How Did I Get Here?

Indian icon: The Hindustan Ambassador

Every time you enter a new country alone and anonymous you are being reborn. The vigorous thud of the immigration stamp is the labour groan which propels you into a new life, passing through customs is the final passage through the cervix, the arrival hall with its bright lights and clamorous strangers, is the maternity ward before you alight into the real world. The stamp in your passport is your new birth date. The slate is wiped clean again, whatever came before has no relevance, regrets merely a lingering aftertaste of a previously consumed and digested life. You possess the burning clarity of an Old Testament prophet. Nobody knows you, nobody cares, anything is possible.

The feeling of abandoning yourself to the terrifying present can only be compared to jumping off a cliff. And yes, before you ask, I’ve done it, the knee scar is there as embarrassing reminder. Most people wisely decide against throwing themselves off cliffs, and instead take drugs to attain the same heady cocktail of fear and exhilaration.

Always one looking for bigger kicks, peaks and rushes, I buy a one way ticket to the unknown, and I’m high for months. In the long run it’s probably a cheaper, less harmful addiction, although just as socially unacceptable, especially if your habit continues after the grace period of your 20’s.

So, I was starting again at year 0, my chosen place of rebirth the port of Kochi, in Kerala state, south India. I slipped into my new life at midnight, unnoticed; the jostling crowds at arrivals looking past me to the next passenger pushing trolleys laden with stereo systems, DVD players, electric food mixers. For every one person arriving, there was a whole village to greet.

The taxi driver had a round, oily face with a constantly jolly expression, similar to a ventriloquist doll.

“Where are you coming from?” he smiled the question.

“From Vietnam”

“Ah, but you are looking very Western? So your mommy and daddy are living in Vietnam? ”

This was my first confusing encounter with Indian English. It doesn’t take long to figure out that they use the present continuous tense for everything. Must be a nightmare for English teachers to root out this prolific grammar weed.

“No, actually I COME from South Africa.”

“Are you needing any help with your luggage?”, he opened the boot of an instantly recognisable Indian classic: the ubiquitous 1950’s Morris Oxford, endlessly reincarnated as the Hindustan Ambassador. This was enough for me to instantly fall in love with India. As I eagerly clambered onto the elevated back seat, a young Nordic-looking guy, approached the taxi and asked if he could share the ride into town. Bonus.

I was still wrapped in a haze of delight, admiring the black vinyl seats, the rosary swinging gaily from the rear view mirror, chattering away to the Estonian student, when a big, white dog darted across the road. It managed to dodge a careening truck, only to run straight into the wheels of the taxi. For a brief second chrome and bones collided in a sickening crunch. The driver didn’t flinch, or slow down. I listened for something I didn’t want to hear, and then it came; the howl of (hopefully) death from the poor stricken animal.

“OH JEEEEEEZUS………CHRRRIST!” I was freaking out at the back.

Call me a despicable misanthrope, or worse; a bunny hugger, but I have to confess that the suffering of my own species never evokes the same anguish and torment as when I perceive animal suffering (usually at the hands of humans). It can twist me up for days afterwards.

“Bad karma…” the Estonian remarked coolly.

The driver remained as impassive as the baby Jesus stuck on the dashboard.

I was glad when we arrived at the guesthouse, in the heart of Fort Cochin, the most historical, and therefore most popular of the islands which make up Kochi. The room was functional in a way that a hospital waiting room is, lacking any notions of aesthetics, comfort or pretence. However, it did come with a little friend; a displaced centipede, writhing its way to nowhere on the white wall galaxy. The bed was hard enough for a penitential monk, but I slept like a spent priest.

The next morning I decided to take a pre-breakfast stroll. I was greeted by a Sacred Heart Jesus looming above the reception desk, with the solemn declaration: “Christ is the head of this house”. Further down the road, another door sticker proudly displayed this little rosy-cheeked pondering: “Why worry if Jesus is there?”

Well, Jesus must be away on business leaving his flock with a lot of worries, as the high suicide rate in Kerala sadly testifies. Apparently one every hour, making it the state with the most suicides in India.

It felt like I stumbled on some sleepy Portuguese missionary outpost in Brazil. Banyan tree-lined lanes and squares with names like Vasco da Gama and Queiro street, revealed ornate shrines and white-washed churches. Other signs of Kochi’s eventful history were evident in the Dutch cottages with split farmhouse doors, a village green straight from England’s Home Counties and the so called “Jew Town”, containing a Synagogue and musty tax consultant offices. The shop windows displayed Kochi’s religious stew; figurines of Jesus and the Madonna jostled with Ganesh, Vishnu, and Ghandi for window space.

The celestial menagerie was matched by a more terrestrial one. Everywhere crows were squawking and strutting in their shiny black suits, stealing diners’ food, or scavenging on rubbish. Gangs of delinquent goats congregated on street corners tearing off and eating posters of local politicians. Homeless dogs went about their cut-throat business of begging for scraps. And of course, like in any other society, you get those that are just born lucky and live a life of protected privilege; the (w)holy useless cows.

Walking along the waterside promenade, I watched as fishermen lowered the evocative Chinese fishing nets into the sea. Operated by levers and weights, this fishing technology was introduced by traders from the court of Kublai Khan, and has remained unchanged for centuries.

The sea air kindled a raging appetite, so I dropped in at the Kashi Art Café for breakfast. The café is set in a modern art gallery, the tables placed in the outer courtyard, under a canopy of palms and frangipane. The effortlessly cool, sophisticated atmosphere was accentuated with ambient Indian percussion music and the whir of the coffee bean grinder. The clientele matched the décor. Dressed in an oxymoronic style of hippy chic, the offspring of the 70’s flower children looked like they belonged on the glossy pages of a Vogue spread: “La Vie de Boheme”. Gone are the tie dye t-shirts and Hare Krishna beads, replaced by shimmering silks in radiant fuschia and blood orange crimson, ethnic-patterned linens, and chunky, stone laden jewellery . Each one had more toe rings than toes, the poof pants and pashminas draping from their tall, willowy bodies. In my purposefully modest elbow-length shirt and pedal pushers, I felt like someone who turns up at a lavish fancy-dress soiree with their work clothes on.

As satisfying as my espresso was, I was in search of something to appease my nightmarish fantasies of India: half naked gurus in various bodily and mental contortions, elephants stampeding hysterical worshippers, relentlessly limbless beggars… yeah, OK, I’ll stop.

I didn’t have to look long. The tourist info desk informed me that it was in fact the last day of a Hindu festival, culminating in an elephant procession. I was on the next ferry to the temple before you could say religious freak show.

The temple is located on the neighbouring island of Vypin, a narrow strip of land with one road down the middle. I haled down a bus, and after a bumpy ride, arrived at the temple, set back from a palm grove and surrounded by sand.

The elephants were nowhere to be seen, so I walked behind the temple where I found them lazily eating under the palm trees. The mahouts (elephant keepers) were preparing them for their divine duty by wrapping a wrist-width chain between their feet. I went up close until I could see their long drag queen eyelashes and took some photos. Between the palm trees I spotted another specimen which caught my interest, the only other foreigner I’d seen at the temple.

Right, just a little prelude. Most women will concede that when it comes to sexually attractive occupations, we prefer the fearless man of action to the corporate yes-man. Masculinity, not domesticity is the naturally selected attribute in our fantasy world of who’s the fittest. Some predictable pin-up professions include: the calm-under-fire pilot, the stoically heroic fire-fighter, the Indiana Jones look-alike anthropologist, and the extreme explorer who kills his supper with his bare hands. Usually any one of these would make us swoon with bosom-heaving desire.

Now girls, imagine all of them rolled into one….

Enter Jean-Francois, a French-Canadian from Quebec province.

Deep breath….he’s a helicopter pilot whose job involves combating wild fires, grew up and lived amongst an isolated Inuit tribe, and goes on month-long expeditions into the remotest outback of the Quebec tundra. With an exterior as rugged as the Canadian Rockies but a manner as gentle as a prairie breeze, I immediately took a liking to him.

While waiting for the festival to get under way we went to have a freshly pressed grape juice drink. The crowds steadily grew. A man came up to us warbling in a language only he could understand and insisted on sticking out his tongue and poking it in our faces. It was dyed a shocking pink colour. He then promptly demanded money.

When we returned to the temple the surrounding area was packed with families, young men in tucked-in lungyis (a type of sarong) and touts selling plastic birds, flower garlands, deity offerings, and anything which you can honk, jangle or clank, to add to the existing cacophony. The women’s saris were so intensely bright, it hurt your eyes if you looked at them too long. Every piece of exposed skin was adorned with gold jewellery.

The air was thick with religious fervour and drunken abandon. Some men were already passed out, lying face down in the sand, another over-enthusiastic reveller almost got trampled as they led out the elephants.

A conch shell was blown three times. Then the earth started screaming. Scrawny, bare-chested men held up huge C-shaped brass trumpets and produced the most intense ear-shattering noise I’ve heard this side of the apocalypse. Another group of men had upright barrel drums slung over the shoulder, and starting with a slow, deep roll they methodically built up the frenetic tempo.

The elephants were slowly made to stand side by side, foot bells jangling as they shuffled, their adorned foreheads fiercely glittering in the sun. The decorative shields were strapped on behind their ears and overlaid with golden domes of different sizes, edged off with multi-coloured tassels. Each of the 9 elephants were mounted by one or two mahouts, brandishing a red parasol with a very thin, long handle; silver trinkets dangling from the rim.

And so they stood, while the musicians unleashed their ever furious sonic assault. For the next 3 hours nothing much happened, besides the mahouts periodically exchanging the parasols for different coloured ones. The crowds packed in tighter, and seemed to become more excited and rowdier.

Like a 24 hour rave, I think it’s one of those long haul events that you can only appreciate if you experience it in all its fluctuating phases and moods until its epiphanous end. However, being more versed in hedonism than Hinduism, I didn’t have the necessary background to make sense of the symbolic meaning of the musical cycles and changing parasols, nor the fuel of religious ecstasy. After a few hours, I felt like an old-school rock veteran at a trance party, whinging that the music all sounds the same. By nightfall I decided to make my way back to Fort Cochin. Mightier than the roar of the drums, was the call of my first ice-cold Kingfisher beer.

By the time Jean and I left, the road outside the temple was a swelling river of worshippers.We pushed, shoved and bullied our way onto the moving bus. The bus ride back to the island’s jetty was the most physical experience you can have with your clothes on. Steamier than a strip joint’s changing rooms, the sweet smell of sweat and coconut hair oil mingled with the odour of fish curry. The bus was more packed than a Nigerian suitcase, but still the people clambered on, grabbing onto the limbs dangling from the open doors and windows. I got pushed to the front, against the bars of the driver’s box. To make matters worse, the clutch plate was obviously wrecked, so the bus heaved to and through in erratic thrusts. Every time it jolted forward, I had to push with all my strength against the avalanche of bodies pressing me against the bars.

We arrived back in Fort Cochin, hell-bent on finding a restaurant which served cold beer. Not as easy as you might think. Due to the draconian drinking policies still in effect in Kerala and other states, unlicensed restaurants serve beer in tea pots, pouring the beer in tea cups to disguise the contents. Of course the police are aware of this, and will only clamp down on a restaurant owner if they need some extra cash.

My first beer in India was a significant enough occasion for Jean to insist that we should find a place that serves it in its bottle. A rickshaw driver finally directed us to the XL Bar and Restaurant. Unfortunately, they’d run out of Kingfisher, so we had Black Label instead. I now know what serious beer drinkers mean when they rave about that first cold beer of the day. After several more, and a satisfying meal of prawn curry and beef masala, we chatted till the bar closed.

At a seaside shack, we finally found some Kingfishers, the emblematic beer of South India. The plan was to drink them on the roof terrace of my guesthouse, but the stern owner would have none of it, insisting it was closed.Being in too much of a good mood to make a scene, we wandered off to the seaside promenade and found a quiet little spot on some benches overlooking the Chinese fishing nets, the sound and smell of the sea adding to the intoxicating location.

My first day came to an end as we drank our Kingfishers from the bottle, its label proudly proclaiming, “The King of Good Times”. I couldn’t agree more. Gulping it down, straight from the source, life tasted very good.

Sometimes you can hold eternity in a moment. As when you jump off a cliff.

Tags: China and South East Asia, Fort Cochin, Hindu festivals, India, Indian festivals, Kerala, Kochi, South India

This entry was posted on Monday, March 3rd, 2008 at 7:52 am and is filed under China and South East Asia, India. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.