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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.[* "images/keralabackwaters2a.jpg"]

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.

South Indians are a tolerant people. Hinduism, Islam, Judaism and Christianity have flourished along this Malabar coast for centuries. On our first shore excursion of the day, Joseph leads us through a lovely old 18^th century church built by the Portuguese. He then takes us along a rough pathway to a wood-carver’s workshop, one room of which is filled with larger-than-life size statues of saints and Madonnas. They appear commonplace at first glance, lacking any originality of design or concept, and we glance around desultorily, hoping we can make good our escape before the owner hits us with a sales pitch.

I pause before a massive Crucifix carved in rich brown wood, which stands propped against a wall—and the expression of the Christ figure causes me to suck in my breath. It portrays the desolation of a man, crying out in spiritual anguish, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” This is not just a thing of wood; it is an artist’s elegy to his personal Lord and Savior. I run my fingers across the wood surface, over the knotted, strained muscles in an upper arm, the cruel jut of the rib-cage, and the distended network of veins along the calves and feet. It strikes me that there is something extraordinary about standing here in a battered shack set in a grove of palm-trees in an insignificant little village, with sawdust motes dancing in a shaft of sunlight, the smell of turpentine and polish, and the sounds of chipping, sawing and planing surrounding me, and looking at an unsung piece of art that has its creator’s soul limned into the wood-grain.

The owner of the workshop is a stocky, bespectacled man in his mid-thirties. “The art of wood carving goes back three generations in my family," he explains. “I spent two years at the J.J. School of Arts in Bombay,” he says, “but my father and my grandfather never had a lesson in their lives.” He shows us a 3-inch high bas-relief of a village scene rendered in exquisite detail down to the curve of a grass blade under the foot of a tiny goat. " My grandfather carved this,” he says, and then, catching my questioning glance he adds, “but it is not for sale. It is part of my family’s heritage.”

Contrary to our earlier misgivings, he does not press us to buy anything, as very few of the exhibits are for sale. Most have been hand-carved on order from churches or private patrons.

On our way back to the houseboat, Joseph talks about the big annual Snake Boat race held in August along the backwaters. The festival is exuberant with music and dancing and as a warm up to the main event, a regatta of gaily decorated small craft tack their way past tens of thousands of people. Then, when the Snake Boat race starts, the crowd goes wild. They wave and cheer as rowing teams from twenty or thirty villages up and down the coast compete fiercely to win the much coveted Nehru Cup. Every boat is an original piece of work, carved with pride and skill. “It takes many years to make a canoe,” says Joseph.  “Come, I will show you one that is still being constructed even after eight years.”

Small wonder. Mounted on struts in an open-sided hut is a gargantuan Snake Boat. At a length of 131 feet, it extends further than the depth of my larger-than-average residential plot back home. It has a draft of just under 2 feet,  is 5.75 feet in girth and is surmounted by an 9-foot high headpiece shaped to resemble a formidable cobra-head. 110 men row in synch to the chant of four singers seated fore and aft, while a drummer sitting half way along the length of the boat, pounds a sturdy log against the bottom of the canoe. Not only does this provide a rhythm for the oarsmen, but it propels the craft forward by lifting it up very slightly after each hefty thud, thereby increasing its velocity. Teams routinely clock a mile in four minutes but, according to Joseph, they have to do better than that in order to win.

Alappuzha dozes in the afternoon glare as we pull up to the jetty.  This is journey’s end. The crew pile our overnight bags onto the dock, and Ramdas, the driver of our rented car, helps us haul them into the trunk. We say our farewells, and John poles the houseboat away from the bank. As the boat grows smaller, we hear him singing across the widening band of water.

IF YOU GO:

Getting There: Although buses ply between the large neighboring twin cities of Kochi and Ernakulam to both Alappuzha and Kolam (the latter is also connected by rail to Chennai) the most convenient option is to rent a taxi from Kochi to Alappuzha (about a 90 min. drive at a cost of approx $10.00 one way) and cruise down to Kolam. An hour and a half away by taxi from Kolam is the attractive beach resort of Kovalam. Kochi (worth a couple of days’ stay in itself) is connected by rail (Ernakulam) and air to Mumbai, Goa, Delhi, Bangalore and Chennai, but not all flights run daily, so check with your travel agent.

Where to Stay: Kochi and Ernakulam have several hotels, ranging from five-star luxury accommodation to mid-priced establishments and budget accommodation. Prices run the gamut from $120 to $10 per day. Prices are generally lower in both Alappuzha and Kolam. Check out The Lonely Planet Guide - India or obtain details from your travel agent.

The Backwaters: 

Houseboats (rattan-framed, converted rice-boats) may be booked through the District Tourist Promotion Council or the Kerala Government Tourist Department, or by a local travel agent. Overnight tours run to approximately $170.00 for a two-double-bedroom houseboat (some provide up to eight bunks) with an add-on of $18.00 per person for three meals.

Day tours: Houseboats may also be hired for day trips at $120 (plus meals) which is an attractive bargain for group travel. In addition, the Kerala Tourist Development Corporation runs eight-hour trips between Alleppey and Kollam for a nominal $8.00 per person (meals extra) which include the services of a knowledgeable tour guide. Other than a stop for lunch en-route, the trip does not include shore excursions. Although the government boats may lack the ambience of a houseboat, they run on schedule, are spanking clean and well maintained. Bookings and details are available at the Kerala Government Tourist Reception Centre in Kochi or through your travel agent.

Public Ferries also crisscross the backwaters. Among other routes, The State Water Transport runs six ferries a day between Alappuzha and Kottayam (2-1/2 hours) at a cost of 20 cents per trip. Hop on if you want something that goes beyond conventional tourist expectations.

Note: All prices quoted above (in Canadian dollars) are approximate and subject to change. Check with your travel agent for up-to-date information.

Text and photographs: Margaret Deefholts

e-mail: deefholt@shaw.ca

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