Hello, my friend
We leave Cochin a little later than we planned, getting to the ferry just after its gone. We end up paying a rickshaw driver an exorbitant fee to get us to the train station, and in return, he drives like a madman, flying over bridges and weaving in between cars. When we get to the train station, T is so grateful that he got us there on time that he gives the driver a 50% tip. I can tell that the driver is considering big sloppy kisses in thanks, but fortunately he refrains.
The train to Varkala is amazing. We pass over bridges, through still waters, past groves of palm trees and empty lots with kids playing cricket. The greenery is astounding and half of my brain starts to yell, VERDANT! VERDANT! The other half yells to shut up, I know you took the SATs and you didnt even do that well, so quit trying to show off.
Our hotel, the Dreams Beach Resort, looks empty except for us. Varkala is much cooler than Cochin, especially at night, and we even manage to have dinner outside without being feasted on by mosquitoes. In the day, we see that Varkala is perched on the edge of a giant cliff, with restaurants and shops all facing the water. There are tourists everywhere, which means more white people but also a million choices for dinner. For the first few days, I am sick, so I lie in bed watching TV and rueing the fact that I cant be out in the sun working on my glorious tan. At sunset, we watch the sunset and take a billion pictures of the sun slowly sinking into the smoggy horizon.
After a few days in Varkala, after T manages to talk the hotel manager into lowering our rate, we get another train to Samudra Beach, north of Kovalam. We stay at the Puja Mahal Hotel because I think they have a pool, which turns out to be exactly the same size as the one at my childhood home, but with worse furniture. Our room is worth nowhere near the $50 we’re paying for it, but I don’t really care too much anymore.
It takes almost no time at all to discover that staying in Samudra Beach is a lot like drinking at Cheers. Everybody knows us in no time: the sunbed guys, the shop owners, and the restauranteurs. We make friends with a waiter named John at a restaurant called Third Rock, where we eat at least once a day. The people are all gentle and friendly and everyone calls me my friend. At one point, were called into a massage parlor, where the masseuse holds my hand, stroking it, before lightly touching my face and telling me I have a lucky nose. The beach is tiny and we go swimming once in the ocean. Another day, we try the hotel pool, but I almost kill myself going down the stairs and then spend the whole time choking on water because I am laughing so hard at the goat turds in the pool.
Every weekday, the fisherman bring in their catch, with about a dozen men tugging on one end of an enormous net. They pull and pull, singing songs as they go. It takes ages for them to bring the ends of the net back to meet each other, but eventually they manage it, and then they dump their fish on the ground. On a bad day, they only go out once, but on a good one, they go out again and again, dragging the net out into the water in a rowboat, and then lugging it back in. It is grueling work, and on the bad days, I wonder if it’s worth it.
Alleppey is our last stop, where we planned to do an overnight backwater tour. We check into the Arcadia Regency Hotel, and are completely unable to leave. It turns out that the backwater tours are only $10 cheaper for 12 hours than for 24, and we dont want to pay that much for one day, but we also dont want to go for a night because we have run out of books for me to read and T cant stomach the thought of entertaining me for an entire day. So we sleep late, eat thalis for lunch, spend hours on the internet, and at sunset, swim in the tiny (but goat turd-free) rooftop pool. The hotel is one of the nicest we have seen on the trip, and the restaurant is just as good. And, to commemorate the end of our stay in India, T has his first beer in six weeks, drinking it wrapped in a napkin because the restaurant is unlicensed.
