God's Own Country

Contented after a relaxing stay on the houseboat, we spent the next day leisurely driving around Cochin. Our route included stops at Fort Cochin’s golden yellow Dutch Palace (actually erected by the Portuguese), Cochin Harbor’s tall Chinese fishing nets, the crassly-named Jewtown (where early Jewish settlers were welcomed to live near the king at a time when other parts of India and the world weren’t so hospitable) and the city center of Ernakulum before we made our way back to our guesthouse.

The next morning, we woke up early to make the drive eastward from Kerala’s coast through the Cardamum Hills to the Periyar Wildlife Reserve. Kerala touts this part of the state as “God’s Own Country,” suggesting that God is an avid tea and spice connoisseur, as the lush, magnificent hills are ringed by either the vividly-green, concentric hedges of tea plantations or fronted by innumerable spice trees (most notably, cardamum).

A curvy, back-and-forth but scenic, four-hour drive eventually delivered us to the town of Thekaddy, which sits just east of the Periyar Reserve. After checking into our hotel located within the grounds of the Reserve itself – a converted stone colonial estate – we took a brief stroll to catch a glimpse of energetic, tree-hopping wild monkeys. With a spectacular sunset approaching, we grabbed a good vantage point and a Kingfisher by the hotel pool before venturing back to our room for the night. The next morning, we made our way to the park’s boat jetty to catch the 7 am wildlife boat ride.

When the boat embarked upon its journey, a fierce headwind sliced through us, considerably dampening our spirits and exacerbating our mounting cynicism. Vik noted that the vast majority of the boatride yielded a comparable number of animal sightings as would be customarily experienced on the Staten Island ferry. We were also surrounded by western European and Indian species of the most perplexing animal of them all – the touristus hyperus. The former spent the duration ceaselessly snapping photos with special polarizing filters that apparently had the ability to turn inanimate objects (namely, rocks and dismembered tree branches) into fascinating slideshow fodder while the latter spent the duration loudly bickering over who stole whose seats and who was most likely to have originated directly from a village.

Huddled together to stave off the wind’s chill, we were deeply grateful when the boat appeared to be turning back. Instead, we were taken to a small and seemingly-nondescript inlet. The guide came to the front of the boat and pointed to the top of a hill about 500 feet away. We obediently looked at the spot where he had pointed, but found ourselves staring at only shrubbery. Just as we were questioning the guide’s mental fitness, our angle shifted just slightly and out from the foliage emerged four wild elephants chewing tree leaves for breakfast. It was, without a doubt, the highlight of the excursion. In time, we also saw scattered wild boars, a herd of Indian bison and one or two cormorants. Despite Periyar being a well-advertised reserve for big cats, there were no tigers to be seen anywhere, save for the shivering and not-so-shy Royal Bengal tigress seated at Vik’s right.

On our return trip, we stopped briefly to walk the green-shrubbed maze of a tea plantation and tour its old-fashioned-but-still-operational tea factory. Despite it being the low season for tea harvests, the tour was fascinating, and we reveled in the scent of freshly-cut tea leaves. Upon our return to the coast, we pursued more laid-back activities for the duration, including touring the NTPC Kerala power plant’s control center (where we learned that 30% of electricity sent to north India is stolen, often with the blessing of senior government officials), viewing the sunset from the power plant’s roof (not exactly something that we expected to do on this trip) and having dinner with our host Mr. Sood and his family.

On our last day in Kerala, we drove south on a crystal clear afternoon to the red cliff-fringed Varkala Beach. We wandered down the soft sands and were easily coaxed into the water. Kaberi ignored the numerous leering Indian men, but was a little uncomfortable to be the only Indian woman on the beach sporting a bikini in lieu of a sari. After a thorough saltwater drenching, we dried off quickly and headed to the airport. On the way, we passed a government research facility that was once home to Vik’s namesake, Vikram Sarabhai, the father of Indian space research.

We then continued on to Trivandrum, a slowly-emerging tech hub and the capital of the state, to catch a 40-minute Indian Airlines flight to Bangalore. Ironically, we ended up spending nearly four times as long in Trivandrum Airport (150 minutes) waiting for a delayed plane than on the flight itself. Earlier in the day, government-owned Indian Airlines had agreed to merge with government-owned Air India in a move that will undoubtedly revolutionize the Indian airline industry. Well, maybe not.

Not A Kerala In The World

The evening of Sunday the 18th took us from cool, temperate Delhi to subtropical Kerala, a thin, long shard of a state on India’s southwestern coast. The most densely-populated state in India, Kerala boasts the country’s highest literacy rate (a reputed 100%), the lowest infant mortality rate and an especially diverse and peacefully-coexisting populace (roughly 40% Hindu, 25% Catholic and 25% Muslim).

All three statistics stem, at least in part, from Kerala’s geographic serendipity as a port of entry for Catholic missionaries and spice traders alike. The state also boasts a well-earned reputation as a friendly and laid-back vacation destination with beachside resorts, Ayurvedic spas and lush foliage serving as calling cards. Despite its strengths, Kerala suffers from one of the highest unemployment rates in India, potentially as a result of its electing a Communist government (along with West Bengal) whose platform has scared off potential employers.

Given Indian Airlines’ longstanding reputation for mediocrity, we were surprised that our 3-hour flight (which cost roughly $65 per head) went as marvelously as it did; the flight departed on time, all passengers were handed roses upon entering and exiting the plane and the onboard food service was outstanding. Only upon arrival did we learn that we were on the maiden voyage Delhi-to-Cochin non-stop flight, which just so happened to boast a certain Indian Airlines’ CEO as a passenger. Suffice it to say that our next Indian Airlines flight – sans CEO – wouldn’t go quite as flawlessly.

After touching down in Cochin’s gleaming international airport (a gateway to the Gulf Coast Countries where many young Keralans seek their fortunes and a glittering example of public-private collaboration), we were whisked two hours south to the small town of Kayamkulam. Through Kaberi’s Mejomama and Mejomaima's kindness, we were being graciously hosted in Kerala by the National Thermal Power Corporation (NTPC), an Indian utility. Our hosts – Mr. Chandon, a family friend of the Mejos at NTPC headquarters in Delhi and Mr. Sood, the GM of NTPC Kerala – had arranged for us to stay at the company guesthouse with a car and driver at our disposal and a personal guide, Mr. SreeKumar, to accompany us throughout Kerala.

When we reached the guesthouse, we were struck by the lingering signs commemorating the visit of the shaggy-haired India's president, Abdul A. P. J. Kalam, a few days earlier (in a former life, Kalam mastermindeded the secret 1998 nuclear tests in the Rajasthan desert, earning him great admiration from resident and non-resident Indians alike for defying the satellite reconnaisance of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency).

The next morning took us to the town of Alleppey, a prime departure point for Kerala’s famed backwaters boat tours. Mr. SreeKumar had arranged for our reservation and even went so far as to argue on our behalf when the first boat we were shown proved unsatisfactory (Kaberi’s nose wrinkled immediately at the ubiquitous carpet stains and the stifling, musty odor). When the 30-year-old, 5-foot-10 inch boat captain started verbally abusing the 5-foot-no-inch, 44-year-old Mr. SreeKumar, 5-foot-6-inch Vik (5-foot-7 with bedhead) was ready to drop the gloves, but Mr. SreeKumar held his own, giving said boat captain the Heisman and marching us back onto the pier. Minutes later, he found us a three-month old vessel with a gleaming deck and a much more respectful crew.

Our vessel was one of seemingly hundreds of wooden barges called kettu vallams, or “tied boats,” plying the backwaters. It boasted a façade of individual bamboo pieces, several of which we saw being hammered on the shoreline, that were attached without the use of nails. While our kettu vallam was a modest air-conditioned, one bedroom affair, we saw several that boasted five or more bedrooms, sundecks and lavish entertainment systems.

After setting off at noon, we were immediately beguiled by the beauty and serenity of our surroundings. Drifting along the backwaters, which comprised canals, lakes and rivers, was immediately relaxing, a welcome change from the hustle and bustle of the cities previously seen on our itinerary. As we floated in the midst of rice paddies, grasslands and tropical vegetation, we also caught a glimpse into the rural life of those who live alongside and incorporate the backwaters into a multitude of daily tasks, like bathing, clothes-washing and cooking.

Peeking into the private moments of others felt a bit voyeuristic to Kaberi, and a tad intrusive to Vik, so we contented ourselves instead with a good book and some not-quite-real-time blogging, respectively. The hours passed quickly; before we knew it, we were sipping sumptuous chai (heavy on the cardamum) while watching the sunset. As the sun faded, we docked and enjoyed the solitude of our surroundings as our crew prepared a traditional South Indian meal for us. It was a bit surreal, but still very enjoyable, to eat dinner in complete and total darkness. After turning in for the night, we were quickly coaxed to sleep by the lapping waves against our boat.