Fishy fundraising

Chinese fishing nets in Kochi

We make an escape from our mosquito cultivation lab of a hotel room and head out to see what Kochi has to offer the discerning sightseer. The city is the third largest in the state of Kerala, on the south-western coast of India, and according to the brochures, it’s home to some giant Chinese fishing nets which are well worth a look. 

Kochi was the first of the European colonies in India, and over the centuries it has been occupied by the Portuguese, Dutch and British, all of whose influence is pronounced in the city’s architecture and culture. There’s also an international feel to the touristy area of Fort Kochi, where the 20-metre Chinese fishing nets are located. The nets are huge mechanical gadgets consisting of a cantilever, an outstretched net hanging over the sea, and large boulders suspended (somewhat dangerously) from ropes as counterweights. The weight of a man walking along the main beam causes the net to descend into the sea, where it’s left for a couple of minutes before being pulled up so the catch can be retrieved and sold. Some of the local restaurants even let you bring your fresh fish in and they’ll cook it however you like. 

The nets are fun to watch for all of five minutes, but then we head off to walk the city, feeling like we need something else. With the help of a local auto-rickshaw driver, we work out which bus we need to get to the airport the following day. He asks where we’re from, and before we can finish saying “Zealand”, he exclaims, “Ohhh! Stephen Fleming!” He’s clearly a big fan. He goes on to list Adam Parore, Chris Cairns – all the big names. The driver introduces himself as Sainu, and then offers to take us on a tour of the city for just 50 rupees each. With not much else planned, we decide to give it a go, and he leads us to his Spiderman-decorated rickshaw – known (possibly only to him) as the ‘Kochi Ferrari’.

Joyriding in a rickshaw

Sainu, who's been driving rickshaws for 13 years, is a pretty cool guy. He insists we each have a go at driving his Ferrari, and the lesson includes the message that tooting is compulsory. We stop by the Dutch cemetery, St Francis’ church, and – randomly – an outdoor laundromat. There are bays of people knee-deep in pools of water repeatedly rinsing clothing and slapping it dry on stone blocks in front of them. We see dozens of piles of white sheets being ironed with an original, heavy, wooden-handled charcoal iron, and I’m then asked to pose for a photograph with the iron. Clearly India still thinks women belong in laundries and kitchens only.

Women's work

Sainu tells us that Kochi’s hospitals and hotels get their washing done here, and when Barn and I walk out to the field and see hundreds of washing lines full of tourists’ smalls, we realise the laundry we’d had done the day before was almost certainly slapped to buggery on slabs of stone. We both agree we won’t be sending off our Icrebreakers for the washing torture treatment any time soon. 

We also visit temples, a spice shop and a Catholic church that Sainu points out was named after Pete, and then the tour concludes with a few stops at Government-approved souvenir shops. Sainu openly admits that if we stop at four of them, he gets to collect Government petrol vouchers, even if we don’t buy anything. So, armed with the knowledge that we do not have to purchase any souvenirs and that we simply need to walk into the shops and out again, I promptly go and get sucked into buying scarves and trinkets at three of the four. Reverse psychology of some sort, I suspect.

Mastering the art of chapathi

The day ends with a cooking class recommended by all the guide books at a guesthouse called Leelu’s Homestay. Leelu, the woman of the house, teaches us how to cook a Keralan fish curry, pumpkin masala curry, a sambar, dahl curry and chapathi bread. And then we get to eat it all – easily the best part of the lesson. 

On the way home, Pete and I stop for a beer at one of the only bars in town – actually, it’s the first real pub we’ve come across in India. It’s already well into the second week of January and I haven’t yet made any New Year’s resolutions, so over a drink we hatch a grand plan to help raise funds for Illam Trust’s new school buildings. We decide we’ll cook all our new South Indian dishes and charge our friends an arm and a leg to come over and eat them, and then we’ll donate the proceeds to the Dream School. I feel a new fundraising focus coming on – looks like it’s out with the African camels and in with the children of Tamil Nadu for 2012.

Everything in moderation

Long story short: we made it

The interstate journey over the Western Ghats from Tamil Nadu to Kerala is one of the more harrowing afternoons of my life. Alleppey, our next destination, is around seven hours away, but the distance seems infinite right from the minute our crazed taxi driver accelerates into the path of an oncoming bus as we leave the tranquillity and loveliness of the Karunai Illam children’s home. 

When the driver swerves in front of several more vehicles and pulls in to a petrol station, I insist he opens the boot so I can rummage around for the seatbelt clips. The driver barks, as all of them do, that there are no seatbelts "een Eendia". I tell him we found some last week, and turn to Pete and hiss that the driver is definitely lying. He’s not. Rummage I do, to no avail. The clips have indeed been removed from the car and only the metal springs remain. I throw as much of a tantrum as I think Barn will put up with, before realising there’s actually nothing we can do. There were no trains to get us there, and the bus was going to be 12 hours long, overnight – which is an absolute no-no on the roads we’re traversing. 

Desperately tired from a very late night and our 4.20am start, I try for hours to keep my eyelids from closing so I can scream at the driver to slow down or to not overtake, as required, but watching the tea plantations whiz by, I drift off a couple of times. For the next few hours, Pete and I take it in turns to keep an eye on the roads – not always telling each other about the close calls we see. For most of the journey we’re on roads like the Rimutakas, but at an altitude of more than 2500m, and the traffic is backed up bumper to bumper. The tooting is constant, and buses overtake other buses on blind corners at high speed. 

When we reach the very top of the Ghats at around 7pm, we suggest a stop (more for the driver’s sake than ours) and have a morale-boosting coffee and a box of the homemade chocolates that southern India is famous for – and that we’ve become quite fond of. 

The sugar hit helps us remain on high alert after a 20-minute delay caused by a car accident further down the road. We have no idea of the details, as the people running around in the dark discussing the crash speak only in Tamil and Hindi, but the concerned looks on their faces tell us it’s not good news. Incredibly, as soon as the traffic starts to move again, the drivers are back at the overtaking game. We'd like to think they would take heed, but it seems they’re more enraged by the delay, and continue to race even faster. When our driver pulls out to pass on a blind corner not long afterwards, it's the final straw; both Pete and I crack. Using our most assertive (Pete) and terrified (me) voices, we insist he is not to pass or speed under any circumstances. 

Houseboating in Kerala

Somehow, we make it to Alleppey at around 10pm, and high-five as we walk into the lovely homestay we’d booked. Nerves are still frayed, but the notion of a good night’s sleep is just what the doctor ordered. That, and the Kingfishers we demolish over dinner as we once again toast to being alive.

Our trip mimics India’s capacity for extremes, and following our car ride from hell, we experience the ultimate luxury of staying on a houseboat for a night, drifting along the backwaters – a 900km network of waterways in the area. We’re served fresh coconut drinks on arrival, and over a lunch of fresh fish that our personal on-board chef cooks us, we enjoy some of the beers we’d picked up earlier (making the most of alcoholic beverages; the next state we’ll visit, Gujurat, is a dry zone).

Living the good life

Our chef brings us coffees and banana fritters in the afternoon, and then we read, laze about on the deck and listen to music. Our captain pulls the boat up alongside a local fish market, and we choose the biggest blue freshwater prawns for our candlelit dinner. Lonely Planet is right in saying it’s “worth every rupee” (Rs. 6500) and will probably be “one of the most expensive things you do in India” (about $80 each). 

Sunset on the backwaters

After breakfast on our boat at sunrise, it’s back to slumming it on an autorickshaw, taxi, train, another auto, feral ferry, and another taxi to get to our next stop in Kochi – a garish yellow, mosquito-ridden, windowless hotel room with a cold shower. I know it couldn’t last forever, but the good life was really good. We’re back to being intrepid travellers for the next few days, and I can’t help but think Oscar Wilde hit the nail on the head when he said, “Everything in moderation – including moderation.”

Room with a view