We have finally arrived at Purity and the manager Vineeth welcomes us. It's a tranquil place with a spa and chickpea and lentil bathrobes and gluten free head massage. We are introduced to Mary who is going to take us through what's on offer.
"There's a yoga class at 7 in the morning. Shall we book you in?"
"I can't say that was high on my list Mary."
"At the spa you can be rubbed with oil and coconut and wrapped in a banana leaf."
"That sounds like a fish recipe but I'm your man."
"Any questions Sir?"
"Do you have beer?"
"We have a low calorie, organic, non-alcoholic, craft beer brewed from seaweed that is served warm".
"There is one part of that description that disturbs me greatly Mary."
We settle into a spacious room overlooking Lake Vembanad. There should be a bus service between the bed and shower. I don't think we've ever stayed in such a beautiful place. I know everything is high quality because Liz is putting it all in the case.
"Put the shampoo down, step away from the soap and take those hessian slippers off right now. They're all going home and don't get the loofa wet!"
"If that's the thing that looks like Donald Trump's hair then there's something I need to share with you."
She's measuring up the curtains but there's no way we can take those, what with the cushions filling the case already.
It's my last ride today so I want to follow the network of small roads and rough tracks in the rural interior where the smiles are broadest. I head north along the edge of the lake and then turn west and I'm soon off road on paths that link small houses together. Although the terrain is unfamiliar, with palm and banana trees, the banalities of life are not. There's washing on the line, profanity ridden DIY, a group of women gardening and people chatting outside their homes. Almost without fail people greet me, wave and smile. At a temple I stop to talk to a group of small boys. Davinder tells me he is 12 and I find this difficult to believe. He is simply not big enough to be any more than 7 or 8. I ask other boys their age and they are all around 12 but look so much younger. It's these important things that point to some fundamental differences that are hidden from plain view.
Some of the small metalled roads have the communist icon of the hammer and sickle whilst others have less identifiable icons. I think these indicate which political party claims responsibility for building the road. The state of Kerala democratically elected the communist party into power in 1982 and has the highest rate of literacy and the highest average educational attainment in India. (Just saying.) I like the idea of political parties or politicians having their images associated with their achievements. David Cameron could have his photo on closed steelworks and George Osborne's might appear at foodbanks. Theresa May could have her photo in public phone boxes with her number below.
"Theresa May, Home Secretary speaking."
"I'd like a home visit massage service please."
"Regular or gluten free?"
"I love it when you talk organically Theresa."
"Jeremy! This has to stop."
The last hot and tiring ride home to Purity is on the rural roads that I've enjoyed most and some of the stallholders recognise me and smile and wave. There are goats grazing on the roadside near the satsuma seller's stall and one of them looks at me nervously. I think I recognise her. Her hair is different now but .. (enough already!) As I leave the small group of houses that I think is Muhamma, two young lads on a scooter come alongside me and say hello. We chat for a bit and then the driver asks, very politely, if they could have their photo taken with me. (Unbelievably this has happened to me and Liz a few times before in Beijing, Kuala Lumpar and Mumbai). I can't refuse such a polite request so I pull over and they get off and we get ready to pose. Arun is a likeable lad and a keen follower of fashion with complicated trousers and hair that could have someone's eye out. As we are lining up the selfie two of his friends turn up and join in. We squeeze together with me in the middle and just before the shot is taken the two lads either side of me put their arms around my shoulders. This is a mistake. Not for me but them. I am soaked with sweat with the effort in the heat and I feel their grip soften. I daren't look at the picture as it may show two rictus grins as the tsunami of sweat spreads into floral shirts. They mount their bikes and ride off, probably looking for a laundrette.
The last ride is over and so is the Keralan Odyssey. At this point I think I should confess (even though I am sure you know) that the blog is full of embellishment and exaggeration in the name of poetic licence. All of the events recorded happened but perhaps not quite as described. When there were conversations recorded these are verbatim as much as I can recall. However, there is one thing that I have not exaggerated in any way at all, at any point in the blog and that is the friendliness, warmth and beautiful smiles of the people of Kerala that I was fortunate enough to meet. These are the things I will remember over the deserted white beaches, varied and exquisite food, stunning sunsets and bustle and mayhem on the roads. Blog over.
"There's a yoga class at 7 in the morning. Shall we book you in?"
"I can't say that was high on my list Mary."
"At the spa you can be rubbed with oil and coconut and wrapped in a banana leaf."
"That sounds like a fish recipe but I'm your man."
"Any questions Sir?"
"Do you have beer?"
"We have a low calorie, organic, non-alcoholic, craft beer brewed from seaweed that is served warm".
"There is one part of that description that disturbs me greatly Mary."
We settle into a spacious room overlooking Lake Vembanad. There should be a bus service between the bed and shower. I don't think we've ever stayed in such a beautiful place. I know everything is high quality because Liz is putting it all in the case.
"Put the shampoo down, step away from the soap and take those hessian slippers off right now. They're all going home and don't get the loofa wet!"
"If that's the thing that looks like Donald Trump's hair then there's something I need to share with you."
She's measuring up the curtains but there's no way we can take those, what with the cushions filling the case already.
It's my last ride today so I want to follow the network of small roads and rough tracks in the rural interior where the smiles are broadest. I head north along the edge of the lake and then turn west and I'm soon off road on paths that link small houses together. Although the terrain is unfamiliar, with palm and banana trees, the banalities of life are not. There's washing on the line, profanity ridden DIY, a group of women gardening and people chatting outside their homes. Almost without fail people greet me, wave and smile. At a temple I stop to talk to a group of small boys. Davinder tells me he is 12 and I find this difficult to believe. He is simply not big enough to be any more than 7 or 8. I ask other boys their age and they are all around 12 but look so much younger. It's these important things that point to some fundamental differences that are hidden from plain view.
Some of the small metalled roads have the communist icon of the hammer and sickle whilst others have less identifiable icons. I think these indicate which political party claims responsibility for building the road. The state of Kerala democratically elected the communist party into power in 1982 and has the highest rate of literacy and the highest average educational attainment in India. (Just saying.) I like the idea of political parties or politicians having their images associated with their achievements. David Cameron could have his photo on closed steelworks and George Osborne's might appear at foodbanks. Theresa May could have her photo in public phone boxes with her number below.
"Theresa May, Home Secretary speaking."
"I'd like a home visit massage service please."
"Regular or gluten free?"
"I love it when you talk organically Theresa."
"Jeremy! This has to stop."
The last hot and tiring ride home to Purity is on the rural roads that I've enjoyed most and some of the stallholders recognise me and smile and wave. There are goats grazing on the roadside near the satsuma seller's stall and one of them looks at me nervously. I think I recognise her. Her hair is different now but .. (enough already!) As I leave the small group of houses that I think is Muhamma, two young lads on a scooter come alongside me and say hello. We chat for a bit and then the driver asks, very politely, if they could have their photo taken with me. (Unbelievably this has happened to me and Liz a few times before in Beijing, Kuala Lumpar and Mumbai). I can't refuse such a polite request so I pull over and they get off and we get ready to pose. Arun is a likeable lad and a keen follower of fashion with complicated trousers and hair that could have someone's eye out. As we are lining up the selfie two of his friends turn up and join in. We squeeze together with me in the middle and just before the shot is taken the two lads either side of me put their arms around my shoulders. This is a mistake. Not for me but them. I am soaked with sweat with the effort in the heat and I feel their grip soften. I daren't look at the picture as it may show two rictus grins as the tsunami of sweat spreads into floral shirts. They mount their bikes and ride off, probably looking for a laundrette.
The last ride is over and so is the Keralan Odyssey. At this point I think I should confess (even though I am sure you know) that the blog is full of embellishment and exaggeration in the name of poetic licence. All of the events recorded happened but perhaps not quite as described. When there were conversations recorded these are verbatim as much as I can recall. However, there is one thing that I have not exaggerated in any way at all, at any point in the blog and that is the friendliness, warmth and beautiful smiles of the people of Kerala that I was fortunate enough to meet. These are the things I will remember over the deserted white beaches, varied and exquisite food, stunning sunsets and bustle and mayhem on the roads. Blog over.
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