elaborate gilded altarpiece and big bulbous pulpit.

Every minute of anger you lose 60 seconds of joy - Tony. (From the wall of Dinah's Restaurant. Who's Tony?)

Caption competition?

A Mod in Goa

Saturday 16 Feb

Goa oozes Catholicism - the legacy of those Portuguese iconoclasts survives 500 years on. It's the Christian antidote to fondly-remembered Varanasi or Dharamshala. There are roadside shrines, fishing boats named "Jesus", bleeding Sacred Heart cards and devout businesses such as the Our Lady of Sorrows cafe and the Infant Jesus Laundry. This morning I take a bundle of clothes to the latter, hoping they will wash away my stains, but they don't work on Sundays so cannot meet my deadline.

Last night it rained very noisily, and everywhere this morning glistens brilliantly. The Tansy staff are sweeping leaves with besoms and the road outside is steamy with muddy puddles. I determine to hire a bike (or "bicycle" as they are still known here - no concessions to western youth culture), and after my abortive visit to the Infant Jesus I make enquiries. I've left it too late. The only machine available has raised handlebars and a slender, painful-looking saddle. Then I spot a sign for the Mario Fernandez hire service just next to the guesthouse, where the young lady charms me into hiring a motor scooter instead. Of course it's more expensive - a massive £4 per day - but as that would probably buy less than ten minutes on the dodgems at home (a comparable experience, it turns out) I decide to give it a go. Now this is where it gets embarrassing. Mr Fernandez Himself is called and asks me, pertinently, if I can actually ride a scooter. I answer evasively that a) I have a valid international licence, and b) I used to ride a pushbike. He agrees to let me have a go if I take a trial run up the little side lane that leads into coconut groves behind the shop. 

Easy Rider

It is not an auspicious start. Mr F explains the controls (in order of priority, horn, go and stop), but I wobble off far too fast ("Too fast! Too fast" he yells at me), then brake too sharply and almost end up in the ditch. He runs after me, intent upon relieving me of the machine, but I plead for a second chance, and set off this time a little more sedately. "I think you cannot drive," he says, so I show him my licence. "I think you cannot drive in traffic he says." The young lady is on my side, however (she wants me to buy something in her shop), and in the end he relents when I promise to practise up the side lane for as long as it takes. Which is about 15 minutes. Then I launch myself into the traffic and head for the beach. It's not long before I gain a little confidence and lose my initial alarm at vehicles whizzing past, and I even venture to ovrtake a stationary bus. Later in the day, I overtake a moving one.

The sacred and the profane

The beach is dotted with a few little groups of sunbathers and swimmers, and I wonder if the package tourists were deterred by the rain and have gone off to see the Renaisssance churches of Old Goa instead. The Russians are in evidence, identifiable by their traditional beach wear of G-string plus (for women) a pair of little pirate eye-patches (the one in the photo is a bloke, in case you wondered. The boat is called "St. Peter"). I take a dip in the warm surf, dry off in the sun, then head down the coast road.

Mine's a blini and vodka

Riding the scooter is "such fun". I lament my lost youth when, fifty years ago, I might have been a mod. I put on my baseball cap, then twist it backwards when the wind catches the peak and almost blows it away. I always wondered what the reason was. Of course, absolutely no-one here wears a helmet. There is one provided, but it's a green plastic affair that Prince Harry might wear for a Nazi-themed party, and possibly came from a fancy dress shop. I figure it would only fill my skull with plastic shards on impact. It also occurs to me that I hired the scooter with no paperwork, no insurance, no receipt, nothing signed for and no documentation, and no contact details if things go wrong. I hope I can remember the way back.

Why did the buffalo cross the road?

I take the road north for about 20 kms as far as Morbor where the River Sal joins the sea. It is a beautiful spot - the river quayside busy with brightly painted small trawlers, and the beach has a backdrop of cliffs and wooded hills strikingly similar to the South Devon or Cornwall coasts (but a lot hotter). Over a pot of tea, I chat to the waiter who comes from Darjeeling. Apparently a lot of north Indians come south to work here for a six month season, until the monsoon sends everyone packing in June. It's like Shimla in reverse.

River Sal (not Salcombe)

Tasty starter from Dinha's "restaurant with a difference", Benaulin: Prawn and coconut soup served in a (green) coconut. Delicious. I chat briefly to a Sots couple who live here in a guesthouse six months of the every year. The people are lovely, the food (especially Dinah's) always tasty, the climate is perfect, and they can live here on less than at home in Scotland.

Sign of the times

Margoa to Benaulim

Friday 15 February

This is a brief post. Not much to report. I was afflicted during the night, in quite spectacular fashion, with "that health issue for travellers in India which I always boast I don't suffer from." Not sure if it was the train meal, or the hotel's chicken masala, or an excess of honeyed brandy, or a combination of all three. I risk a late breakfast (eggs good for binding), then stayed in my room until chucking-out time at noon. Then into town to buy pills and a comb (hair also very loose) before taking a taxi down to Benaulim. This is one of several beach-side villages in South Goa, and sounds agreeably laid-back in the guidebooks. Which it is.

I'm just in time to bag the last room at Tansy Cottages, chosen mainly for its wi-fi service. Not sure what the connection with tansy is, being a rather subtle flower I think, but it is built round a central garden of exotic blooms. Not to be outdone, the buildings are painted in livid crimson and lime, and are not easy to miss. Rooms are big and clean, with aircon (outside temperatures hitting 90) and little verandas looking over the garden. A bargain at Rs. 800 (£10). "My problem" seems to be settling, but I feel pretty ghastly and sleep away the rest of the afternoon.

It's 6 pm and the sun is setting, so I head for the beach, a gentle 15 minute stroll. The village is entirely tourist-led, with shops selling the usual stuff from all across India - block-printed bedspreads, sequinned elephant wall hangings, coral necklaces, hollow soapstone carvings and even Kashmiri caps. The tourists are a polyglot lot too, mostly Indian but also palefaces of all ages. I pass a trio of bronzed gap-year dudes earnestly discussing Facebook, plenty of "seniors" looking a little ill at ease in newly acquired "ethnic" wear, and several Russians. Some of the restaurants have Russian menus, though Russian package holidaymakers are said to prefer the glitzier beaches of North Goa. Between village and dunes is a green gap with paddy fields and placid buffalo. This is not Yarmouth.

Not Yarmouth

The beach is..... well, it's a beach. A straight strip of cream-coloured sand stretching north - south until it is enveloped by haze. There are fishing boats drawn up, jet skis (menace) for hire, and parachutists pulled along by speedboats out to sea. A couple of Indian children are constructing a sandcastle in Indo-Saracenic style with turrets and a dome. There are bikini-clad bathers grabbing a last swim before sunset and ladies in clingy, wet saris. And bars next to the dunes, where I have a pineapple lassi but no food. Tomorrow I plan to hire a pushbike (and have a meal).