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.
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