Two Tales from Kerala

BOATMEN OF THE BACKWATERS

The setting

The southern Indian state Kerala is named after the local (Malayalam) word for coconut. From the Western Ghats, the hills that dissect the southern tip of the subcontinent, to the Indian ocean in the west, the flat landscape is characterised by wet paddy fields, hot and bothered cows, persistent flies that like to annoy cows and endless coconut trees. The coconut is a valuable asset - almost all of the tree has some use, from wood to fuel to medicines to cookery to, most profitably, the oil. Keralan women are known for their long straight black hair, which they apparently oil meticulously every night before going to bed.

The state is one of the most progressive, and wealthiest, in India. A communist government has been elected many times since independence, and the literacy rate is almost twice as high (90%) as neighbouring Tamil Nadu. From the important trading ports of Trivandrum and Cochin the hammer and sickle is as prominent on election posters (of which there are a lot at the moment) as the Indian flag.

The commute

In the west of the state, mile after mile of inland waterways connect the towns, villages and hamlets. To get a taste of local village life I took the 7.30 commuter boat from Allepey, on the coast, to Kottayam, 30km directly inland.

The old wooden ferry was packed full, a hundred or so workers and schoolchildren squashed onto long benches. In the middle of the seating was an imposing black engine, and as I boarded the driver was making a few last-minute adjustments to the mechanics with a screwdriver. We set off, chugging along the wide canal that runs through the centre of the town.

Leaving the town, the ferry weaved up the waterway, crossing from one side to the other to pick up and drop off passengers as requested.In the small settlements that line the banks, rural life went on as per usual. Cows kneeled down in the shade under trees. Women washed their clothes or naked toddlers in the murky brown river water Women without clothes or children carried things on their heads. Men sat outside mud huts drinking chai or adjusting fishing nets. Girls helped their mums with washing or carried less heavy things on their heads. And boys finished off early morning games of cricket before dashing to school.

Inside the boat men read newspapers, women shuffled bags of things around and older schoolchildren sent text messages. Directly in front of me, a younger child was reading a comic. The story appeared to be about a footballer called 'David Beckam' - his name the only Roman characters in a sea of curly Malayalam squiggles.

Towards the front of the boat sat the driver who, I noticed, was sill preoccupied with the engine. Next to him was the engine, which, I noticed, was giving off a lot of dark smoke. To the side of the boat was a rope man, responsible for tying up the boat and helping people off as quickly as possible when it stopped at a jetty. He wore a uniform of smart dark trousers and light a blue shirt. I guessed he was in his early twenties, far younger than the driver. Using the polished cylinder of the engine as a mirror, he began carefully combing his hair - three brushes of the top for every one of the moustache.The woman to my right had long straight black hair. As we passed a picturesque fishing net on her side I reached around behind her with my camera. There was a strong whiff of coconuts.

The problem

The boat had set off late. Something to do with the motor, the man behind explained in broken English. Then, an hour into the 90 minute journey, we ground to a halt.Some passengers sighed. The driver looked forlornly at the motor. The child in front of me did not react - he had given up on Beckam and fallen asleep. One of the more academic looking schoolchildren mentioned something to the driver and pointed to his watch. The older schoolchildren were now listening to music on their mobiles. The rope man put his comb down.

The solution

The driver called to the rope-man, who replied and then walked over looking quite sheepish.There was a shortish discussion between the two ferry staff. The driver was gesticulating, pointing at his watch and simulating the motion of the engine with his arms. Then he produced a small sickle from under his seat and handed it the rope man who took it and walked past me to the back of the boat, into the toilet that was actually not really a toilet but a door to the deck outside beyond the roof.

The child in front had now woken and was speaking to his mother. Nobody apart from me seemed to be paying any attention to the driver or the rope man. The comic book was now open on the child's lap; Beckam had scored a free kick and was being mobbed by adoring fans.

There was a large splash to my left - it was clear something had just fallen into the water. Up bobbed a man wearing nothing but a loincloth and holding a small sickle. The driver approached and started pointing and calling to the man in the water, who took a deep breath and disappeared. Some of the passengers looked over, others continued reading their newspapers. The man re-appeared holding the small sickle in one hand and a clump of weeds in the other. He disappeared similarly and re-appeared, before repeating this five or six times. The water was a deep brown colour.

The rope man clambered back onto the boat, his red bloodshot eyes stared nervously at the driver. He was dripping brown water on my sarong and had algae all over his shoulders. The driver turned the engine over. It rumbled, spluttered and eventually shuddered to life. The man looked relieved and scrambled up onto the roof of the boat.

We chugged along down the narrowing river towards our destination, now over an hour late. The people boarding the boat looked exasperated. The driver was still paying as much attention to the engine as the river ahead. David Beckam was beginning a long monologue in Malayalam with a full trophy cabinet behind him.

The unsung heroThere was a clunk and the door to the toilet behind me swung open. Out walked the rope-man, strolling non-chalently down to his original seat, adjusting the collar of his immaculately clean shirt. Nobody reacted. The driver barely seemed to notice. The rope-man-freediver-mechanic sat down, produced his comb and set his completely dry jet black hair before sprucing his moustache.

The sun was now high in the sky. At what was clearly a school the schoolchildren hurried off, ushered by the rope-man. When an old woman stumbled, he helped her up.

What a man, I thought. If there was any justice this guy would be in the local comics. I mean, what has David Beckam, or David Beckham for that matter, ever done for the people of Kerala?

THE BEACH

The coconut trees and paddy fields stop further from the sea at Varkala, held back by towering red cliffs. Here a long sandy beach stretches the length of the town. Locals terd to bathe towards the south, where religious ceremonies often spill out of the temple on to the beach. Because these ceremonies usually involve men with long grey beards and spices with unusual smells, the Westerners stick to the other end, along with the cricket-playing locals.

In the morning I got up around 6 and clambered down the steep steps of the cliff onto the sands below. Here I ran barefoot along the shore, back and forth following the shimmering line where the wet sand becomes dry. Sometimes I would stray too far from the sea where it was hard to keep going. Other times the water would catch me out and I would splash around until the wave retreated to reveal an unblemished stretch ahead. Crabs scuttled into their holes, sensing the vibrations from my approaching footsteps.By this time there were usually several games of cricket in full swing. The locals play before going to work in the restaurants and hotels on the clifftop. There were also other runners, although it clearly didn't rival cricket in the popularity stakes. Indians seem to prefer a sort of energetic walking. I sensed a reluctance to do anything that couldn't be done in trousers and shirt.

On my final morning in Varkala I noticed when descending to the beach that one game of cricket was attracting more interest than usual. There were umpires and several people sat on a log watching the action. I guessed it was a cup final of some sort. The man fielding at point was right in my path as I set off, but each time I passed I was careful to run behind him, respecting his line of sight.Coming to the end of my run I increased the pace, wanting to break my record for 12 beach-lengths. The serious game of cricket was at the far end of the beach and I was able to follow the play while running towards it. A skinny batsman was facing a fat bowler and played and missed twice. The number of spectators on the log had increased noticeably since I started running. My stopwatch said 54.21 - comfortably inside PB pace.

As I came to what was roughly the boundary, the fat man trotted in and bowled a full toss. The batsman stepped forward and whacked it into the air over the fielder at point. It sailed towards the sea shore, metres ahead of me.I had often thought about asking to participate in some beach cricket, but didn't have the nerve to ask; now I sensed my chance for glory. By speeding up to a sprint I was in with a chance of catching the ball without breaking my stride.

What flair - running 12 lengths of Varkala beach -possibly further than any Indian has run in history - and then topping it off with a glorious cameo in the year's most important match.

As the ball flew through the sky I diverted my path slightly, heading further in to the water. I knew I could dive and land reasonable comfortably in the shallow swell. 'Focus on the ball' I thought, raising my knees as the water deepened, recalling what the guy at the yoga class had told me about concentration.As I took off, heart racing, body covered in sweat, I sensed the surprise from the fielders to my right. 'Watch me go, watch and learn' I thought. When I next get to my feet, I'll be a hero - at worst mobbed by both sides and invited into bat, at best offered free hospitality at the five-star hotel where the wicketkeeper works.

I don't know where the ball went, but I do remember feeling a crunch in my neck as I collided with him, then untangling myself from him and staggering up. Behind me the ball was bobbing up and down in the surf. My relief at being able to move my neck quickly turned to irritation. Where did he come from, I thought? He must have been fielding behind the batsman. What was he playing at, coming from there, ruining my moment, stealing my catch? Yes, you, fatso - i didn't see you doing 12 beach-lengths. Just because you're actually playing in the match, doesn't mean you've got a right to that, I smouldered, before muttering an embarrassed 'you ok?

'Sorry, so sorry. Im terribly sorry, sir' he stuttered as he wobbled to his feet, but I could barely hear him because the crowd, and most of the players, were bellowing with laughter, falling about. A few came over to re-enact the collision. Nobody seemed at all interested in me.I jogged on, slowly, my neck clicking as I ran, imagining the pool at the wicketkeeper’s hotel. The game restarted behind me. Perhaps I should have just asked to join in, I thought.

Just then, a man in a sweaty shirt and trousers overtook me.