Alleppy, India
An overnight stay on a houseboat in Kerala is one of those 'must do before you die' experiences, so as we leave our spice garden retreat it is with a sense of excitement at what is to come. Tensing is waiting as promised by the main entrance and we set off for the long drive to Alleppy, the boarding point for our home for the next 24 hours.
We retrace our previous journey for the first three hours, the familiar sights playing themselves out. However there are far more cows in evidence and it transpires that Thursday is cattle market day, and it’s an even bigger affair as it’s New Year’s Day. Lorries drive past with cows balefully gazing out of the back at us, all crammed together and strung with ropes through their noses.
Tensing pulls over to show us one field at the side of the road where a cattle auction is in full swing. We hop out of the car to take a snap and immediately the combined forces of heat, sound and smell assail us from all sides. As we climb back into our peaceful, air-conditioned car with gentle music swaying us along, it reinforces how fortunate we are to be able to cruise along in quiet and private luxury, observers of a harsher world than the one we inhabit.
After three hours we turn off the road back to Cochin and drive south towards Alleppy, the final 20 miles of which are a straight line along a backwater canal lined with shacks on one side and paddy fields upon the other. We’re running late, so Tensing has his foot down and we speed past other vehicles, overtaking three or four at a time. Appropriately enough, as we race along at twice the speed limit, a Hindi song comes on the stereo which has appropriated the distinctive overture from Europe’s mega-80s hit ‘The Final Countdown’. The clock is indeed ticking…
We are almost 45 minutes late for our appointed departure time, but our houseboat is peacefully docked, alongside a number of others and once our passports have been checked and our accommodation voucher handed over, we are allowed to board. Our boat is called Karamanaya and, although vast, is just for the two of us. On board we are greeted by our crew – Romeo, the skipper, Bhiminal, our chef and Randeep, the cabin boy and waiter.
Once our bags have been stowed in the bedroom we set sail, but before we can take to the upper deck and relax, lunch is served in the dining room with windows either side so we can gaze upon the gorgeous scenery drifting slowly past.
At this point we realize that there is no bar on board, which seems an oversight, as surely there can be nothing better than having a wee tipple with dinner in our own private vessel. We mention this to Randeep who arranges for the boat to stop at a jetty with a cashpoint where we grab sufficient funds for a bottle of wine to be ferried to our boat as we cruise along the waterways.
The afternoon passes in a bucolic haze as we lie back in our chairs on the top deck in the sun, completely at peace with a deep sense of tranquility and happiness suffusing through us. It’s the most chilled I’ve been in years, and once again we realize how very blessed we are to lead the lives we do – it’s something we never take for granted.
On the river banks we see glimpses of the lives being led in rural Kerala. Simple houses are built along the dykes that line the water’s edges, the interlacing network of rivers and canals built higher than the paddy fields either side. While the backwaters all contain freshwater, the land is reclaimed from the sea and all the agriculture takes place below sea level.
Above us kingfishers and eagles fly around and on the waters boats of varying sizes and varieties pass us by, some carrying locals about their business as in this watery world there are no roads, and others carrying tourists both Indian and from around the world. Waves are exchanged between passengers and occasionally from those on the shore as we float past them washing their clothes and pots and pans, or even taking a bath in the waters.
Our boat pulls up alongside another houseboat at 4pm, on which about eight people are staying. It’s time for a little canoe cruise so we bunch up on seats in a boat punted by a silent local. Four other people join us including a slightly odd gay couple in their 60s who remind us of the chess-playing, homosexualist pair of older chaps in bad T-shirts on Gogglebox. They have all the enthusiasm of train spotters on a wet weekend in Whitby as we traverse the hidden canals that the larger houseboats can't negotiate, passing one or two bedroom houses, brightly painted but basic, with the odd little frontage proving to be a village store.
The punted voyage lasts about an hour before we return to the splendid seclusion of our floating palace. Settling back into the upper deck, and about to enjoy the fragrant banana fritters Bhimimal has prepared for us, I'm all of a sudden shat upon my left shoulder by an exotic bird with bright green excrement. Lucky me.
As dusk sets in we moor for the night, showering in the en-suite and, in Coman's case, remaining firmly in the air conditioned bedroom to avoid the myriad mossies invading our peaceful world. I sit down on the laptop in the open air, the light attracting creepy-crawlies without a hint of a bite
Eventually Coman is lured from the relative safety of the bedroom to join me for dinner, and that all important wine. Our crew hover as we tuck into chicken curry with lentils, vegetable masala, chipatis and rice, awaiting the scraps from our table for their evening meal. It's a reminder to rein in our increasing bellies and not finish the dishes just because they're there.
Night falls and we sit on the upper deck listening to the cicadas and occasional splash of fish in the water. The moon and stars shine bright above us in different configurations and constellations to back home, while in the palm trees we see momentary flashes of fireflies and I even spot a shooting star zoom overhead.
By 9pm the three crew have all rolled out their matts and are fast asleep, in one case quite literally on the floor outside our bedroom door. I'm the last to bed so step quietly over him to enter our room, feeling pretty guilty at the servile relationship they have to us as their paymasters for the night.
But as Randeep revealed earlier, without the over-privileged Western likes of us paying to potter around the backwaters and snatch moments of pleasure, he'd still be working in the paddy fields 12 hours a day.
We're all asleep by 10pm in the silence of the countryside, purely the lapping water and nocturnal sounds of wildlife providing an ambient backdrop to our slumber. We're a million miles from London now...
