Mumbai Moments

Very early on International Women's Day, we leave Varkala for the Keralan capital city of Trivandum.We're booked on a flight to Mumbai where we'll spend a couple of days before flying to London and then home.

The airport is buzzing and full of women heading to Mumbai for meetings, conferences and celebrations in honor of March 8th. I'm impressed by the age range here from a group of young, "jeans and tee shirts" daughters to a quintet of "brief case carrying sari clad" grandmothers. You can feel their collective energy and strength.

We board an Airbus 320 and in the spirit of the day, are informed that our captain is a 25 year old woman who happens also to be a famous racing car driver. As well, one of the flight attendants has been just honored as the airline's best. We find ourselves in heady company.

As we land in Mumbai, we are immediately struck by the paradoxes of India's largest city. Slums line either side of the causeway and we learn from our taxi driver that of the 18 million residents, nearly 60% are, in fact, slum dwellers. Unbelievably, "slum tourism" has gained a significant toe-hold and you can sign up for an organized "tour" or simply wing it and go on your own. This is a city of enormous wealth and enormous poverty and we will see many examples of both during our brief stay.

We check into our hotel and arrange for a visit the next day to some of the places we've wanted to see.  Of course, we're interested in Bollywood--the film capital of the world--but this time we'll have to skip it.

Our first stop is at Gandhi's home which has a library of 50,000 books and some amazing memorabilia including a letter to Hitler respectfully asking him not to go to war. On our way further into the city proper, we come upon a huge Punjabi wedding complete with a brass band and a gorgeous white horse awaiting the groom's arrival. Soon afterwards we're beside an enormous flat park some 2 kilometres long, full of dozens of cricket matches. These are serious affairs with players in white uniforms and well-dressed spectators lining the sidelines.

In the distance, we can now see historic India gate and our car is soon moving along the street directly behind the Taj Mumbai hotel where the terrorist attack of November, 2008 left 166 people dead and over 300 injured. We see guards armed with AK47 rifles sitting in doorways and a tank at the ready. We are scanned and frisked as we walk into the hotel through the single entrance which is open but after a quick look around, decide to move on.

We stop for lunch at famous Leopold's, a cafe nearly two hundred years old, which was also hit in the terrorist attacks. It's a very crowded, cosmopolitan place and you can hear a potpourri of languages over excellent Indian and European food served by efficient waiters. We could easily linger here for hours. It's time, though, for us to get back to our hotel in preparation for a 3:00 am departure.

Late in the evening, we are packed and ready to go. We are given an incredible send-off by the hotel staff who tell us they will wait patiently for our return and promise a "penthouse" upgrade "next year."

Just after midnight, we approach Mumbai's stunning new international airport. Our driver has been telling us about the realities of his life--15 hour days, 7 days a week for $200 a month, if he's lucky. There's an election coming but he holds out little hope for change. We listen to him as we approach the departure terminal which sits like a gigantic luxurious spaceship hovering above the ground. It's a stark counterpoint to the story we've just heard.

We leave India reluctantly. Perhaps of all our overseas trips, this one has been the most interesting and satisfying. We've loved everything about our adventure--the food, the travel, the new experiences. Most of all, though, we've loved the friendships we've made and these, more than anything else, will be the greatest incentive to bring us back.

Namaste.

Varkala and the Vancouver Canucks

Sitting high on a cliff overlooking the Arabian Sea, Varkala is well known as a temple town and a favorite destination of backpackers and old hippies. Nothing, of course, will compare to our eight days in paradise but we feel that this could be a good fit for us.

We've found a great place to stay right on the beach away from the busy tourist scene above. Our room, we are told, has been built from the timbers of an ancient house originally owned by a wealthy man whose son first disappointed and then bankrupted him. Whatever the story, we like the room very much. 

Directly in front, the sea pounds the shore. Jagged, black rocks abut a sandy beach where it's possible to have a swim in bathtub temperature water. Our terrace opens out onto a breathtaking vista and once again at dusk, the sun will fall into the ocean directly in front. To make us feel even more at home, we're not here long before we've met the three resident yellow dogs who will come to spend a lot of time sleeping outside our door.

Early the first morning, we are amazed to look outside and see a dozen older fishermen manipulating a huge net secured by a massive rope on either side of the rocks. Slowly and with great effort, they begin to pull the net in, chanting as they do, until the catch is up on the shore. We learn that this ancient fishery is dying. Commercial vessels harvest the bulk of the fish and the younger generation has little interest in such labour intensive work. We feel lucky to witness this tradition.

The hours of our days are marked by the muezzin's call to worship starting very early in the morning and ending promptly at 8 pm each evening. Our curiosity gets the better of us and one day, we follow the call to the mosque itself, a gorgeous turquoise and cream turreted building set spectacularly just up from the water.

Most days, just after breakfast, we grab a tuk tuk for the steep ride up to the clifftop where we see para-gliders sailing high above the water, eagles flying close beside them. We walk along a narrow path to the many shops offering bedspreads, drums, jewellery, and tours of every description. The selling is pretty relaxed here and it's possible to actually look around with no hassle. We've found a very favorite cafe which serves great Indian food and the best people watching anywhere. The hours slip away.

Later in the afternoon as the sun sets, we sit out on the beach and are served dinner at a candlelit table by one of the many young men who work at our place. Our dogs lie at our feet and accompany us back to our room in the pitch black night.

Although we are far, far from home in a most exotic place, we can't help but still be pretty interested in hockey and the vagaries of the Vancouver Canucks. As a die hard Edmonton Oilers fan, I always find it hard to wish Vancouver well and have been known, quite frankly, to cheer against them...loudly. I am, therefore, alarmed to read a story in one of the Indian newspapers about the arrest and jailing of some 60 university students for "sedition." Their crime? Cheering for Pakistan in a local championship cricket game.

This item has given me pause for thought. I'd never thought of my behaviour as criminal but maybe, just maybe, under a panoply of dazzling stars over nighttime India, I can make the decision to change my hockey loyalty. I'm good at cheering for losers, I don't want to be charged with sedition, and the Vancouver Canucks may just be my new dream team.

The Gold Bracelet and a Friend For Life

On the eve of his wedding, our son Robin gave me a wonderful gift. Knowing how much I love bangles and wanting to commemorate this very special occasion, he presented me with a royal blue velvet box. Inside was an exquisite gold bracelet.

I've treasured this bracelet ever since.

In getting ready to leave for India, I grabbed a jewellery case I always take with me when we travel. In it are bangles and earrings from Vietnam and Africa, "wash and wear" type jewellery that has sentimental but no monetary value whatsoever. The good stuff stays home.

When I unpacked in Fort Cochin, I was horrified to find my precious gold bracelet tucked into the folds of the jewellery case. How it came to be there will remain a mystery forever but be there it was.Knowing that I would never wear it on this trip, I wrapped it in tissue and packed it back into the case. Next time, I would be more careful.

From Fort Cochin to Munnar to Alleppey and the backwater rice barge, the jewellery case was always in sight and opened every day. When we settled in at the "phantom resort," however, I really unpacked and placed the case on a shelf below the bathroom sink, out of sight.

The days lazily slipped one into the other and our routines were those of two vacationers completely relaxed with virtually nothing to worry about. The jewellery case was never opened and was far from my mind.

Our departure neared and I repacked our bags. We were on our way to Varkala, our next stop, well past the point of no return, when I remembered the jewellery case still sitting safely on the shelf under the bathroom sink. I had just turned to tell Peter what I'd done when our driver Sobit's phone rang.

"Madam," he said, "you have left something behind."

******

Two hours later we arrive at the place we've booked for a few days, just below the cliffs of Varkala. I am out of the car and into the manager's office before the engine is turned off. Quickly, I tell him the story of the missing bracelet and just as quickly he tells me "not to worry...it will all work out" and hands me a glass of lemonade.

There are frantic phone calls to and from Rajesh (of the phantom resort) who agrees to courier the jewellery case and the problem appears solved. Because it's Saturday, however, the courier can't be reached and it will be at least Tuesday before I have the bracelet in hand.

On Sunday, there are more phone calls. Rajesh is worried that because we are leaving Varkala on Wednesday, there is little room for error should the courier be delayed. We decide on the spot to stay for another 4 days.We like it here and it won't hurt anything to give the courier some breathing room.

Monday morning, I am called to the manager's office. Rajesh is on the line and there is a new problem. The courier has refused to take the package because a scan has shown there is "something gold" in it and the drivers are not to be trusted. After much discussion and major hand wringing, I persuade Rajesh to simply package the case up and mail it to Canada. It's certainly not an ideal solution but appears to be the only one. He reluctantly agrees.

Early Tuesday morning, just as we are getting ready for breakfast, I hear Peter laughing. "You'll never guess who's here," he says as he opens the door. And there before us, grinning from ear to ear, is Rajesh, my case in his hand. He has caught a 4:30 AM train from his home for the 3 hour trip to Varkala station and has come the rest of the way by tuktuk.

We are overjoyed to see him again and after thanking him profusely, settle in for a long breakfast together. We sit out on the beach and have a great visit. He will soon be on his way to a new job near Munnar but will return as manager of the phantom resort when it officially opens next fall. We marvel more than once at the coincidental events which have allowed our paths to cross and given us the chance to become friends.

The sun glints off my gold bracelet and I am happy.

The Phantom Resort

Following our trip to the backwaters, our Indian "I can arrange anything" friend has a suggestion. He's getting to know us pretty well by now and has a better sense of what we do like and what we don't.

"I know a very good place for you," he begins, "no other travellers, no other white faces, no English." He suggests we have a "look" and if we don't like it, he'll find something else.

We drive through a very winding road on the outskirts of Alleppey and before long, are bumping over a narrow lane and into a small village full of friendly smiles. One more turn, an even narrower lane, and the car stops before a solid wooden gate. The driver honks and the gate is opened by the "manager" of this mysterious place, the charismatic Rajesh who will come to be a wonderful friend.

We drive into an absolutely stunning tropical garden. Framed by gigantic palms, the Arabian sea pounds a makeshift retaining wall directly in front. To our immediate right, sits a gorgeous bungalow which can be ours for a reasonable price. No one else is here except Maya and Philomena, the maids, and Josef, the gardener. As it turns out, Rajesh is an accomplished chef and will be "more than happy" to prepare all of our meals.

We can't quite believe our good fortune and are still in shock when out bags are unpacked and we are here to stay.

This "resort" has no name. We learn that the place has been opened just for us and will close after we leave in eight days. No permits are yet in place but courtesy of our Indian "arranger" friend, we've flown under the radar and landed in paradise.

Before we know it, we've found a pretty nice routine.

 

Every day at dawn, Peter walks down onto the beach to watch local fishermen landing their small boats through the huge surf. With a lot of cooperation, they unload their nets and bring dozens of small, herring-like fish to shore.

Soon afterwards, Rajesh arrives on our patio with milk coffee and hot water. Within half an hour, he'll call us for breakfast, a cornucopia of delicious Indian foods. Breakfast is served on the terrace of the "mother house" which holds the kitchen and a gorgeous great room where we'll come to spend many hours in the evening reading and writing.

Most days, we'll wander back down the narrow lane into the small community which is our neighbourhood. Tiny shops selling fruits and sundries open onto the side of the road and lazy dogs occasionally lift sleep-filled heads to bark at us. We cut through the yard of a Catholic school on our way to "Simon's Shop" and are always surrounded by curious children wondering who are are and where we've come from.

In the late afternoon, we sit in comfortable chairs and watch a huge red sun drop into the ocean. A flock of crows amuses us every day with a game of "pick up the sticks" which have fallen from the thatched roof above. We notice haphazard nests being built high in nearby trees but conclude that the game is more about fun than hard work.

The days pass slowly and we feel that we could stay here forever.

Inevitably, though, the time comes for us to leave and on a dazzling Saturday morning, our bags are loaded in Sobit's car for the journey further south to Varkala.

There are tears and hugs as we say goodbye to our new friends. and the most incredible experience we've ever had anywhere.

The gate closes behind us and "poof," our slice of paradise is gone.

Backwater Blues

From the day I booked this "passage to India," we've looked forward to boarding a picturesque rice barge for the highly touted cruise through the Keralan backwaters. We've read conflicting stories about the experience including those from travellers who were profoundly disappointed to be part of a huge procession--there are, after all, 1,000-2,500 barges afloat (depending on your source). We learned that you have to strongly advocate for a good boat and a cruise away from the hordes of other tourists.

Our Indian friend, the one who can arrange anything, is aware of our concerns. He has promised us a good basic boat but a spectacular trip.

We arrive in Alleppey, one of the main cruise "hubs," and are taken to a homestay on the water where we'll spend the night before boarding the boat in the morning. This homestay is impressive. The property has been in the same family for 14 generations, some 500 years. Our room is simple with two narrow beds and mosquito nets. Outside, however, the gardens are beautiful and serene. In a gorgeous gazebo hanging far out over the water, we eat an amazing Indian dinner, prepared and served by the homestay's friendly owner.

Early the next morning, we drive into Alleppey proper and down to the rice barge docks. The "captain" of our boat hoists our suitcase onto his head and leads us on a very brisk walk over red roads, through a village, and finally, down to the water's edge. There we climb over large rocks and up onto one barge, which we will walk through, before stepping across the water to another: our home for the next 24 hours.

The "captain" gives us a quick tour of the boat and introduces us to the cook who hands us an ice cold glass of lemonade.  We can see that our "no frills barge" won't stand a comparison to the other more sophisticated models but, we say to each other, the cruise is the main thing, luxury be damned.

The engines are fired up, reversed, and we are off.

To our horror, we immediately join the back of a long line of barges and are very relieved when the captain, through sign language and a few English words, tells us that we are stopping for gas before heading into the backwaters proper. We are smiling as he pilots us away from the gas dock, against the flow of the traffic, and down into a narrow channel barely wide enough for the barge.

Soon we are travelling through spectacular scenery with emerald green rice paddies on either side of us,close enough to touch, as far as the eye can see.

The waterway eventually leads through small villages. We hear the distinctive slap, slap, slap of clothes on smooth rocks as women do laundry the way they have forever. Children dive and swim in the water. Men, both young and old, perform their daily ablutions. We pass small shops, hidden behind clusters of colorful saris, and see the odd water taxi dropping off and picking up locals.

The day wears on and in the late afternoon, the shores are covered in women fishing for and catching dinner.

From our vantage point, on our very own rice barge, we have watched a diorama of daily village life unfold as it has for centuries, right before our eyes.

As the sun sets, our captain ties us up to a makeshift dock in the middle of a rice paddy. The cook quickly jumps to shore and hooks up our power. Before long, we are served a very perfunctory dinner. Then it is time for us to retire to our "quarters" where we read and have a laugh or two about the bedding which is only half the size of the bed.

Several years ago we cruised the waters of Inle Lake in Burma, close to villages, witnesses to the highs and lows of daily life. We were uncomfortable about that experience and are about this one as well. The impact of the rice barges along the inland waterways is a double edged sword. Economically, the tourist influx has, no doubt, been a boon; environmentally and socially, however, the benefits seem less clear to us.

We sleep with ambivalent feelings about this backwater cruise. We'll not soon forget the beauty of what we've seen but like guests who've turned up uninvited at the door, we're not sure how welcome we've been.

On the Gringo Trail

From our earlier trips to the developing world, we've learned that in any country with travelling challenges, there is always a "gringo trail." This is the route that many foreigners opt for whether because of government restrictions, economics, and safety issues or just for the ease of getting from one place to the next with a minimum of hassle. It always includes major tourist attractions.

We'd resolved to stay clear of the gringo trail in Kerala but decide to make a notable exception--travelling to the famous backwaters, often touted as the highlight of any trip to southern India.

We are really sorry to leave Munnar after three nights and wish we'd planned to stay longer. It's a spectacular place and we've enjoyed every minute here.

Early on a Tuesday morning, Sobit picks us up and we are on our way. He knows a shortcut which takes us back down through the tea plantations where we see pickers already hard at work. We marvel at their sure-footedness on some of the steep slopes and wonder, really, how they do it. The women have attached brightly coloured umbrellas to their head scarves, a guard against the blazing sun, and the odd one smokes a cigarette as her hands work at lightening speed clipping the tea bushes

Down and down we go reversing our earlier journey, this time on a narrower, bumpier road but with less traffic. Sobit has found the perfect CD of background music for our travels and he smiles at us as it begins to play. Classic temple tabalas intercut with sitars and flutes make us feel like we're in an Indian movie as we criss-cross one of the most beautiful landscapes we've ever seen.

Finally, we hit the highway and Sobit speeds up. Our destination today is the tourist hub of Kumily on the edge of the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary. En route we stop for lunch at a roadside diner beside a huge "Welcome We Are Air Conditioned Family Room In Back" sign.

A friendly waiter greets us with open arms before slapping an extensive menu on the table closest to us. A huge notice on one wall warns us that "Smoking and the Consumption of Alcohol Will Not Be Tolerated."  We're feeling a bit conspicuous as the only customers but order our lunch nonetheless.

The waiter disappears into the kitchen and we overhear a very loud conversation. Minutes later he rushes past us to the open door, grabs his bicycle and pedals quickly out into the busy traffic. He is obviously on his way to the market to buy the ingredients for our meals which, when they arrive much later, have been made from scratch and are absolutely delicious.

Some two hours after we stopped, we carry on and finally enter Kumily in the mid-afternoon.

The town is full of tour operators promoting mini-safaris to the wildlife sanctuary and offering options to bathe and ride the elephants. We haughtily disdain the whole thing prefering to remember our "purer" experiences in Africa. We'll overnight here before carrying on to Alleppey and the backwaters in the morning.

The homestay we're booked into is grubby with torn sheets and pillowcases, a stark contrast to our pristine place in Munnar. The surly proprietor points us in the direction of main street where we find dozens of souvenir shops and a huge dining hall packed with European tourists. Reluctantly, we sit at the only empty table.

There is little doubt that we are in the thick of the gringo trail here and we're not liking it much at all.

Q

Never Say Never

After several hair raising car trips on earlier visits, we make a solemn promise to each other that we will never ever again travel anywhere by car in India. As the days pass in Fort Cochin, however, we find ourselves tempted by a road trip to the hill station of Munnar, some four hours away in the mountains of southern India.

We've made friends with a young Indian who is the manager of one of Fort Cochin's exclusive hotels and who assures us that he can organize virtually anything. He promises us a first rate experience and a driver who has the three keys to success on the challenging highways: good brakes, a good horn, and good luck.

After a fair bit of rationalizing and saying things like, "Well, at least we'll be together if something awful should happen", we book the trip.

On a hot Saturday morning, we meet Sobit, our driver, at the guest house. He exudes confidence and is driving a newish car. We're feeling pretty optimistic as we fasten our seat belts (seat belts!)  and the journey begins. We leave quiet Fort Cochin and enter the city of Kochi which is chock-a-block full of bumper to bumper traffic. Over the course of the next two hours, we slowly inch our way through it.

Finally, we're out of the city and it seems no time at all before we begin climbing into the hills. Soon we are surrounded by rubber tree groves, eucalyptus forests, and cardamon, pepper, tumeric, coffee and cashew plantations. We are reminded that we are in the spice capital of the world and savor the smells and sights surrounding us.

The road narrows as we climb higher and higher and features one breathtaking hairpin turn after another. Sobit leans on his good horn to warn other vehicles that we are just around the corner. We drive through spectacular tea plantations, one upon the other as far as the eye can see, and still we climb.

At a particularly beautiful lookout, Sobit stops and we get out of the car to take some pictures. It is here that he tells us that he has learned by phone that the road is blocked ahead and won't be open for several hours. He knows of a short cut he can take but we elect to wait and see what happens.

The road block is not far away and our trip grinds to a halt. We both break out a book for what will be at least a two hour wait. Our attention is drawn, however, to a large bus stopped right in front of us. The male passengers have all disembarked and are visiting loudly and with much good humor outside the bus. Soon we hear the unmistakable sounds of Bollywood music and before long, there is "dancing in the streets," high in the hills of southern India on a narrow mountain road.

The sun is setting quickly now and we're enveloped in darkness. Up ahead we see headlights approaching, a sign that the road has reopened. Finally, it's our turn to move and we resume the long journey to Munnar.

Nine hours after we started out, we arrive at the lodge where we are supposed to stay. We aren't totally surprised to learn that there's been a change in plans and that we'll be staying "just down the road."

We pull into the Shamrock Guest House, perched high on a hill overlooking a steep valley. We are met by the young manager who walks us to our very private room. It's a suite really, utterly spartan but clean. He opens the doors onto a terrace and says, "In the morning you will see beautiful views. And at night, the sun sets right in front."

He offers to cook and bring supper for us which he does and for which we are very grateful.

The next morning we are stunned by the vista before us. We are literally hanging from a cliff and below us is an unbelievable landscape completely reminiscent of Nepal. We see tea plantations covering the distant mountains and right underneath us, perched on the steep hillside, sits a village full of people, goats, and chickens.

We instantly fall in love with this place and are very glad we took our chances on yet another Indian road trip.

Dangers and Distractions

Not a day goes by on this trip to India, that we don't think about two earlier trips made with our good friend and production manager, Jeff Wonnenberg.The three of us were on a complicated shoot and travelled to New Delhi before heading north to the remote village of Bansi, the location of the film.

On the first of these trips, we'd taken the overnight Varanasi Express to the grim railway town of Basti where we'd literally jumped off with our 24 pieces of luggage and gear. We'd then travelled by jeep the rest of the way to Bansi. On the second trip, however, the trains were fully booked and we were fortunate to hire a car and driver from the production house where we rented our equipment.

It was completely dark when we were picked up from our guest house. The good-natured Jagat, our driver, was efficient and helpful loading our gear into the 4 wheel drive vehicle while sullen Anil, Peter's camera assistant, sat glumly in the front seat, deeply resentful of this very early morning departure.

The three of us climbed into the back, Peter and Jeff each getting a wheel-well seat, me the luxurious albeit crowded middle spot.

The journey began well enough but once out of the city, the speed of the traffic increased and we were bumper to bumper with overloaded Tata trucks and vehicles of every description. The road was narrow--about a lane and a half wide--with non-existent shoulders. The drivers seemed hell-bent for leather, passing each other on curves and side by side into the on-coming traffic.

Within two hours, we were saying our prayers in the back seat, paralyzed by fear.

Time and time again we were horrified by the sight of completely flattened cars and the wreckages of buses from which no one could have survived. The drive seemed endless as we passed through village after village and avoided one near miss after another.

And yet, there were moments of beauty which took my breath away.

At one point, we came upon a river where dozens of buffalo farmers bathed their animals and where women washed their clothes. We were quick to set up the equipment and captured some amazing footage.

The day wore on and after a particularly hair-raising section of road, we had all had it. I begged Jagat to stop at the next possible place where we might find accommodation.

Soon we pulled in to yet another dusty village and came to a halt in front of a dilapidated cafe. Grateful to be alive but pretty sore from the very rough ride, we went inside and quickly ordered some tea.

"Beeverley," said Jagat, "this is not a good place for you to stay. We go just a little further and then will be a good place."

"How far?" I asked.

"Oh, maybe one, maybe two hours, that is all. Then we be in Lucknow, very good place," Jagat answered.

Feeling refreshed by the tea and a good 12 hours into the trip already, the three of us decided we would carry on.

The sun had set as we  entered Lucknow several hours later. We drove past dimly lit bazaars full of colorful silks and displays of golden bangles. Jeff was reading the Lonely Planet and had found what seemed to him to be a good place for us to stay.

We wound our way through narrow dark streets, wide enough for only one vehicle. Eventually, the road ended and before us stood a former palace, its days of glory long past, reopened as an inexpensive hotel.

Jeff jumped from the car and raced inside to make arrangements.

Minutes later, it seemed, we were sitting under the stars in a beautiful tropical garden  eating exquisite Indian food. The nightmarish drive was quickly forgotten and we were all in love with India once again.

Dusty Roads and Sandaled Missteps

Early on a Sunday morning, we decide to venture out on foot to explore Fort Cochin. We've given it a once over but decide now to get down to serious business and take a walk through history.

Our first stop is not in the least bit historic but one we've heard much about--the Kashi Art Cafe. This small coffee shop opens at 8:30 and by then there are always lots of people--both locals and travellers--lined up outside.

At the front of the cafe is a large white room hung with some amazing political art by P.S. Jalaja, a woman clearly with something to say. A huge mural on one wall depicts the state of the world, as seen by the artist, with dozens of police officers and military men and women brandishing terrifying weapons in an assault on half a dozen ordinary people. On the opposite wall, hangs the companion mural showing a peoples' revolt--hundreds of men and women armed with rolled-up newspapers attacking a token group of their oppressors.

It's heavy stuff first thing in the morning and helps whet your appetite for breakfast and some serious conversation.

We eat a delicious meal of fresh fruit and omelettes before heading down to the Arabian Sea for a really good look at the Chinese nets. Built by traders from the court of Kubla Khan, they are picturesque but massive and require six strong operators. We hear that their days are numbered but suspect that they'll always be on the beach as a tourist attraction.

We carry on to ancient St. Francis Church and stand at the original site of Vasco da Gama's grave. His body was moved to Lisbon centuries ago but the church walls are adorned with grave markers written in Portuguese of his contemporaries.The church itself, built in 1503, is touted as the oldest European church in India.

Walking out into the bright sunlight, we come upon an expansive field--the parade grounds--where dozens of Sunday cricket matches are in progress. The players range in age from youngsters to oldsters, all of whom seem passionate about India's number one sport. The rules of this game mystify us but it's hard not to get caught up in the enthusiasm of the fans who line both sides of the field.

It's hot now and a dusty haze fills the air. We circle the parade grounds, marvelling at the enormous, centuries old fig trees which dot the perimeter. Finally, we turn down a little street which looks vaguely familiar. It's not and after several half-hearted forays into dead-end alleyways, we realize that we are completely lost.

As we stop to get our bearings, we become aware of a procession of beautifully dressed people bearing down on us. The women are dazzling in bronze, red and green saris generously trimmed with gold. Well-behaved children hold the hands of their handsome fathers and everyone is smiling and laughing. We soon realize that in our rumpled cotton shirts and sandals, we have happened into the middle of a large Indian wedding.

This is not a unique experience for us. We've inadvertently been witness to a glorious African wedding and nearly interrupted a Cambodian one with a shoot we accidentally set up close by.

Clearly, it is time for us to move on and we do, still lost but looking for any familiar landmark. We meet other lost people along the way including two young woman who approach us looking for directions. We have a good laugh with them about the blind leading the blind. A young Australian shouts to us from across a street that we're not far from home--"just down there," he points, straight up into the sky--but we finally give up and hail a tuk tuk to take us back to our guest house.

In the back seat, we talk about other things we had hoped to see--Mattancherry and Jew Town, the spice markets, the Dutch palace. As he drops us off, our driver has a suggestion:

"I think, Madam, Sir, it is best if I come to fetch you in the morning and take you to see these many things. That would be much better for you."

He is right, of course, and that is exactly what we do.

The Cats of Fort Cochin

We leave noisy Mumbai and fly south along the coast to Kochi where we are picked up and driven to the little town of Fort Cochin. Situated on the Arabian Sea, sleepy Fort Cochin is a historic place famous for its ancient cantilevered Chinese fishing nets and its  significance in the spice trade. It's also the spot where Vasco da Gama first set foot on Indian soil in the 15th century. Today it is known among travellers as the home stay capital of India.

We will hole up here for the next eight days at a tiny guest house easily spotted by its two vine covered Romeo and Juliet balconies, one of which opens off our room.

Wandering out into the village, we haven't gone far when we spot what will be the first of many cats. Sleek, with distinctive triangular faces, these cats are in sharp contrast to the gigantic pair we've left back home. We see cats of every colour often in front of hotels and home stays, occasionally lying the doorways of shops insisting with a glance that they be carefully stepped over. None of them seem overly nervous or overly friendly

but happy to do what cats do everywhere--sleep, eat, prowl and play.

I am reminded of other cats we've encountered in our travels. Years ago when I was on a shoot in The Philippines, I got to know a trio of cats at the outdoor cafe in Manila where the crew ate every night. In addition to my own dinner, I always ordered a whole chicken for them to share.

More recently in Oaxaca, we loved a gorgeous sphinx-like cat who would scamper up a tree, jump across a significant gap to our open window, and settle into the middle of our bed for a long nap. In Luang Prabang our guest house was home to several cats, one of whom adopted us and was happy to be ours for the month we stayed.

As the day moves by, we find ourselves walking along the waterfront. This is a working fishing village after all, not a beach town, and the sea is full of boats of every description. We are approached by good-natured

sellers offering sandalwood and coral necklaces, intricately carved wooden boxes, and complicated musical instruments. We slip by them easily with the comment that we'll be here for a while and are in no rush to buy anything.

I've long since learned never to say, "Maybe tomorrow..."

And, of course, we encounter more cats.

I've now managed to work myself into a real lather about who looks after and feeds these many cats of Fort Cochin. As we round the corner for our guest house, I have my answer.

It's dusk now and I see a sari-clad woman crouched down in front of her home, a platter of fish in her hand. She is surrounded by cats, each of whom politely takes a fish from the platter. She clearly loves these cats and tells me proudly that she has eight of her own and that no cat in the village ever goes hungry.

The cats are content...and so am I.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

Birthday Cakes

Through a fortuitous combination of luck and timing, Peter's birthday has often coincided with our trips and shoots overseas. He's eaten birthday cake in a crowded Honduran market, in the shadow of Burma's most famous temple, and on Singapore Airlines some 39,000 feet above the earth. En route to Vietnam last year, the entire Cathay Pacific flight crew sang to him as they sliced up a delicious chocolate confection and presented him with a birthday card which they had all signed.

Perhaps his most memorable birthday cake abroad, though, was eaten at the Mweya Safari Lodge in Uganda where we were on a break with our location sound guy midway through a shoot. I had arranged for a cake to be transported to the lodge which sat high on a cliff overlooking the spectacular Kzinga Channel connecting Lake Edward and Lake George. The birthday evening began with a multi-course dinner. As the sun set, a million little lights dotted the grounds of the lodge. 

Suddenly, we were enveloped in darkness and in the distance heard the sounds of drumming. As the drummers drew closer, we could hear them singing "Happy Birthday, dear Peter" over and over and over. The cake reached our table carried by torch bearing waiters and with great ceremony, was cut into enough pieces to feed everyone staying at the lodge.

Once again, Peter's birthday has coincided with a trip. This time, though, he has made me solemnly promise not to mention it to anyone. Absolutely. Period.

We arrive in Mumbai after an incredibly long journey including a "by the skin of your teeth" landing at Heathrow in what one flight attendant calls "a  70 mph gale."  We're exhausted but excited to be back in India.

Leaving the airport by car, we're immediately assaulted by the noise and chaos of the traffic--huge, colorfully decorated Tata trucks and overcrowded buses moving side by side with dozens of tiny Tuk Tuks and the ubiquitous black and yellow taxis that you see everywhere in India. Sellers dash between the vehicles offering everything from newspapers and lottery tickets to memory cards and hairdryers and somehow everyone avoids the cows who wander with impunity. After several questionable U turns and some improbably tricky manoeuvres, our driver pulls up at the hotel where we'll spend the night before flying south.

The security is intense and we are scanned and frisked before being allowed to enter the lobby.  Once inside, however, we are greeted by a desk clerk who is charming, Bollywood handsome, and very helpful. The 29 hour trip is catching up with us by now and we are happy just to go to our room and nap before heading downstairs for Peter's birthday dinner and our first meal in India.

Over dinner, Peter thanks me once again for not drawing attention to his birthday.

Later we return to our room, open the door and turn on the lights. And there before us on a table is a beautifully decorated chocolate birthday cake. We're both surprised but quickly assume that our charming desk clerk put it all together when he took Peter's passport and noted the date.

Peter sighs and shakes his head. I can only smile and say, "Well, you can run but you sure can't hide!"

Midnight Madness

The decision to return to India was not an obvious one. After three earlier trips to shoot films, Peter and I thought we were done with the noise, confusion and the never ending challenges of accomplishing even the simplest task. India was clearly not done with us, however. I had had a story accepted into an anthology about India and, in the re-writing and editing of that piece, we became preoccupied with the notion of going back, one last time.

We were somehow charmed by the idea of travelling to a place we hadn't seen, with few plans, lots of time and the ability to wander wherever we wished. I had been to Kolkata and the Bay of Bengal; together we'd been to New Delhi, Agra, and north to the foothills of the Himalaya. This time, we opted to head south to Kerala, with its charming backwaters, hill stations, and tropical beaches.

We decided not to make too many plans. A flight to Mumbai via London seemed like a good place to start. Most importantly we knew from earlier misadventures that we didn't want to arrive in the middle of the night...that was a certainty. 

We recalled our last trip to India which got off to a pretty shaky start.

After a flight to Delhi via Amsterdam, we touched down at Indira Ghandi International just after midnight. We'd loved staying at the Blue Triangle 'Y' on an earlier trip but this time had booked at the Yatri guest house based on the good things we'd heard about it. We were to be met by their driver and sure enough, as we emerged from the stifling heat of the arrivals hall, there was a sign:"Mr. Beverley Reid." Quickly, we were on our way.

The streets were pitch black and deserted, the only light coming from a sliver moon high in the sky. We hadn't driven far before the driver acknowledged that although he'd been sent by the guest house, he wasn't at all sure where it was. By the time we entered New Delhi proper around 2:00 AM, he was hopelessly lost.

We were exhausted and gradually, as time wore on, became suspicious about what was happening. At one point we were driven down a dark, dead-end alley and I wondered if we were being set up for a robbery. Finally, we pulled up to a shuttered guesthouse in the centre of the city, not the Yatri but a place our driver assured us we could stay. Quickly, he unloaded all our luggage and in a flash, was gone, vehicle and all, into the night.

A taxi sat idling across the street. Throwing ourselves on the mercy of this new driver, we asked him to take us to the Yatri guesthouse which, miraculously, he did. Once there, however, we were turned away by the night watchman who told us there was no room.

Our new driver knew of a "reasonably priced" hotel, not too far away. By now it was 3:30 AM and we were desperate. Yes, they had a room, and yes, we could have it for only $140US, slightly more than the $25 we'd paid in advance for the Yatri. Angry, tired and completely discouraged we said "OK" making it clear that we would only be staying for one night.

The next morning at breakfast, Peter received a mysterious phone call.

"I understand you are looking for accommodation," said the anonymous voice.

"We were," replied Peter,"but it's been taken care of by friends." He had no desire to involve us in any further expensive misadventures and was justly suspicious of this stranger on the phone.

In the light of day, we hired a car to take us to the Yatri. The manager was as bewildered as we were as to what had happened the night before but slowly it all became clear. There was little doubt that everyone from the original driver down to the taxi which had taken us to the expensive hotel was part of an elaborate scam.

Once again, I've made arrangements for us to be picked up at an airport in India. Once again, I'll look for the sign which says "Mr. Beverley Reid." We arrive shortly after noon. I'm optimistic that we'll be taken to our hotel without incident.