And so it begins....
We're on a Christmas break in the South Indian state of Kerala that we've been looking forward to for quite a while. (In the meantime our luggage is on a city break in Dubai but that's a whole 'nother story.) Our 'resort', Xandia Pearl, is on Route 66 that runs north to south on the east coast of Kerala and is nigh on perfect with a beautiful lake view, deserted beach, pure white linen, dosas for breakfast and fresh catch of the day (served with butter and lemon) for dinner. We wish for absolutely nothing, except..... except we wish that Xandia Pearl had a licence to serve alcohol. Oh yes. With breathtaking incompetence I have booked us into the driest resort in the temperance capital of India that is Kerala for the Christmas holiday. For the first time since I was 15 I shall have a clear head as three ships come sailing in. But never mind (!), there is some cycling to be done and today is Le Grand Depart.
I have planned some long routes but first I must learn the rules of cycling on the roads in India. So I am just going to head north on Route 66 for a bit to discover the unwritten rules of the road. If you have visited India then you will know that all drivers have one hand on their phone and the other on the horn. This can be a bit disconcerting as in the UK horns usually mean bad news. In India horns mean many things, such as: "I am driving a big truck with dodgy brakes and a sticky accelerator and you are on a bike. How do you think this might play out?", "Do you want to bargain for a ride in my Tuk Tuk so I can retire early?" and "Yes, I know I am driving my oversized bus down the wrong side of the road towards you but the view is to die for". Funnily enough, the constant use of the horn is useful for cyclists as you always know there is someone behind you and roughly where and, more importantly, how big they are. So cycling turns out to be much safer than it looks (just keep telling yourself this Chris).
So, I take to Route 66 to get my kicks. As I head north it's quiet on the roads (what with being Christmas Day and that ) and as I pass people on the roadside they look directly at me somewhat quizzically. It's a bit disconcerting so I resolve that I shall smile and nod at the next person. I do so and am greeted by a cheery "Hello!" with a hand straight up in the air wave, a delightful side to side head nod and a broad accompanying smile. This is fun, so next time I add a loud "Merry Christmas !" which is greeted with smiles that quickly turn to laughter and the hand in the air wave. The Keralan smile is an evocative sight to behold. My students will know it as a Duchenne smile; ends of the mouth moving upwards and eyes crinkling. It's a genuine smile that is truly uplifting (not the Panam smile, a frozen affair named for the air hostesses on the Panam airline) and would give the smile of children with Angelmans syndrome a run for its money. It's also a really rewarding response, so I am soon wishing all and sundry a loud "Merry Christmas!" and the smiles and waves follow.
As I approach Arthunkal it's warming up toward 30 degrees and I feel my face reddening in the sun. I'm a bit unfit these days and probably carrying a pound or two more than is optimal for this kind of malarkey but it's fun and the smiles and waves are worth the effort. I can see a few brightly coloured small houses coming up and some children playing on the roadside. As I get closer a small girl in a bright green and gold sari shouts "Santa!". I feel the need to stop and tell her that I'm not Santa because he is an old, red faced, grey haired, overweight white bloke who travels around wishing everyone a Merry Christmas but then I decide this might be a bit confusing. So it's onward on Route 66 toward Thaickal. En route I decide to practice the side to side head nod so I can blend in with the locals. After about a dozen tries I'm getting the hang of it but suddenly have a searing pain in my neck and have to stop for a bit as I can't move my head back to the vertical from the semi-horizontal. It's an old rugby injury (see "Into the land of the shipping forecast" below) and I'll need to keep an eye on the head nods.
Just past the houses I approach my first four way junction. This is a challenge as I don't know the rules and it looks like a free for all, mainly because it is. As I approach the junction a Tuk Tuk overtakes another Tuk Tuk and heads straight towards me. I move left, he moves right; I correct and swing right and he swings left. This isn't going well. The rules of the game of chicken are being rewritten. In the end I swerve further right and he breaks hard with the trailing Tuk Tuk nearly mounting his Tuk Tuk from behind to make a Tuk Tuk tandem. I pass him by inches to be confronted by a fun sized Tata packed to the brim with nuns bearing down on me. The head honcho nun behind the wheel drives straight at me with the look of a woman who knows God has her back in any showdown with a heathen on a bike. I turn hard right to avoid nun carnage and am now heading toward an old woman who is taking her cow for a walk. It's a tough call: should I run over the old woman or the sacred cow? As I am weighing up the possible outcomes I hit deep sand and grind to a halt. I'm a bit shaken but around me everyone just carries on as if nothing has happened. For a first go at a four way junction I'm pretty pleased to walk away unscathed.
I start to head home, happy to have survived and bouyed by the Keralan smiles. I can see a roadside shack serving drinks to a few young local lads and decide to stop for a drink. They seem pleased when I say hello and I can see a chance to blend in and just hang out with the guys for a while. I buy a bottle of sugary, sticky lemonade for 15rs and the owner of the shack pops the top. I've noticed before in India that when drinking from a bottle you don't touch the bottle with your lips. So I'm careful to follow the rules. As I raise the bottle with the guys I think it will enhance my cool demeanour if I lean on the counter with my elbow, signifying my casual bonhomie. As I start to lean on the counter I suddenly realise it is made of cardboard and gradually sinks beneath my weight and I have to tilt my head sideways as I raise the bottle. I then feel a familiar pain in my neck and once again my head is stuck in the semi vertical. It's too late to pull out of the drinking without blemishing my cool image with the guys so I carry on and start trying to drink without touching the bottle with my lips. As my head is now pretty much horizontal the sticky lemonade goes in one end of my mouth and out the other and straight down my shirt and shorts. I'm pretty sure I got away with it though. I left the shack and my new found friends for the final 10 km ride home knowing I'd made quite an impression. The last thing I heard as I cycled away was that joyous Keralan laugh and I knew I was going to fit right in and enjoy the rides.
*Lyrics by Bobby Troup (1946), sung by Nat King Cole, (covers by Chuck Berry, the Rolling Stones and Depeche Mode, but not all at the same time obviously).
We're on a Christmas break in the South Indian state of Kerala that we've been looking forward to for quite a while. (In the meantime our luggage is on a city break in Dubai but that's a whole 'nother story.) Our 'resort', Xandia Pearl, is on Route 66 that runs north to south on the east coast of Kerala and is nigh on perfect with a beautiful lake view, deserted beach, pure white linen, dosas for breakfast and fresh catch of the day (served with butter and lemon) for dinner. We wish for absolutely nothing, except..... except we wish that Xandia Pearl had a licence to serve alcohol. Oh yes. With breathtaking incompetence I have booked us into the driest resort in the temperance capital of India that is Kerala for the Christmas holiday. For the first time since I was 15 I shall have a clear head as three ships come sailing in. But never mind (!), there is some cycling to be done and today is Le Grand Depart.
I have planned some long routes but first I must learn the rules of cycling on the roads in India. So I am just going to head north on Route 66 for a bit to discover the unwritten rules of the road. If you have visited India then you will know that all drivers have one hand on their phone and the other on the horn. This can be a bit disconcerting as in the UK horns usually mean bad news. In India horns mean many things, such as: "I am driving a big truck with dodgy brakes and a sticky accelerator and you are on a bike. How do you think this might play out?", "Do you want to bargain for a ride in my Tuk Tuk so I can retire early?" and "Yes, I know I am driving my oversized bus down the wrong side of the road towards you but the view is to die for". Funnily enough, the constant use of the horn is useful for cyclists as you always know there is someone behind you and roughly where and, more importantly, how big they are. So cycling turns out to be much safer than it looks (just keep telling yourself this Chris).
So, I take to Route 66 to get my kicks. As I head north it's quiet on the roads (what with being Christmas Day and that ) and as I pass people on the roadside they look directly at me somewhat quizzically. It's a bit disconcerting so I resolve that I shall smile and nod at the next person. I do so and am greeted by a cheery "Hello!" with a hand straight up in the air wave, a delightful side to side head nod and a broad accompanying smile. This is fun, so next time I add a loud "Merry Christmas !" which is greeted with smiles that quickly turn to laughter and the hand in the air wave. The Keralan smile is an evocative sight to behold. My students will know it as a Duchenne smile; ends of the mouth moving upwards and eyes crinkling. It's a genuine smile that is truly uplifting (not the Panam smile, a frozen affair named for the air hostesses on the Panam airline) and would give the smile of children with Angelmans syndrome a run for its money. It's also a really rewarding response, so I am soon wishing all and sundry a loud "Merry Christmas!" and the smiles and waves follow.
As I approach Arthunkal it's warming up toward 30 degrees and I feel my face reddening in the sun. I'm a bit unfit these days and probably carrying a pound or two more than is optimal for this kind of malarkey but it's fun and the smiles and waves are worth the effort. I can see a few brightly coloured small houses coming up and some children playing on the roadside. As I get closer a small girl in a bright green and gold sari shouts "Santa!". I feel the need to stop and tell her that I'm not Santa because he is an old, red faced, grey haired, overweight white bloke who travels around wishing everyone a Merry Christmas but then I decide this might be a bit confusing. So it's onward on Route 66 toward Thaickal. En route I decide to practice the side to side head nod so I can blend in with the locals. After about a dozen tries I'm getting the hang of it but suddenly have a searing pain in my neck and have to stop for a bit as I can't move my head back to the vertical from the semi-horizontal. It's an old rugby injury (see "Into the land of the shipping forecast" below) and I'll need to keep an eye on the head nods.
Just past the houses I approach my first four way junction. This is a challenge as I don't know the rules and it looks like a free for all, mainly because it is. As I approach the junction a Tuk Tuk overtakes another Tuk Tuk and heads straight towards me. I move left, he moves right; I correct and swing right and he swings left. This isn't going well. The rules of the game of chicken are being rewritten. In the end I swerve further right and he breaks hard with the trailing Tuk Tuk nearly mounting his Tuk Tuk from behind to make a Tuk Tuk tandem. I pass him by inches to be confronted by a fun sized Tata packed to the brim with nuns bearing down on me. The head honcho nun behind the wheel drives straight at me with the look of a woman who knows God has her back in any showdown with a heathen on a bike. I turn hard right to avoid nun carnage and am now heading toward an old woman who is taking her cow for a walk. It's a tough call: should I run over the old woman or the sacred cow? As I am weighing up the possible outcomes I hit deep sand and grind to a halt. I'm a bit shaken but around me everyone just carries on as if nothing has happened. For a first go at a four way junction I'm pretty pleased to walk away unscathed.
I start to head home, happy to have survived and bouyed by the Keralan smiles. I can see a roadside shack serving drinks to a few young local lads and decide to stop for a drink. They seem pleased when I say hello and I can see a chance to blend in and just hang out with the guys for a while. I buy a bottle of sugary, sticky lemonade for 15rs and the owner of the shack pops the top. I've noticed before in India that when drinking from a bottle you don't touch the bottle with your lips. So I'm careful to follow the rules. As I raise the bottle with the guys I think it will enhance my cool demeanour if I lean on the counter with my elbow, signifying my casual bonhomie. As I start to lean on the counter I suddenly realise it is made of cardboard and gradually sinks beneath my weight and I have to tilt my head sideways as I raise the bottle. I then feel a familiar pain in my neck and once again my head is stuck in the semi vertical. It's too late to pull out of the drinking without blemishing my cool image with the guys so I carry on and start trying to drink without touching the bottle with my lips. As my head is now pretty much horizontal the sticky lemonade goes in one end of my mouth and out the other and straight down my shirt and shorts. I'm pretty sure I got away with it though. I left the shack and my new found friends for the final 10 km ride home knowing I'd made quite an impression. The last thing I heard as I cycled away was that joyous Keralan laugh and I knew I was going to fit right in and enjoy the rides.
*Lyrics by Bobby Troup (1946), sung by Nat King Cole, (covers by Chuck Berry, the Rolling Stones and Depeche Mode, but not all at the same time obviously).
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