I came back from Kerala on May 13th 2014, less than 6 months ago, and it wasn't long before I'd decided I had to find a way to return later in the year. I had no idea how I would find the funds, but Karma being what it is, a client was waiting with an important training project in my speciality subject. All that remained was to plan and to dream. I started to think about where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do.

I wanted to return to Mattindia,  the Ayurvedic clinic that had put me through a tough régime earlier. I also wanted some time on the coast in a simple beach cottage,  some writing time, and I wanted to spend Christmas itself at a monastery ashram in the mountains.

I started to plan my itinerary, and soon realised that I could happily spend months - not just weeks - in South India.

Calculated with the help of http://www.rome2rio.com/

I shall be blogging regularly, and hope that you will enjoy following me on my long, exciting exploration of a part of the world I have grown to love.

You can follow me at - http://keralachristmas.blogspot.co.uk/

Executive Lounge: Doha Airport

There was a strike scheduled to start at 6am this morning at the toll-booths on the highway between Mattindia and Kochi airport. Since my driver had to get back after dropping me at the airport, this meant we had to leave Mattindia at 3.00am. 

So I did not get much sleep.

I was nervous anyway - for the usual reasons: I had shopped too much, and even after leaving most of my clothes behind, for the guys to share (- and have altered!) I reckoned I had 35kg for the hold, plus a camera bag that was loaded with a couple of kilos of spices, some books and some solid brass temple bells. Then my permitted carry-on bag would weigh in at around 15kg instead of the 7kg allowance. All in all, they could have stung me for at least 10kg, up to possibly 15kg or more. . . at US$ 30.00 per kilo. 

Maybe I was lucky, picking the young girl who looked bored on the Business Class check-in, (I am flying Economy, of course.) Maybe Qatar Airways' policy is more lenient than Emirates, who stung me 3 years ago; but she didn't even comment.

Then the Station Manager walked over, and I asked him if the flight was full, and if there was any possibility of leg-room. "Aisle or window, Mr Harvey?" he asked, and I really couldn't believe my good fortune.

Doha International Airport

I knew the next part of the journey would be uncomfortable, because of the flight timings. If I had planned to take the shortest connection for Heathrow, then I would just about get the last train from Kings Cross to Lincoln, but my luggage might well follow me a day later; and if I missed it I wouldn't clear Heathrow before midnight. Because of this, I had decided to get the night flight from Doha, and take a hotel in the town for 12 hours. However, you may recall that my outgoing experience had been so awful that I had cancelled my hotel reservation for today, and decided to wing it with the people at Doha Airport.

At first, it seemed my luck was out and my charm was failing - even when I tried chatting in Swahili to the Kenyan on the desk. The best they could do was to offer me admission to the Executive Lounge for US$40, so I went off to get some lunch and think about it.

After falling asleep twice over my plate of Spring Rolls, I decided to splash out on the Executive Lounge, but once again my Guardian Angel, or Lucky Pixie, stepped in.

The girl on the desk was explaining that my forty dollars would allow me a maximum of 6 hours, even though I explained that my flight wasn't leaving till 01.50 next morning. Then a voice sounded out next to me. "I'd like this man to be my guest," said the Executive Club Platinum Card holder who was standing next to me. No, it wasn't a ghost from the past, just someone who thought that the airline's attitude was wrong.

He had an hour to kill before his flight to Rome, and we talked at length about business, health-care and psychology. Then the "coincidences" started to appear in the character of his son who had made a music video of himself on his iPhone - shades of my son-in-law the video director. It also turned out that the son had studied music at Berkeley - presumably under one of my son's good friends, Omar, who is a professor there.

Small world.

And on that subject, how about the voice that called out to me in a Kochi shopping mall last week:"Excuse me, sir. Are you Bob Harvey?" That was the voice of a Sales Manager from Cambodia who had been working in Kerala, in the office of AYV in Wayanad when I was there 3 years ago. 

He was back on holiday in India for 3 weeks, and thought he recognised me.

Very small world.

Planning a Positive Future

Suddenly it's Sunday, and I fly out tomorrow.

I feel as if my life has been in suspended animation for at least the past three weeks, if not the whole two months. I have been such a lazy b*gger, apart from writing, and reading and writing, and planning and writing. 

I've not been for long walks on the beach or along the lanes, and I didn't share the taxi with some of the other guests for the annual festival of elephants in Thrissur on Friday.

 - Will I regret that all my life?

No, I don't think I shall have any regrets because I don't travel for festivals or monuments or scenery: I travel for people, and I have connected well. 
Especially with myself, which is what this trip has mainly been about.

Although I haven't lost a great amount of weight, my stomach has shrunk to the extent that a small plate of food now fills me up. I am returning to Lincoln with a 3-month supply of pills and the doctor's instructions to go for walks, avoid dairy products and sugar, and limit my intake of starches. Doctor expects me to continue with a steady loss of excess weight for at least 2-3 months.

The big change is between the ears. I have always had a pretty positive attitude to life, but now it's so laid-back and contented I am almost horizontal. At the same time I am excited and full of new ideas.

I have made plans, and then made plans for plans.

I have so many Action Lists that I shall be exhausted in a month and need another holiday.

• Redecorate my Living Room - I will not continue to cringe every time I look at the Primrose Yellow walls.
• Construct a unit for my decanters - I have spent hours designing one that will be made to measure ( by me!) and both show the decanters to advantage, and make it easy to pick out the one I want.
• Make display panels for my collection of wooden spoons - I have about 200 spoons, collected on my travels in four continents, and I want to make a display of them. As with the decanters, it's taken me hours of pondering, and surfing the internet, to work out how to do the job effectively and affordably. Now I think I've cracked it and I can't wait to get going.
• Get back into a comfortable exercise routine - Nothing painful, just getting fresh air and enjoying living where I do.
• Promote and develop my professional therapy as a Reiki practitioner
• Give talks to local groups of the University of the Third Age
• Continue to deliver my Presentations Masterclass
• Support the rebranding and repositioning of the School of Channelling
• Involve myself with the Progressive Christianity Network
• and more, and more, and more . . .

No, I don't have dozens of photos of temple elephants and ceremonial trumpeters.

No, I don't yet need a complete new wardrobe . . . (it's cheaper to wear my present trousers with braces.)

No, I can't stand on one leg, nor any other of the contorted Yoga exercises that some guests here find so simple. 

Yet I can do some of the things that the doctor recommends.

• Eat vegetables, 
• Drink water, 
• Don't get stressed.

But there's the one piece of advice which they always give you in Ayurveda, which really is much too tough, and just not as simple as they make out:

"Find yourself a lady companion, Mr R.J. You are a nice man, it cannot be difficult.  You are not meant to be alone. You should enjoy a full and healthy life.

You must have some friends who can find you someone."

I have heard this every time I have done Panchakarma. Would that it were that easy to follow that wise advice!

But sharing my life would mean compromising every time I made a decision.

"No, doctor, I really am OK this way, just doing exactly what I want to do. I have just spent a couple of months coming to that conclusion, and it is a very comfortable place to be."

I shall post again in a month or two, and reflect on the ongoing effect of what has been an interesting and challenging period. My thanks to everyone who has followed this odyssey; I would have found it impossible to write without knowing people were following the story.  

You get more than you pay for.

The French don't seem to mind "roughing it." When I first went to Club Med in the early 70s the thatched huts had iron bedsteads and earth floors, and there were open-air communal washing and toilet facilities. Club Med has changed dramatically, but in doing so it has lost the attraction of being very basic and laid-back. Today it's an up-market all-inclusive holiday, still very French and still very informal, but much more "all mod. cons." It has frequently had undeserved, sleazy connotations for Brits, but in reality,it's sophisticated and full of cool people. I would love to go there again, but it's not the sort of place I would want to go by myself, to be a full-time gooseberry.

Mattindia seems to attract the same kind of cool, sophisticated French, who don't appear to be the least bit bothered by the primitive nature of the amenities. (Four more have now arrived today - yet I remain the sole Brit in at least 2 months!) I think the French focus on Mattindia's strengths rather than moan about its short-comings, and what makes Mattindia special is the quality of the treatment. 

Ayurveda has a reputation for achieving results with a variety of conditions, especially those for which conventional medicine has no answers. There is a steady trickle of Indians coming for treatment, and one current patient is a young boy in a wheelchair, who has no coordination with the lower half of his body. It was very emotional to watch him have splints bound to his legs the other day and then see him stand and push his wheelchair for the first time, instead of being its passenger. He had one of those smiles of pure joy that children seem able to express so freely.

Even though the charges here are modest, I do not for one moment believe that the Indian patients are paying the same rates as we are. They appear to come from humble backgrounds - not the up-and-coming Indian middle-class or nouveau-riche. I like the fact that the flow of Westerners enables Joy Thattumkal (the proprietor of Mattindia) to do this for local people, and it is inspiring to see the Out-Patient clinic that he is in the process of constructing.

One question that UK friends ask me, is what the cost is, and whether it makes sense to search out treatment back home rather than in India. I have been looking on the web for costs in London and New York, and have found that a single treatment in these cities costs in the region of £60 - £80. Mattindia operates on an inclusive basis with basic private en-suite accommodation, unlimited consultations with the doctor, unlimited medication as prescribed, full board with 3 vegetarian meals per day plus facilities for tea and coffee in the computer room. There are two treatments every day, typically lasting 40 - 50 minutes for each treatment, and the total cost for all of this, is £24 per day. 

What is more, these fees help subsidise the kids in wheelchairs and the new clinic. 

It's a no-brainer.

The most difficult thing to come to terms with is the Ayurvedic preference for working in a messy - even dirty, environment. I get the impression that a spotless and sterile ambiance is as much of an anathema to an Ayurvedic therapist, as a dirty and messy environment would be to a Western consultant. 

You have to adjust your preconceptions.

My bathroom had an invasion of flying ants in the night. I woke to find hundreds of corpses piled on the floor. 

That's India! 

On the other hand, there are no more signs of that Rat.

Clay Therapy: Oh da Camptown Laydees sing dis song: Doo-dah, Dooh-dah!

The world has changed beyond recognition in 60 years, and I really don't think my children are aware of just how very politically UN-correct life was in the 50s and 60s, - a time when my primary school teacher pointed at the red on the map of the world and talked to us about the British Empire and why it was different from any previous empire and would probably last for ever. 
Let me give you a little story.
Mr Rudge, the headmaster at my primary school, had lost friends in WW2 in the evacuation of Dunkirk, when thousands of British troops were killed or drowned simply because they couldn't swim a few hundred yards, from the beaches, to reach the flotilla of ships and small boats that had come from England to help rescue the soldiers of the failed "British Expeditionary Force."
This left a sizeable impression on Frank Rudge, who was determined that every child leaving Mount Stewart Junior School should be able to swim. This would mean constructing a swimming pool, an unheard of idea in the 50s, but he set about organising any kind of event that could raise money. 
When it came to the Talent Show, parents were cajoled into singing arias, reciting poetry or doing magic tricks. In 1954, few families had televisions, so it was not too difficult to fill the school hall with tickets at a sixpence or a shilling, and there was of course a raffle, to top up the takings.
I think it was Malcolm's mum who hit on the idea of getting the five of us in the top year (who were a bit of a gang) to do a turn on stage, and we were pushed into performing as the Mount Stewart N****r Minstrels. There was no question of this nomenclature being anything other than entirely appropriate for a group who wore candy-striped trousers, white ruffs around our necks and straw boaters on our heads. The budget did not stretch to stage make-up, so Malcolm's mum didn't hesitate to black us all up with Cherry Blossom shoe polish. Humphrey's mother later complained that she had a terrible job trying to get the bath clean afterwards.

60 years later I am reliving my childhood, as the photo reveals.

They call it Clay Therapy

For the final few days of my treatment I first lie on this bench and have a herbal bath in medicated buttermilk.  This is poured over me from long-spouted steel teapots, (the liquid is the colour of milky tea,) and the process continues for about 45 minutes.
The two therapists then dry me off and spread newspaper over the bench while they take a 5-minute tea-break.
When they return, they plaster me with black mud over almost my entire body and then leave me for half-an hour while the medication soaks into the pores - which, they assure me, have been opened wide by the buttermilk.
Well that's what they say!
I am not sure whether I am just being sold down the river, or whether I should reach for my banjo . . .Way down upon de Swanee Ribber . . . .

...is hamster, Mister Fawlty!

Kerala is a wonderful contrast of old and new, of heritage and innovation and of conflicting standards.

One of Kochi's new shopping malls

There's a tarmac road right outside, and buses, auto-rickshaws or taxis will take me anywhere for next to nothing. The half-hour ride to the shops in Cherthalla costs me 12 rupees. (- One rupee is one penny!)  I can look out  at the roadside and see elephants bathing. If I am headed  the other direction, I will soon be passing one of the impressive, newly-constructed, air-conditioned shopping malls. 

I love my new nightshirt

If I head for one of the many fabric shops, I can pick out a length of top-quality cotton shirting from a rainbow of choice. A tailor will copy my favourite design and have it ready for me to pick up in 48 hours, and the finished garment will cost me less than US $10.00. My children might well disown me when they see me wearing the clashing colours I have chosen, but I'm happy! 

A bootleg perfume shop

When I was travelling last month, I went to a perfume shop in Alleppey where they had copies of every perfume you can name, all priced at a pound or two. I don't have a particularly good sense of smell, and the shopkeeper had a very limited command of English, so I am a little concerned that while I might love my new fragrance, I may in fact be wearing Miss Dior.  

Bargains galore, and lots of excitement, but the two areas that might be of concern to European and North American visitors to Kerala - or to anywhere east of Istanbul for that matter - affect those delivering a service and those using that service. In other words, there is the question of the Health & Safety of the workers who are engaged on the many new construction projects. I watched the decorators repainting this building last month, strolling casually along parapets with no kind of safety equipment, and not even working from ladders. 

The other area of concern would be Health & Hygiene. India works not only to a different standard, but also to different principles. I remember being in the States a few years back and seeing American friends take out a pack of sterile tissues to wipe the bar of the shopping trolley, or purge their hands after using an escalator or public transport. In India, you live with the way the country is, you don't try to change it into something it's not. Let me cite something which might make sense of this attitude.

There was a fascinating piece of research from America last month, which will almost certainly be buried, destroyed or decried by big business. The research set out to determine the cause of the soaring rise in asthma, allergies and all kinds of food intolerance in the USA. The findings were no surprise to doctors in India, but were infuriating evidence to Big Pharma globally.   

The central conclusion was that people are not getting enough bacteria in their daily life. They are being raised in semi-laboratory conditions, and they never develop the natural resistance and immunities that a healthy body needs for protection. This process affects everyone at every age. Babies would normally absorb bacteria in their early months, but closeted in a sterile environment, their bodies do not develop normally. 

When I learned this, it was music to my ears, and I no longer apologise for the state of my kitchen in Minster Yard. When guests dine with me, they get the bonus of bacterial exposure that will enable them to live a healthier life.

Manuel and the hamster

And so, to the title of today's blog: what is the connection with Manuel and Fawlty Towers? I am assuming that my readership are all up to Pub Quiz standard on topics like Monty Python, and Fawlty Towers, and that you will remember the story of Manuel's hamster that escaped, creating havoc in the establishment as Basil, Sybil and the guests accused  him of harbouring, and then releasing a rat.

I am in deepest India, there are rainstorms most evenings - with spectacular thunder and lightning. The weather brings out different kinds of wildlife, including the occasional rat. Like the large specimen I saw skulking around yesterday evening. Fortunately, the intruder did not know that I am terrified of rats [- was that 1984 or Brave New World?] and it scuttled away quickly when it saw me.

Live and let live !

I talked to the owner here about this next morning, and realised that he faced a quandary, being caught between a desire to achieve the standards that overseas visitors expect and at the same time wanting to maintain a philosophy of living in and coexisting with the natural environment rather than fighting and destroying it, in order to create a different kind of environment for humans. With this being a year-round clinic and Ayurvedic hospital, they don't want to have quantities of deadly poison lying around, quite apart from the Indian ethos of "Live and Let Live" towards all creatures. 

Nonetheless, this was a rat, and European guests are not as tolerant as spiritually-minded Keralans. Action was taken this morning when Mattindia set traps in the hopes of coaxing the creature into captivity, from which it can then be relocated - whether on heaven or on earth.

I admire the Indian antipathy towards the Western preference for the kind of intensive cleanliness that incurs serious environmental pollution. I admire the bravado and personal responsibility of the acrobatic construction workers. This is India and it has one of the world's fastest growing economies; it would not be right if the buzz of growth and progress were to drown out the squeak of the occasional rat.

Lingua Franca

Mattindia attracts guests from all over the world, but very few of them are from the UK. In my two months in Kerala there have been no other Brits staying here.

Back in March and April I met a charming Swiss couple, an interesting Viennese designer, a Canadian woman who has been travelling most of the winter, an architect from Bermuda, an artist  from Berlin, a motley bunch of French speakers and a delightful Italian guy of around my age, who lives on the Riviera. There are some are very colourful characters, like the puppeteers from New York (one in a wheelchair,) and two Australian women who were a Tweedledum and Tweedledee to each other, separated by a generation but joined by their preference to dress alike in baggy shorts and matching tee-shirts. And the mix is constantly changing, so I have no idea who might pitch up later in the week, or whether I shall finish up having the whole place to myself before I leave.

Diplomatic Relations

I have tended to keep to myself, not from any xenophobic tendencies but simply because my treatments are physically exhausting and by the time I have recovered, I am not much in the mood for socialising. 

The French and the English have their differences

Mind you, foreigners are a weird lot, aren't they? They talk a great deal to each other, even though they have never met before. They play games and go off on trips together, and whatever they are doing, they always make a lot of noise.

I think they're all a bit weird, and likewise, they see me as something of the oddity. They have never met an Englishman who speaks their language. They find this confusing, and quite baffling. With the staff and therapists, they all converse in broken English, but when they talk to me they speak in their own language, and I keep switching to reply appropriately  - in German, French, or Italian. I am not fluent, but I am convincingly conversational and can get away with suitable grunts and gestures when words fail me.

They are bemused. This is not their idea of an Englishman. I think they might even suspect me of being a half-breed, who has recently retired from some sort of espionage activity, since I seem able to disguise my ethnicity. They just don't buy my assertion that I did languages at school and enjoy them. I am also amused by the way that the staff here are so used to their European clientele that they are as likely to greet them in the morning with Bonjour or Guten Morgen as with a nod and a Namaste!

Jolly Good Show!

As we all know from our experience of call centres, flamboyant and verbose English is the lingua franca throughout India, and the foreign guests at Mattindia seem to cope with the doctor and therapists better than most of us cope with the Customer Service Line for our power supplier or phone company. Maybe it's because the French and Germans are listening harder word by word, whereas we tend to listen to the flow.

Goodness, Gracious, Me! - the lost generation

When I first came to India, 40-odd years ago, the Indian middle classes still peppered their conversations with a pre-war quirky vocabulary of minor public schools, with phrases like: "I say, old chap," and "Spiffing match at the Club on Saturday." Those days are past, but there are plenty of imperial ghosts still haunting Indian life. Many hotels include "Bed Tea" in the room price - that's early morning tea with your wake-up call, a tradition that had vanished from most UK establishments long before Trust Houses were swept into the Forte brand - and that's going back a while. 

One thing you learn fast whether you travel on business or as a tourist: it's not enough to speak English; you have to learn to speak Global English. This means no metaphors or cultural allusions, distinct enunciation of every word and active listening. If you don't follow these rules, you will find that you are surrounded by people speaking their version of English, and all understanding each other perfectly.

Meanwhile you are up the creek without a phrase-book, and feeling cheated that someone stole our vocabulary.

In addition to playing both cricket and hockey better than we do.