CRUISING THE BACKWATERS OF KERALA
by Margaret Deefholts
The
scene is lazy, dreamlike. Winding waterways, waves stippled by sunlight, palm-fringed
shores, and fishing nets slung from cantilevered masts which rear like pterodactyl
skeletons against a steel-blue sky. The four of us, my sister Phyllis, my cousin
Noelene and her husband Lionel, and I are cruising the backwaters of Kerala
on the west coast of southern India. We are aboard a two-bedroom houseboat and,
like pampered colonials of another era, we loll against cushions on rattan settees
in the living room and sip chilled Indian beer. The tang of sea air, borne on
the warm breeze mingles with the spicy smell of frying fish from the kitchen
galley at the aft of the boat.
Joseph, rangy and languid, is head honcho of the three-man
boat crew. He announces lunch as Francis, the cook, bustles in and places rice,
lentils, crisp sizzling fish, and curried eggplant sprinkled with grated coconut,
on the table. A yoghurt-based salad of tomatoes, cucumber and green chillies
completes the meal. Francis looks much like an eggplant himself - plump, black-skinned
and shiny. The third crew member, John, is helmsman and general factotum. He
has a ready smile, and hair as curly as fried onions. All three of them are
Christians, but Joseph is the only one who speaks English with relative fluency.
Afternoon shadows leap against the woven cane walls
of our houseboat as slitty-eyed with repletion, we listen to the soft lap of
the water against the bow and the drone of the outboard motor.
Although the scenery along the backwaters is breathtaking,
this part of Kerala coast is more than just a tourist tropical paradise. The
canals, an intricate network of waterways extending from the port city of Kochi
(Cochin), south to Alappuzha (Alleppey) and Kollam (Quilon), play an intrinsic
part in the lives of those who live along its banks.
Sheltered within coconut palm groves, little village
settlements are alive with activity: women slap their laundry on stones at the
water's edge, men cycle along narrow winding roads with baskets of bananas perched
on their back-carriers, and uniformed school children sit under the trees, repeating
their lessons in a sing-song chant. Naked urchins splash in the shallows, bobbing
up and down, grinning, waving and shouting, "Hullo! hullo! Do you have
pens? Chocolate? Chewing gum?" Fishing nets are spread out to dry along
the foreshore, and small whitewashed churches gleam in the sun.
The canals also serve as transport for both people
and goods. We pass a prim sari-clad matron sitting on a wooden bench in a dug-out
canoe, looking for all the world like a not-amused Queen Victoria. Crowded municipal
ferries putter self-importantly past us. Other barges, rusty old derelicts,
carry cattle, bulging jute gunny sacks and baskets of coconuts. Fishermen, bare-bodied
except for lungis (cotton loin-cloths) knotted around their waists, beam and
wave. One of them
hoists his prize catch - a large fish, still wriggling, its fins flashing silver
in the sunlight. We clap and give him a thumbs up.
It is late afternoon now and John steers the houseboat
towards the shore. Joseph explains that we are stopping for tea and will then
visit a family who make their living at coir spinning-a typical cottage industry
along the coast.
We sip our tea in the shade of a lean-to bamboo shack,
and nibble on upma (fried semolina invigorated by mustard seed, onions and chilies)
served on banana leaves, and then follow Joseph into the neighboring village.
The coir spinners consist of granny, grandpa, mum, dad, aunts, uncles and several
children ranging from infants to teenagers. The women spiral out strands of
the sun-dried coconut husk fibre and feed it into a spinning wheel which turns
it into string. Later it will be wrapped into skeins and sold to jute manufacturers
by the weight. They make $5.00 a day - depending on the output. Joseph assures
us that, although meagre by Western standards, this is a good, steady income.
A crone bearing a runny-nosed baby on her hip, smiles at us through toothless
gums; the younger women continue with their work - they have quotas
to fill, notwithstanding the curiosity of visiting tourists.
Coconut palms grow in profusion all along the Kerala
coastline. As a commercial crop, they provide not only coir but a variety of
other products. The grated flesh, coconut milk and cream are integral components
of South Indian cuisine. The oil is extracted for cooking purposes and is also
used by the cosmetic industry to produce a range of popular and highly-scented
hair oils. Dried palm fronds are plaited to serve as thatching, and coconut
water is a refreshing drink on a hot day. Another beverage is also part of the
palm industry and as we return to the houseboat, Lionel says to Joseph: "We'd
like to buy some toddy. Is there a shop nearby?" Joseph, clad in an under-vest
and loin-cloth, thoughtfully scratches the area below his armpit. "Okay,"
he says laconically. "I will get for you."
Toddy is palm sap, and if it is harvested early in
the morning it is clear and sweet. Later as the day grows hot, it ferments into
arrack. As it turns out we aren't able to buy just a glass or two. It's a whole
bottle or nothing. The liquid looks like phenol and packs a strong smell. It
is cheap, however, so we decide to give it a try.
One sip, and that's it. It reeks and tastes like yesterday's
vomit. "Here you are," says Lionel magnanimously to Joseph, handing
over the near-full bottle.
An
hour later, as dusk falls, John drops anchor mid-stream for the night, and hangs
kerosene-fuelled lanterns from the rafters. The sunset sky is flame-streaked
as we pour ourselves our 'happy hour' libations of gin or rum, and listen to
devotional chanting from a temple on the far shore.
Up to this point, we haven't thought about the absence
of electricity on the houseboat. A pleasant breeze has fanned through the boat
all day. Now, suddenly as night falls, the air turns oppressively still, and
even sitting out on the fore-deck under a thickly-starred sky, makes no difference.
There isn't so much as a whisper of a breeze. Lionel peels down to briefs. If
it were not for the presence of the ship's crew we would have done likewise,
stripping to bras and panties. As it is, my thin cotton T-shirt is soaked and
rivulets of perspiration trickle down my back.
Packed into our overnight bags is a small hand-held
wicker-work fan, and as I make my way to our cabin to retrieve it, I almost
trip over the empty bottle of arrack lying in the corridor. Further along the
passage Joseph is sprawled on the floor, out cold. Sounds of merriment emanate
from the kitchen and I peer stealthily around the corner. Both John and Francis
are singing lustily, John bashing a metal cooking pot with a spoon, Francis
thumping his feet on the floor. Neither of them notices me.
"Better pour yourself another drink," I
say as I rejoin the group. "Looks like we'll have to depend on liquid nourishment
for dinner."
But I'm wrong. Dinner, served by a swaying Francis
and an equally unsteady but beaming John, is a full meal: pea soup, steamed
black rice (a specialty of the area), masala king prawns, curried mutton, vegetable
cutlets and sugar-dusted banana fritters.
We've now run out of cologne-soaked Wet Ones and Noelene
wonders whether the beer ice-chest might yield cubes to lay against our foreheads
and necks. "Ice?" I say hopefully to Francis, pointing to the ice-box.
"No any ice," he says solemnly. "Ice
box, he is locked. Joseph got key. But him no wake up. Him too drunk."
This sends John into a fit of giggles. "Him too
drunk," he repeats happily, and kicks gently at his boss's snoring, recumbent
form. Joseph merely grunts and turns over onto his side.
Although a window is set along one wall of our cabins,
it affords no cross-ventilation. The heavy air lies against our faces like a
suffocating blanket, and even the mosquitoes are too lethargic to move. Lights
from the village ripple the waters, and all night long, as we groan and thrash
around on sweat-soaked sheets, the drums and chanting seem to get louder and
more intrusive. Around four in the morning, a tiny wisp of breeze enters the
window, and we fall into an uneasy doze.
When we emerge bleary-eyed for breakfast, a fresh
wind ruffles the pages of a newspaper lying on the coffee table. Other than
the whites of his eyes which look like they are on fire, Joseph appears none
the worse for wear.
The
scene is lazy, dreamlike. Winding waterways, waves stippled by sunlight, palm-fringed
shores, and fishing nets slung from cantilevered masts which rear like pterodactyl
skeletons against a steel-blue sky. The four of us, my sister Phyllis, my cousin
Noelene and her husband Lionel, and I are cruising the backwaters of Kerala
on the west coast of southern India. We are aboard a two-bedroom houseboat and,
like pampered colonials of another era, we loll against cushions on rattan settees
in the living room and sip chilled Indian beer. The tang of sea air, borne on
the warm breeze mingles with the spicy smell of frying fish from the kitchen
galley at the aft of the boat. 
them
hoists his prize catch - a large fish, still wriggling, its fins flashing silver
in the sunlight. We clap and give him a thumbs up. 
quotas
to fill, notwithstanding the curiosity of visiting tourists. 
An
hour later, as dusk falls, John drops anchor mid-stream for the night, and hangs
kerosene-fuelled lanterns from the rafters. The sunset sky is flame-streaked
as we pour ourselves our 'happy hour' libations of gin or rum, and listen to
devotional chanting from a temple on the far shore. 