Alleppey: Boats, trains and fried bananas

Alleppey is the home of the backwaters, a maze of rivers and lakes that are lush, green and a little bit scary in an Apocalypse Now kind of way.  Tourists have been coming to check out the backwaters for years, but the tiny town of Alleppey doesn’t offer much in the way of charm or accommodations. Someone finally had the bright idea to construct large houseboats which double as both touring vessels and floating hotels.  The boats’ foundations are solid wood, but the cabins are woven bamboo, temporary structures lasting one season since they are blown all the way to Oz during the monsoons.

Our boat was cute as a button and staffed by three amiable men, including the best chef in India.  He fed us like we were turkeys and Thanksgiving was around the corner.  “What is in this dish? And what makes these beans so delicious?” we squealed during our four course lunch, shoveling food in our mouths like we were being shipped off to Alcatraz the next day. The answer was always “coconut”, which grows like kudzu in the backwaters and its meat and milk are the mainstays of every dish.  In between our high tea snack of fried bananas and our fresh fish lunch, we stopped at an Ayurvedic Center then toured a local village. The flowers and trees surrounding the backwater are gorgeous, and the village was rustic but pristine. Several of the local kids came out and mugged for the camera and we took more pictures of them than the pretty sunset.

We docked for the night next to a boat full of college students on Spring Break who amused themselves by singing along to deafening music and doing cannonballs into the lake.  I never knew what the saying “If it’s too loud, you’re too old” meant until that night.  “Can you make them shut up?” we asked our Captain, “We are trying to nap and read.” He marched off to squelch the noise while we realized in horror that we were teetering on some sort of precipice of middle age. We vowed to have too many cocktails and stay up really late once we got to Chennai to make up for being such fuss-budgets. 

The next day we headed back to Kochi and were informed that our train didn’t leave until 9:45 that night.  Since we had thoroughly toured Fort Kochi 2 days before, we spent some time in an internet cafe and took a class from a yogi named Joseph, a man more flexible than Mr. Fantastic.  Kristen and Erin were already fans of Joseph and had taken his classes during our previous stay, but I had opted to go for a run instead, a huge mistake since running in India is an Extreme Sport due to the roaming cows, zooming buses and gaping holes in the sidewalk. Joseph was a positive and encouraging teacher and possessed a great sense of humor.  He taught the whole class dressed in a polo shirt, pleated pants and a belt, and looked more like he worked at Best Buy than in a yoga studio.  We bent ourselves into pretzels for 90 minutes and were relaxed and exhausted by the time we got to the train station.

I think a time line best explains our Kochi train experience, so here you go:

9:00- Arrive at train station with our backpacks, 3 chicken schwarma sandwiches and a bag of various snacks.

9:10- Informed by train station lady that we are on a waiting list, our air-conditioned, sleeper-car seats are not confirmed, and the train is almost full. Begin to panic. Make frantic calls to our travel agent who doesn’t answer. Eat aforesaid chicken schwarma sandwiches.

9:20- Create back-up plan. Erin and Kristen go buy the only tickets left on the train, the cheap tickets for the section of the train where chickens are running down the aisle and American girls get kidnapped. I wait with the bags and am informed by a German guy that we should padlock our bags to ourselves if we get stuck in cheap section. Begin to emotionally eat and polish off a bag of chips weirdly called “Naughty Tomato”.

9:30- Panic more and make our 43^rd call to our travel agent.

9:45- Are told to board the train and take the issue up with the conductor.  Travel agent finally calls back and says, unhelpfully, “I think it will be OK.” 

10:10- Board train and pile our bags on shaky platform between two cars.  Sit on bags and create annoying obstacle for everyone trying to use the bathroom.

10:20- Conductor comes by and tells us to “PLEASE WAIT” and that his supervisor will be by soon to help us.

11:10- See supervisor-looking person and chase him down. He tells us to “PLEASE WAIT” and that the Supervisor of the Supervisor will seat us soon.

12:15- Supervisor of the Supervisor finally arrives and guess-what tells us to “PLEASE WAIT”.

1:15-Supervisor of the Supervisor finally comes back and says, “ Sorry. Tickets are invalid. Pay 3000 rupees to stay in the sleeper car or go sit with the chickens and the kidnappers.” 

1:20-Hullabaloo ensues. A group of three passengers get involved on our behalf and make matters worse.  We present a brilliant, concise and factual argument on why our tickets should be honored and the Supervisor responds, “OK don’t buy tickets, get off the train.” We cave and buy duplicate tickets.

1:25: Kristen and I can’t sleep so we watch 127 Hours and see James Franco saw off his arm.  Decide that buying duplicate train tickets is better than having to saw of your arm. Feel a little better.

10:00 AM: Arrive in Chennai looking like death warmed over.

Chennai, our current destination is called the “Detroit of South India”. Whatever...after that train ride, we can handle anything. Bring it on Chennai Rock City.

Kochi: Skirts and fishnets

The first thing we noticed when we got to Kochi were the skirts….on the men. They are long pieces of cloth that look like oversized tea towels, worn wrapped around the waist, either long, or doubled-up and short. This skirt is most often paired with an Archie Bunker button-up, plaid shirt. We were certain there was a ceremonial or religious reason for these man-skirts, and polled our taxi drivers, hotel staff, and waiters. We got shrugs and the vague answer, “It’s what they wear here.” Fair enough. It’s like going to Jersey and asking, “What’s up with the gold chains?” or to Texas and asking “Why all the cowboy boots?” It’s just what they wear here.

Kochi is in the state of Kerala, which is famous for Ayurveda, a holistic study of healing, and the Ayurvedic massage centers attract European and American tourists like moths to a flame. Or like flies to a bowl of green curry or like cows to a pineapple, more apt similes given our location. We’ve done a few treatments, mostly Nurse Erin since she is interested in learning more about the medical aspect of the practice, and it’s been quite an experience. There is no lying on a heated massage bed, with Enya playing in the background and cucumber slices on your eyelids. It’s an aggressive and invasive light pummeling, where you lay on a hard mat or wooden slats, are basted to death with “special” oil, then rubbed down vigorously. The therapist isn’t big on privacy or comfort; it’s all business. You come out of the treatment relaxed and loose, yet oddly feeling like you have fallen down a flight of steps completely naked.

We started our morning looking for one of these famed Ayurveda centers, stopping first for coffee at a joint recommended by our guidebooks. Unfortunately, too many traveling hippies read the same recommendation, and a bunch of doped-up white kids were asleep on mats with metal music playing in the background. It looked like a scene from Trainspotting. The menu announced “Every Order Takes 20 Minutes” and they weren’t kidding, even if coffee is all you requested. We were invited back later for the Bob Marley dance party, but decided to pass.

After our colorful coffee break, we took a stroll around Fort Cochin with its winding streets, lazy teahouses, and parks filled with school children. The numerous European settlers to the Kochi coast brought Christianity and Judaism to the area. As a result, there are several large cathedrals and a historic synagogue in a shopping area called Jew Town (Bill Maher would like the inattention to political correctness over here). The harbor is lined with the locally famed Chinese fishing nets that are raised and lowered into the water on hand fashioned wooden pulleys. Unfortunately, due to dredging and rampant pollution, the fishermen are having a terrible year and Kochi is now relying almost 100% on tourism. Kristen and I did our part to spur the economy. For a small donation, we headed out to the docks and “helped” pull up nets, chatted with the fishermen, and took pictures with fish that we pretended we caught.

We also toured a small palace built several hundred years ago by the Dutch for the local Maharaja. The Kochins could have easily speared the Dutch to death when they landed in Kochi to set up a trade company, as they had earlier invaders, but they didn’t and the palace was a gift of thanks. The coolest thing about the Kochi royal family is that the regal lineage passed through the mother, a rarity in India. While there are no royals left in Kochi, the tradition lives on to a degree, and many Kochins take the last name of their mother instead of their father. I like a town where the women are boss and men wear skirts.

That night, we went to see Kathakali, a 2^nd century dance, native to Kerala. If you knew what was going on, I bet it would be great. Regardless, it was entertaining to see the colorfully painted “mimes” doing a minimal dance routine in their wild looking costumes, making symbolic hand gestures and over-the-top facial expressions. The number we saw was about the harshest break-up ever: a princess in “heaven” falls in love with a warrior and they decide to wed. He wants to ask her parents for permission to marry, but she is a floozy and says, “let’s not bother”. He is so upset about her lack of morals he cuts off her boobs and tosses her out of heaven. Rough crowd.

Next we head to Alleppey to ride the famed backwaters in a houseboat. Our travel agent has described the boat as “OK, very good” so we could be getting anything from Huck Finn’s raft to the QE II. Let’s hope for smooth sailing.

Goa: Bus to Paradise

They make buses for adults. I’ve seen them. There is a Bolt bus with Wi-Fi and leather upholstery that travels up and down the U.S. east coast. Once a day, a Luxury Liner bus stops in front of the Smithsonian and lets out a passel of senior citizens with bright green stickers on their lapels that say “TOURIST” so their guide can track them down. I have even seen these “buses for adults” in India, speeding down the highway full of passengers reclining in comfy seats. When we were traveling with Phool Singh through Rajasthan, one of these grown-up buses almost ran us off the road every half-hour. The bus we took from Mumbai to Goa was not for adults. It was the kind we rode in elementary school, with the shock absorption system of a wheelbarrow. Every bump and turn threw us against the iron rails, which was only slightly better than bouncing off the top “sleeper bunks” and crashing onto the dirty floor. Our travel agent, besides not finding us seats on the train, had also put one of us (me) in a bunk with a stranger. Luckily, my bunkmate, Manisha, was awesome and we bonded instantly over our hatred of the bus. “I had an interview in Mumbai and have to go back home today and the train was full,” she explained, “And just so you know the place they stop for dinner is terrible and so are the bathrooms.” Manisha and I talked about boys, dating websites (theirs is shaadi.com), our mothers and our jobs for most of the way, and the chitchat made the 14-hour trip tolerable.

Once we arrived in Goa, the complaining stopped immediately because there is no whining in Paradise. Palolem Beach is a laid-back little community, encompassed in a natural harbor and overlooking white sand and the Arabian Sea. Hundreds of palm trees, a few rocky cliffs, and a large selection of open-air restaurants surround the beach. We stayed at the Dream Catcher, which lived up to its hippie name and was both charming and chill. The hotel is made up of 20 or so cottages, each named something beachy and cute (ours was the “Drift Inn”). For the first time in 3 weeks we were staying in one spot for more than two days, so we took advantage of the situation and did laundry like it was 1923, in a bucket with some soap. In no time our cute cottage looked like the opening scene from Sanford and Son, with beach junk and drying laundry taking over the front porch. Luckily, we befriended Jared, the manager, and his adorable 4-month old German shepherd puppy, Khali so he let our tackiness slide.

For five days we read, walked on the tiny main street and kayaked around the harbor. We were so relaxed, if we had stayed for one more day, I probably would have dreaded my hair, opened a banana stand, and stayed indefinitely.

We had two major decisions to make every day in Goa: where to go to yoga class and where to eat dinner. Fresh seafood comes in every day and is kept in an ice display at almost every restaurant. The highlight of each dinner is wandering over to the fish tank and watching the wait staff twirl each selection around like Vanna White. Our favorites were the calamari and the local Kingfish, the namesake of a popular Indian beer and, of course, Huey Long.

Kristen was the boss of deciding which yoga class to go to since one of the goals of her trip is to improve her yoga through classes and, later, a stay at an ashram. We actually had taken two classes prior to arriving in Goa, a challenging one in Udaipur where we worked on breathing through the nose, which is harder than you think when you are balancing in one leg trying to look like a tree. The second class was in Pushkar and was a phenomenal waste of time. The chief yogi was not available, so his daughter led the class after, I suspect, Googling “how to teach a yoga class” on her laptop. The water aerobic classes they teach at nursing homes are probably more challenging. However, the classes in Goa were fantastic, both for experts like Kristen and beginners like me.

With enough sun exposure to ward off any potential vitamin-D deficiency, and armed it a handful of bootleg DVD’s to watch on the train, we are headed we are headed to the state of Kerala, first to Kochi, then to Alleppey. Goodbye paradise, it’s been fun.

Mumbai: The Gateway to disco

If I owned a car dealership, I would only hire Indians. An eight-year-old that hawks postcards over here could teach the marketing course at Harvard Business School. The “Assume the Sale” approach in India has been so perfected, you find yourself thinking, “Maybe I do need a plastic Shiva snow globe” or “You’re right! I would look fabulous in those purple genie-pants”. We thought we had experienced every type of vendor by the time we reached Mumbai, but we were mistaken. In addition to the jewelry, t-shirts and pashmina hawkers, there is a contingency that sells extremely large, oblong balloons. Oddly, people actually buy them and tour the city while schlepping around a gargantuan, polka-dotted, pink souvenir.

Mumbai used to be Bombay. Sort of like “Istanbul used to be Constantinople” but nobody wrote a fun song about the name change in this case. We arrived in the morning after a 14-hour train ride, which wasn’t nearly as terrible as we feared. The only real issue was figuring out train protocol. We bumbled around in the aisle for a bit until our fellow passengers taught us the basics, like where to get tea and how to pull down the sleeper bed without decapitating the person in the next bunk. Most of you have actually seen Mumbai Train Station on the silver screen. It is the spot in Slumdog Millionaire where Jamal and Latika finally reunite at the end of the movie and are suddenly surrounded by a Broadway-like dance ensemble. We rolled onto the platform, fully expecting to be greeted by boys professing their undying love and a dance troupe, but alas, we were sorely disappointed.

Our hotel was near Covala, in the southern, more historic, part of the city. The first day we ventured to the Gateway of India, an Arc de Triomphe-looking structure, on Mumbai Harbor built to commemorate the landing of King Edward V when India was still under British rule. The Gateway is now a patriotic symbol, because it was also the point where the last regiment of British troops marched before their return home after India gained its independence.

We then walked through the lobby of the lovely Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, one of the top hotels in the world, and sadly one of the sites targeted in the 2008 Mumbai bombings. The hotel has recovered fully, and is so spectacular it makes the Ritz in DC look like a Holiday Inn Express. Although we couldn’t afford to check in, we did walk through the magnificent lobby, pretending to be important, and stopped by one of their posh restaurants to have a cocktail and clean them out of their complimentary bar snacks. The Taj’s past-guest roster is impressive and they have a little photo gallery to make sure everybody knows it that features VIP’s like the Clintons, John and Yoko, the last Shah of Iran, and Roger Moore.

That night, we met up with a friend from DC, Pranav, who was in Mumbai on business for his company, Hugh and Crye. Pranav makes fabulous and reasonably priced men’s shirts, so if you are wearing an ill-fitting, ugly shirt (you know who you are) click on this link immediately: http://hughandcrye.com/.

Our first stop that evening was at a disco (disco=club/bar) that had a weird French DJ and steep cover charge, so we headed instead to the nearby Hard Rock Café. As we sipped the local beer and chatted, we noticed that we had somehow slipped down a wormhole that shot us back to 1991. The wait staff wore baggy t-shirts and blue eye-shadow, every single person in the bar knew the words to the Bon Jovi songs (including us of course), and the patrons held up lighters when the DJ played a slow song. Since we had forgotten our high top Reeboks and banana-clips, we headed to the disco next door to dance. Movie soundtracks are very popular over here-lots of “Mama Mia” and “Eye of the Tiger”. Pranav tried to request Jay-Z and was admonished that the DJ did not “play the hip-hops”.

The next day I walked around the gardens of Mumbai University and got a pedicure (very cultural of me) while Kristen and Erin took a ferry to Elephanta Island. The island has a maze of caves that feature impressive, ancient carvings of Shiva and other religious figures. The island is so named because, legend has it, the Portuguese tried to steal a large elephant statue from one of the caves and the ropes serendipitously broke as they were attempting to hoist the statue onto their ship. The elephant sank to the bottom of the sea, was later recovered, and is now safe and sound in a Mumbai museum.

After big city living we are headed to south Goa to have quiet beach time. Unfortunately, we are taking a bus, not a train, because of a snafu within our travel agency. If there is a Hindu travel god, we probably need to make him an offering.

Ranthambore and Agra: Tigers and a love story

No trip is perfect. We went to the famed Ranthambore Tiger Park at 6 a.m. in a cantor, a large, open topped jeep. Our little safari group included some Japanese folks, a cute Indian family, 2 Dutch anthropology students, and a crazy Eastern European lady who kept standing up and waiving her arms around. It just so happens that tigers only attack people in cantors when they stand up and waive their arms around so, lucky for her and unlucky for us, we never saw a tiger. The most exciting moment of the safari was a three-way tie between spotting an owl, seeing some tiger paw-prints, and having a magpie land on our dashboard. This was not the tigers’ fault. They were poached for hundreds of years before they became a protected species. Then, in 2008, it was discovered that park officials were being bribed so the poaching could continue. This has caused the tiger population to dwindle down to 32. We were so bummed that the only thing that could possibly cheer us up was seeing the most beautiful building in all the world. So, we got back in the car with a hung-over Phool Singh and headed to Agra to see the Taj.

Believe the hype. The Taj Mahal is spectacular. If you haven’t been yet, go write “GO TO THE TAJ MAHAL” on your bucket list right this second. Not only is it one of the man-made wonders of the world, it symbolizes a truly fantastic love story. Cue the piano music and release the doves…So, one of the most acclaimed Mughal Emperors, Shah Jahan, had three wives which turned out to be two too many. He didn’t care for wife one or three, but number two, Mumtaz Mahal, was the love of his life, and they made Jon and Kate look like total amateurs by having 14 children. But, like all good love stories, something really sad happened. The renowned beauty Mumtaz died in childbirth, and Shah Jahan had a complete meltdown. He bailed on his imperial duties and went into hiding for a year, leaving his daughter Jahanara, the Mughal Hilary Clinton, to run the show behind the scenes. He also left his son, Aurangzeb, who had a fondness for conquering neighboring countries and discriminating against Hindus, unsupervised. Shah Jahan finally came out of hiding and did something constructive with his sadness, building the Taj Mahal as a mausoleum for his beloved wife. It took 22 years to build, cost $60 million dollars (in 1653!), and it was worth every rupee. Rudyard Kipling said it was “the embodiment of all things pure” and Shah Jahan wrote the following lines about his creation:

Should guilty seek asylum here, like one pardoned, he becomes free from sin.

Should a sinner make his way to this mansion, all his past sins are to be washed away.

The sight of this mansion creates sorrowing sights, and the sun and the moon shed tears from their eyes.

In this world this edifice has been made, to display thereby the creator's glory.

I am not going to try to linguistically compete with guy who created Mowgli and an emperor so just check out the link below for pictures.

Next we are off to the train station for a 14-hour ride southwest to Mumbai, the city formerly known as Bombay. I wish I had packed an Acela in my backpack.

Pushkar to Jaipur: Monkeys, elephants and pashminas oh my!

We spent the morning in Pushkar, getting our first cardiovascular workout in days by climbing the hundreds of steps up a hill to see Savitri’s temple. Savitri has a loyal band of monkeys patrolling the steps to her temple and they put on a little show to entertain us as we made the long hike. Baby monkeys bopped each other on the heads and the older males sat together with crossed legs and folded arm, looking as if they were discussing whether or not to withdraw funds from their 401Ks.

After the hike we drove to Jaipur, the capitol of Rajasthan where the first order of business was to ride an elephant. The coolest thing about the ride was, well, the elephant. The ride itself was good for a photo-op but we really just trudged along for about 10 minutes on a tiny little road overlooking a sad little field. We had more fun meeting beautiful Marana, our huge 40-year-old elephant who was painted beautifully with lotus flowers and colorful shapes. We had even more fun feeding sugar cane snacks to 20-year-old Sheila, who snatched the cane from us with her trunk and leaned forward so we could pet her head.

The next morning I took my first solo venture since arriving in India-a trip to the pharmacy to procure some laundry soap and Q-tips. The pharmacist and I did fine with laundry soap: “No, try the store across the street.” Q-tips were another matter. He did not know the words “Q-tips” or “cotton swabs”, and I certainly didn’t know the Hindi translation, so I mimed cleaning my ear, which I belatedly realized was the same gesture as the international sign for “crazy”. The pharmacist nodded slowly. “No medicine here for that. Very sorry you are crazy,” he said sympathetically.

We then headed to Amber Fort, where, to our total delight a low budget movie was being filmed about the Indian fight for independence. We figured it was low budget, at any rate, because the British were all played by Indians and it was sort of like watching Hugh Grant play the part of Kunta Kinte. Nonetheless, we jumped up and down when the Indians warriors in yellow tunics rushed in to defend the fort from the evil British. The director wasn’t as pleased. “Look angry!” he shouted to the actors, “You are being attacked! Stop smiling!”

As we were watching the drama unfold, I snapped at a persistent street vendor, then felt guilty, so I perused his paintings. The vendor, Honey, was young and charming and admitted his paintings on silk were more like paintings “on something similar to silk”. He told me he was studying history and Italian so he could be an escort. When I looked a little shocked, he yelled, “I mean guide! I think escort is different.” I bought four paintings and he threw in an extra painting of a camel, viewed to be a Hindi symbol of romance. “This is a gift because I can tell you believe in love! And as we say in Italian, ‘Gracias Chica!” Close enough, Honey.

American historical sites, like Mount Vernon, run a tight ship, with curators in every room ensuing you don’t make off with a priceless candlestick or use your camera flash around oil paintings. Not so in India, since the forts were looted years ago for the most part. The Amber Fort itself withstood hundreds of years of invasions so it can handle a few Americans and Europeans running through the many passages and stairways. The Maharaja’s private quarters are decorated with gemstones and mirrors; there is a glass, octagon-shaped sunroom and lovely gardens within the courtyards. We decided which of the hundreds of bedrooms we would want if we lived in the palace. It’s important to be properly prepared in case we are asked to serve as princesses of Jaipur.

We then headed to the famed Jaipur bazaars to get our haggle on. We got lots of loot for a little rupee using the “OK that’s too high, we are going to another store, bye, bye” method. The proprietors of our last stop, the jewelry store, asked us if we would like a cocktail, and, as I always say, why hassle with finding a bar when you can just drink at the jewelry shop? A fun Aussie couple joined in the fun and after a cocktail or three, Erin decided it was finally a good time to get her nose pierced. With five pairs of shoes, six pashminas, and a handful of jewelry weighing down our backpacks, we are off to Ranthambhore to see the tigers.