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

All day on a bus

It's been many-a-year since I washed my smalls out in a bucket and left them to dry overnight on the burglar bars. One thing about travelling like this, it does make me feel younger as it brings back many happy memories from more than 40 years ago when I travelled the Hippy Trail from Istanbul to Kashmir (via Tehran, through Afghanistan and over the Khyber Pass.) 

Ready to move on

I packed up everything and around 11, I headed off to the bus garage. 

My host, Jacob, had given me a useful hint when he told me that if I went to the depot, rather than the bus station in the centre of town, I would be able to board the bus at its setting-off point and have the pick of where I sat.

The "Ashok Leyland" bus had seen better days, and the dents in the bodywork did nothing to inspire confidence.

The driver was busy changing the front wheels, which was just as well as both front tyres were not so much bald as polished smooth.

Jacob's advice proved accurate, and, as the first passenger, I settled into one of the front seats, where I could stretch out and enjoy the view on the 8-hour journey.

I had an excellent view up by the driver, starting off navigating carefully through shopping streets.

It was a long, long journey, and once we were out of he town, the bus was winding down through endless twists and turns from high altitude to sea level.

 About half-an-hour before the bus reached Kollam, there was a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder.

The heavens opened and the rain poured down. 

It eased up momentarily as we pulled into the bus station and I quickly grabbed a taxi, handing him my mobile on which I had already called the Homestay for directions.

I couldn't appreciate the sprawling middle-class home until daylight, but I did appreciate my large - if over-furnished - bedroom, (I had a choice of four beds!)

I met the other residents, an English guy working in Germany, and his German girl-friend.

Our hostess had prepared a delicious dinner, after which I headed for an early night.

I had loved every minute of the bus-journey, through amazing scenery, but all I now wanted was my bed.

Next morning with our hostess and one of the other guests

Tea in the hills

Jacob briefs the driver

It was a leisurely start, because Munnar is cold and damp in the mornings, but by 9.30 the sun is up high enough to take the chill off the air. Victor, my rickshaw driver, came to pick me up and Jacob, the owner of the homestay came to give us some tips on where to go. The road up to the homestay is too steep for most cars, so the taxi-drivers borrow an auto-rickshaw for the last quarter-mile up and down the hill.

Tea bushes cling to the hillside

The estates are still run on very patrician lines, and one wonders whether the workers actually prefer the "cradle-to-grave" structure of this kind of business. 
They all draw a basic pay of just +/- £2.12p per day . . BUT - They are provided with housing on the estate, together with an allotment where they can grow vegetables and fruit. They have completely free medical treatment and there is free education for their children. They have a pension scheme and in addition the company pays into a retirement fund that accumulates interest and is paid to them tax-free at the end of their employment.

Enchanting vistas at every turning

Victor explained that the tea bushes are planted for 100 years, after which that part of the estate is grubbed out and replanted. Every three years the bushes are hard-pruned, right back to the bare branches, and next season the new growth comes through. They are very tough bushes and the pickers wear heavy aprons to stop their legs being badly scratched and torn as they move between the rows, cutting only the tender, new growth, and packing the leaves in huge sacks to be taken away for processing. 
The stumpy bushes, separated by a network of paths, make for an attractive patchwork across the steep hillsides. In the background, hills and mountains tower in the distance, creating a unique landscape.

The pickers pause for a mid-morning break

Bundling the tea for transport and on to processing

  

There are two big surprises after the journey up from sea-level. At an altitude of around 2,000 metres, the air is thin and I found myself disarmingly light-headed. Of course, the restricted diet of the previous weeks added to the dizzy sensation, but I did find it a bit worrying at times.

The other shock is the cool temperature, Thank goodness I brought a sweater, and at night I was wrapped up in a long-sleeved tee-shirt and had two blankets on the bed.

It was difficult to relate this climate to the ambiance at Mattindia. 

You've heard of Zebra Crossings, well . . . .

Palm Sunday in Munnar

Barbara Harvey (née King) 1913 - 1983

Palm Sunday has a special significance for me and for my two sisters. 

In 1983, our mother collapsed walking back from the shops, a few months before her 70th birthday, and died in hospital, the following day. Like my father, and like myself today, she was involved with Lincoln Cathedral, and her last project had been to help to make the palm crosses for Palm Sunday. Hence I always remember her on this day in the church calendar. 

This year I am in India, and the Christians hae been making a very public show of their faith.

Christian worshippers carrying palm fronds, flocked through the streets to receive a blessing

Last week the elephant in was much in demand back at Ezhupunna, as various Hindu temples hired the well-trained, ceremonial animal for their festivals - which went on most nights till 5 in the morning. Today it's been the turn of the Christians who flocked the streets of Munnar to celebrate Palm Sunday in a rather more quiet fashion.

Girls and their mothers, both in their Sunday-best, carrying the traditional palm fronds pass a beggar who seizes the opportunity of a Christian holy day to try and beg a few extra coins.

Traditional Indian Sunday-best can be a brightly-coloured saree or salwar kameez. The latter combines ankle-length, and often tight-fitting leggings, worn under a long-sleeved, (and usually) knee-length dress. For church this is frequently paired with a dupatta (shawl) that will cover the head as a sign of reverence, either in male company or in church.

Western dress is equally popular, often combined with a Spanish-style mantilla shawl covering the shoulders or head.

The crowds came down from the Mount Carmel Church on the hill, and grouped in front of the "town church" of St Michael, where the priest sprinkled the gathering of the faithful with holy water.

Later that afternoon, I joined the tiny congregation at Christ Church. 
Here the service was the traditional Book of Common Prayer liturgy and the building was just as English itself, with brass plaques all around the walls commemorating British officials and tea estate managers who had spent their lives far from their country of birth.

The Bus Journey up into the hills

It was a strange feeling to be getting up in the dark - at 5.30am. I had packed and several times the previous afternoon, and still the backpack seemed ridiculously heavy for a few days away. Still, I wasn't going to be doing much carrying, so there was no point in worrying too much about it. I locked my room, left the keys in reception, hauled my bag into the rickshaw and headed off to the bus-stop. I was there at 6 ready for the promised direct bus - great! I'd be up in the hills in time for breakfast.

My reliable rickshaw driver from the village

My regular rickshaw driver could be relied on to collect me on time and greet me with a cheerful smile, even at 5.45

He was there, and we were at the bus stand on time, but there would be a delay. 

It appeared that the bus was leaving the town down the road at 6 and would be at my stop in Ellamanoor at 6.20. I smiled and waited patiently.

At 6.25 there was a further correction, the bus was leaving from the next town at 6.20 and should be with us at 6.40.

At 7.00 there was a debate about whether the departure time was an hour later.... and I decided that perhaps the best plan was to take my rickshaw to the main bus station at Ernakulam, which we did. A smart information officer explained that the bus I wanted would be leaving at 8.15, and when it reached its unpronounceable destination, I could then change on to a direct bus  to Munnar.

I decided that this man definitely knew what he was talking about, and put my bags on a seat at the back - where there was marginally more leg room - and went in search of something for breakfast.

Fried bananas - Indian style

All I could find was rather soggy banana fritters, so I purchased two for a few pennies and staved off my hunger.

Sexual harassment

Every bus has two "conductors," one by the front door and one by the back door. They hustle passengers off and on at the stops and take turns to sell tickets. The first stage of my journey would take an hour and a half for the princely sum of 34 pence, (the second stage cost 50 pence - yes, that's the correct exchange rate into sterling.) When the rear-door conductor saw me, I think he imagined all his Christmas's had come. He was effeminately gay and clearly considered my fair skin and soft, wispy grey hair to be an irresistible novelty. He spent the entire journey smiling at me with a lascivious leer, and rolling his wide-open eyes. He kept finding opportunities to put his hand on my arm, or press his leg against mine, or reach across me and brush against my head or shoulders as he did so. The Cheshire-Cat glare became unnerving, as he simply sat across the aisle of the bus with his eyes fixed on me, nodding flirtatiously if I ever looked in his direction. It got to the point when I wanted to slap him across the cheeks, but I have an awful suspicion that he might have enjoyed that.

However, he had his uses when, after the first hour of my journey, we caught up with the Munnar bus, and when both buses pulled up at the same roadside stop, he leapt out with my backpack and ushered me into the Munnar bus, waving me off with one final flutter of the eyelashes.   

Farewell breakfast

Plenty of fresh air through the open windows

These country buses have no glass in the windows, which makes them open to a welcome, gentle breeze. However, if I have my preferred seat, at the back, where the leg-room is, it means that there is a faint whiff of diesel permanently in the air. To start with it didn't bother me, but it became more intrusive as the morning progressed.

Then there was the way the drivers control their charges, which is a fairly constant high-speed swerving to avoid pot-holes, pedestrians or oncoming traffic, with which they enjoy playing a daring game of "chicken." And then there's a small matter of the climb up to the hills and the serpentine twists and turns.

It wasn't long before, despite my best endeavours, I began to feel queasy and wished I hadn't chosen banana fritters for breakfast - not that there had been an appetising alternative, unfortunately. I prepared myself for the inevitable, emptied my breast pockets, removed my glasses and put them in a side pocket so that nothing could fall out if I leaned out of the window. 

Which I did. Several times, and to write anything more on the subject would be, in a favourite phrase of my children, just "too much detail, Daddy!" 

View over Munnar

Homestay

Munnar is typical of the sprawling ramshackle towns of India. There is an undeniable energy and sense of enterprise as you see new businesses seizing any new opportunity. There are travel agencies offering extreme sports, photo shops offering to burn your digital pictures to disk to send home to loved ones and fruit shops rebranded as healthy juice bars. 

Yes, it's scruffy and untidy - but it's vibrant and exciting.

Mine is the smart house at the far end

Home for the next four days

"Homestay" is a thriving business in the Indian tourist economy. My host had a two spare bedrooms with ensuite and outbuilding with one en-suite room, - which was the one I had. For £9 a night it was perfect, with the bonus of the services of Kapil, the servant who would bring me a thermos of tea or bring back a takeaway from the restaurant at the foot of the hill. 

Not a take-away in little plastic boxes, but wrapped in  banana leaf, parcelled in newspaper and tied with cotton thread. To be eaten with the fingers of the right hand - of course!

My take-away dinner

Munnar lies at an altitude of around 5,000 feet, and I soon realised that I would need to acclimatise myself both to the cool weather (I had brought a sweater,) and to the thin air. The lack of oxygen made me feel slightly dizzy, and I was grateful of a comfortable bed and the extra blankets when I turned in for an early night.