Karma and calmer
Think India is just about chaos and noise? Try drifting through Kerala in a thatched boat, says Jonathan Agnew
IT IS almost impossible to find genuine peace and quiet in India. The recent tour by the England cricket team, which I covered for BBC radio, largely bypassed the teeming cities, but even out in the relative backwaters of Rajkot, Visakhapatnam and Chandigarh, the constant car horns and the general hustle of daily life can gradually wear you down. Short of joining a monastic retreat, the search for just a few moments of calm remains frustratingly elusive.
After two months on the road, and weary of watching England lose, a visit from my wife, Emma, was as welcome and as challenging as always. Yet again my invitation to experience the Taj Mahal was summarily dismissed as too predictable, and I faced the pressure of having to match the startling success of four years ago when, in the same situation, I scored heavily with a tiger safari. Ultimately, my search for tranquillity, combined with Emma’s demand to be taken off the beaten track, led us to the backwaters of Kerala.
Travelling within India has been transformed in the 30 years I have been coming here. Chaotic airports, spectacular queue-jumping and creaking aircraft are, thankfully, all things of the past. From Cochin, we were driven two hours south to Alappuzha, where a small motor boat transported us to a one-bedroom kettuvallam, or rice boat, which would be our home for the next three nights. It is estimated there are 2,000 of these vessels in Kerala, and while at first sight they all look the same, with their thatched roofs and fitted windows over long wooden hulls, closer inspection reveals important differences.
Our kettuvallam was classed as ‘lake royal’, which included air-conditioning and a hot shower. But crucially, it also had two outside viewing decks, one being upstairs, which really allowed us into an incredible world. Our crew comprised three men, one of whom spoke reasonable English, and they appeared to share the roles of driving, cleaning and cooking our three tasty meals a day.
Essentially, the backwaters are a series of rivers and canals which link five large lakes, and the network extends some 500 miles. The man-made banks between the canals and paddy fields are no more than a few feet wide, and are home to much of the local population. Men, women, children, dogs, goats, cattle, ducks and chickens all live on these narrow strips of land. Motorbikes and a determined tuk-tuk or two go bumping past, but just as on the broad rivers, small boats and canoes form the most popular mode of transport here, weaving busily between the stately kettuvallams.
Beautifully coloured kingfishers dart in and out of the water, and majestic fish
eagles soar overhead. Buffalo graze and white egrets show up clearly against the vivid green of the rice plants. The calm is disturbed by only one intrusion: a rhythmical thwack that we initially thought was caused by someone chopping wood, but turned out to be women beating wet clothes against a stone after washing them.
But the river turns out to be much more than just a laundrette. It is the central feature in everyday life here. Locals bathe and brush their teeth in it. Children splash about happily, especially in the late afternoon, and farmers in canoes skilfully shepherd ducks from one site to another.
Just about every conceivable object is transported, often precariously, by canoe, and so absorbing are the comings and goings that you can’t put your camera down for one minute.
We disembarked just the once to visit a village, with Emma clutching two boxes of colouring pencils. I had been told they are in short supply and that children love them, and so it proved. It was humbling to see their joy as they accepted something so simple. And yet a little further along the dusty track, a child wearing a Lionel Messi football shirt was busy on his smartphone. India is forever confusing its visitors like that.
As sunset approached, we tied up to a couple of palm trees. With the low rumble of the engine now silent, a perfect hush descended (apart from the thwacking of the laundry, of course).
We brought our own alcohol aboard, which proved a good decision as the selection at the original departure point was extremely limited. There was plenty of drinking water on the boat, but nothing else.
So with charged glasses we watched from the top deck as the sun went down, which was always a memorable event with the outline of the palm trees against the fiery
reflection in the rippling water. Our mooring places were always close to habitation – once so close to two water buffalo that it seemed rude not to invite them to dinner – and as the lights twinkled along the bank, the sounds of evening village life drifted over the water.
There was always music and, on the Saturday evening, women and young girls gathered in a building on the edge of the river to sing. For just a few hours we were part of their world.
Dinner was cooked a at the back of the ke kettuvallam. The veg vegetable curries were delic delicious, and I also enjoyed th thehe bre breakfast offering of onion uthappu uthappam – a crepe-like south Indian speciality.
The nights were dark and quiet. The river sleeps too, and so still is the water that the boat does not rock at all. The first movement can be detected as the sun rises through the early morning mist and the crew start to prepare breakfast.
In a matter of minutes, the river bursts into life with ferries picking up schoolchildren, barges chugging back and forth and, inevitably, the resumption of the laundry.
National Geographic listed the Kerala backwaters as one of its 50 Places of a Lifetime, and the scenery and slow pace of the cruise guaranteed that it lived up to its billing. But most memorable of all was the window we could open into such a very different world; one in which people live modestly at an enviously gentle pace, and always with warm and welcoming smiles.