Varkala, Kerala, India
January 15th, 2010
We travelled to Varkala, a tourist beach on the coast of Kerala in mid-January to find that, quite by chance, we arrived a couple of days before a reasonably rare eclipse.
Now as much as possible when backpacking, we try to stay vaguely up-to-date with the news, so that via the internet and various regional newspapers we knew that this would be happening. However, I am well aware that when travelling it is easy to live in a cocoon, with no real idea of what’s going on in the outside world. I had merry visions of confused holidaymakers stretched out on the sand in their beach gear, wondering why the sun had disappeared in the middle of the day. Total darkness really isn’t an ideal way to get a good tan. However, my predictions of puzzlement were to be disappointed; it was only an annular eclipse. For those of you who (like me until a day or so before) haven’t a clue what that means, an annular eclipse is one whe
re the moon passes in front of the sun, but because of distance and perspective it has a smaller circumference, so the sun is never completely obscured. We found this out from some friendly scientists who had set up their equipment on a rooftop. They were part of a group called S.P.A.C.E, a society with a rather tenuous acronym which stood for something like Society for the Popularisation of Astrological Communication and Education. They had all kinds of sophisticated gear set up for days beforehand in order to record the event in a proper scientific manner.
However, the rest of us less academically-minded people were reduced to less refined methods of seeing the sun (or lack thereof). I remember experiencing a total eclipse in England when I was younger and for weeks in advance you kept hearing of how important it was to have those little plastic UV glasses if you wanted to look at the sun without serious eye damage. Naturally, in India, health precautions weren’t quite so obvious a concern. While S.P.A.C.E. did have a couple of pairs of glasses floating around, the barging crowds of Indian tourists made these all but impossible to get hold of. Instead, there was a startling array of improvised eclipse-viewing equipment. We were lucky in that we found someone on the cliff top who had brought some kind of industrial foil. Probably not 100% safe, but when folded three times it gave a pretty good view of the crescent-shaped outline of the sun. Others were more imaginative with their choice of lens. Instead of one pair of UV spectacles, I saw people layering up three pairs of cheap regular sunglasses to peer up at the sun. CDs – quite possibly cheap pirated DVDs – were suddenly being interpo
sed between eyes and sky. My personal favourites were the old X-rays that suddenly materialised to function as filters; it was hilarious to watch people viewing an important astrological occurrence through someone else’s broken fibula. All in all, it was an entertaining and even vaguely informative diversion in the midst of a relaxing beach break.
Sea, Sand and…no Sun?!
Accommodation Aggravation
Mid January, 2010
One of the drawbacks of seeing the world is that you have to find somewhere to sleep whilst doing it. Travelling to different places is great, but each time we are faced with the same hassle of finding accommodation once we arrive in a new town. As we are on a bit of a budget, we have been trying to keep the costs down as much as possible, but standards and prices vary so much more from place to place in India that paying roughly the same in each location, as we did in Sri Lanka, has proved much more difficult.
There are also the delights of the accommodation itself. A prime example of a worst-case-scenario room was our hotel in Kodaikanal, a small town up in the mountains of Tamil Nadu. At first glance it appeared acceptable; if a little dingy, the room had all the requisite furniture at a reasonably cheap price, so crumbling concrete and peeling paintwork didn’t seem too much of a problem. We were so tired after a rather hair-raising bus journey up the mountain that we were less thorough in our room inspection than usual. It was only once we had checked in and paid the hefty two night deposit they that the flaws started to make themselves apparent. The room key was in the door, but it took five minutes of wrestling with the handle to actually get the thing to lock. Once we had set
our bags down, I realised that there was an underlying odour of wet dog, possibly from the slightly damp blankets. When I actually threw back the sheets on the bed, I found what looked like dried grain of rice, as if someone had decided to eat their dinner under the covers. The bathroom was even more of a disaster. When flushed, the toilet merely dribbled, whereas the sink had a tendency to flood the whole room. I discovered that shower tap had apparently been welded shut and I was expected to wash from a single tap at hip height and a miniscule bucket. Then there wasn’t actually a light that worked in there, so after dusk I had to perform my ablutions in the dark. Thoroughly disgruntled, I tried to sleep in the mangy sheets, only to find that a pack of mangy dogs had decided to take up residence right outside our window and howled throughout the night.Now, those of you who know me well will be aware that I am usually quite a mild-mannered person. I don’t tend to easily get in a temper or relish confrontation; in short, I am not prone to diva-esque tendencies, particularly in business-like situations. However, after a less-than-restful night in a scummy room with, I was less than happy. To put it bluntly, I was in possibly one of the worst moods of my life. Very soon after sunrise, I declared there was no way we were spending a minute longer than necessary in that place and headed out in search of alternative accommodation. It was one of those days where I was just destined to be disappointed in every way: the café we wanted to breakfast in was closed; I desperately needed a big mug of tea and instead got a thimbleful of overly sugared brown liquid; we’d planned on hiking (that was the whole reason for visiting Kodaikanal) but it was pouring with rain. Upon finding another (slightly more expensive but much, much nicer hotel), we returned to do battle with the “management” ( for “management” read “sulky hotel skivvy who was too uninterested to do anything other than feign a sudden loss of English language skills”). This provided me with the opportunity to give full vent to my feelings, taking full advantage of my experiences of the most haughty and demanding Big Sky guests. I may have only got a portion of our deposit back, but boy did it make me feel better!
In an effort to salvage the visit and retain at least some fondness for the town, the next day I dragged Paul down to the lake for a to rent a pedalo, which is apparently “the thi
ng” to do if you’re a couple in Kodaikanal. He wasn’t quite as impressed by the cheesiness of this as I was, but at least my customary enthusiasm for even the most ridiculous things was returning (although I was very disappointed that we couldn’t get a swan boat and had to make do with Mickey Mouse). And when it rained on us again, I was relieved that we had a room with a hot shower to return to.Needless to say, our trip to the beautiful hill country of Kodaikanal was not as wonderful as it could have been, but it did teach us one valuable lesson: cheap price is not the same as good value, and I am beginning to learn the value of value in saving me a lot of aggravation.
Temple is Closing!
Tiruchirappalli & Madurai, Tamil Nadu, India
Early January 2010
Tamil Nadu is known for its big temple towns. Tiruchirappalli (often known by its more pronounceable abbreviation of Trichy) is home to Sri Ranganathaswamy, a huge temple whose size rivals the length of its name. A little further south, the famous Meenakshi temple in Madurai reputedly attracts 15-25,000 people a day. It is a truly beautiful building with soaring sculptures atop brightly painted towers. However, what is impressive is not just the scale of the building but the sheer numbers of pilgrims and visitors constantly in and around the temple complex. There are people everywhere, making it almost impossible to contemplate th
e stunning architecture without meeting a fresh troop of tourists at every corner. From touts offering guided tours to kids asking for school-pens and random men asking for photos, the commotion within the walls is constant. Over the months we have noticed that Indian tours (and pilgrims seem to fall into this category as well) have a recognisable sight-seeing pattern; namely that they fall out of their transport, barge through most lines, rush around the most important sights as quickly as possible (whilst making the most amount of noise) and then leave, with as much commotion as they arrived. It may encapsulate the vibrance of India, but it does render the whole temple experience less spiritual and more chaotic. It’s a refreshing break to find the secluded shine tucked away in a corner with just a few simple candles beside it. In a very un-tourist-like way (for India), we took our time exploring the nooks and crannies, even managing to take a photo with a minimal number of background onlookers. However, unaware of the temple’s bizarre lunch-break closing time, we did find ourselves confronted with more craziness as we tried to re-enter one area through a side door, only to be yelled at that the “Temple is closing!” Our pleas that our shoes had been left by the opposite door were met with more shouts and we were hustled out with the hoards of others. This transpired to not only be the close of our visit, but end of Paul’s tolerance for temples.
Sickness is Shit
Pondicherry, but also India in general
Excuse my language, but I wish to discuss the numerous ways in which sickness is, to put it bluntly, shit. India is notorious for travellers’ illnesses, but Paul and I were hoping (in vain, I might add) that having already been in Asia for a month we would perhaps be spared the worst of its effects. Unfortunately, the opposite was the case; we spent most of Christmas week with one or other of us feeling absolutely awful. Now being ill in India isn’t quite as simple as coming down with the flu or some other such malady at home; indeed, the first thing you wish is that you were at home. Instead, you find that if you want to eat, usually the only option is to drag yourself out to find some form of restaurant. Then there is the fact that none of the food available will sound appetising and the spices that appear in even the blandest-sounding dish will probably make you feel worse. Also, sickness is not necessarily confined to one problem at a time; you may have a headache whilst suffering diarrhoea, dehydration alongside indigestion. At one point during the trip I found that I had taken doxycycline (against malaria), an antacid (for indigestion possibly caused by the doxycycline), immodium (to block me up for a long bus journey), a rehydration sachet (because I’d been horribly dehydrated) and a painkiller (for a headache possibly induced by thinking about all the other medicines I was taking).
Add any kind of travel plans to the equation and the unpleasantness multiplies; then you are faced with the logistics finding bathrooms, the dubious cleanliness of bathrooms and the frequency with which you need the bathroom. This leads onto my next point about sickness: in India this is often synonymous with having the shits. Combine spicy curries with less-than-hygienic kitchens and the abundance of flies everywhere, and the result is inevitably the subordination of your daily movements to the movements of your bowels. Discussing the workings of your digestive system becomes less of a taboo than in more polite, less toilet-dependent societies and relative strangers will cheerfully mention in passing how in such-and-such a city they had spent two days hovering by the toilet.
Then there is not only the relation of sickness to shit, but also of shit to sickness. India seems to be a country just filled with faeces. Unsanitary conditions are so abundant that it is hardly surprising that travellers frequently fall ill. Step out onto the street and you are confronted with steaming piles of all descriptions, both animal and human. With so much excrement in evidence, is it really surprising that sickness, especially of the shitty variety, is rife in this country?
Postage Problems in Pondicherry
Late December, 2009
Pondicherry, India
As we arrived in India just one week before Christmas, one of our first experiences of how things are done in this country was at the Post Office. We wanted to send two parcels of presents: one to the US and one to the UK. We merrily set off for the Post Office one afternoon, blithely hoping that this seemingly simple task could be accomplished within the hour. Unfortunately, this was not to be. After stopping at the booth outside, which we subsequently deduced only sold stamps, then waited in two different lines inside, we eventually established that there was a separate parcel desk outside the main office itself. Just to clarify, “outside” with a vaguely waved arm actually meant out the gate, around the corner and down a back alley cluttered with various boxes. By this time it was about 4.02pm, and despite the main Post Office being open until 5.30pm, the parcel office closed at 4pm. Slightly infuriatingly, we weren’t told this beforehand, but by the guy still sat behind the parcel desk. He was wittering away to the other Indians who popped in, however to us would say nothing more than “Office closed. Come back tomorrow”.
So we returned the next morning, confident that we now knew where we were going and that all would go smoothly. However, we had not learned from the day before, and still underestimated the fact that nothing is ever simple in India. My gifts to my family had already been individually wrapped, then taped up in a bag with the address stuck to the front. But no, apparently I needed to buy a box to put this package in. A box which was then taped up. Then bound with plastic cords. Then finally, get this, wrapped in cloth and stiched up by hand. By the time my family got round to opening it, they could have played pass the parcel, there were that many layers to unwrap. And the shipping process wasn’t complete yet either; we had to write both the shipping address and the sender’s address on the parcel, then again on a form, then they were printed out again on a slip we had to sign. The whole thing took so long that I was able to leave, go shopping for three quarters of an hour or so, and return to find Paul still sitting exactly where I’d left him, waiting for the final stitches to be put in my parcel.
We had heard that the bureaucracy of India was a little excessive, but with the mere task of sending a parcel taking two days to accomplish, we were beginning to appreciate just how crazy our stay in the country would be.
The Wonders of Apartments
Late December, 2009
Pondicherry, India
Most people, when embarking on some form of vacation, relish the idea of staying in hotel where you don’t have to think about cooking or cleaning and generally have most mundane tasks performed for them. However, when we arrived in Pondicherry just before Christmas to find that hotel prices were ridiculously high, we were delighted to find an advert for an apartment for rent. Pondicherry is an old French colony filled with Gallic expats, so it is not unusual for foreigners to need a home for extended stays. However, our main reason for moving in was the fact that even the most basic hotel room at the time was ridiculously overpriced, whereas for significantly less we got a bedroom, dining room, living room with TV, kitchen, shower room and separate toilet. There was also a second bedroom, but as no one else moved in, we had the whole place to ourselves for the week.
Despite the fact that we were in a town renowned for its ability to produce genuine French delicacies for dinner, I was more excited about going to the supermarket than dining out for the hundredth time. Armed with a shopping basket, I set off around the largest foodstore I could find in the vicinity (possibly comparable to a reasonably sized corner shop, but with many, many more mosquitos) to stock up on provisions for the week. However, when your kitchen equipment consists of two gas rings on a counter top, a couple of saucepans, cutlery and a wooden spoon, the usual dishes Paul and I like to prepare are a little harder to achieve. Even the simplest of ingredients proved more of a challenge than I had anticipated; I wanted a little salt to add some flavour, but it was only available in bags of at least 50g. If I wanted to fry anything I needed oil, but I spent a long time searching through hair oil, coconut oil and even oil to burn in lamps before I found a weird plastic bag filled with sunflower oil. We found all kinds of crazy ingredients available; a few culinary experiments definitely didn’t quite work and any attempt at curry didn’t resemble the feasts we like to prepare at home in any way. Still, it was nice to just cook up a simple pasta and eat it in front of the TV for once, rather than have to trek half way across town just to get some appetising sustenance.
I had great fun sallying forth each day to find more bits and pieces necessary for our comfort. We decided purchasing candles was a good idea, as the frequent power cuts meant food preparation was often performed in semi-darkness – not a good idea when using a sharp knife. We also found that the only downside to cooking for yourself is having to clear up afterwards. Again, the facilities in the flat were a little lacking, so I was confronted with the challenge of locating a scrubbing brush or J-cloth in a local Indian store where only one employee spoke broken English. We ended up with some kind of spiky plastic thing which I have a feeling may actually be intended for clothes, but combined with enough soap it seemed to do the job.
By the end of the week, I had come to the conclusion that whilst I may be able to cook reasonably well at home, I would have to remain in India for a long time before I would be a satisfactory Indian housewife.
It never rains, but it pours
11th December, 2009
Polonnaruwa, Sri Lanka
Polonnaruwa. An ancient city in the heart of Sri Lanka, filled with ruined temples and palaces, with crumbling relics of former civilisations to be found amidst the winding dusty paths. The perfect place to hire bicycles and spend an idyllic day meandering through the historic site, taking in the grandeur at our own pace and under our own steam.
At least, that was the plan. The reality was just a little different.
To begin with, after half an hour it started raining. Now a little rain is ok, but when you’re on a bicycle pedalling across dirt tracks, rain soon causes a few problems. After a remarkably short time our backs were coated in red muddy splashes, vision was becoming an issue with the rain driving into our faces and we were narrowly avoiding plunging into the ever increasing puddles as the roads morphed into muddy swamps. Then, possibly due to the aforesaid lack of vision, we took a wrong turn and ended up pedalling miles to reach a supremely underwhelming pile of rocks rather than the magnificent temple we had been expecting. At this point, Paul’s bike, along with his patience, suffered a slight breakdown (ie. the gears wouldn’t change, the chain locked up and the thing in general just didn’t want to work. I'm taking about the bike, though Paul wasn't much better.). It may not sound like much, but when you’re cold, wet and tired in the middle of nowhere, these things start to get to you just a bit; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the bike dangling from a tree after what Paul was saying about it. Then to top it all off, once we eventually did find shelter under a tree, we managed to park ourselves right on top of a nest of ants that wanted to feast on our feet for their afternoon tea. Needless to say, the trip was less than successful. After stubbornly sitting on a poncho for an hour, obstinately remaining in the way of the Sri Lankan tourists in our efforts to stay out of the rain, we were found by the guy who had rented us the bikes and returned to town by tuk tuk. By this point we had been soaked to the skin for a number of hours, so it’s perhaps not surprising that after attempting to enjoy a museum, then navigating local transport back to our guest house in Sigiriya, I had developed a fever and spent the night sick and shivering. It seemed a fitting end to our doomed day visiting Polonnaruwa.
Archaeology by halves
Sigirya, Sri Lanka
It is interesting to see the differences between heritage sites in different
countries. Sigirya is one of our favourite sights in Sri Lanka; it’s an old rock fortress that over the course of its history has been home to a Buddhist monastery and the palace of a warring king. The Rock of Sigirya is an enormous boulder the size of a high-rise building, which at one point was transformed into a giant lion; today, only the paws remain, guarding the steps up to the palace. The thing is, despite the fact that it is well-established on the tourist trail and the paths are constantly traversed by foreigners, the route to the top appears rather hazardous. In fact, the steps to the summit look downright dangerous.
Thin bits of metal cling precariously to the steep rock face, while the stairs themselves are only half the width of any normal flight and seem perilously close to rusting away altogether. As you approach the final section of the ascent, you begin to wonder if it’s worth apparently risking life and limb to reach the top. Not to mention the fact that it’s a pretty stiff climb; at this point you’ve already walked round and round some boulder gardens, marched up roughly 300 feet or so of stone steps and twirled up and down some spiral staircases to see ancient cave art. All in hot and humid conditions. It is no wonder that by the time many of the…erm…less well exercised tourists come to contemplate the web of sticks snaking up a sheer rock face, many of them are almost being pushed up by their more well-adjusted (and less vertigo-prone) local guides. I’m doubtful whether this would be such a popular tourist destination in England for the average coach trip to a historical site. Much less in America, where if the steps alone didn’t contravene a million regulations, some enterprising person would surely trip/graze themselves on a rusty nail/miraculously fall through the cracks but live to tell the tale and sue the pants off somebody for millions.
Then there is the fact that only half of the site has been properly excavated. From the summit of Sigirya rock the gardens below look beautifully symmetrical – almost. Closer inspection below reveals one section of tanks (large ponds) and waterways with intricate brickwork. Examine the same area on the other side and you see an indent in the surrounding landscape, that with careful comparison and a bit of imagination looks like it could correspond to the proportions of the pond opposite. I looked in vain for what was labelled on the map as something like ‘Other Summer Palaces’, discovering that this was merely a grassy hillock of medium size to my left. Apparently no-one had deemed this half worthy of further inspection, or maybe as a cost-cutting measure had thought that a fraction of the whole would suffice.
Don’t get me wrong, Sigirya is a breathtaking sight and most definitely worth a visit, but I do look forward to the day when I can return to Sri Lanka and see the full scale of its symmetry.
A step too far? Not this time.
7th December, 2009
Adam's Peak, Sri Lanka
Some of you may be aware that the first time I was in Sri Lanka one of the challenges I faced was a little mountain in the centre of the country called Adam’s Peak. 2,243 metres high and surmounted by a Buddhist temple, it is a major pilgrimage destination for both tourists and Sri Lankans alike. The idea is to climb up overnight in time to see the sun rise over the plains and the perfectly triangular shadow cast by the peak.
The first time I attempted this (less than a week after I arrived in the country and after a rather late night partying in Negombo) a group of us set out in a van, confident that the driver would safely take us to the start of the trail. This misplaced hope was swiftly adjusted once we had experienced a three-point turn over a precarious drop, careered backwards down the mountain when the van stalled and been offloaded in the dark to find the beginning of the climb ourselves. It was only once we had begun our ascent that we discovered that we were not on the regular tourist path, or even the slightly longer alternative stairs, but the hardcore pilgrim route. This meant minimal lighting, precarious footing on a barely defined path and a long, long, long way to go. After a few hours I was cursing each new corner we turned; by the end I was literally dragging myself up, a step at a time, by the handrail. I missed the sunrise and as for the symmetrical shadow, this was obscured by the hoards of pilgrims crammed against the railings; however, by that point I just didn’t care, I was so exhausted. Then, of course, we all had to get back down, a long process collectively including rain, dehydration and a sprained ankle. In all, we walked pretty much constantly from 11pm until 4pm, on very little food and no sleep – an achievement, but not necessarily something I wanted to repeat in a hurry. So five years and a few hikes in Montana later, I decided it was time to attempt the peak again, this time via the easier route (only about 5200 steps this time). Oh, what a difference! We set off at around 2.30am, passing through multiple temple archways and up well-lit, well-defined steps. The main pathway was lined with tea shops placed at regular intervals, giving me a great excuse for multiple breaks. I felt great about the climb, especially as we actually overtook quite a number of people on the stairs. We reached the final tea stop (just 18 stairs from the summit) well before sunrise, so the race for the top was preceded by a leisurely drink and some chunks of chocolate. Sunrise witnessed and requisite photographs taken, we rambled back down with the group of nice American students we’d met along the way, to be welcomed with a nice big breakfast by the motherly owner of our guest house, Green House. Definitely a far nicer way to tackle the trek to the peak.
The marine life of Mirissa
28th November, 2009We have discovered a new beach that I think is now Paul’s favourite place in Sri Lanka: Mirissa. This tiny little place near the southernmost tip of the island is gorgeous, with a palm-fringed beach and a wonderful laid back atmosphere. However, I think that what made it for Paul was the ocean.
With a group of friends from our guest house (Hayley, Hollie, Hayley and Dom), we planned an ocean excursion to go out whale watching. A very friendly local called Raja had converted the old family fishing boat (much to his father’s disapproval!) to use a sight-seeing tour for holidaymakers. The six of us, along with a couple of French families, hopped aboard, climbed up to the upper deck and headed out into the calm early-morning waters. Or so I thought. The sea looked reasonably calm, and in my head I know that it really was calm, but my stomach was definitely telling me otherwise. I should have perhaps remembered that my last aquatic excursion (a pontoon boat on Canyon Ferry Lake last summer) resulted in acute nausea for at least the first hour. Too late did I discover that the land was fading into the distance and instead my breakfast was wanting to make an appearance. So, to my great embarrassment, I spent the first part of the trip lying down at the back of the boat rather than sunbathing on the top deck. However, after a nap and some toast I was feeling much better, so I headed up to join the lookouts on the alert for the elusive whales. Unfortunately, after three or four hours of searching, we’d had more tanker sightings that whales and, apart from a splashing fin in the far distance, the most active marine life was in fact us. Tired of going in circles on the boat, we just stopped and all jumped off. Swimming in the deep blue ocean water, miles from land in any direction, was the definite highlight of the trip; my waterproof camera was put through its paces and got some hilarious shots of our underwater antics. To round off the day, Raja invited us to a barbecue on the private beach near his house. Now my idea of a barbecue is usually a veggie burger in a breadroll, while Paul’s is some kind of wild game steak, but this one was really something else. For me, fresh aubergine, pumpkin and peppers cooked with bu
tter in iron pots on the fire; for Paul and the other non-veggies, the hugest fish I have ever seen, grilled to perfection (according to Paul) with lemon and salt. All eaten out under the stars to the accompaniment of the waves running up the sand. A day on the ocean, in the ocean and eating from the ocean – Paul was in heaven.You don’t surf? Why are you here?!
November 2009 Those familiar with the history of how Paul and I met will be familiar with the importance of a small town on the southwest coast of Sri Lanka called Hikkaduwa. It was here that we first met nearly five years ago when we were working after the tsunami. Hikkaduwa was the base for many projects in the area, the urban(ish) centre from which everyone moved out to provide relief to the surrounding villages. At that time it became somewhat of a mini international community, with the guest houses full of volunteers and the restaurants hosting impromptu planning meetings. Tourists were looked down upon as people who could be helping, whereas volunteers all had a common interest and could be identified by which project they were working with. So, despite Hikkaduwa’s usual status as a surf town, we really didn’t have that much time for surfing. I was taken out once by an instructor from Hawaii who we were working with (much to the amusement of the locals on the beach) and Paul’s attempts left his board in two pieces. Imagine our dismay when we return over four years later to find that we are now the outcasts. Our old home has changed back to being a major beach destination on the Sri Lankan tourist trail and people are there for the waves, not the work. No longer is Hikkaduwa a community of volunteers from all over the world, united by a common goal of helping those in need. Now the kinship is through chasing the waves, and the conversation what other beaches you’ve been to. To us, it seems like every person we meet, from the Aussie’s stopping off on their way across Asia to the old Cornish guys taking up residence for the whole season, is here to surf. Even those who don’t surf seem to have caught the bug; girls who would usually be strutting along the beach in their bikinis now do it with a board under their arm. My sister’s boyfriend would fit right in, but people just seemed a bit confused when we said that our day had been spent visiting old friends and having lunch at a random village inland. They didn’t quite get my excitement at the fact that I got on a local bus and someone said “Excuse me, are you Jenny?”. Our life back when were we out building houses and planting trees is just a little bit different from the average tourist’s these days. They are here to surf; otherwise, what’s the point?
