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 towards the next passengers pushing trolleys laden with stereo systems, DVD players, electric food mixers. For every one person arriving, there was a whole village to greet them.

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. It’s still one of the most popular cars in India, and claims to be the best suited to the harsh Indian terrain. I was soon given a demonstration of its solidity, when in mid-conversation, the driver drove straight into a big white dog, desperately dashing to the other side of the road. “Dog had bad karma”, he remarked cooly, remaining 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. The bed was hard enough for a penitential monk. However, it did come with a little friend; a displaced centipede, writhing its way to nowhere on the white wall galaxy.

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

When I 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, the emblematic beer of south India. By the time I left, the road outside the temple was a swelling river of worshippers. I pushed, shoved and bullied my 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 club’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.

Back in Fort Cochin, I became 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.
However, I considered my first beer in India a significant enough occasion to warrant a proper bottle. A rickshaw driver finally directed me to a seaside shack, where they sold coconut juice over the table, and beers under. I found a quiet little spot along the promenade, on some benches overlooking the Chinese fishing nets, the sound and smell of the sea adding to the intoxicating location.

My first day in India came to an end as I drank my Kingfisher 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.

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.