Wednesday 6th - Thursday 7th February.
I landed in Trivandrum airport at around 4am, Indian time. India is 5 1/2 hours ahead of the UK and 2 1/2 hours ahead of the Middle East. I had a brief sojourn in Sharjar for 3 hours. Given that I didn't have any Qatarian money, or dollars, or even Jordanian Dinars I was unable to purchase food on either flight. I managed to stop at the duty free shop and buy a load of chocolate, which was nice, so I was riding on a rollercoaster of caffeine and sugar. I was up all night. I managed to finish the Rubik's cube though. The air hostess was most impressed. I also got chatting to a guy sitting next to me. He was from Trivandrum. He worked in petroleum and commuted to Qatar on a regular basis. English is the second language in India, Hindi being the first. Most Indian people also speak the local dialect of the state they are born in. In this case, Kerela. On top of this, it is quite normal to speak the language of a neighbouring state such as Karnataka. So, on average, many Indians speak four languages, however the inflexions make the spoken English language sound much different and at first I had trouble understanding what the guy was telling me. I was also over-tired and wired on caffeine. I desperately needed some sleep. But sleep was not forthcoming. I had read so much of Robert Fisk I had lost my faith in humanity a couple of days beforehand. I had left the Middle East in the midst of a spate of the coldest winter it had seen in over five years. In short, I wasn't in the best of moods.
That was all to change in Trivandrum. Completely. Radically.
Stepping from the plane was like stepping into a hair-dryer. At first I thought it was from the engines, slowly whirring, as they cooled down from there supercharged efforts. As we walked away from under the wings to arrivals though, I realised it was the air itself. My fleece was now lolling like a dead limb in my arms. I was also wearing jeans and a jumper.
Thiruvananthapuram International Airport was teeming. Thiruvananthapuram is the full name of what most people call Trivenderum, and is located in the state of Kerala, on the south western coast of India, on the shore of the Arabian Sea. I wasn't planning to spend much time in the city itself. Marcus had already landed here several days ahead of me and checked the place out. He had decided to head 45 kilometres north to the small village of Varkarla – a reputed idyllic beach resort and a haven for peace and quiet - and I was to meet him there.
The entry process to the country was pretty straightforward. I was required to fill in the usual forms - enquiring into the duration of my stay. My purpose for being in India, and the places I intended to visit. I made most of it up. Having had obtained my visa from the Embassy in Damascus. I got my passport stamped and I was through immigration in under an hour. I stepped out, sweating in my winter gear, into my first Indian night and a melee of eager taxi drivers.
... I am sitting in the front passenger seat of a pre-paid taxi. My driver is a happy bunny. He has seen the amount of cash I have drawn out of the ATM and he knows I have no change. He also knows I know he is going to try and screw me for a tip. The thing most people don't realise about travelling is that maintaining a budget, for a traveller, is like trying to account for the weight of the universe. Every experience you chance across causes your carefully planned expenditure to be slightly askew. Everyone expects some kudos, usually in a pernicious format. It may sound a little parsimonious to wax lyrical like this, given most people you meet provide a very good service, and depend on you to some extent for their livelihood. The truth of the matter is that, although each minutiae experience costs a mere fraction of your budget, the net result, one projected over a long period of time, is one of a huge unseen force that sucks out vast quantities of your meagre savings, kind of like dark matter. Taxi drivers, bell-hops, toilet attendants, waiters, guides, shoe-shiners, brain transplant surgeons, teeth-pickers, bellybutton-fluff-removers, the list just doesn't end - especially when I start making stuff up.
I turn my attention out to look out of the taxi window. The vehicle is ancient. It looks like the car Morgan Freeman drove in when he took Miss Daisy into town. The driver has told me it will take an hour to get to Varkarla. I thought the LP had got the distance wrong but I now realise that this car goes 45kmh max. I am not worried though. Ever since I arrived in this country I have been mesmerised and at peace. All the fatigue from the last 24 hours has just fallen away from me. I have my head out the window and the wind is warm on my face. I can smell jasmine and sandalwood, floral scents that I can't begin to place. The unique and aromatic musk of marijuana is everywhere. It has just gone 5am and the streets are filled with people. Night is the coolest part of the day. Kids are playing cricket in the street. Men are walking around with skirts on. Women in brightly coloured saris and beautiful jewellery are walking together in the streets. Some are covered in henna. The ambience is incredible. It feels so welcoming and so right. There is such a strong feeling of warmth pervading from this place. It is evident in the faces of so many people...
The taxi drive to Varkala was my first experience in the pace of Indian life. It was slow and languid. From the Porgy and Bess song M loves so much. Summertime – “and the living is easy…” That is how the speed of this place moved. We stopped along the way twice. Once was for a level crossing. We sat amid a queue of people waiting to cross the tracks, some on foot, others bicycles, and also on motorbikes. There was one guy with a donkey and cart laden with fruit.
The second stop was to get me some food. I was, by this point, gnawing on the car window pane. I’d asked the driver to stop somewhere as we left the airport. He managed to do so forty minutes later. We both took breakfast in a small eatery off a main street in one of the towns we passed through. It consisted of a chai tea, lots of roti bread, and a curry with a boiled egg in. I passed on the egg.
I got to Varkarla just after 6am. Marcus had told me I’d be dropped off at the helipad. I was half expecting helipad to be some surreal description for a carpark. But no, there was a great big helicopter landing pad at the end of the road. Marcus had mentioned something about staying in Mother’s place. I strolled down the beautiful beach cliffside in the pre-dawn air. Waves crashed along the beach and the smell of sand, salt, and coconut was in the air. I was finding it hard to take it all in.
Luckily someone was up in Mother’s Place. They had no record of any English people on the guest list though. Hmmmm... I should have printed out the email. I went for a wander outside and, in that strange seemingly synchronic way of things that you experience when you are younger; I bumped into a very sun-tanned Marcus just coming out of the room he’d rented a little further back. It had a hammock outside.
I dropped my stuff in and we headed down to the beach for a swim before breakfast. The waves were huge and the current was extremely powerful. They were breaking on very shallow ground though, so there was no surf. This didn’t sit well with Marcus as he liked to get out on a board
when he had the opportunity.
We went straight in for a swim. The sea was fresh, salty, and the waves were fantastic and huge. They crashed down on you, picked you up, spun you around, and then dumped you on your head. Afterwards we sat on our towels, chatting and catching up whilst we watched a multitude of people slowly began to arrive on the beach and do yoga, swim, or jog. Mostly yoga.
… Marcus and I idly conversing about our experiences over the last couple of weeks. We are sitting on the gorgeous beach below the cliffside town of Varkala. The sun is just about to rise above the cliffs behind us. I note with some anticipation that it will set over the sea. Along the beach people are doing yoga. Celebrating themselves, the sunrise, and giving thanks for the sublime joy of simply being alive, and well. The sun’s first rays start to lazily fall onto the beach. It is going to be a beautiful day…
I landed in Trivandrum airport at around 4am, Indian time. India is 5 1/2 hours ahead of the UK and 2 1/2 hours ahead of the Middle East. I had a brief sojourn in Sharjar for 3 hours. Given that I didn't have any Qatarian money, or dollars, or even Jordanian Dinars I was unable to purchase food on either flight. I managed to stop at the duty free shop and buy a load of chocolate, which was nice, so I was riding on a rollercoaster of caffeine and sugar. I was up all night. I managed to finish the Rubik's cube though. The air hostess was most impressed. I also got chatting to a guy sitting next to me. He was from Trivandrum. He worked in petroleum and commuted to Qatar on a regular basis. English is the second language in India, Hindi being the first. Most Indian people also speak the local dialect of the state they are born in. In this case, Kerela. On top of this, it is quite normal to speak the language of a neighbouring state such as Karnataka. So, on average, many Indians speak four languages, however the inflexions make the spoken English language sound much different and at first I had trouble understanding what the guy was telling me. I was also over-tired and wired on caffeine. I desperately needed some sleep. But sleep was not forthcoming. I had read so much of Robert Fisk I had lost my faith in humanity a couple of days beforehand. I had left the Middle East in the midst of a spate of the coldest winter it had seen in over five years. In short, I wasn't in the best of moods.
That was all to change in Trivandrum. Completely. Radically.
Stepping from the plane was like stepping into a hair-dryer. At first I thought it was from the engines, slowly whirring, as they cooled down from there supercharged efforts. As we walked away from under the wings to arrivals though, I realised it was the air itself. My fleece was now lolling like a dead limb in my arms. I was also wearing jeans and a jumper.
Thiruvananthapuram International Airport was teeming. Thiruvananthapuram is the full name of what most people call Trivenderum, and is located in the state of Kerala, on the south western coast of India, on the shore of the Arabian Sea. I wasn't planning to spend much time in the city itself. Marcus had already landed here several days ahead of me and checked the place out. He had decided to head 45 kilometres north to the small village of Varkarla – a reputed idyllic beach resort and a haven for peace and quiet - and I was to meet him there.
The entry process to the country was pretty straightforward. I was required to fill in the usual forms - enquiring into the duration of my stay. My purpose for being in India, and the places I intended to visit. I made most of it up. Having had obtained my visa from the Embassy in Damascus. I got my passport stamped and I was through immigration in under an hour. I stepped out, sweating in my winter gear, into my first Indian night and a melee of eager taxi drivers.
... I am sitting in the front passenger seat of a pre-paid taxi. My driver is a happy bunny. He has seen the amount of cash I have drawn out of the ATM and he knows I have no change. He also knows I know he is going to try and screw me for a tip. The thing most people don't realise about travelling is that maintaining a budget, for a traveller, is like trying to account for the weight of the universe. Every experience you chance across causes your carefully planned expenditure to be slightly askew. Everyone expects some kudos, usually in a pernicious format. It may sound a little parsimonious to wax lyrical like this, given most people you meet provide a very good service, and depend on you to some extent for their livelihood. The truth of the matter is that, although each minutiae experience costs a mere fraction of your budget, the net result, one projected over a long period of time, is one of a huge unseen force that sucks out vast quantities of your meagre savings, kind of like dark matter. Taxi drivers, bell-hops, toilet attendants, waiters, guides, shoe-shiners, brain transplant surgeons, teeth-pickers, bellybutton-fluff-removers, the list just doesn't end - especially when I start making stuff up.
I turn my attention out to look out of the taxi window. The vehicle is ancient. It looks like the car Morgan Freeman drove in when he took Miss Daisy into town. The driver has told me it will take an hour to get to Varkarla. I thought the LP had got the distance wrong but I now realise that this car goes 45kmh max. I am not worried though. Ever since I arrived in this country I have been mesmerised and at peace. All the fatigue from the last 24 hours has just fallen away from me. I have my head out the window and the wind is warm on my face. I can smell jasmine and sandalwood, floral scents that I can't begin to place. The unique and aromatic musk of marijuana is everywhere. It has just gone 5am and the streets are filled with people. Night is the coolest part of the day. Kids are playing cricket in the street. Men are walking around with skirts on. Women in brightly coloured saris and beautiful jewellery are walking together in the streets. Some are covered in henna. The ambience is incredible. It feels so welcoming and so right. There is such a strong feeling of warmth pervading from this place. It is evident in the faces of so many people...
The taxi drive to Varkala was my first experience in the pace of Indian life. It was slow and languid. From the Porgy and Bess song M loves so much. Summertime – “and the living is easy…” That is how the speed of this place moved. We stopped along the way twice. Once was for a level crossing. We sat amid a queue of people waiting to cross the tracks, some on foot, others bicycles, and also on motorbikes. There was one guy with a donkey and cart laden with fruit.
The second stop was to get me some food. I was, by this point, gnawing on the car window pane. I’d asked the driver to stop somewhere as we left the airport. He managed to do so forty minutes later. We both took breakfast in a small eatery off a main street in one of the towns we passed through. It consisted of a chai tea, lots of roti bread, and a curry with a boiled egg in. I passed on the egg.
I got to Varkarla just after 6am. Marcus had told me I’d be dropped off at the helipad. I was half expecting helipad to be some surreal description for a carpark. But no, there was a great big helicopter landing pad at the end of the road. Marcus had mentioned something about staying in Mother’s place. I strolled down the beautiful beach cliffside in the pre-dawn air. Waves crashed along the beach and the smell of sand, salt, and coconut was in the air. I was finding it hard to take it all in.
Luckily someone was up in Mother’s Place. They had no record of any English people on the guest list though. Hmmmm... I should have printed out the email. I went for a wander outside and, in that strange seemingly synchronic way of things that you experience when you are younger; I bumped into a very sun-tanned Marcus just coming out of the room he’d rented a little further back. It had a hammock outside.
I dropped my stuff in and we headed down to the beach for a swim before breakfast. The waves were huge and the current was extremely powerful. They were breaking on very shallow ground though, so there was no surf. This didn’t sit well with Marcus as he liked to get out on a board
when he had the opportunity.We went straight in for a swim. The sea was fresh, salty, and the waves were fantastic and huge. They crashed down on you, picked you up, spun you around, and then dumped you on your head. Afterwards we sat on our towels, chatting and catching up whilst we watched a multitude of people slowly began to arrive on the beach and do yoga, swim, or jog. Mostly yoga.
… Marcus and I idly conversing about our experiences over the last couple of weeks. We are sitting on the gorgeous beach below the cliffside town of Varkala. The sun is just about to rise above the cliffs behind us. I note with some anticipation that it will set over the sea. Along the beach people are doing yoga. Celebrating themselves, the sunrise, and giving thanks for the sublime joy of simply being alive, and well. The sun’s first rays start to lazily fall onto the beach. It is going to be a beautiful day…
No comments:
Post a Comment