God’s Own Country

Banu picked me up where Raju dropped me off. In a huge old canoe that he manoeuvred as if it were a natural extension of himself. He has clearly spent a life in that boat. I climbed aboard, waved goodbye to Raju, and cruised off with Banu through the backwaters towards Our Land Resort. Once again, I quickly became a grinning fool and must have taken at least a hundred photographs along the way. And Banu too looked as pleased as punch as he pointed out the treehouse that I’d be staying in for the next four nights. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face, but that just seems to be par for the course these days.

After I’d ever so elegantly scrambled out of the canoe, Banu ushered me up the treehouse stairs whilst he followed behind with my bag on his head. I felt like I’d hit the jackpot. And still do. The view over the river Pamba has me spellbound and along with the gentle to-ing and fro-ing of life on the water is enough to keep me occupied for hours at a time.

The treehouse was built 3 years ago, before the monsoon floods of 2018 that killed over 300 people, left over 200,000 more homeless, and devastated so much of this region. Including this property. This particular area is known as The Rice Bowl and beyond the river and the villages, rice fields stretch as far as the eye can see. Yesterday I was told that we are two metres below sea level which means the land still hasn’t drained completely and flooding remains an issue. When the tide is high, I wade through the frog-filled marshes for breakfast. The owners and staff here are gradually putting Our Land back together but have clearly suffered from a decline in visitors. But they are stoic, and perhaps protective, and don’t talk about the floods in negative terms, just as a matter of fact. And of course they are keen to make sure the world gets the message that Our Land is a good and safe, as well as a staggeringly beautiful, place to visit.

On that first evening, before sunset and after a cup of fresh ginger tea served with some deeply un-Ayurvedic fried bananas, Banu took me out for a slow canoe cruise. The riverbank was gently buzzing with activity. Huge brown fruit bats flapped their giant leathery wings in the banana trees. Mopeds and bone-shaking bicycles bumped along the path. Women with their saris hitched-up and tucked-in stood knee deep on the river steps scrubbing either pots and pans, children, or themselves. Men fished with simple poles and lines. Kids of all ages stopped what they were doing to wave and smile as we went by. Banu chatted and laughed easily with everyone we passed. His lifetime neighbours. He is a gentle man and has an air of contentment about him. We passed his home and he introduced me to his wife. He was proud and I think she just wanted to know when he’d be home for supper. I spotted a boy with what looked like a huge tin bath on his back. It was as big as he was. He was yelling at his friend who was carrying a drum to hurry along! His friend quickly mimed a drumming action at me as if by way of explanation, slung his drum over his shoulder, and raced to catch up with the bath tub. They ran quite a way along the bank as we slowly cruised behind. When they had reached what was maybe a safe distance from home, the drumming began. They were good! And they were loud and totally uninhibited. They caught me filming and played all the harder. We could hear them all along the river as we continued our journey, yelling and playing and having what seemed to be the time of their lives. When, nearly an hour later, we floated back past on the other side of the river, two more boys had joined them and by then the rumpus had really begun. Banu and I laughed.

I so often feel like I’m living in a movie. I suppose I’ve have stored snapshots from films I’ve seen or perhaps from books I’ve read, and now here they are, strangely familiar, yet completely new and astounding, come to life.

I’ve just woken up to the chugging of the houseboats, known here as kettuvallam, as they motor up the river, and the now familiar thwack-thwack of morning laundry against the riverbank rocks. Two boys on the opposite bank are splashing and shrieking and making morning bath-time fun. And the chanting in the temple has also begun and voices in worship resonate across the water. Yesterday at about this time I took an island walk with Ratheesh, the manager here, and with Frank and Rhadia, the only two other guests at the property. Ratheesh is a keen ornithologist and we all three delighted as he pointed out white-throated kingfishers, Indian herons, Brahminy kites, bulbuls, orioles and rollers. I can hear them all now.

In a short while I shall splash through the marsh to breakfast. They are feeding me well here and you’ll be pleased to hear that I’m rapidly regaining the 2 kilograms that I lost at the ashram. I shall then make a plan with Ratheesh who says he will take me into Alleppey town this afternoon. I plan to visit the market, the beach and to drink fresh coconut water.

Late tomorrow evening I fly to Koh Samui via Singapore. I’ll spend Sunday on Koh Samui at a place called simply, By Beach, before taking a ferry to Koh Tao on Monday morning. I’m looking forward to some by beach time but am not at all convinced the weather will be kind to me. We shall see.