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.

All is not Lost

Whenever I call UK from India using Skype, with Mattindia's free WiFi to speak to friends and family, the same question always crops up: "How much have you lost?"

It's a bit like WeightWatchers, this desire for metrics and comparisons, and if I played the game, it would also be sadly depressing. I have no idea how much weight I have lost because the elderly bathrooom scales in the doctor's consulting room are woefully inadequate to cope with someone who is seriously large. They did promise me that digital scales were on order, but this is India, and the urgent takes a little longer than it might in a more stressed, Western environment.

So much for the kilos, and as for the centimetres, some of my shirts still feel tight but my shorts do - just possibly - feel looser. I have been through this cycle too many times and am not going to succumb to the quest for instant results, which is why I planned a 2-month break.

Retirement Tourism

 In the classic scenario of retired silver-surfers, two months would probably mean an extended tour of Asia-Pacific with a tedious amount of time being spent buying presents for the grandchildren. Just a few years ago, a similar amount of time might well be spent trying to find somewhere that does a proper pot of tea, but the world is standardising under the relentless bleach of globalisation, and you'll find a Starbucks or a Costa almost anywhere, or at the very least, a local clone dispensing something similar.

This journey has already taught me two important lessons. The first is that - quite apart from it being beyond the reach of my wallet - I have not the slightest interest in doing the "12 countries in 21 days" type of tourism.  

Free to do my own thing!

The other big lesson is the realisation that I am a cantankerous oldie, who cannot face the idea of compromising where I would like to go or what I would like to do to accommodate the preferences of a partner. I acknowledge that this last sentence is classically Famous Last Words, and I assure you that I would happily devour these words in public if/when I had my heart romantically stolen. But, right here, right now, I relish the freedom from the routine of planning where one should go and what one should see. 
Which is why I am sitting around, reading and writing while the dozen French who arrived 10 days ago are chartering taxis and organising trips on the backwaters with all the urgency and desperate need of the search for the right brand of yoghurt in Carrefour hypermarket on a Saturday morning back in France.

It's not about what I have lost; it's about what I have gained.

This secular pilgrimage to Kerala was all about reaching my 70th birthday and deciding what I wanted to do next and how I could make that possible. Part of that was about getting my body into a healthier state. I knew that if I could tackle my obesity, I would eliminate my obstructive sleep-apnoea, and this latter impediment currently means that I have to carry a face mask and air-pump in my luggage, in addition to needing an electricity supply every night, wherever I travel.  I can't put a tape-measure to that, I just have to see how things develop in the coming weeks.

Which leads to something the doctor explained, and which I had not realised. Ayurveda works at a deep level, and my body is learning new lessons. The medicines are teaching my body to need less and to process it efficiently, and this process will continue for the next two-three months. My body is also being reprogrammed as to what it enjoys consuming, and apart from a small amount of seafood in my week of travelling, I have been a strict vegetarian since Ash Wednesday. Not deliberately, just because here in Kerala, it's cheap and delicious.

But food is only part of the story: what has really surprised and gladdened me from the past weeks, has been the transformation in my peace of mind.

Finding what really matters

It comes back to the central principle I observed when I was living in Italy a couple of years ago: "Nothing is really that important." I sniggered when I first heard this apparently ridiculous philosophy, but a couple of years on an Italian hilltop taught me the truth of the expression.

The challenge now is to find things that can be worthwhile in the remaining years of my life. I have been challenging myself as to whether travel like this trip is a philanthropic use of my time, or sheer self-indulgence. I have been wondering whether I should - like my ex-wife - spend more time shuttling around the country visiting my children and grand-children. I have been considering whether I should focus on the charitable work I could engage in back home in Lincoln. 

But I have no immediate answers. And there is no need for immediacy.

I keep coming back to the intense experience of May last year,  when I confronted my spiritual beliefs and decided I owed it to myself and my  family to share my thoughts and reflections. The story is here, on another of my blogs: (Metamorphosis)  It's a conversation I would have liked to have had with my father, and never did. My children and grandchildren will have a choice to find out what made me tick from the various journals and blogs that I shall leave behind. 

In the past weeks I have done much research and reading, and can see certain organisations and movements that I want to get involved with. I have also done more work on the book, which is an attempt to describe a way of life that is based on Christianity, but with the need neither for ritual and liturgy, nor for happy-clappy enthusiasm. The more people I talk to about it, the more encouragement I receive. 

I am proud to say that some days here at Mattindia I have done virtually nothing. I have had my treatments, read a little, put my feet up and given myself time to pause and reflect. I highly recommend it, even if you label it: "doing nothing."

One way or another, my time here is delivering significant benefits, physical and cerebral.
I buttoned up my white linen shirt when I went down to dinner this evening, - and that's the first time in years.

Squeezing, Stretching, Scouring.

This is the first week of my second 3-week programme. Before it started I had all sorts of phrases floating around in my mind: "step it up a notch," "turn the screw," "put the pressure on," and from the way things have been the past few days, I was pretty much on the right lines. Each week of each 3-week session focuses on a particular kind of physical therapy, and when the doctor told me that this week would comprise oil massage and powder massage, I thought that sounded fine. Nothing too harsh: just lie back and enjoy being pampered.
Except it doesn't quite work like that.
The two masseurs applied just enough oil to ensure that their hands wouldn't tear the flesh off my bones. They then started pressing and squeezing. They gripped my legs as tightly as they could and then pushed along the length of my calf as if they were trying to squirt the muscle out through the toes. When they reached my feet they started to find the pressure points on the instep, and I started to gasp and howl as their thumbs dug in.
A session lasts 45 minutes, and in that time I tried stretching, tensing, - anything to try and reduce the pain. I was panting, gasping, holding my breath, gritting my teeth, moaning and grunting and muttering all manner of foul insults. But - as the saying goes - it was bliss when they stopped; except that all they did was pause. 
When they had finished with me lying on my back on the bench, they had me stretch out face down on the floor, so they could take it in turns to stand astride over me and exert every bit of pressure and force. They alternated, each bout lasting around five minutes before one masseur took an exhausted break and handed over to his colleague. And then, after another 5 minutes, they would change places again. 
And so it continued. With their thumbs at the base of my spine they worked up towards my neck in an apparent attempt to disjoint the vertebrae. I squealed. They squeezed the muscles along the length of my fore-arm. I squirmed. They kneaded the flesh of my back and shoulders like a well-skilled baker knocking down the dough for a traditional family-size farmhouse loaf.
I turned over and lay on my back with my arms stretched out, in an appropriate pose of imminent crucifixion. The masseur straddled my chest and used his full weight as he pressed down on my chest and shoulders. 
Aaargh! - did I say "pampered?"

Powder massage. 

Ah! - a gentle dusting with Johnson's Baby Powder and a soft relaxing caress..... - this, surely, I could enjoy!
But of course not! The "powder" was ground-up leaves and roots of medicinal herbs, with the consistency of fine sawdust, and the objective was to administer the medicinal properties by grinding the powder harshly over the skin, exfoliating the surface and letting the treatment soak into the newly-exposed under-surface. I was so relieved that in this treatment, they didn't work the pressure-points, and I have to admit that after a few days of this process, my skin is now amazingly baby-soft. 
The uncomfortable part of this process, of course, is that the herbal sawdust gets everywhere. I have to keep my eyes and mouth clamped shut, and when I finally slide off the bench my whole body is covered in this gritty substance. 
However, I cannot just leap into the shower. There has to be a rest of at least 30 minutes to allow the body to cool and the medication to soak in. It is now mid-morning, so I either miss breakfast or, alternatively, sit at the breakfast table looking like a refugee from a flour mill.
Then I do silly things like write this blog while I watch the clock and decide whether I have absorbed enough herbal remedy and can finally stand under the bliss of my en-suite rain-forest downpour.
Ah . . . if only they could medicate the shower I could happily stand under it all day.

ILLEGAL ALIEN !

 "Have a good flight!" said the hotel manager as I paid my embarrassingly small bill (£19 B&B per night for staying at the edifice you saw in the last post.) 

"Oh, I'm in Kerala for another 3 weeks, yet." I replied cheerfully.

"But your visa expires tomorrow, Mr Harvey," he remarked, with a concerned expression on his face."

India's civil service was established, based on 
the Whitehall model, for better or for worse.

And so began the sort of episode you don't want on holiday, so let me refrain from telling the story twice, and talk about my trip to Cochin Airport this morning, to the Office for the Registration of Foreigners, to try and avoid being quietly frogmarched onto the next available flight to Heathrow.

Drawing on all the work I put into my book "Tork and Grunt's Guide to Effective Negotiations," I started with abject apology.

"I am terribly sorry to be a nuisance, but I'm afraid those desk-wallahs in Birmingham who are contracted to handle the issue of your visas, just don't seem to be anything like as well-organised as you are here.

"I told them I was visiting Kerala for two months, I showed them my flight reservations outward and return, and yet it now seems that the visa they gave me has already expired." 

The charming officer, smiled and apologised for the confusion I was having as a result of my experience in Birmingham, but regretted that tourist visas could not normally be renewed or extended. Not normally. Ah! -  the magic word that is the panacea in the medicine cupboard of the bureaucrat: normally. I glimpsed a chink of light in the all-pervading gloom. 
I took the initiative to respond: "I can see now that the visa's validity starts when it is issued, and I was silly enough to think it started when I arrived in India. I do wish your chaps in Birmingham had explained that - or simply looked at my travel dates. It is causing a lot of inconvenience and I hate to put you to any trouble. Is there anything we can do?"

[Well, of course there would be a solution. . . that's what the word "normally" is all about. We needed something that would benefit both parties, - back to my book, again.]

They offered me a 15-day extension, and would not fine me for being an illegal alien. Well, that was a relief, and I knew that I could change my flight - but that would cost me £100 payable to the airline for an alteration fee. I explained that I would prefer to give my money to Kerala tourism, rather than Qatar Airways, and I had booked three weeks of Ayurveda, and would like to keep to the full programme if possible.
The official went away for further consultations. 
[The word to listen for, after the word Normally is the word Exception.]

She returned and said that on this occasion, they could make an exception and issue me with an Exit Visa dated mid-May, but that as this exceeded their 15-day rule, there would be a fee of Rupees 5,305.00 - (£53.05.) She pointed out that this would save me the cost of changing my airline ticket and would also allow me to complete my programme of Ayurveda. I tried to look pensive and thoughtful.
[Never appear over-eager to accept a deal.]

After a brief pause, I smiled, nodded, and began a profuse expression of my gratitude. 
Which was genuine, and I heaved a sigh of relief. It had all been conducted in such a polite, gracious and civilised manner.
The charming lady who had steered the process through to mutual satisfaction, now wrote out a check-list for me of the necessary documentation (to be emailed from Mattindia.)

They needed 2 but I bought 8 for £1.50
I'd like to think I'll need a few more visas in the future

She told me where to obtain the requisite passport photos, and advised me that I could pay by VISA or Mastercard, or I could draw out cash from the ATM on the forecourt of the airport. 

A couple of phone-calls, a quick photo-session, and a rapid miracle of plastic and PIN and I was back in the office to finalise the arrangement. 

It was not long before my passport was returned with a newly stamped Exit Visa and a duly-signed permit to be surrendered on  my departure.

My permit to stay on till my flight

As she gave me my documents she said that her boss would like to meet me, as I was a published author, and I was delighted to oblige, and praised the helpfulness and efficiency of his team.

My face was wreathed with smiles as I returned to my taxi. "Come on," I said to the young driver - a student on vacation. " I'm starving; let me treat us both to lunch."

And that was the end of a rather different kind of day on my holiday.

A taste of comparative luxury

It was the bathroom that drove me out of Alleppey; that and the feeble light-bulb (and questionable wiring;) the soot-coloured dust on the wall-tiles and Charles, the rather large cockroach. The slow-boat to Kottayam was a great way to unwind, though it was a pity that the boat stopped 15km short of the town, - once again the waterway was non-navigable due to bridge works.
As I disembarked on hands and knees, trying to climb onto the jetty while laden down with my backpack, I was surprised to hear an English voice, asking if I would like to split the cost of an auto-rickshaw to get us into the town centre. He was an architecture graduate who had decided to travel before joining the rat-race, and he was headed to the bus station, which was literally across the road from my hotel.

Arcadia Hotel

We chatted as our transportation wove its way through the country lanes, then through the deserted streets - everything was closed. We learned that Kottayam is a predominantly Christian town, and Good Friday is taken very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that all the bars were closed and the hotels deserted. As I waved farewell to my travelling companion, he headed off to catch a bus to Munnar, and I stepped into the icy-cool airconditioning of the hotel lobby.

I could have been anywhere, but for once I did not object to the anonymous character of the hotel. I knew I had air-conditioning, a king-size bed with crisp sheets and a chance to treat myself to some creature comforts for a couple of days, before my next three weeks at Mattindia.


The sad news was that the hotels in Kottayam were all struggling with the local bureaucrats over the renewal of their licences to sell alcoholic beverages. So no drinks for the weekend unless I took an auto-rickshaw to a hotel outside the city limits. I realised that having gone through Lent without alcohol, it wouldn't hurt me to go a little longer. I was encouraged by the sight of the rather smart vegetarian restaurant next door and the possibility of some fresh fish later in the evening.

My favourite place in Munnar

 A typical vegetarian restaurant in Kerala would put McDonalds to shame when it comes to turning the tables. Most customers are in and out in ten to fifteen minutes; most patrons know what will be on the menu; and most of the dishes are cooked and ready to serve. The restaurant in Munnar was outstanding, with a queue out into the street and waiters moving like greased lightning.
Crockery is replaced with an 18-inch length of banana leaf; cutlery is used only for dishing out sauces, which is why and there is usually a queue of people at the back of the restaurant, waiting to get at the washbasins and rinse their fingers, before they sit down. 

Iddlis - One of my favourite breakfasts !

Yes - it's finger-food, and there's an art to learning how to group the middle three fingers of your right hand into a shovel and use the back of the thumb as a pusher. Woe betide you if you forget the ban on using the left hand. The left hand has other uses, and you'll learn that skill if you forget to take toilet paper with you to the loo.  
I love Iddlis for breakfast: steamed rice cakes served with Sambar - a spicy vegetable broth -  then a ladle of Vegetable Korma and a puddle of coconut sauce. Break up the Iddly and mop up the other dishes. On this occasion I splashed out extravagantly on freshly liquidised pineapple juice for an extra 50 pence - more than doubling the total price of my breakfast.

A typical lunchtime Thali

At lunchtimes, the favourite is the 80 p Thali which is an eat-as-much-as-you-like dish of rice, chapatis, poppadums and up to six different curries. Waiters hover around with deep pots of all the curries and sauces, waiting to replenish your tray, or top up the rice.

My room was perfect, and I dozed for an hour browsing a novel on my Kindle. The Arcadia was on skeleton staff for Good Friday, and the kitchen was closed. Consequently, I took an auto-rickshaw to one of the other plush hotels, (after the Arcadia manager rang around to find an establishment that was fully functional.) 
One of the things to beware of in India is the "multi-cuisine restaurant," where you find anything from Chicken Chow Mein to Fish 'n Chips, and from Southern Fried Chicken to Spaghetti Bolognese.

Spicy squid rings

You can typically find more than 100 dishes on some such menus, and such a plethora of choice usually means a low standard of quality. I trusted my instinct on this occasion and picked out a Kerala dish of spicy-sauced squid (calamari.) I enjoyed this with a couple of chappatis, all washed down with a litre of bottled water.
And if I had avoided the banana split afterwards, I would have been pretty much sticking to my restricted food intake.But I yielded to temptation, even though, to be honest, it wasn't the best banana split I have tasted... not by a long banana. 

Messing about in Boats

Kollam had been a mix of warm hospitality and disappointing tourism. Madam had been effusively welcoming to the point of being rather stifling, but it was hard not to warm to her genuine hospitality. 

This Homestay was away from the town centre, in a middle-class suburb, where this middle-aged widow rented out her spare bedrooms to visitors from around the world. The catch was that you were stuck in this welcoming ghetto with no easily accessible restaurants. For the two nights that I was there, I enjoyed excellent home-cooking, from madam's chosen menu. But I had no choice, because there was no alternative option. 
Madam refused to discuss the price until she presented the bill, and while the charge was modest by European standards, it was five times what the average restaurant asked, and on a par with the prices at Kollam's 5-star Beach Hotel. 
The second disappointment was that the ferry to Alleppey was not running due to work on one of the bridges over the waterway. I had been looking forward to my 60 pence fare for a day on a State ferry, though, in retrospect I think I might have had a rather over-glamorised vision of the trip.
In the end, I shared an air-conditioned taxi with the Anglo-German couple at the homestay, and relished the luxury of a comfortable air-conditioned ride, right to the "Heritage" establishment where I was booked for the night.
Perhaps I should have realised that "Heritage" is a euphemism for "old," as I was not prepared for the overall scruffy grubbiness of the establishment, the faint dampness of the bedding and the oversized cockroach in the bathroom.

The romantic courtyard garden

There was the compensation of a snack of crispy vegetable Pakora to accompany my thirst-quenching salted fresh lime soda, and there was the charm of the courtyard garden with the lanterns and fairy-lights. But somehow nothing really compensated for having to wash down the bathroom walls with the hand-shower before I felt I wanted to use the shower on myself.
I lay awake in the wee-small hours, wondering what the heck I thought I was doing, suffering in a place like this - even if it was a little piece of history, and did attract a wonderful eclectic mix of yuppie expat tekkies from Bangalore, noisy Indian students and middle-aged European back-packers (like myself!)
No, I decided, I get more than enough suffering at the hands of Ranjit the masseur, back at Mattindia. I'll cut out Alleppey and head off on the ferry to Kottayam, first thing in the morning. Maybe they'll make me pay for the additional night, but that's only £6......

A traditional Kerala breakfast

The auto-rickshaw dropped me at the jetty in plenty of time for the boat, so I decided on breakfast at one of the quayside cafes, sharing a table with a local who seemed impressed that I appeared capable of eating in the proper manner,( with the fingers of my right hand.)
I had parathas - a kind of flat-bread - with a mild (by local standards!) curry of chick-peas flavoured with a little garlic and a lot of black pepper. I drank black tea - to which I am becoming quite addicted, and, as ever, thoroughly enjoyed the local cuisine. 

The ferry docks to pick up passengers

On the road journeys to and from Kollam I had seen many different kinds of river-craft as we sped past the waterways.  I didn't quite know what to expect, but having travelled through the Southern Sudan on a Nile paddle steamer, I reckoned I could cope with anything Kerala might present.

Settling down for the journey up-river

The lifesavers looked rather too firmly fixed to the roof, and the life-jackets were mostly still shrink-wrapped in secure plastic, but hopefully, neither would be needed.
There were plenty of seats on the boat, and several families taking their children back to the home-village to meet their grandparents.

Well-ventilated on-board toilets

The 15 pence fare includes the use of bathroom facilities that are designed with American tourists in mind. The natural wood finish is complemented with the availability of constant fresh water. The added attraction of open-air ventilation enhances the sensation of communing with nature.

Alternative transportation for oligarchs and plutocrats

The ferry-boat chugged along for two and a half hours, meandering from right to left like a floating voter.

Two young boys deliver a new rubbish bin to their grandma

For those who lived along this wonderful network of inland waterways, it seems that life never changes much - and why would it? The climate is warm, the land is fertile and perfect for growing vegetables. There are coconut palms and banana trees in abundance, and there are fish teeming in the river. 
Maybe they are the ones who got it right. 

The scientists insist that the floating islands of water hyacinth will eventually choke the river and it will no longer be navigable.

Well, yes, maybe, ... eventually.

Meanwhile, most of us in UK engage in exhausting practices like commuting, and then need extravagant vacations that offer the relaxation that is all too often missing from our daily life. 


It's Easter Saturday in Kerala. Nobody is dashing to B&Q. What a lovely difference!

... and tomorrow I am back to Mattindia for another 3-weeks of rejuvenation therapy