That was the week that was – Kerala.

Waking up on Tuesday morning we discover three important things:

• The sun is shining. This is a relief. I had a suspicion that maybe we would be trapped in an overcast, drippy, dismal climate for the week
• We are not alone. After wandering into ‘town’ a bit we discover plenty of restaurants, shops .. (‘Please look. Looking is free’). It’s not like it’s heaving, but there are other humans around.
• They have croissants. And there are rumours of pork. And there are (and I must whisper it) rumours of beef. Cow meat.

Varkala is not at all like Mysore. Whilst Mysore is clearly an Indian place, full of cows and temples, Varkala is clearly aimed at relieving tourists of their money in many forms: upstairs bars with sea views with names like ‘Namaste’ play Cafe del Mar type music to young thin white people, and, more unusually, aged hippie types. The humidity is up, and the waves are surprisingly strong. There is a good rip here that wants to tear you downshore.

As we wander into town, fishermen dry their nets, and men wash their cows (as you do). “Make sure you wear suntan lotion” says the cow on the left. I laugh at her. Does she not realise I am already wearing Factor 30 Nivea colourless spray thingy.

There is a general indifference to us here that is a welcome change. Isla’s cheeks get some welcome rest and recovery. As we pass a restless fisherman, desperately searching for his tax return,  he says “It is hot here. Make sure you wear suntan lotion”. I attempt to explain that my suntan lotion will protect me even in the water. He seems disinterested.





And so we hit the beach. After mindless bargaining with the deckchair/umbrella gang, we huddle in the diminishing shade. The sand is too hot to walk on unprotected, but the kids are keen to get into the sea. So we rip off our clothes (or, more correctly, shuffle uncomfortably under towels) and into the sea we go. Hannah, sensibly, declines, and remains under the umbrella bearing a remarkable similarity to an extra in a Merchant Ivory film.
It is not until late afternoon that I begin to get that sneaking feeling, slow at first, that creeping tightening of the cheekbones, the overall temperature of the skin, and I realise I am BURNT TO A CRISP. Not in a good ‘You’ve caught the sun’, ho, ho kind of way. More in a ‘Oh My God did you work at a nuclear facility’ kind of way. And it’s a slow building disaster. As the evening draws on, it’s going to get worse and worse. It’s not the physical pain. It’s the humiliation. You might as well write “I am a pale English idiot” on your forehead. My shoulders are a disaster. You can actually see hand prints where I have and haven’t applied suntan lotion very well.
And so we drink beer, and I hide in the darkness and hope no-one notices my condition. And the warmth stays with me like an inappropriate and unloved electric blanket.

The next day we arrange to go on a canoe trip. Kerala is famed for its drifty backwaters. Had we had more time and/or less children, we might have hired one of these ‘houseboats’ and pottered around crashing into wildlife and riverbanks. But we opt for a canoe trip around Munroe Island, where we will allegedly see people making ropes out of coconuts and other tricks.
We travel up to Kollam on the train, and then on to at a travel agent near the dock. We then transfer into another rickshaw and head off north-east for about 45 minutes to our departure point. Here we see, briefly, 3 other white people, but they are destined for a different canoe and we soon lose them.


Our canoe driver (for want of a better term) tries out his English, and delights the girls by making them a necklace from a lily. He points out passing birds (black one, yellow one), and passing trees (big one, little one), as well as at least one water snake (small one, but beady). This is his village and it is populated by many small canals. Rather like Venice, but without the high prices, and the cholera (or was that just the film).

He shows us ladies making ropes out of coconut. They soak the coconut husks for three months, creating a mountain of coconut fibres (shown here in a heap in the foreground). They then somehow draw the fibres together into a rope using a bicycle wheel, powered by hand. All day.



Beth practises her modelling again, and then we are back in a rickshaw, back in another rickshaw, back on the train, back in a taxi and we are home to our hut. Rain commences (as ever in the evenings down here in Kerala) and food is eaten.


On our final day (Thursday) we patronise the beach again. This time I wear a T shirt and largely avoid cremation. Local indians marvel at the extent western ladies are prepared to jump and dance around on the beach, practically naked to their eyes.
And then it is Friday. We are flying back from Trivandrum to Bangalore, where all being well, we will meet Alison (Hannah’s mum) off the plane from England.


Arriving back in Trivandrum, a taxi takes us from the train station to the airport. There is a lot of traffic and we don’t seem to be going anywhere fast, so I engage in some light banter with the taxi driver. “Why is there so much traffic?”, I ask, in my humble foreigner abroad way. “Elephant tumble”, he replies, woefully. And I have to admit I am excited by this possibility. Whilst I wouldn’t wish a jackknifed elephant on anyone, it is nevertheless an unusual traffic situation and not one often encountered in Cambridge. I start to imagine various gory scenarios, but clearly the outright winner is one where the elephant is lying on his back, four mighty feet in the air, with a car lodged in one side.
Unfortunately (or, indeed, fortunately for the elephant), it appears there has been some miscommunication and in fact he is referring to the ‘Elephant temple’, a house of worship subscribing to the ubiquitous Ganesh, this one mightily black and not a little foreboding. So no elephant carnage today, but I make a mental note to be on the lookout for other large mammalian roadkill.
We are horribly early for the flight, and Trivandrum airport does not offer massive retail opportunities (duty free or otherwise). Isla and I amuse ourselves by weighing each other on the check in scales. Isla weighs a reasonable 12.8kg. When I step on the scales, the numbers increase rapidly and then dashes appear and flash. I withdraw rapidly lest an alarm go off somewhere. I fear I may exceed the single bag limit by some margin.
And so Kerala comes to an end. Goodbye Kerala – you cheeky area of fishermen, coconut palms, humidity and hint of beef (unrealised).
We arrive back at Bangalore and wait in the arrivals lounge for Alison’s flight, which is scheduled to arrive in an hour. A young Indian couple (on their long and tortuous multi leg way back from Australia) start talking to us. The conversation follows the now well established stereotype of the lady telling us how beautiful our children are, and the man (who, mysteriously, is wearing a tea towel over his shoulder) telling us what life in England is like.

Woman: Your children are very beautiful.
Me: Thank you. Do you want one? We have two of them, after all.
Woman: How are you finding India? Is it very different from England?
Me: Well, clearly it is fairly hot here. And using the trains can be somewhat tricky for us.
Man: Actually the trains here are exactly the same as in England. Everything here is exactly the same as in England. Do you not agree?
Me: Well. The food is quite different. Quite spicy.
Man: Yes. We have some of the greatest food in the world here (whilst playing with tea towel). We have just been to Australia. We are vegetarians, and there was not much food choice for us. Actually it was quite disgusting for us, to watch them eat all those meats. (looks accusingly at me).
Me: (apologetically) Well, yes, the Australians do eat a lot of animals.
Woman: Your children are very beautiful.

(Repeat ad infinitum).
And then Alison arrives (early, in fact). But that is another story.