National Geographic characterizes Kerala, the far south-western state of India
As promised, Kerala has a remarkable natural beauty. Lush green plants mantle the earth below tall coconut and spreading mango trees, wide waterways curve off into tiny man-made canals, traditional canoes pole up and down the backwaters as two and three bedroom houseboats drift past in lazy promenade. I buy a ticket for the daylong backwater tour and spend my day on a houseboat with six Indian families. It’s the last week of the school break; everyone here is on holiday from some state or another. In the morning we load onto a houseboat, and flow gently past all that succulent lushness.
There is no privacy on these narrow waterways; we spy the intimate moments of peoples’ lives. Small concrete houses dot the shores, a few with bath stalls constructed on the riverbank. In front of other homes people do their laundry in the river. Women beat the clothes on stones; their babies sit naked by the river’s edge. The kids are fishing with a pole and string. My mind turns to drinking water, and I learn it is piped in from a water source 60 kilometres away.
We dock, and walk through the trees to a tiny market garden that specializes in spices. As we walk, our guide points out so many different trees: rubber, mango, jackfruit, coffee, cotton, neem oil, papaya, tapioca, clove, nutmeg and vellum. And a pineapple bush whose vines yield one fruit every six months. For absolute abundance in nature, this is indeed God’s country.
The trees that catch my attention are the coconut and rubber trees. Coconuts not only provide milk; the white centre offers a quick snack or grated pulp for chutney. I learn the centre may be dried for oil collection. I never thought much about where that coconut oil came from, but now I’m intrigued. The white membrane is pretty small; it will take a lot of dried coconut to fill a bottle. The fibre inside the shell is used for rug and rope making, the empty shell for handicrafts. A tourist demo shows how women used to weave rope from coconut fibre. There’s no longer a local hand-made market; worldwide competition decimated the prices. Now three women, working a solid eight-hour day, would earn Rs. 32. 10 cents.
The rubber tree business still operates. Like maple trees at sugaring-off, each rubber tree is tapped and a half-coconut wired in place under the spout. Five trees yield about 300 grams of raw rubber. Once collected, the rubber is rolled between two drums to flatten it, then rolled again to make a 1-kilogram sheet. These sheets are smoked, and finally sold, for Rs. 50. It takes more than 15 trees to make 1 kilogram of rubber at this small farm.
Back on the water we see men clustered around long, full-bellied black canoes; one in the boat, two or three in the water. The men use straw baskets to collect sand from the bottom of the shallow waterway, then dump it into the boat. The sand is sold for construction, but not before it is unloaded from the boats, washed to remove impurities, hauled to a central collection point and loaded onto lorries. Hard work. men, one boat, eight hours on the water, who knows how long for the rest of the work, yields Rs. 1000. About $30 Canadian. The work is not only hard, it is illegal. The government has outlawed the collection of river sand but the men continue; they must work to live.
Sharing the waterway are smaller canoes; in each one a farmer/fisherman poling home with a boat bottom filled with oysters. For those of you who love oysters, one kilo of shelled oyster meat nets the farmer Rs. 20.
As we drift along the river the guide points out the poisonous mangoa fruit, so named because it looks like a mango. Indeed, it is so poisonous the farmers use it for pesticide. The parents give him brief attention, then return to play with the children. Our guide sits beside me and quietly adds that mangoa is also used for suicides – 2000 every year in Kerala. The majority of the suicides are in the agricultural sector, precipitated by impossible debt loads, minimal returns on products, no industry, no jobs, and a pervasive hopelessness. Given what I’ve learned this morning, I understand the hopelessness.
But I am still shocked at the high number of deaths. Tiny Kerala boasts a population of only 32 million. In Andhra Pradesh, a much larger state, 3000 farmers are reported to have killed themselves over the past two years. The Andhra men were grain farmers, battling the drought, waiting for promised but undelivered irrigation projects, and in the end, labouring under the same crushing debt load as the farmers and fishermen in Kerala. Drinking pesticide is also the suicide method of choice in Andhra.
We return to the dock, tables spring up, and lunch is served. It is a great lunch, replete with platters of smoked fish. For once I don’t have to confess to hating fish, I just say I’m vegetarian. The table is about even, vegetarian and non- vegetarian; I happily eat my three rices with dal [lentils], Indian breads, carrots, cabbage, sweets – and no one even offers me a spoon. Perhaps my finger dexterity is finally such that I’ve ‘made it’ at the lunch table?
After lunch we split into two groups of ten, and with varying degrees of grace we board long canoes. My grace consists of holding hard to the two hands held up to guide me; the canoe rocks noticeably. Two men, fore and aft, pole us through the tiny man-made channels. As I watch their bare feet move skillfully back and forth on the edge of the boat, their weight bent over the poles, I think of Mahatma Gandhi, who refused to use the cycle rickshaws. His rationale: no man should pull another man’s weight. I am vaguely uncomfortable with this portion of the trip.
We turn into a very narrow channel that leads to more houses buried inside the almost-jungle. Under the steaming greenery, I see huge piles of washed sand, women shelling oysters, canoes tied up at docks, the odd motor boat, and a two-foot glimpse of a water snake – the first snake I’ve nearly seen in India. This afternoon we have a different guide. One benefit of travelling alone is the empty seat that often gapes beside the single traveler. Such is the case today, and the guide joins me. He tells me he was a tutor at the government school for seven years, but when it was privatized his job was one of the ones that went. Questions begin to dance in my head, as they always do when I find a vocal English speaker.
Recalling my recent weblog notes I ask about the social situation in Kerala. Yes, he says, there is dowry, there are dowry deaths, and female foeticide is growing. These are evils of the middle class, according to the guide. He looks at me keenly and adds, “Also, safety of women”. This is a first in all my conversations in India
He moves on to the major problems arising from globalization, and its logical outcomes, capitalism, consumerism, and the commodification of women. He points out that mechanization created more poor people in India
I ask about communalism; he calls Kerala a state of high communal harmony. I see the teacher as he raises three fingers and describes those factors that account for harmony among the Hindus and the minority Muslims. He counts the points off. First, in 1968 four million people were granted land by the state government, so today there are few landless people in Kerala. He elaborates: this means anyone who starts problems has something to lose – a house, possessions, a lawsuit – so people tend to seek compromise instead of conflict. Second, Kerala has a 100% literacy rate. Education strengthens cultural knowledge and leads to communal acceptance. Finally, Kerala has a communist government. He does not expand on the role of the communists, but I take it to mean the Communist Party of India [CPI], and its splinter sister, the Communist Party [Marxist], are parties for all the people, including the minorities. I’m becoming quite fond of the communists.
The state is fond of them as well. I travel Kerala by government bus, as opposed to the more expensive, point-to-point tourist bus. We stop in every village and hamlet, and I learn to eagerly watch for the CPI cairn. Sometimes it is just a three-foot square concrete block with a raised hammer and sickle, supporting a flag or two. Sometimes it is an actual cairn, four feet high, painted red, perhaps rounded, topped by a metal hammer and sickle, with flags flying above. Squished by a window on the government bus it becomes a game to find the town that forgot to raise the flag, but this doesn’t happen.
My favourite town is Alleppy, where young Shameer approaches me as I leave the bus. “Where are you going?” he demands. “I thought I’d go to the toilet,” I respond with a smile, “is that okay?” In the distant past I held hope for privacy in this matter of toilets. This hope is long gone. Shameer smiles and steps aside, but he’s there when I emerge, still wanting to know where I am going. I tell him I have a hotel booked, he shows me a B and B brochure. It looks good, but I have a place. Could he help me find out how to get there?
Three inquiries later, as the sun begins to set, we learn my hotel is some 20 km. outside of town. I just can’t believe the travel agent booked me into the back of the back of beyond. It’s true, though. Shameer offers to take me there on his bike, and I, tired and lost, agree. As we start out, the skies open and the monsoon pours down. We head for the bus stand and I plug his cell number into my cell phone book. Handy things, cells. Once on the bus, as rain slashes through the open doorways, my fellow riders argue with one another as to the right stop for my well-hidden resort. They finally settle on one and in unison tell me to get down.
Luck is with me, there’s an autorickshaw to take me the last mile or so. I arrive at the appointed resort soaking wet, too alone and really, really cold. Visions of murder dance in my head, and I call the travel agent as soon as I get to my room. He is so sorry, but I am booked for two nights and that is that. I have a lovely hot shower.
The next morning I ascertain I am the only person staying at this attractive, remote resort. Four young men in and around the dining room hold their collective breath, smiling and hoping I will have a request they can fulfill. I resolve to pay for the two nights and check out right after breakfast. I call Shameer to book a room at the B and B. This turns out to be a really good decision.
I get off the return bus to find a grinning Shameer standing beside his bike. It is not raining. He takes me to The Nest; I meet the couple who converted the family home into a three room B and B. I love my room, especially the huge circular mosquito net that hangs over the queen sized bed. In Kerala I’m using my Deet for the first time on my India
I see the coir factory where coconut fibre is turned into rope and thick mats. We bike slowly through the rest of the industrial centre, then go to the beach where we see lines of houseboats tarped and moored until the season starts again next July. We peruse churches, mosques and temples and walk through the town centre where I see more gold shops in one block than exist in many medium-sized towns.
We have coffee at the Indian Coffee House, a co-operative institution found all over southern India
I go to the gold shop that Shameer says just opened, and congratulate the people inside. A man sitting at the counter asks the usual: where am I from and what do I do there? I hedge on the doing part, but finally admit I teach in a university. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘you must make a lot of money.’ ‘Tons, sir,’ I agree, ‘they bring it to my office in wheelbarrows every month.’ He lifts his eyebrows, I point to my faded salwaar kameez with the tiny tears in the chiffon scarf. ‘Do I look rich?’ ‘No,’ he allows, ‘you look ordinary.’ And I laugh and agree, ‘It’s true, sir, I’m just a tea stall girl.’ And as I say it, I realise it is true. I’ve done some of my best learning not in the gold shops, but in the tea shops of India
I like Alleppy so much I stay for another day. In retrospect, I could have skipped the two last stops, and spent the rest of my time here. Thirvandrapuram, capital of Kerala, is a city too large to find the back roads in a single day. And I could certainly skip Kanyakumari, Lands End in Tamil Nadu, where the Arabian Sea Indian Ocean Bay of Bengal
I leave Kanyakumari by mid-morning, on a government bus. The train left at , and this is a holiday, yes? I pay less than $2.50 for my seat and ask hopefully, “Two hours?” The ticket taker shakes his head. “Five hours”. Five hours? Why did I not think to ask before I skipped the early morning train??
We finally pull into Maduri and I hire an autorickshaw to show me the sights for an hour. I see the largest Hindu temple in India
Four hours after arriving in Maduri I’m back on one more government bus, winding my way to a wedding at Coimbature. It’s going to take another five hours, driving through the dark, and as I scan the rows for a seat I begin to wonder why on earth I accepted the wedding invitation. I find a three-across seat occupied by one young man. Great, he’s sitting by the window. I nab the aisle seat and gingerly stretch out my slightly cold legs.
Just as the bus is powering up an absurdly tiny, incredibly old and snowy haired lady, wearing a nine-yard saree with no blouse underneath, springs onto the bus. I have no time to wonder how she managed that feat, as she is at my elbow, motioning me to move over. I think of five hours in the cold and dark, my long legs wedged over the wheel well. I motion to it, and mime that I am long, where she is short, so she could more easily sit in the middle. She points out the inescapable problem: she’ll be sitting by the Man at the window. Too true. Together we peer at him, as the bus grinds into reverse. I mime that he is young, just a harmless baby, really, and look – he’s already asleep. She acquiesces with good grace, clambers over me, and settles firmly on my hip. No risk of physical contact with the Man.
I become colder and colder. When I nabbed this seat I neglected to take note of the open door just across from my chosen space. I remind myself I’ve neglected other important considerations on this trip. Petrol fumes billow into my lungs, swept into the bus on the now-frigid air. I will cough for days to clear my chest. Eventually I must get my jacket out of the backpack under my seat. Careful as I am, I cannot avoid waking the little old lady sleeping on me.
She assesses the situation at a glance - me pulling on my coat, the deep coughing, the cold pinched look on my face. So very sweet, she pats her shoulder in warm invitation. And I’d dearly love to cuddle up on that kind shoulder, but its some 10 inches below my head. We share a small laugh, and she scuttles over until the length of her tiny body is pressed against mine. Immediately I feel warmer. We sleep. When I awake we are almost to Coimbature, and my seatmate is engaged in animated conversation with the young man to her right. I smile but keep my eyes closed; wouldn’t want to catch her talking to the Man.
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