KERALA - INDIA

17th - 22nd Dec 2011

The Shiva Shifters Bongo Band Trivandrumming

The ride from the hotel to railway station station in Trichy was entertaining. I left in plenty of time, fortunately, to catch the 0120hrs train from Trichy Junction which is about 1.5 miles distant. There were few auto-rickshaws, or any vehicles, around at midnight but I managed to collar one driven by a rather geriatric and stroppy old geyser who, by the look of the thing, had inherited his vehicle from his grandfather. With me and a couple of heavy bags inside it had difficulty moving. It was revved up and managed a short distance before stalling. Then the engine had to be restarted by means of a long lever on the floor which the driver has to crank up and down. The old chap could hardly manage it. I should have got out then, but we persevered. Well he did; I just sat in the back looking increasingly grumpy. Any uphill bit or even the much potholed road caused the machine to struggle and stop and involved more desperate cranking of the starting lever. Frankly, it would have been quicker if we had both got out and pushed the damned thing. It took an awfully long time but we made it.

AC 2 compartment. Two further bunks above.

I was concerned that having a 'waiting list' ticket I would not get on the train or be reduced to steerage class. The crucial guy on the platform, I discovered, is the TTE; a sort of ticket inspector/conductor. I put on my best pleading, grovelling and hopeless 'old git' ( I find it helps to walk with a limp and look bit gaga ) tourist look and he got me into an AC 2 compartment ( left ).
I merrily woke up the other three peacefully snoring occupants with lots of 'sorries' before clambering onto my upper berth. There was a sheet and a blanket and it was not at all uncomfortable. I had a good kip. By a sort of unspoken mutual agreement we reconfigured the compartment into sitting mode at about 8.30am by pulling up the lower bunks to form seats. We were travelling through tropical vegetation by then with craggy mountains to the north. The view was somewhat spoilt by the fact that the small windows have obviously never been cleaned and were barely transparent. We got into Trivandrum, the capital city of Kerala state, at 11.15am ( five minutes early ).

Hindu pilgrims. No shoes for a month. Strange

Trivandrum is a completely different dish of biriyani to Trichy. For a start it has a relatively smart area in the northern part of the city. OK, the bus station and East Fort ( another huge Hindu temple within the walls here ) areas are typically ramshackle, crowded and garbage strewn, but the rest is comparatively up-market with some parks and well designed buildings. The ‘modern’ name of the city is actually Thiruvananthapuram, but everyone here still calls it Trivandrum, understandably perhaps. I have only been in Inja for five minutes but I have already noticed that the majority of the population refer to cities by their older names, rather than the new ‘politically inspired’ ones.  Bombay is still Bombay to Joe Singh. Largely, I suspect, through habit but also because the new names are often much longer and, especially for a foreigner, difficult to pronounce. It is most confusing when booking railway tickets ( they always refer to the new names ) and then talking to locals who use the old ones. I will from now on follow what most of the Indians do anyway and call places by their older, simpler, colonial names which are, in any event, easier to spell.
The accommodation I had chosen at random was called the Varicatt Heritage House. By complete good fortune I had hit on a gem of a place. It is a large ancient, 250 year old, sprawling bungalow surrounded by lush gardens towards the northern end of the city, just off the busy main road. It is owned and managed by a retired Indian Army officer, Colonel Roy Kuncheria. He inherited this house and neighbouring land plus several other properties from a long line of relatives. The rooms are magnificent and the place is decked out in original antique and beautifully kept furniture and fittings.It is almost a living museum, except that he has good air-con ( AC ) and wifi. Col. Roy was commissioned into the 3rd Queen Alexandra’s Own Gurkha Rifles ( one of the six British Gurkha Regiments inherited by India in 1947 ) and went on to command their 4th Battalion. He saw active service in the Indian invasion of Pakistan in 1965 where he was badly wounded by machine-gun fire outside Lahore, also in the 1971 ‘liberation’ of East Pakistan which then became Bangladesh, and in anti-guerrilla operations in Nagaland. He was awarded the equivalent of a DSO ( the Chakri Star, or something similar ). His son now commands a Cavalry ( armoured ) Regiment based in Jodhpur. Did you know that when the Indian army ‘liberated’ Bangladesh from Pakistan they took the surrender from and led into captivity 200,000 Pakistani soldiers? It is the largest number of prisoners-of-war taken at one time in any conflict. I discovered most of this over a pre-dinner ‘chota-peg’ ( large whisky and soda ) on my first evening. I digress.

Kerala State Buildings. Smart colonial.

I did a quick recce of Trivandrum the next day and found a few places that deserved further examination. The State Government buildings were quite impressive. The police guards said I could't go in through the front gates or even take photos, for security reasons. I suggested that the place must be 'Top Secret'. They didn't get the joke. So I went round the back and straight in through the back gates, unchallenged. No problem there. They had discarded all their old furniture here outside the building grandiosely marked 'Office of the Chief Minister's Public Grievance and Redressal Cell of the Secretariat'. You couldn't make it up! I wonder how efficiently they deal with 'grievances'. I suspect most of them are chucked out too after lots of paper stamping. The Indians have a propensity for chucking things out and just leaving them where they fall, vis-a-vis litter, garbage, complaints, anything. 

Discarded office furniture. Tons of it.

The most popular thing to do in the State of Kerala has become the converted ‘luxury’ rice-barge overnight cruise through the ‘backwaters’ in the more northern parts between Quillon, Alleppey and Cochin. I was told by someone that these ‘cruises’ are magic, but by others that, like so many popular tourist activities, they have become over-done and spoilt. People get greedy. Too many boats in too small an area and now frightfully expensive. The ‘backwaters’ are also, according to my more cynical source, rather dirty mosquito ridden waterways with bugger all of great interest to see, unless you are fascinated by watching peasants growing cashew nuts or mending fishing nets, and are grossly over-hyped. In any event they cater more for the ‘jolly group’ or ‘couples with romantic intent’( and money to burn ) rather than the itinerant loafer such as me. I therefore planned that afternoon to go to loaf and lounge on the beach at the resort of Kovalam for a couple of days. It is only 10 miles south of the city. It might be ghastly, I thought, but I enjoy watching people and wandering about at will rather than being stuck on a leaky boat in a swamp.

Kovalam beach, from the lighthouse.

Kovalam beach has it's good and bad points. It was not too crowded. As always I was told it would be packed at this time of year and accommodation difficult to find. Bollocks, also as always. I strolled up and down the beachfront and picked a sort od decentish looking hotel/apartment. Cheap, cheerful and (quite ) clean with a large bedroom, balcony and great view of the sea-front. It also had a kitchen and hot water but no AC. It was just fine. No problems.

'De rigeur' Mahatma Gandhi nappies. The dhoti.

There were quite a lot of ‘western’ tourists about the place but they were almost outnumbered by the local ‘touts selling tat’ brigade. They don’t do the subtle Sri Lankan 30º off-set intercept and chat, they just ambush and clobber you. Head down and march on is one effective response or, as I amused myself by doing, engage them in conversation about a totally unrelated subject. For example, instead of taking an interest in the carved coconut souvenir masks he was trying to flog me, I asked him his opinion on the European Union, or where I could buy purple unbent bananas or somesuch fascinating subject. By day two I noticed that many touts had begun to avoid me, comme la plague.

Leela Hotel swimming pool.

The alcohol licensing laws in Kerala are obviously strictly and expensively imposed. Most of the beachside restaurants did not have a drink licence; whether because they were refused one or couldn't afford it I never discovered. They sometimes offered Kingfisher beer at exorbitant prices, but the bottles had to be hidden in a paper bag, or under the table and you drank it out of a tea cup. They were ever on the look-out for police. There were some more upmarket places that did have licences, but the drinks there were even more effing expensive. The vastly pricey and only top-of-the-range hotel, the Leela, where rooms cost between $280 and $1000 per night, charged $12 for a small gin & tonic. Imported spirits are subject to a 106% government tax! It was, however, full of wealthy Indians. As I was beginning to discover, different States in Inja have different laws and Kerala is fairly draconian when it comes to alcohol. The State of Gujarat bans it altogether. I won't be going there.

Something that should have been screened off.

The sea seemed clean and was warm. The beach was OK if somewhat spoilt by a line of black dirty looking sand up against the sea wall. I was told this had been washed ashore following a storm some weeks previously. There were many sunbathing beauties lounging on deck-chairs and some creatures that, for aesthetic reasons, should have been screened off from public view.
I had a most pleasant swim. In fact while I was happily splashing about in the waves I realised that this was the first time I had enjoyed a swim in the sea for as long as I could remember. Perhaps not since the old waterskiing days in Cyprus many years ago. I might try it again sometime. 

There is an ancient red and white hooped but fully functioning lighthouse on a promontory at the southern end of the beach. It was a pay to go up it job; R10 for locals, R25 for foreigners, R20 to take a camera, R 30 to take a video camera and they issue a ticket for each, stamped and signed. I’m surprised they don’t concoct a few more chargeable extras ( for binoculars, spectacles, woolly hat, telescope, rope, sandwiches etc. ) and they probably will. There was a group of Brit tourists and myself waiting for the ‘caretaker’ to finish his rather loud and disgusting sounding ablutions before opening up shop.  We had to take our shoes off, can’t think why, before going up the 152 steps and then up a dodgy looking metal ladder to the balcony around the top where another two ‘officials’ checked and stamped our tickets again. You would think we were entering a highly classified military establishment. The view from the top was good enough but the low rail of the balcony caused me to suffer a little vertigo. Nobody else seemed to mind. There were several working fishing boats along the shore and music and elaborate kites being flown. It was all very jolly if a little on the tacky touristy side. I quite enjoyed myself anyway'.

Hat would not be out of place at Ascot.

Back to Trivandrum on the only new, modern, air-conditioned bus that I have seen, so far, in India. It wasn’t even crowded. This was on the 21st December which, I hardly need remind you, is Sahagun Day. For those few who don’t grasp the significance; look it up on the internet.
I had promised to buy a bottle of whisky to celebrate the occasion with Colonel Roy and another guest, an amusing German lady, Ulrike, from Frankfurt. Buying alcohol, especially spirits, in Trivandrum is not easy. They most certainly do not have wine shops as we know them, or pubs for that matter. That reminds me, I haven't seen an Oirish Bear since leaving Singapore. Maybe they are banned by Hindus and Buddhists. I had to find a Government licensed store which eventually I did. It was located in a dingy looking cellar with rubbish ( as always ) all over the floor. The darkened ‘shop’ area was behind a strong metal grille and about 20 other men were queuing up at a small hatch to order their hooch. It was barely possible to see inside to choose from what they had to offer. I found that Scotch whisky was incredibly expensive ( $50 per bottle ) so I went for Indian produced Signature whisky which I know from Col. Roy to be perfectly acceptable. It took a long time to get it. The place had the feeling of an American prohibition era ‘speakeasy’ or Irish shebeen.

Merebimur! Col Roy with his medals.

So we celebrated ‘Sahagun’ in good military fashion. As it happens myself and Col. Roy share a rather distant and tenuous military connection. My old Regiment, the 15th/19th Hussars, was the result of an amalgamation in 1922. The 19th Hussars’ full title was the 19th Hussars (Queen Alexandra’s Own).  Col. Roy’s Regiment was 3rd Queen Alexandra’s Own Gurkha Rifles ( 3 GR ). So, the late Queen Alexandra is our common link. 

Lots of chota pegs were consumed before a delicious, and not too spicy, dinner. The only thing missing was the singing of the traditional songs. You know, ‘Twas in Quarters We Lay’ etc. I thought it a bit presumptuous to get Col Roy and Ulrike to join in on that and, especially, the Blaydon Races which might not have made much sense to them.

The museum.

The next day I went to explore the park area. There is an old museum housed in a beautiful building, haven't a clue what style......Indian, I suppose. It costs all of R5 ( 7 pence ) to get in. The exhibits are almost exclusively ancient statues in various sizes of Hindu deities ( of which there are hundreds and most seem to have four or more arms and a couple of heads ) or ceremonial junk. Many of the exhibits are badly labelled and those not made of metal or stone are in rather tatty condition. It was of no great interest to me and photography, for some unknown reason, was strictly prohibited. Talking of Hindu gods, the reason why cattle are 'revered' in Hindu culture, I was told, is because the god Krishna was supposedly saved by some cows. How, exactly, was not made clear. It is extraordinary that people here nowadays still revere cattle because of this load of old cobblers, or should I say bullshit.

Decrepit cages at the zoo

Then to the zoo. Quite a lot of animals, birds and reptiles are in residence. The trouble is that most of them are housed in very old, decrepit and dark cages behind enormously thick bars and metal grilles and you are kept a distance from them by further railings or barriers. It was often difficult to see what was inside and useless to try to take photos. I walked several times around a large caged and meshed enclosure which supposedly had king cobras inside. I never saw one! I guess they might have been hiding. Maybe they live in burrows? Or have escaped! Some of the large outside enclosures were entirely devoid of life and some were missing the plaques to tell you what you were, or weren't looking at. One large open air enclosure had lots of pigeons in it. I don't think it was intended as a pigeon enclosure. An enormous evil looking hook-beaked vulture lived by itself in one rather small, gloomy and dusty cage. It was standing morosely in one corner while a couple of rats were nibbling away at something on the cage floor. Either the rats were deliberately put in there as 'rations', or they were chancing their arm a bit, I thought.

Right: A resident monkey. I believe it is called a lion monkey because it has a tuft on the end of it's tail. Daft looking creature if you ask me. The feeling was probably mutual.











The large tiger enclosure ( left ) had a hammock and tarpaulin shelter in it, plus a washing line on which was hung a pair of trousers. This posed a few questions. Either these tigers are accustomed to new home comforts, or some vagrant had picked a very dodgy place to set up his last ever camp. Isn’t there an old children’s fable about a tiger chasing little black Sambo around a tree and wearing his clothes with his
little red shoes on his ears, then running so fast that he, the tiger, turns into ghee, or am I getting muddled. I’m sure the book will have been banned by now anyway. The trousers reminded me of this.


There were indeed four tigers pacing up and down in separate cages nearby. They looked in good enough condition but I felt a bit sorry for them really. What a tedious and lonely life they must lead, although maybe it's preferable being gawped at by tourists to being poached for daft but highly sought after Chinese medicines.  At least the British aristocracy have long ago acquired sufficient tiger-skin rugs, so there is no longer any danger from that quarter.





Left: ...and a leopard.













What also intrigued me were the zoo 'rules' for us gawkers ( right ). I had no particular inclination to tease ( telling the monkey that it looked stupid for example ) or throw anything at the wildlife, or spit for that matter. I did, however, spend considerable time looking for the enclosure containing the Trivandrum Ladies Circle, to no avail.
The zoo was quite interesting, I suppose, but it was scruffy, dirty and weed-grown and in need of a considerable revamp. Sorry, I’ll rephrase that; it needs to be completely rebuilt.









Back to the fascinating subject of transport. The auto-rickshaws here ( left ) are all much more ‘hi-tech’ than the old cranks, 'wreckshaws', in Trichy. They have meters ( albeit not used ) and electric horns and are still incredibly cheap. They are coloured a smart uniform black with yellow stripes. I think they are marvellous machines and would be of fantastic use in UK. They are cheap to run, neat, small, manoeuvrable, easy to park, efficient and probably simple to maintain. Of course, like that other convenient means of transport so effectively used and enjoyed in the USA and Mexico, the Sedgeway, they would inevitably fall foul of myriad British road transport laws and ‘elf ‘n’ safety regulations. Perhaps they could be of use on private estates.

I am also always impressed when and wherever people are allowed to ride motorbikes and scooters without wearing helmets, as they are here. I don’t doubt for one second that wearing a crash-helmet is a good idea; I did of my own accord when regularly riding a scooter in Vietnam. I also agree with launching publicity campaigns to explain the benefits of doing so. I just don’t like legal enforcement ( and being fined and otherwise penalised ) for doing something, or not, which only affects my own safety. If people are rash enough for whatever reason not to wear a helmet, I have no problem with that. We have all become far too precious and over-protected by the nanny state in my, undoubtedly minority, humble opinion but that’s what I think!


Left: An example of a pleasant cafe garden in the smarter part of Trivandrum. All the shrubs and bushes had labels attached with their botanical names on.











I have noticed that due to medical amenities not being quite as they are in the developed world there are many more malformed individuals resulting from such diseases as polio ( withered legs ) and other diseases or genetic defects. Those inflicted just have to get on with life as best they can and no whingeing. This little chap ( right ) was scarcely two feet tall. Watching him cross the road was a 'hold-your-breath' experience. How he hasn't been run over is a miracle. He crossed the road to buy a book and scampered on.




Left: The sports stadium which was probably well used but somewhat bereft of grass.












Right: I would like to say this immaculately dressed chap was the Mess Sergeant at Colonel Roy's establishment. In fact he was the doorman at a hotel nearby.
















Back to the Varicatt Officers’ Mess ( left ) for a final chota peg and supper with the gallant Colonel and Ulrike before a fond farewell. This is another highly recommended place to stay if you ever happen to be passing by.                                                                    


I am due to catch the 2040hrs train to Margao in the ex-Portugese State of Goa. It should be an interesting 24 hour journey with a change of train at Mangalore.

Merebimur.