Our destination upon leaving Pune was Cochin (alt. Kochin) in Kerala, the name given to a cluster of settlements made up of Ernakulum on the mainland, Fort Kochin, an island offshore, and between them, Willingdon Island, a body of land piled up when the harbor was originally dredged. It was to be our first introduction to Kerala, (#1) the only state to annually find itself on the list of civilized places of the world and the only one with a communist government.

When Christian missionaries came here many centuries ago they discovered an indigenous religion, whose doctrines, although not quite the same, uncannily resembled their own teachings. (See photos, #2-6) Later research revealed that one of the disciples of Jesus made it to this coast, and in establishing a following that persists to the present time, preserved a form of the earliest Christianity, thus bypassing Rome and all other western influences. A trip down the coast will reveal to the traveler Christian communities alternating with those of the Hindus, very large and elaborate western style churches next to yet more imposing Shiva temples, a mix of architectural styles so vastly different as to be more suggestive of an interstellar diplomatic enclave than a place on earth. The brew is made yet more surreal by the regular intermixture of Communist Party of India (CPI) office buildings, with their one-story high golden or red hammer and sickle emblems. (#7-8) Billboards on walls reflect the same mix; images of Jesus, depicted in a manner familiar to any westerner, images of blue Shiva, with a stream of water issuing from the top of his head, and a snake wrapped around his neck, and artful CPI posters of upraised red fists.

Kerala had the first freely elected communist government in the world, and this government is the most efficient, responsible, and honest of any in the country. The land and the people reflect the benefits of competent and serious leadership, which has consistently made the decision to forego industrialization and higher salaries, apparently fearing regimentation of the people and the pollution of the land as being of greater concern than the benefits of following stereotyped patterns of modernization. In compensation for the lack of industrial jobs, the participatory political system here has resulted in land ownership and income being more equitably distributed. Therefore farming, fishing, and ancillary activities like latex harvesting, rope making, clamshell harvesting for limekilns, and so forth, constitute the major sources of livelihood.

The cities in Kerala are smaller; streets are cleaner, urban landscapes more artful and sophisticated, potable water more widely available, the topography more varied and natural than elsewhere in India. There are abundant waterways and vast lakes, surrounded by square miles of palms, and over all reigns a sense of peace and tranquility. Being more secure in the necessities of life, there are fewer beggars, educational levels are higher, concern for the arts, which are varied, and vital is very high, and the people more mannered. Achievement of one hundred percent literacy in one district was achieved in Kerala for the first time in India, while the literacy rate here of 91% is the highest in the country.

After a long 30 hour train ride, finally in the dark of a very early morning 4:00 am, we disembarked into Greek sounding Ernakulum, the land-bound fragment of Cochin. We made our way by auto-rickshaw to the ferry head, chatted with the ferry pilot waiting for the ticket booth to open at 6, while around us flowed brightly dressed women who found places on another ferry, and clapping their hands and singing a compelling song, full of vitality and life, were born away out of sight over the dark waters to the place of their daily toil. Our boat when it finally got underway still in the dark, bore us past massive freighters, and miscellaneous smaller craft before landing us at the main dock of Ft. Cochin. From here we wandered our way into the populated areas, now lit by early morning light. The buildings we passed were exceedingly interesting, a plaster and pastel jumble of dun, yellow, and rose colored stores and houses of one and two stories, massive ancient Dutch and Portuguese warehouses and administrative offices, built during colonial periods hundreds of years past, some now moldering into decay, while others lived on, adapted to other uses by people now free to conduct affairs in their own way. (#9-12)

We found rooms in a fine old renovated Portuguese mansion, run by an intelligent man who enabled us to arrange an excellent boat trip into the back waters of Kerala, and made suggestions about onward travel, which enabled us to see things impossible without his aid. He even arranged to have my freshly washed underwear, forgotten on a cloths line on his roof, delivered to us a few days later by two Scandinavian women, guests there after us, who were also en route to Varkala, one of our subsequent destinations a hundred kilometers further down the coast.

We spent three days in Ft. Cochin, visited some warehouses left over from the colonial period, clustered in one aromatic section of the town, which served as a transshipment point for the spice trade of Kerala, (#9-12), spent some time by the Chinese fishing nets, (#13-15) and learned how active fish could be caught by the passive method of releasing a counterweight which allowed a large net, strung between a bamboo frame, to be lowered from a stationary tower into the water, and after resting in position for a time, the net, raised by several men pulling on the counterweights, brought with it a few unsuspecting fish. A man would then walk out upon the framework to the net, which hung out over the water, shake the fish into a dip net, walk back to his companions on the shore, whereupon the entire process could be repeated. This mechanism of catching fish had the virtue of being easy, and above all did not impede the fishermens main task of drinking as much whiskey as they needed to fuel their efforts. It was a sort of pay as you go kind of activity. Wander in, clap hold of the lines to the counter weights, catch a few fish with your mates, a little booze down the hatch, and off you go to do whatever it was your wife had originally sent you out to do, if you could just remember what it was. This method of catching fish was to be contrasted with its far more effortful, and far less enjoyable counterpart, which we later saw practiced in Varkala.

While in Ft. Cochin we also took in the history relating to the previous Portuguese and the Dutch occupation here, (#16-17) in its commercial, religious, and architectural aspects, and on our last evening went to a Kathakali performance, (18-25) the southern Indian version of the traditional art form by which stories from the Ramayana, and Mahabharata are portrayed. Here in Kerala the performance is robust and included the use of fire, and grunts and groans from the actors, which added great vitality to the play. Prior to the performance, make up was applied to the actors as they lay on stage, enabling us to see how this was done, after which a short background explanation of this tradition of drama was given.

We spent the last day in Ft. Cochin, sitting under the bamboo canopy of a boat being punted in a silent glide through the backwaters of Kerala, past the lives of the villagers who inhabited its shores. It occupied most of our day to do this, and in addition to enjoying the relaxing benefits of this form of meditative travel, we learned a lot about how Keralas people got by so well without industry. (28-40) The land and water were not only clean, a sight exceedingly rare in India, and a delightful experience to travel through, but their preservation ensures the life of a surprising number of families. On the narrow strips of dry land lining the waterways, coconut palms were cultivated and though water flowed freely everywhere, it did so through gates and nets, making possible the private ownership of tracts of water where fish were grown, caught, eaten and sold.

There were those who made their living climbing these towering palms to harvest the coconut, all parts of which have a use. The nut itself, available from roadside stalls everywhere, is mostly valued for its milk, drunk on the spot, or commercially rendered for oil or for cooking uses, while the meat in the form we know, is more expensive, and only occurs if the nut is planted and allowed to sprout for a short time before sale. The husk of the nut, if stripped off and soaked for six months in the water flowing beside the cottages, separates into fibers, and once allowed to dry, can be rolled into thin strands if attached to and pulled away from a spindle of a rotating wheel, very much like a spinning wheel. These strands are of considerable length, and when wound together, rope of different widths, of a very durable variety can be manufactured at home with all family members playing some useful role in the process. (31-32)

In these villages bananas were also grown, which are sold by the dozens still attached to the stalk on which they grew and when cut from the tree, and hung upside down in a shop, ripen from the bottom up. As ripe bananas are cut from the bottom the green ones above ripen and are sold in turn. Some villagers sliced and dried the bananas, and after packaging them at home, sold them as banana chips. Tapioca was also grown in the villages, and when cooked, rolled out, cut into thin slices, and dried were packaged and similarly sold. They did not lose the chance to do the same with potatoes, which when spiced, were sold as really delicious chips.

Mussels grow in abundance in these canals, and were harvested by methods, which did not appeal to me, but was pursued by many men in little thin boats made in the villages. The water in these canals seemed about neck deep in most places, and so the men stood, heads just above the water, smiling at us for a moment as we passed, then below the surface they disappeared, to emerge moments later in possession of a bucket or hod full of mud and mussels. Rinse off the mud, boil the mussels, sell the meat for a good price, then sell the calcium bearing shells to lime kilns, which sat along the banks at intervals, and viola! One has yet another form of making a living. One can also work in the limekilns, which produces the raw material for cement and other building materials. (33-34)

We had a few small adventures while in Ft. Cochin, most notably a riot of auto-rickshaw drivers who threw us out of our auto-rickshaw one day. (41) They did so because its driver had not honored the strike under way by them in their most reasonable attempt to resist the necessity to buy at great expense a meter made by a company which had bribed the government to pass a law to require its installation in all auto-rickshaws in the state. I do not like to be pushed around and had refused to disembark without a fight, but had to when Sharon, in her wrath, boiled out of the conveyance carrying me out along with her. The hair of our assailants as they stood about in threatening pose was blown back by the vehemence with which she expressed her feelings about being so used, and news of this aspect of her nature got around the island so thoroughly that never again in our stay were we treated with anything but the utmost respect by auto-rickshaw drivers. Women are passive in this country, and do nothing unless bidden by their men, and so the sight of an enraged woman is something outside their frame of reference, and an event full of power and mystery.

Early on the fourth day after our arrival in Ft. Cochin, we returned back across the water to Ernakulum, and boarded a Tamil Nadu bus for the Periyar Nature Conservancy, nearly straight east and up in the mountains which run like an asymmetrical spine from north to south dividing the tip of the Indian subcontinent into little Kerala on the west and larger Tamil Nadu on the east. Even in January it is hot in southern India, so it was blessed to rise above it into the Cardamom Hills, cool and refreshing at1800 meters. This is the place where all the spices, coffee, and tea are grown in Kerala and it is a delightful and beautiful place.

We made our way to a guesthouse at the parks very perimeter. Will chose a tree house here, (42) while we stayed in the house proper for two nights, and in the day between saw the park. Originally the topography of this area was one of heavily forested upland rolling hills and valleys, but after the Brits in the nineteenth century dammed the end of one strategic valley, the valleys were replaced by a meandering many fingered lake from which still projected scraggy perches for a vast variety of water birds. Today one sees the park from boats, which cruise leisurely along the shores of the hills, where herds of wild elephants, lake otters, wild boar, many species of deer and elk, and if you are lucky, bears, and large jungle cats can be seen. We went out twice, once in the morning and again on the last boat of the day, a time when the animals are thirsty and come to the lake edge to drink, and saw all but the lucky part. It was civilized, beautiful and relaxing, in the park, in the guesthouse, and throughout the surrounding hills. (43-51)

We had the good fortune on the day we headed out for our next destination, to find the locally most respected spicologist who took us through his ancestral family plantation in the Cardamom Hills and showed us, in their native living habitat, cinnamon, allspice, turmeric, cardamom, cocoa, coffee, many varieties of tea, ginger, pepper, passion fruit, nutmeg, vanilla, jackfruit, breadfruit, (which was carried by Bligh and Mr. Christian on the HMS Bounty), as well as teak and ebony trees, and some of the most massive spiders on the planet. (52-56)

There are some who will not sauna, but Sharon was the woman who would not at this time board any kind of bus, and so we had engaged an Ambassador, an Indian made car with a pleasing retro look, but whose name is more grandiose than the reality, and off we went through the gorgeous Cardamom Hills, bound for the ferry head at Kovalam.(57-70) The proprietor of the guesthouse in Ft. Cochin, a man of good taste, had suggested that we not fail to take the local ferry from Kovalam to Alleppey on the coast, as he felt it was one of the great rides in India. As indeed it was. At the dock we paid over our 11 Rupees, boarded a rickety old boat and for the next three hours, journeyed from local stop to stop through a fairy land of water, thin strips of solid earth, floating vegetation and flowers, and amazing boat traffic, all presided over by the relaxed oblate red sun taking its time, as we were, to get to the sea at Alleppey.

Disembarking, I walked three steps up to the street, entered a phone booth, engaged a guest house for the evening, walked thirty yards down the street, and was stopped by a policeman, who handed me his phone, which had just rung, saying David, its for you. Dee dee dee dee you are in the twilight zone, I thought as I took the phone, and was given detailed instructions on how to get to the guesthouse.

In the a.m. we boarded yet another train, and after standing for three hours crammed to the gills were brought to Varkala another hundred kilometers down the coast, an Indian beach town with the feel of a hippy hangout in Mexico.(67-68) This place, originally a little fishing and farming village on a cliff overlooking the Arabian Sea, is now a community composed of an infrastructure supporting visitors from the west who come here for the warm winter weather, the beaches, some quite good, which dot the area below the cliffs, and the quiet laid back isolation. Increasingly aware of the need to just stay put, hang out, and rest up, as we began to more fully feel the effects of difficult and constant travel we got rooms for four days at a sea side house far north of the peopled part of the beach and separated from it by an old fishing village.

We had breakfasts on the veranda, walked the beach, swam in the tricky ocean currents and waves, and spent one afternoon watching the men from the fishing village catch fish by an ancient technique indigenous to this stretch of beach.(69-73) Thinking of the lazy operation of the Chinese nets at Ft. Cochin left us amazed that the technique at work on the beaches at Varkala still existed, so great was the effort, and so little the reward. On the beach fronting the fishing village were to be found vast piles of rope, each covered with its own little hut, 30 ft. long narrow boats, with upturned, copper clad and carved Viking like bows, having space for perhaps a dozen men, with the three rearmost slots assigned to the oar handlers. Each boat contained a huge quantity of net, and while on the beach the whole was covered with canvas to keep everything dry. Lying scattered about were also several little boats about 3 meters long, each made of three pieces of planking for quick and easy assembly after disassembly to allow for drying after use in the water managing the deployed nets. Just back from all this clutter, and further from the sea were the small poor huts of the fishing village.

Early in the morning, haul lines are loaded onto the larger boats, and the nets are then deployed, in a semicircular array nearly a kilometer from shore. A long line is attached to each end and to the middle of the net by the old men who stand alone on the little boats, usually three in number. These lines are then brought to the beach and are handled by men on the shore, standing in three lines. A rock is tied of the lower margin of the net every two meters to keep the net on the bottom, so fish have no way out below, while short lines attached to the top of the net and handled by the old men in the little boats keep the top of the net at the surface, so fish have no means of escape that way either. One man on shore acts as the leader of the entire operation, and signals the little boats far out with a white rag held high and waved using a code I had not the time to decipher, while with shouts the men on shore haul on the lines at his command.

Thus the net, parallel to the shore but incurving at each margin to discourage the fish escaping from the ends, is brought gradually to the beach where the men stand, but not easily and not without much physical and mental anguish. We are in southern India, the sun beams down and it is hot and humid. The net weighs many tons, and half the time the nets are in the sea, the ocean surge attempts to drag this mass out to sea. The men like the rest of us are imperfect but in addition they are poor and though they hope and yearn for a big catch and a healthy payoff for their efforts, they know by long experience that it will probably be otherwise.

The man with the white flag shouts, the surge goes out, the men with knotted muscles and skin slick with sweat, dig their bare heels into the sand, and each leaves parallel furrows as they are dragged out in the tug of war with the sea. They watch and wait and on command, which though shouted in incomprehensible Malayallam, nonetheless carried the unmistakable pitch of foul oaths and unkind words, and with a resentment which time has reconciled with their fate, the men, when the surge turns shoreward in their favor, haul on the lines with all their strength, hoping it seemed to thereby bring a swifter end to their travail.

It takes half a day to set the net out and to haul it back in, and at the end, which we stayed to watch hoping as they did to find caught vast quantities of fish for the sustenance of their families, the increase of their wealth, and compensation for their efforts, only bitter disappointment, foul oaths, perhaps the exchange of mutual recriminations, and arguments about how to divide the few fish which were brought in. As I said at the outset, it is difficult to understand how this ancient form of tilling the sea survives, and when later that night with the air cooling, and dusk settling in, we were offered marijuana at a reasonable price by one of the old men who that day had manned one of the little boats far out from shore, a man whose hands bore wounds almost down to the bone from handling rough hempen lines, we declined but with hearty wishes for his success by this more modern and less arduous means.

Varkala and her evening sun fractured into countless points of light on the Arabian Sea,(74) her breezes constantly at work in the tops of the palms, as we wandered under them along her shores, had rested us sufficiently to make us obedient to the necessities of our tickets to Sri Lanka, and on the fifth day from our arrival there, and after a thirty minute train ride we came finally to Trivandrum.

We splurged a bit on a good guesthouse in Trivandrum.(75) We also roused ourselves to see a couple historical sights in Trivandrum, the palace built by one of Travencores last kings in the nineteenth century and its accompanying Vishnu temple. (76-79) After the middle ages and following the decline of the colonial powers who came primarily to control Kerala's spice trade, Kerala was ruled by three states, Travencore to the south, Cochin along the central coast and Malabar to the north. (80)

Our overnight stay here was a boundary, an internode between India and Sri Lanka, for the first part of our travels to southern India had ended here, while after an overnight train ride on January 23rd to Chennai in Tamil Nadu, the southernmost state on the east side of India, we began the Sri Lankan part of the journey.