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.