This was not a long flight. Just an hour and a quarter. My note says arrival was at 11.00 am local time and that has to be the first thing to mention. Nepal is NOT India and just to make sure that is appreciated by everyone it is in a different time zone. A time zone of its own. The time is 15 minutes ahead of the time in India. A quarter of an hour.
The flight on Royal Nepal Airlines was great and I had the Himalayas on my left all the way and getting closer all the time. The landing was the smoothest ever and my bag came off first! Within 30 minutes I was through customs and on my way to my accommodation.
The notes say "FREE TRANSP to Maha Laxmi G.H." I can't quite work it out but I think that I ended up at this hotel because that's where the free transport took me and why, in turn, the transport was free. The place didn't have a great deal of character and was a bit spartan. The particulars boasted hot showers and given the fact that I needed a bit of a warm up I decided to have one. It was the coldest and most pathetic shower I have ever had. I remember having one of the members of staff up to show me how to get hot water. He turned on the appliance and ran the water and declared what came out as being hot when it was clearly not at all. It may not have been ice cold but it may as well have been. Still, the place had good reception for the World Service and I remember that in the few days I stayed there I listened to quite a bit of radio.
After freshening up I wandered down to the Poste Restante and picked up a letter. A pile of letters and cards, as a matter of fact. I changed some money and went to a place called "My Place" for a sit down to read some of the post and to get something to eat and drink.
I met a woman at the Post Office. I really cannot remember how we struck up a conversation. It was possibly because I was on my own. Somehow being alone makes a person more approachable (I've said this before, I think, but it is true). She accompanied me to "My Place". She was European but I can't remember from where and seemed very cool and relaxed, how you say, sympatico? Come to think of it she could have been Italian.
Funnily enough everything seemed cool and relaxed. I hadn't noticed at first.
We chatted over a drink. This woman seemed to have been living in Kathmandu for some time, years in fact. I think she was sort of stranded. The lifestyle she enjoyed seemed cool and laid back but I couldn't help thinking that it was no longer a matter of choice. I can't quite remember what the question I asked her was but it must have be about what it was that actually prevented her from leaving. I do remember her answer. She looked at me openly and earnestly and said "I think we both know the reason why". I noticed her teeth weren't very good and figured she may have been imprisoned in Kathmandhu by something that just would not let her go and that she wasn't strong enough to leave. She really was very nice, engaging and she had clearly once been much better looking. She still wasn't bad looking at all but the teeth did let her down. She seemed to be your archetypal hippie, self confessedly, almost apologetically washed up on the Silk Road, wasted by the product of the poppy.
Among the letters I had picked up from the Poste Restante was from my parents and it enclosed a letter that had been sent to me at home. That letter was one I wanted to read alone so I said farewell to my new acquaintance.
I never saw her again. Meeting this woman does seem to have had a profound effect on me. It was good to have been able to talk to someone friendly, knowledgeable and interesting on my first day in Nepal. I was grateful to whoever she was for the welcome. All the same there was a certain sadness about her. It wasn't self pity but a sort of resignation and submission to her having become something of a lost soul.
Since my return home I have met a fair few heroin addicts in the course of advising, assisting and representing them in both criminal and family proceedings and from time to time I recognised something of the woman I met in Kathmandhu in some of them. It's a shame to see something get such a grip that hope is almost extinguished.
There's a note in my diary that says "Jumper". It was cold as the sun set. I went back to my hotel to read the letter. It was was from Liz.
Here was something right out of the blue.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Leaving India
There was a huge difference between the temperatures I had been used to down in Goa and Kerala and the temperature in Delhi over 2000km north. Delhi had a distinctly late autumn or early winter feel about it. It was quite chilly.
At 5.55 the next morning, Friday 21 December 1990, the winter solstice, the shortest day, it was very cold and it was probably a mistake to decide to go to the Airport by autorickshaw. It must have been quite a long way (even allowing for the fact that I was overcharged, obviously) because the fare was Rs80. I am sure I would have made a note if I hadn't thought the journey was long enough to merit the price.
My flight was at 9.30 am. Right up to the very last the Indians were extracting my rupees. The exit tax was Rs300 which on the scale of things is a tidy sum of money. Still, you can't take it with you. Seriously, you couldn't take it with you. There wasn't any point even if you did. You couldn't spend them anywhere apart from India.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Dissipated
I saw Claire and her friend Sadie off at around 10.00 am and then I was on my own again. I was flying onwards in less than 24 hours and there was stuff to do. I had to put together and post the latest parcel home. There's a note that says "tailoring" so I suppose I was having something made that went into the parcel. I then had to pack my rucksack ready for the trip the next day.
I really don't know what happened to the day. It drifted away, it was dissipated. It was probably a very good thing that I had a ticket out India the next day. Not only the day but the writer was dissipated.
India is dangerous place. I have doubtless already said that some travelers do not get through in one piece. There is a severe risk of permanent damage to a person's mental and intestinal health. On reflection another risk is sheer dissipation. By the end of the first leg of my journey when I arrived back in Istanbul I had been through a complete detox (except for the cigarettes, of course). I'd had barely a liter of beer in six weeks and no stronger stimulant than çay or coffee. I was fit and ready for anything.
That was probably just as well because by the time I arrived back in Delhi after two months I was a shadow of my former self. I had probably not had too much alcohol along teh way but I had certainly indulged in some prodigious pot-smoking and latterly had been lost in the pursuit of other sensual pleasures. Furthermore, the bout of illness in Pushkar and its aftershock after Agra on the train to Mumbhai had taken its toll. I did try to eat plenty of what was healthy and was never ill in India again but by the end of it all I had lost a fair amount of weight.
Life was full of hassles and dangers in India but it was generally exciting and stimulating. Every day was an adventure. Even this day which was dissipated by carrying out a series of fairly ordinary tasks was filled with all the peculiarities that both endear and infuriate.
I'd waved Claire off. I was on my own again tidying up the loose ends and getting ready to leave. It felt weird. There was an emptiness. It would have been easy to just stay except for the fact that it would have messed up my whole itinerary.
My notes conclude with the words "v. late talking". I imagine this means talking with the Aussies I'd met the night before with whom I dare say I tried to smoke whatever I had left of the stash accumulated along the way and to whom the balance was doubtless bequeathed.
I really don't know what happened to the day. It drifted away, it was dissipated. It was probably a very good thing that I had a ticket out India the next day. Not only the day but the writer was dissipated.
India is dangerous place. I have doubtless already said that some travelers do not get through in one piece. There is a severe risk of permanent damage to a person's mental and intestinal health. On reflection another risk is sheer dissipation. By the end of the first leg of my journey when I arrived back in Istanbul I had been through a complete detox (except for the cigarettes, of course). I'd had barely a liter of beer in six weeks and no stronger stimulant than çay or coffee. I was fit and ready for anything.
That was probably just as well because by the time I arrived back in Delhi after two months I was a shadow of my former self. I had probably not had too much alcohol along teh way but I had certainly indulged in some prodigious pot-smoking and latterly had been lost in the pursuit of other sensual pleasures. Furthermore, the bout of illness in Pushkar and its aftershock after Agra on the train to Mumbhai had taken its toll. I did try to eat plenty of what was healthy and was never ill in India again but by the end of it all I had lost a fair amount of weight.
Life was full of hassles and dangers in India but it was generally exciting and stimulating. Every day was an adventure. Even this day which was dissipated by carrying out a series of fairly ordinary tasks was filled with all the peculiarities that both endear and infuriate.
I'd waved Claire off. I was on my own again tidying up the loose ends and getting ready to leave. It felt weird. There was an emptiness. It would have been easy to just stay except for the fact that it would have messed up my whole itinerary.
My notes conclude with the words "v. late talking". I imagine this means talking with the Aussies I'd met the night before with whom I dare say I tried to smoke whatever I had left of the stash accumulated along the way and to whom the balance was doubtless bequeathed.
Bedding
The notes for this day actually begin "v.sexy" which is not bad considering the night before. The title of this post does not actually refer to what you may think. It actually refers to bedding. I bought some Indian cotton bedsheets and pillow cases and a pair of woollen blankets. The thinking was that these were things that I would need in the future and if I got them now that would be a saving in the future. I've still got both blankets and only one of the bedsheets has worn out. Great quality.
The next note: "Top end Book" just doesn't mean anything. The layout of the notes suggest the shopping was done after breakfast and the last note was made about lunchtime. There is nothing else until the evening which says "Claire's last night + v. nice too". This is getting a little bit embarrassing. What can I say?
The next note: "Top end Book" just doesn't mean anything. The layout of the notes suggest the shopping was done after breakfast and the last note was made about lunchtime. There is nothing else until the evening which says "Claire's last night + v. nice too". This is getting a little bit embarrassing. What can I say?
Delhi Again
I was beginning to feel quite at home in Paharganj. I should have done some more tourism. I never went to the Jami Masjid. I could have but I put it off until the next time I visit India.
There was business to do. I had to go to the bank again and (since we were in Asia) had to confirm my onward flight. Time was running out. The third leg of this big trip was coming up. There's a note that says "Post". I don't think I was posting another parcel because I can read ahead and I did that a couple of days later.
The fact that I only had a few days left meant that I suddenly began to realise that all the fantastic bargains that I didn't buy would have to stay in India unless I did something about it.
I did some shopping around and the notes say I wrote some letters. They also say that I checked out a Kashmiri craft fair which was no good.
This was a leisurely day and it looks like Claire and I had an early night. What happened was noteworthy but not for publication.
There was business to do. I had to go to the bank again and (since we were in Asia) had to confirm my onward flight. Time was running out. The third leg of this big trip was coming up. There's a note that says "Post". I don't think I was posting another parcel because I can read ahead and I did that a couple of days later.
The fact that I only had a few days left meant that I suddenly began to realise that all the fantastic bargains that I didn't buy would have to stay in India unless I did something about it.
I did some shopping around and the notes say I wrote some letters. They also say that I checked out a Kashmiri craft fair which was no good.
This was a leisurely day and it looks like Claire and I had an early night. What happened was noteworthy but not for publication.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Due North
So it was time to head back. Claire and I had booked tickets for the Kerala Express departing at (or rather, not leaving before) 9.40 am.
I have to admit that being by this time completely under the influence of Lord Krishna that I was looking forward to this journey. I had my place on the train booked using (for the last time) my Indrail Pass. Claire had to pay for her ticket. It cost her only £10 which is pretty good value to go First Class for the enormous distance. I had hoped that we could share a compartment and had relished the thought of how we might spend the nights locked in. I think I remember saying to Claire that we could let the rhythm of the train do all the work. The journey of over 2000km on the Kerala Express was scheduled to take over 50 hours and involved two nights in the sleeping compartment.
So it was a bit of a blow to find that the powers that be do not allow men and women who are not married to each other to travel in the same sleeping compartment! Major bummer! This was more than a little frustrating but it did mean that we could behave like teenagers and meet in the corridor for furtive snogs at regular intervals. I should like to put it on record that Claire was one of the best snoggers I've ever snogged. Somehow we managed to get through the journey without letting our desire get completely out of control. I imagine anything really lewd could have sparked an international incident.
There isn't a great deal to say about the journey. The train trundled North, the scenery slipped past. We pulled into stations, got off and strolled around while the train was in being unloaded and loaded up, smoked, had cups of chai and snacks and jumped back on as the train slowly moved off. When the compartments were converted into bedrooms in the evening we would sneak out into the corridor and snog until it was late enough go to sleep. Breakfast was served in the morning and we ordered our meals for the rest of the day and they were served on time. We didn't set off before 9.40 am but I don't think the train departed much later than that on Saturday 15 December and we arrived in New Delhi Railway Station at the end of the Main Bazaar at 3.00 pm on Sunday 17 December. I make that just over 53 hours.
We checked in to the Metropolis Tourist Home and got a room to ourselves. I think it cost Rs200 between us. Claire went off to meet a friend of hers called Sadie and it says that we met a couple of nice Australians. I can't remember anything about them now.
I have to admit that being by this time completely under the influence of Lord Krishna that I was looking forward to this journey. I had my place on the train booked using (for the last time) my Indrail Pass. Claire had to pay for her ticket. It cost her only £10 which is pretty good value to go First Class for the enormous distance. I had hoped that we could share a compartment and had relished the thought of how we might spend the nights locked in. I think I remember saying to Claire that we could let the rhythm of the train do all the work. The journey of over 2000km on the Kerala Express was scheduled to take over 50 hours and involved two nights in the sleeping compartment.
So it was a bit of a blow to find that the powers that be do not allow men and women who are not married to each other to travel in the same sleeping compartment! Major bummer! This was more than a little frustrating but it did mean that we could behave like teenagers and meet in the corridor for furtive snogs at regular intervals. I should like to put it on record that Claire was one of the best snoggers I've ever snogged. Somehow we managed to get through the journey without letting our desire get completely out of control. I imagine anything really lewd could have sparked an international incident.
There isn't a great deal to say about the journey. The train trundled North, the scenery slipped past. We pulled into stations, got off and strolled around while the train was in being unloaded and loaded up, smoked, had cups of chai and snacks and jumped back on as the train slowly moved off. When the compartments were converted into bedrooms in the evening we would sneak out into the corridor and snog until it was late enough go to sleep. Breakfast was served in the morning and we ordered our meals for the rest of the day and they were served on time. We didn't set off before 9.40 am but I don't think the train departed much later than that on Saturday 15 December and we arrived in New Delhi Railway Station at the end of the Main Bazaar at 3.00 pm on Sunday 17 December. I make that just over 53 hours.
We checked in to the Metropolis Tourist Home and got a room to ourselves. I think it cost Rs200 between us. Claire went off to meet a friend of hers called Sadie and it says that we met a couple of nice Australians. I can't remember anything about them now.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Kovalam
Time was beginning to run out. I had only nine days left to travel in India and I was a long way from Delhi and destined to go further away before returning. I think this may have had a bearing on why no attempt was made to explore the city of Trivandrum when we got up the next morning.
We breakfasted at the Indian Coffee House. I really should leave it there. I won't. It is indicative of the rather slapdash approach I was taking by this time. I could just leave it there and let it be thought that we had breakfast in the Indian Coffee House. This one. Also pictured here.
I haven't put these pictures on the blog because it would give entirely the wrong impression. If we had had breakfast at that Indian Coffee House I would surely have taken a photograph of my own. Either we didn't have breakfast at that Indian Coffee House or we did and I had become so blasé that I didn't notice.
There were other things to do. The notes say "Int. Phone Call". I don't think I made one. Perhaps it was Claire. The notes go on: "Bank & etc". I suppose I changed a traveler's cheque. I can't recall changing money for ages.
Next: "Books". What I knew about Southern India even before I set off was that the population was significantly better educated than most of India and this was due in large part to the influence of Christianity and Communism down there.
It really is all a very long time ago now and my memories are vague but I seem to remember that there were bookstalls around wherever it was that we were. I had read all the books I had bought in Delhi and was glad of the chance to buy something to read. The bookstalls were quite special in that the books for sale in English included Russian classics and I couldn't resist picking up a couple. Here we see the influence of Russia. My trip was after the fall of the Berlin Wall but before the collapse of the Soviet Union. It was the time of Michail Gorbachev and his Glasnost and Perestroika. The books were absolute musts and at Rs25 each for hardbacks a real snip too.
I had to buy the Gogol. It was important. It makes a connection. Five years beforehand my mate Steve's parents, Pat and Alan got tickets for a production of The Government Inspector at the National Theatre on London's Southbank. The starring role (or at least the other characters believed as much) was played by Rik Mayall. It was (to my mind) a terrific production. Rik Mayall's performance was impressive and the part could have been made for him. In the edition I bought there in Trivandrum there are notes for the actors about the characters and costumes. For Rik Mayall's character Ivan Alexandrovich Khlestakov they say:
"Khlestakov, a young man of about 23, of slight build, a little scatter-brained and, as they say, a bit weak in the top storey. One of those people who are regarded as empty-headed in their offices. Speaks and acts without any forethought. Quite incapable of focusing his attention on any particular idea. His speech is jerky, and words spring from his lips quite unexpectedly. The more ingenuousness and naїveté the actor shows the more effective his performance will be. Fashionably dressed."
I don't think it was Pat and Alan's treat but they had got the tickets at a special price and they were one of the best bargain's ever. So thanks Pat and Alan. It was great.
This is a bit of a digression and I mention it because it may explain the rather slow progress I am making. I felt sure that I had a copy of the programme here somewhere. I searched the bookcase and came upon some other programmes but couldn't turn it up. I still think I have a copy and will have another look. I have picture of the programme in my head. I wanted to scan it and publish it here but I couldn't find it. I did find a map of Kashmir, Srinigar City and Ladakh which I have scanned and added to one of the posts about that part of my time there (or I will have done after this is posted).
So I had a quick dip into the internet and was a bit surprised that it was quite hard to find many references to Rik Mayall in The Government Inspector. It's a sign of the times. Time immemorial used to be limited to 1st July 1189. In 1831-2 the plan of dating legal memory from a fixed time was abandoned and you no longer had to prove unbroken use or possession of a right back to Richard the Lionheart's reign in order to exercise it. Time immemorial was defined as "the time whereof the Memory of Man runneth not to the contrary" and one could thereafter establish the existence of a right if it had been enjoyed for 20 years (subject to certain other conditions). Now if you look on the internet for evidence of some things there seems to be nothing remembered from 25 years ago. Time immemorial will become redefined as the Birth of the Internet. That time was Christmas Day 1990 which, on my trip, had not even happened but was fast approaching.
I am (obviously) a bit of a hoarder. I do have otherwise useless bits of paper and useless objects that I cannot throw away. Their careful conservation has, after all, made it possible for me to write this account. Sometimes I think it is a bit of a worry that I don't like to chuck away stuff. These days I try not to pick anything up that I wouldn't want to keep. So while I was looking on the internet for some reference to Rik Mayall on the web I came across this. I don't think I have much to worry about. The link is to a collection of Theatre programmes archived at the University of Kent at Canterbury. Scroll down and you'll find details from the programme. Jim Broadbent played the Mayor, Anton Antonovich Skvoznik-Dmukhanovsky (in my edition).
I also found the large Bartholomew World Travel Map that I had taken with me which put the distance covered into perspective. It also shocked me to see how close Srinigar is to the present seat of insurgency. Plus ca change...
Neither could I leave the Dostoyevsky behind. This is another digression but I heard a radio program recently in which Clive Anderson the barrister turned chat show host and panel show guest said he had never read "Crime and Punishment". I was really quite surprised. That is a great book, a real page turner. Honestly. It is not about legal systems. Clive, you should try to read it sometime. There's a dream sequence, a nightmare scene which gave me goose pimples it was so good.
Claire and I then headed straight for Kovalam Beach. It doesn't say where we stayed. I bet my Lonely Planet Guide has a marginal note. The notes say "Black Cat/Babu". I think the Black Cat was a restaurant but I don't know what/who/where Babu might have been.
The last note is "Looking for John". John was probably Claire's dad. I don't think we found him. I think Claire might have contacted him and she made some arrangement to meet him in Delhi a few days later.
One of the reasons that I don't like beach holidays is that there is nothing to say about them. My notes for the next day just say "All day lounging on Beach" and "Beach Vid. Pretty Woman + Kerala Grass" and I think that probably says it all,
On Friday 14 January 1990 Claire and I went to Kanyakumari (Cape Comorin). This is the southernmost point of India and is where the Arabian Sea, the Gulf of Mannar and the Indian Ocean meet. I did have a feeling that this was a special place. Standing on the rocks looking out to sea you feel like you are at the edge of the world. I did, anyway. While we were there there, pilgrims came and went after performing ritual ablutions in the sea. It was quite surreal.
Look up Kanyakumari on Wikipedia and you will see two Hindu Myths concerning the origin of the place. Neither possible version seem very likely to me but, hey! What do I know? Either version could've happened.
I didn't take any pictures. Time was not the only thing that was running out. My ration of slide film was all but used up.
Claire and I returned to Kovalam, packed up all our stuff and went out for a last big meal which my notes say was "Kingfish".
I can't really explain why there is not much detail to the few days in India's far South. Perhaps I was distracted by my traveling companion Claire.
The last few slides I ever took in India were taken of the sunset that night. I have put them together as a slide show. I could improve this, but I probably won't get round to it.
We breakfasted at the Indian Coffee House. I really should leave it there. I won't. It is indicative of the rather slapdash approach I was taking by this time. I could just leave it there and let it be thought that we had breakfast in the Indian Coffee House. This one. Also pictured here.
I haven't put these pictures on the blog because it would give entirely the wrong impression. If we had had breakfast at that Indian Coffee House I would surely have taken a photograph of my own. Either we didn't have breakfast at that Indian Coffee House or we did and I had become so blasé that I didn't notice.
There were other things to do. The notes say "Int. Phone Call". I don't think I made one. Perhaps it was Claire. The notes go on: "Bank & etc". I suppose I changed a traveler's cheque. I can't recall changing money for ages.
Next: "Books". What I knew about Southern India even before I set off was that the population was significantly better educated than most of India and this was due in large part to the influence of Christianity and Communism down there.
It really is all a very long time ago now and my memories are vague but I seem to remember that there were bookstalls around wherever it was that we were. I had read all the books I had bought in Delhi and was glad of the chance to buy something to read. The bookstalls were quite special in that the books for sale in English included Russian classics and I couldn't resist picking up a couple. Here we see the influence of Russia. My trip was after the fall of the Berlin Wall but before the collapse of the Soviet Union. It was the time of Michail Gorbachev and his Glasnost and Perestroika. The books were absolute musts and at Rs25 each for hardbacks a real snip too.
I had to buy the Gogol. It was important. It makes a connection. Five years beforehand my mate Steve's parents, Pat and Alan got tickets for a production of The Government Inspector at the National Theatre on London's Southbank. The starring role (or at least the other characters believed as much) was played by Rik Mayall. It was (to my mind) a terrific production. Rik Mayall's performance was impressive and the part could have been made for him. In the edition I bought there in Trivandrum there are notes for the actors about the characters and costumes. For Rik Mayall's character Ivan Alexandrovich Khlestakov they say:
"Khlestakov, a young man of about 23, of slight build, a little scatter-brained and, as they say, a bit weak in the top storey. One of those people who are regarded as empty-headed in their offices. Speaks and acts without any forethought. Quite incapable of focusing his attention on any particular idea. His speech is jerky, and words spring from his lips quite unexpectedly. The more ingenuousness and naїveté the actor shows the more effective his performance will be. Fashionably dressed."
I don't think it was Pat and Alan's treat but they had got the tickets at a special price and they were one of the best bargain's ever. So thanks Pat and Alan. It was great.
This is a bit of a digression and I mention it because it may explain the rather slow progress I am making. I felt sure that I had a copy of the programme here somewhere. I searched the bookcase and came upon some other programmes but couldn't turn it up. I still think I have a copy and will have another look. I have picture of the programme in my head. I wanted to scan it and publish it here but I couldn't find it. I did find a map of Kashmir, Srinigar City and Ladakh which I have scanned and added to one of the posts about that part of my time there (or I will have done after this is posted).
So I had a quick dip into the internet and was a bit surprised that it was quite hard to find many references to Rik Mayall in The Government Inspector. It's a sign of the times. Time immemorial used to be limited to 1st July 1189. In 1831-2 the plan of dating legal memory from a fixed time was abandoned and you no longer had to prove unbroken use or possession of a right back to Richard the Lionheart's reign in order to exercise it. Time immemorial was defined as "the time whereof the Memory of Man runneth not to the contrary" and one could thereafter establish the existence of a right if it had been enjoyed for 20 years (subject to certain other conditions). Now if you look on the internet for evidence of some things there seems to be nothing remembered from 25 years ago. Time immemorial will become redefined as the Birth of the Internet. That time was Christmas Day 1990 which, on my trip, had not even happened but was fast approaching.
I am (obviously) a bit of a hoarder. I do have otherwise useless bits of paper and useless objects that I cannot throw away. Their careful conservation has, after all, made it possible for me to write this account. Sometimes I think it is a bit of a worry that I don't like to chuck away stuff. These days I try not to pick anything up that I wouldn't want to keep. So while I was looking on the internet for some reference to Rik Mayall on the web I came across this. I don't think I have much to worry about. The link is to a collection of Theatre programmes archived at the University of Kent at Canterbury. Scroll down and you'll find details from the programme. Jim Broadbent played the Mayor, Anton Antonovich Skvoznik-Dmukhanovsky (in my edition).
I also found the large Bartholomew World Travel Map that I had taken with me which put the distance covered into perspective. It also shocked me to see how close Srinigar is to the present seat of insurgency. Plus ca change...
Neither could I leave the Dostoyevsky behind. This is another digression but I heard a radio program recently in which Clive Anderson the barrister turned chat show host and panel show guest said he had never read "Crime and Punishment". I was really quite surprised. That is a great book, a real page turner. Honestly. It is not about legal systems. Clive, you should try to read it sometime. There's a dream sequence, a nightmare scene which gave me goose pimples it was so good.
Claire and I then headed straight for Kovalam Beach. It doesn't say where we stayed. I bet my Lonely Planet Guide has a marginal note. The notes say "Black Cat/Babu". I think the Black Cat was a restaurant but I don't know what/who/where Babu might have been.
The last note is "Looking for John". John was probably Claire's dad. I don't think we found him. I think Claire might have contacted him and she made some arrangement to meet him in Delhi a few days later.
One of the reasons that I don't like beach holidays is that there is nothing to say about them. My notes for the next day just say "All day lounging on Beach" and "Beach Vid. Pretty Woman + Kerala Grass" and I think that probably says it all,
On Friday 14 January 1990 Claire and I went to Kanyakumari (Cape Comorin). This is the southernmost point of India and is where the Arabian Sea, the Gulf of Mannar and the Indian Ocean meet. I did have a feeling that this was a special place. Standing on the rocks looking out to sea you feel like you are at the edge of the world. I did, anyway. While we were there there, pilgrims came and went after performing ritual ablutions in the sea. It was quite surreal.
Look up Kanyakumari on Wikipedia and you will see two Hindu Myths concerning the origin of the place. Neither possible version seem very likely to me but, hey! What do I know? Either version could've happened.
I didn't take any pictures. Time was not the only thing that was running out. My ration of slide film was all but used up.
Claire and I returned to Kovalam, packed up all our stuff and went out for a last big meal which my notes say was "Kingfish".
I can't really explain why there is not much detail to the few days in India's far South. Perhaps I was distracted by my traveling companion Claire.
The last few slides I ever took in India were taken of the sunset that night. I have put them together as a slide show. I could improve this, but I probably won't get round to it.
Backwaters
The following day, 11 December, we took a bus to Alleppey. The idea was to get the ferry via the backwaters to Quilon.
The first task, however, was to post home yet another parcel, my notes say parcels (plural). I have no idea how I could have accumulated enough to post more than one parcel home considering I'm sure I had posted something home from Panjim only a few days earlier. While we were in the post office I sent a telegram to my brother Robin. I'd never sent a telegram before and it was his birthday. It was probably delivered the next day, but it's the thought that counts, they say.
For some reason (and I'm sure the Lonely Planet Guide explained that this was possible) there was no Alleppey - Quilon ferry leaving the jetty. I can't remember now but it could have been that there was one but it arrived at Quilon too late to make a connection by rail onwards. This was traveling again. The pace was hotting up.
I really wish whoever has my Lonely Planet Guide would come across it and actually return it to me. I wouldn't be cross. I'd be grateful. If I had it I would be able to refer to it to see where we did go. I'll carry on trying to work it out.
Meanwhile the ferry trip was most enjoyable, very peaceful and the scenery and sights of ordinary life on the backwaters were idyllic. It was not made up or put on for the tourists.
It's all very clever. The backwater canals reveal that the lush farmlands which have been reclaimed from the water. It's all very familiar to a person born in the Netherlands. I think I read that some of the reclaimed land is as low as four feet below sea level. The land is protected by dykes. Sometimes the level of the water is higher than the land.
The surface of the water was usually very calm and I think I am right in remembering that we seemed to sit quite low in the water which enhanced the experience. Some of the waterways were very wide indeed.
This man is herding ducks! He really is. He's a duckherd, I suppose. We chugged past and a few minutes later he was out of sight. It would have been fun to have watched him at work some more. You would have to be a bit nifty on a punt to make sure you didn't let any of the little blighters get away. I suppose their wings had been clipped or else they would have flown off.
Look at these people. I don't think it is an outing. I think it is bus. It looks like it might be a picnic. Some of the people are carrying tiffin boxes. I still think it's a bus, though.
Plying our way along these waterways was one of the best little journeys of the whole trip. There were resemblances to the shikara tour on Dal lake some weeks ago now. Above, a man with what looks like a boat full of firewood.
These photos are all a bit blurred. It is tricky to prevent the camera shake as you move along taking pictures of other moving things. That's my excuse. Moreover, the slide film is quite "slow" which might make a difference. If the shutter speed is increased the aperture would probably need to be opened up which might let too much light in. I don't know. The colours are very rich and you can use your imagination to put them into focus. This young boy propelling her enormous narrow boat with a cargo of some palm fronds might have been better if it was in sharp focus. The boy's boat seems to be rather too large for the job, by the way. The house in the background looks like it might be a very peaceful weekend retreat. I'm making a mental note now that it could be worth investigating how to rent one when, one day, I have the leisure to return and dally awhile.
Researches have come to nothing. My Lonely Planet Guide has gone for all time it would seem. This is so frustrating. The problem is that the ferry did not go to Quilon it went somewhere else. I have a note that the ferry we took was Alleppey to Manganachery. The difficulty I am having is that I can find no reference to Manganachery anywhere. I have just Googled the word and there were no results at all. None. That doesn't happen very often.
In the course of trawling the web for some idea of where we might have disembarked, which has included looking at maps, railway timetables, bus timetables and various pages about the Kerala backwaters, it did occur to me that perhaps the place name had been changed. Bombay is Mumbhai, Madras is Chennai. You know. Alleppey is Alappuzha and Quilon is Kollom. Manganachery is nothing, it just has to be wrong because it doesn't come up at all.
When I push the "Publish" button there will be a document on the internet that contains the word Manganachery. My notes say we disembarked there and caught a bus to Trivandrum or Thiruvanathapuram. By publishing this I will put Manganachery on the map even though it doesn't appear to exist.
Note added 29 March 2012: I now think that the place was probably Changanacherry.
On arrival at Trivandrum the notes say we stayed at the Manacaud Tourist Paradise. That place exists.
I bought a postcard of the Backwaters just in case there was a tragedy with the camera. I don't think it is as evocative as my slides but at least it is focused properly.
The first task, however, was to post home yet another parcel, my notes say parcels (plural). I have no idea how I could have accumulated enough to post more than one parcel home considering I'm sure I had posted something home from Panjim only a few days earlier. While we were in the post office I sent a telegram to my brother Robin. I'd never sent a telegram before and it was his birthday. It was probably delivered the next day, but it's the thought that counts, they say.
For some reason (and I'm sure the Lonely Planet Guide explained that this was possible) there was no Alleppey - Quilon ferry leaving the jetty. I can't remember now but it could have been that there was one but it arrived at Quilon too late to make a connection by rail onwards. This was traveling again. The pace was hotting up.
I really wish whoever has my Lonely Planet Guide would come across it and actually return it to me. I wouldn't be cross. I'd be grateful. If I had it I would be able to refer to it to see where we did go. I'll carry on trying to work it out.
Meanwhile the ferry trip was most enjoyable, very peaceful and the scenery and sights of ordinary life on the backwaters were idyllic. It was not made up or put on for the tourists.
It's all very clever. The backwater canals reveal that the lush farmlands which have been reclaimed from the water. It's all very familiar to a person born in the Netherlands. I think I read that some of the reclaimed land is as low as four feet below sea level. The land is protected by dykes. Sometimes the level of the water is higher than the land.
The surface of the water was usually very calm and I think I am right in remembering that we seemed to sit quite low in the water which enhanced the experience. Some of the waterways were very wide indeed.
This man is herding ducks! He really is. He's a duckherd, I suppose. We chugged past and a few minutes later he was out of sight. It would have been fun to have watched him at work some more. You would have to be a bit nifty on a punt to make sure you didn't let any of the little blighters get away. I suppose their wings had been clipped or else they would have flown off.
Look at these people. I don't think it is an outing. I think it is bus. It looks like it might be a picnic. Some of the people are carrying tiffin boxes. I still think it's a bus, though.
Plying our way along these waterways was one of the best little journeys of the whole trip. There were resemblances to the shikara tour on Dal lake some weeks ago now. Above, a man with what looks like a boat full of firewood.
These photos are all a bit blurred. It is tricky to prevent the camera shake as you move along taking pictures of other moving things. That's my excuse. Moreover, the slide film is quite "slow" which might make a difference. If the shutter speed is increased the aperture would probably need to be opened up which might let too much light in. I don't know. The colours are very rich and you can use your imagination to put them into focus. This young boy propelling her enormous narrow boat with a cargo of some palm fronds might have been better if it was in sharp focus. The boy's boat seems to be rather too large for the job, by the way. The house in the background looks like it might be a very peaceful weekend retreat. I'm making a mental note now that it could be worth investigating how to rent one when, one day, I have the leisure to return and dally awhile.
Researches have come to nothing. My Lonely Planet Guide has gone for all time it would seem. This is so frustrating. The problem is that the ferry did not go to Quilon it went somewhere else. I have a note that the ferry we took was Alleppey to Manganachery. The difficulty I am having is that I can find no reference to Manganachery anywhere. I have just Googled the word and there were no results at all. None. That doesn't happen very often.
In the course of trawling the web for some idea of where we might have disembarked, which has included looking at maps, railway timetables, bus timetables and various pages about the Kerala backwaters, it did occur to me that perhaps the place name had been changed. Bombay is Mumbhai, Madras is Chennai. You know. Alleppey is Alappuzha and Quilon is Kollom. Manganachery is nothing, it just has to be wrong because it doesn't come up at all.
When I push the "Publish" button there will be a document on the internet that contains the word Manganachery. My notes say we disembarked there and caught a bus to Trivandrum or Thiruvanathapuram. By publishing this I will put Manganachery on the map even though it doesn't appear to exist.
Note added 29 March 2012: I now think that the place was probably Changanacherry.
On arrival at Trivandrum the notes say we stayed at the Manacaud Tourist Paradise. That place exists.
I bought a postcard of the Backwaters just in case there was a tragedy with the camera. I don't think it is as evocative as my slides but at least it is focused properly.
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