My route today takes me inland and away from the tourist areas so that I can see the other side of life in Kerala. Beach Road runs from the idyllic Marari beach, where locals gather to watch the sun go down, toward Vembanad Lake where we have booked to stay next week. Along the coast road there are cathedral size churches with services in full flow. At St. Xavier's church the congregation are singing in the local language of Malayalam. It's beautifully melodic but unfamiliar so I stop for a while to eavesdrop and that's when the trouble started.
I had been engrossed in the singing and hadn't noticed a few small, uniformed boys creeping up behind me. By the time I spotted them I was surrounded by a collective noun of orphans. I knew they were orphans because the sign behind them told me so (orphanage licence number 1298 tells how numerous these are). Everyone is asking my name and I make the novice error of doing the same and hear 20 names shouted in unison. The expected shouts of "10 Rupees!" don't materialise and instead I hear "pencil?". Liz and I have previously carried pockets full of pencils when trekking in Nepal and Southern Turkey and I am sorry to have to disappoint the children this time.
In the melee a nun appears. She looks a bit like the crazed driver of the Tata who made Mad Max look like Tufty*. She introduces herself and wants to tell me a bit about the Orphanage and I'm keen to learn as my partner Liz, who is a social worker, has just placed a child from a Keralan orphanage with a Keralan family in Walsall. (Apparently there is a large Keralan community in Walsall. Who'd have thought?). There are 40 children and funds are tight. Clothing, schoolbooks and food are all expensive and then there are the medical and running costs and so the list grows. Sister Maria is now on a mission and asks if I have considered a donation. I have and so I get my wallet out. I hand her 500 Rupees (c. £5) and she looks crestfallen, so I hand her another. She adds a frown to crestfallen and looks me straight in the eye with the look of a woman that assures me that I should think twice before I cross her path again when she's in her Tata. I give her another note and she half smiles but only briefly so I give another. This carries on for a few minutes with Alan Sugar in a habit gradually perking up with each note. She sees my wallet is now all but empty and is just about to get a credit card machine out from under her robes when I shut my wallet and put it away.
Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge a single Rupee and I know that fundraising opportunities must be taken. Sister Maria gave a masterclass in how to keep the orphanage afloat and she could probably sort the Greek crisis out by the weekend given half a chance. As I turn to leave she holds my hand, smiles, thanks me and then gives me a leaflet. I worry that it might be a direct debit form and she won't let go of my hand until I've put enough zeros in the box, but no. It describes how I might enter heaven. (I'm not mad keen on this idea as none of my mates will be there). I'll give it a read but I'm pretty sure I'm more in debt than credit. By the way, I know what crossed your mind whilst reading this but let me assure you of something. Given the choice, you would take Walsall over a Keralan orphanage (even one run by the formidable entrepreneur Sister Maria) every time, without fail, no question about it at all.
With a thin, light wallet I head west and inland. The roads turn into dirt tracks and the houses become smaller and less sturdy but the smiles and waves persist. I'm doing well on the child physical assault front and I have neither injured anyone under 12 today nor crushed their self-esteem. My GPS is showing an arrow which I follow and soon I enter a rural landscape with only a few houses. When I first appear people stare at me but when I give a head nod and smile they positively beam and return the head nod in a way that I can't quite get the hang of. It's side to side with a bit of up and down but not a lot.
I want to see Lake Vembanad but I also want to find our resort for next week that's called "Purity". I've got it marked on my GPS and soon I find a small sign and head down a dirt track. I come to the end of the track and can see nothing but the lake with a man bathing in it. I'm reluctant to interrupt to ask him the way (after all this hasn't happened to me at home) but I have no choice. I shout "Hello!" and he waves. I call out "Purity! I am looking for Purity! I want Purity!" I think he speaks English as he gives me a look that says "I think for you that particular ship left port some considerable time ago." I turn back and eventually I find Purity.
At reception I'm treated to water melon juice whilst I wait to confirm our reservation. You know what happens next don't you? And so it comes to pass. Purity is overbooked and we have been bumped. Where is Sister Maria when you need her? I won't bore you with the whole sorry tale that the poor manager, Vineeth, had to recount. As he explained the computer error his side to side head nods were in overdrive. I thought this might be because he could then dodge a punch but it was more the impossible apologies he was forced to deliver. For the second time that day I thought I might just shout "I want Purity!" but it's clearly a lost cause. So as I write we have nowhere to stay at peak period. I wonder if Sister Maria might help but even our combined credit card limits might not be able to cover the cost of the consultation.
On the route back I stop for water at a roadside shack and make a mess of the drinking from the bottle thing again. This time I misjudged how much to pour in (oh please try this at home without a responsible adult present) and the result was I cooled off rather effectively. Back at the resort we meet the manager who tells us of his first trip to Newcastle in the UK to learn the hospitality business. His mum bought him a new linen suit as she was worried about the Briish winter cold and thought the temperature might drop as low as 15/16C. When he arrived at Newcastle Station in mid-January he was relieved to see people standing outside in t-shirts and bare legged in short skirts as this meant it wasn't too cold for his suit. He opened the door and stepped out confidently from the warmth of the station and into the city...... you can guess the rest.
*For you youngsters The Tufty Club was a road safety campaign for children. Tufty was a squirrel and had a badger as a friend. Yes, it is weird isn't it.
I had been engrossed in the singing and hadn't noticed a few small, uniformed boys creeping up behind me. By the time I spotted them I was surrounded by a collective noun of orphans. I knew they were orphans because the sign behind them told me so (orphanage licence number 1298 tells how numerous these are). Everyone is asking my name and I make the novice error of doing the same and hear 20 names shouted in unison. The expected shouts of "10 Rupees!" don't materialise and instead I hear "pencil?". Liz and I have previously carried pockets full of pencils when trekking in Nepal and Southern Turkey and I am sorry to have to disappoint the children this time.
In the melee a nun appears. She looks a bit like the crazed driver of the Tata who made Mad Max look like Tufty*. She introduces herself and wants to tell me a bit about the Orphanage and I'm keen to learn as my partner Liz, who is a social worker, has just placed a child from a Keralan orphanage with a Keralan family in Walsall. (Apparently there is a large Keralan community in Walsall. Who'd have thought?). There are 40 children and funds are tight. Clothing, schoolbooks and food are all expensive and then there are the medical and running costs and so the list grows. Sister Maria is now on a mission and asks if I have considered a donation. I have and so I get my wallet out. I hand her 500 Rupees (c. £5) and she looks crestfallen, so I hand her another. She adds a frown to crestfallen and looks me straight in the eye with the look of a woman that assures me that I should think twice before I cross her path again when she's in her Tata. I give her another note and she half smiles but only briefly so I give another. This carries on for a few minutes with Alan Sugar in a habit gradually perking up with each note. She sees my wallet is now all but empty and is just about to get a credit card machine out from under her robes when I shut my wallet and put it away.
Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge a single Rupee and I know that fundraising opportunities must be taken. Sister Maria gave a masterclass in how to keep the orphanage afloat and she could probably sort the Greek crisis out by the weekend given half a chance. As I turn to leave she holds my hand, smiles, thanks me and then gives me a leaflet. I worry that it might be a direct debit form and she won't let go of my hand until I've put enough zeros in the box, but no. It describes how I might enter heaven. (I'm not mad keen on this idea as none of my mates will be there). I'll give it a read but I'm pretty sure I'm more in debt than credit. By the way, I know what crossed your mind whilst reading this but let me assure you of something. Given the choice, you would take Walsall over a Keralan orphanage (even one run by the formidable entrepreneur Sister Maria) every time, without fail, no question about it at all.
With a thin, light wallet I head west and inland. The roads turn into dirt tracks and the houses become smaller and less sturdy but the smiles and waves persist. I'm doing well on the child physical assault front and I have neither injured anyone under 12 today nor crushed their self-esteem. My GPS is showing an arrow which I follow and soon I enter a rural landscape with only a few houses. When I first appear people stare at me but when I give a head nod and smile they positively beam and return the head nod in a way that I can't quite get the hang of. It's side to side with a bit of up and down but not a lot.
I want to see Lake Vembanad but I also want to find our resort for next week that's called "Purity". I've got it marked on my GPS and soon I find a small sign and head down a dirt track. I come to the end of the track and can see nothing but the lake with a man bathing in it. I'm reluctant to interrupt to ask him the way (after all this hasn't happened to me at home) but I have no choice. I shout "Hello!" and he waves. I call out "Purity! I am looking for Purity! I want Purity!" I think he speaks English as he gives me a look that says "I think for you that particular ship left port some considerable time ago." I turn back and eventually I find Purity.
At reception I'm treated to water melon juice whilst I wait to confirm our reservation. You know what happens next don't you? And so it comes to pass. Purity is overbooked and we have been bumped. Where is Sister Maria when you need her? I won't bore you with the whole sorry tale that the poor manager, Vineeth, had to recount. As he explained the computer error his side to side head nods were in overdrive. I thought this might be because he could then dodge a punch but it was more the impossible apologies he was forced to deliver. For the second time that day I thought I might just shout "I want Purity!" but it's clearly a lost cause. So as I write we have nowhere to stay at peak period. I wonder if Sister Maria might help but even our combined credit card limits might not be able to cover the cost of the consultation.
On the route back I stop for water at a roadside shack and make a mess of the drinking from the bottle thing again. This time I misjudged how much to pour in (oh please try this at home without a responsible adult present) and the result was I cooled off rather effectively. Back at the resort we meet the manager who tells us of his first trip to Newcastle in the UK to learn the hospitality business. His mum bought him a new linen suit as she was worried about the Briish winter cold and thought the temperature might drop as low as 15/16C. When he arrived at Newcastle Station in mid-January he was relieved to see people standing outside in t-shirts and bare legged in short skirts as this meant it wasn't too cold for his suit. He opened the door and stepped out confidently from the warmth of the station and into the city...... you can guess the rest.
*For you youngsters The Tufty Club was a road safety campaign for children. Tufty was a squirrel and had a badger as a friend. Yes, it is weird isn't it.
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