Today we are searching for a festive beer in a dry state (both Kerala and us) and so we approach the font of all wisdom, a Tuk Tuk driver. Without first inviting us to sit and adopt the impending disaster position, he tells us that beer and wine are only sold from government approved outlets and the nearest is 17 kilometres away. I recover the power of speech about 10 minutes later and quiz him further. He then tells us there is a 'hotel' where we can buy beer and he will take us. I tell him I want to bear his children and we hop in. We arrive at the 'hotel' and enter a dimly lit, windowless room that reminds me of my clinical psychology student days in Edinburgh where I lived in a cold, damp basement flat on Northumberland Street. Next door was a windowless basement pub that was warm and dry called The Wally Dug* where I would sit in the evenings to thaw out whilst writing essays on topics like "Environmental causes of excessive alcohol intake" (living in a pub got the lion's share of the answer). Anyway, we ordered a carry out of Kingfisher Special and the man who now owns the top floor of our house took us back to the resort. I was now able to enjoy a quiet Christmas beer followed by six noisy ones.
Back at the resort our bathroom and shower are rather splendid as they are outside in a small courtyard garden. Showering when surrounded by palm trees and birdsong is special. However, it's not entirely private as it is possible to see people in the shower in other villas but only if you stand on our roof and hold on to the palm tree whilst leaning outwards (health and safety nightmare, must complain). Everything else about our stay is wonderful. Kusbu serves us breakfast and tells us that she is from the north of India and it takes her three days by train to get to work. I ask her if it is one of those Virgin off-peak things that goes via Darlington. Apparently not. This is the price that is paid by young women to work in a comparatively clean and safe environment.
Today I rode south toward Alleppey with the waves and smiles continuing unabated. The route follows an overgrown canal before meeting the outskirts of the town. Poverty is more evident here but the smiles are broader and the crow's feet deeper. Just before town a young woman on a bike signals for me to slow down and cycle alongside her. She tells me she is at St Josephs College and wants to train as a doctor. We chat for a while and it is humbling to hear her story and her aspirations. I negotiate the traffic in town and am now feeling more confident about the rules of the road.
At the local market I stop for water and bananas, the latter being invented just for cyclists. Bananas have their own packaging, release the right amount of sugar at the required rate and are quite tasty. However, in Kerala they are weird. They are about a tenth of the price and a third of the size of proper bananas and taste like bananas only very much more so. I'm pretty sure that Monsanto produce these by injecting normal bananas with genetically modified essence of banana. I can't wait to get back to the insipid bananas that are free from this tampering. I will gladly pay the extra to know they are the real thing provided by Asda.
As I leave the town to pick up Route 66 and head north some of the children at the roadside shout "Ten Rupee! Ten Rupee!" Others just smile broadly and hold their hands up to wave. It slowly dawns on me that they are not just holding their hands up to wave but want to 'high five'. I decide to give it a go next time and then see a family on a stationary motorbike with a little boy sandwiched between his mum and dad. He holds his hand up and I line up for a high five. Just as I am getting close his dad starts to drive off and as I deliver the high five the speed of our two bikes is added to my vigorous attempt to make it memorable. There's a loud slap and a cry as we make contact and my hand stings. I think I've overdone it. I look back and he has a shocked look on his face and his hand is in his armpit. His mum is looking at me as if I have just struck her child and I realise that high fives have yet to reach Kerala. I cycle away quickly and vow not to assault any more small children when they wave at me.
Weaving my way through side streets I head for home. Yesterday and today when riding along, children on bikes sometimes come alongside and want to race. As I approach the edge of town a young lad takes me on and is hunched over his handlebars with a determined look. I let him get ahead and then just as we get close to a bright green archway (clearly the tacitly agreed finish line) I up the pace and beat him to it. Victory! I am punching the air and commentating in a loud, exaggerated Murray Walker voice. I look back at the loser and laugh at his failure. Sorry son. It's a hard lesson at the University of Life. He did well though and when he passes the age of five I think he may just be able to get a bit closer.
The ride ends and as I arrive back, hoping to borrow a ladder for safety reasons, I can only think "save the children" (from me).
* A wally dug is a ceramic figurine of a small hairy dog. The pub opened in 1811.
Back at the resort our bathroom and shower are rather splendid as they are outside in a small courtyard garden. Showering when surrounded by palm trees and birdsong is special. However, it's not entirely private as it is possible to see people in the shower in other villas but only if you stand on our roof and hold on to the palm tree whilst leaning outwards (health and safety nightmare, must complain). Everything else about our stay is wonderful. Kusbu serves us breakfast and tells us that she is from the north of India and it takes her three days by train to get to work. I ask her if it is one of those Virgin off-peak things that goes via Darlington. Apparently not. This is the price that is paid by young women to work in a comparatively clean and safe environment.
Today I rode south toward Alleppey with the waves and smiles continuing unabated. The route follows an overgrown canal before meeting the outskirts of the town. Poverty is more evident here but the smiles are broader and the crow's feet deeper. Just before town a young woman on a bike signals for me to slow down and cycle alongside her. She tells me she is at St Josephs College and wants to train as a doctor. We chat for a while and it is humbling to hear her story and her aspirations. I negotiate the traffic in town and am now feeling more confident about the rules of the road.
At the local market I stop for water and bananas, the latter being invented just for cyclists. Bananas have their own packaging, release the right amount of sugar at the required rate and are quite tasty. However, in Kerala they are weird. They are about a tenth of the price and a third of the size of proper bananas and taste like bananas only very much more so. I'm pretty sure that Monsanto produce these by injecting normal bananas with genetically modified essence of banana. I can't wait to get back to the insipid bananas that are free from this tampering. I will gladly pay the extra to know they are the real thing provided by Asda.
As I leave the town to pick up Route 66 and head north some of the children at the roadside shout "Ten Rupee! Ten Rupee!" Others just smile broadly and hold their hands up to wave. It slowly dawns on me that they are not just holding their hands up to wave but want to 'high five'. I decide to give it a go next time and then see a family on a stationary motorbike with a little boy sandwiched between his mum and dad. He holds his hand up and I line up for a high five. Just as I am getting close his dad starts to drive off and as I deliver the high five the speed of our two bikes is added to my vigorous attempt to make it memorable. There's a loud slap and a cry as we make contact and my hand stings. I think I've overdone it. I look back and he has a shocked look on his face and his hand is in his armpit. His mum is looking at me as if I have just struck her child and I realise that high fives have yet to reach Kerala. I cycle away quickly and vow not to assault any more small children when they wave at me.
Weaving my way through side streets I head for home. Yesterday and today when riding along, children on bikes sometimes come alongside and want to race. As I approach the edge of town a young lad takes me on and is hunched over his handlebars with a determined look. I let him get ahead and then just as we get close to a bright green archway (clearly the tacitly agreed finish line) I up the pace and beat him to it. Victory! I am punching the air and commentating in a loud, exaggerated Murray Walker voice. I look back at the loser and laugh at his failure. Sorry son. It's a hard lesson at the University of Life. He did well though and when he passes the age of five I think he may just be able to get a bit closer.
The ride ends and as I arrive back, hoping to borrow a ladder for safety reasons, I can only think "save the children" (from me).
* A wally dug is a ceramic figurine of a small hairy dog. The pub opened in 1811.
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