No More Hungry Leeches

My balcony, on the first floor, where I love to sit and write

My leg didn't stop bleeding after yesterday's session with the leeches, and I tied a supermarket plastic bag over my foot when I went to bed, to limit any damage to the bedding.  This is not free-flowing blood, but nasty sticky stuff that is probably the cause behind my cellulitis and I am glad to see positive results as my body gets rid of it. My foot was quite anaemic when I woke up in the morning, but the swollen shin is much reduced.

The medical team are delighted with the results, while I am still somewhat bemused. I will wait until I've been home for a week or two before I pass final judgement on the healing, but after the sessions with the leeches, the skin of my leg has substantially cleared up and feels much better. I had expected leeches again this afternoon, but I have now fed all of them, and there are no hungry ones left. The doctor has asked for a month's notice if I come here next year, so that they can collect a good team of leeches with healthy appetites, with which to treat me, if I still have circulation problems in my shins..

The day started on the massage bench, and my body has become used to the vigorous and somewhat painful massages, to the extent that it now raises grunts and groans rather than screams, shouts and squeals. I can more or less walk up the stairs, and then trot down, rather than taking one step at a time; stairs were a laborious climb and perilous descent when I arrived in early December. I doubt if my balance will ever fully recover from my prosthetic hip, but I am pretty mobile, especially after the work the masseurs have done on my hip and thigh muscles.

There are things I shall miss from the regime here at Mattindia, and I shall definitely dream of the amazing sensation of the Hot Oil Bath. I wonder whether I might make it back here in 12 - 18 months' time.

I have a lazy final day. I originally thought about going shopping, but I am really about "shopped-out." I love lazing around in my lunghi (sarong) but there's a limit to how many I can wear around Lincoln. I will find excuses to wear my scarlet kurta (thigh-length shirt) but not on the bus with the fellow-pensioners going to the bus-station or ASDA. I have also stocked up on all my Indian spices at 40p per packet rather than £1.95, and even bought a kilo of super-fine flour for making chapatis. I have paid my bill, (including the £15 Leech surcharge!) so today is a very leisurely day but I might try to find some creative ideas to finish off the training materials for my work next week.

Most of the staff work here seven days a week, and the environment is virtually stress-free. Here in India, the whole idea of 5 days work and 2 days play seems to be unknown outside of the corporate world, and the result is that the doctor, the masseurs and all the staff have a very holistic way of life. In Europe, and probably elsewhere in the "developed" world, we have a severance between life and work that creates an inevitable contrast and contradiction. When I sit here on the balcony, writing on my laptop, people make comments like "Working again!" "You should take a break, you're on holiday!" and so forth. But that's not true, because I love what I am doing - whether it's leisure writing, like this, or planning some new exercises for the training I am, running in London next week. If I am entertaining, people comment about "All that work, cooking all that food!" But I love it! I try to integrate totally my life and my work, and enjoy whatever I am doing.  I have friends (you may be one of them) who groan at the thought of having to switch on the computer, but for me, when I have access to the internet, I am let loose in an infinite library.

Tonight I shall leave for the airport, and then it's about 24 hours till I unlock my front door in Lincoln.  I shall enjoy the same work and life mix back home; but I'm not sure about the snow! 

Tastes and flavours

A group of pale-faced tourists sit alone in the air-conditioned chill of a hotel restaurant. They are faced with what is termed a multi-cuisine menu. This means that the chef has a large freezer and a vague idea about  Fish and Chips, Spaghetti Bolognaise, Cheesburger and Fries, Paella, French Onion Soup, Chicken Chow Main and  Moussaka. He has never tasted any of these in its authentic version, but he has a colour photograph and reheating instructions. Back at home, his mother is not entirely familiar with the Roman alphabet, but can knock up a stunning Biryani without thinking about it, and at the same time she will knead, roll and cook a dozen or so light and delicate chapattis without a second thought, while she is listening to the grandchildren’s homework.

I first came to India in 1970, on an extended, belated honeymoon after my employer in Khartoum was nationalised in a government coup, and we expatriates were shipped home. I bought some travellers’ cheques with some of my pay-off and followed the ‘Hippy Trail’ to the East. The career could go on hold for a few months. 

When I reflect on my C.V. it is quite possible that my career just stayed there.

Coach travel in Afghanistan - 1970

In India back then, I saw change happening, just as I had seen it in Africa. We came over the Khyber Pass from Kabul in Afghanistan to Peshawar in Pakistan, seeing history carved in mountainside memorials with the crests and battle-records of the British and Imperial Indian regiments who had fought many a battle with Afghan tribal forces over a couple of centuries. 

In Peshawar, we stayed at a very old hotel and were shown the table d’hôte dinner menu. It had not changed much since Queen Victoria, with Soup, Curry, Fish, Poultry, Meat, Sweet and Savoury. These were not alternatives but, in the fine tradition of Mrs Beeton, were sequential courses. When we returned through Peshawar a month later, new management had introduced the now infamous multi-cuisine à la carte menu.

Tripes a la mode de Caen - unctuous and full of flavour

People are funny about food. Most people trust only what they know, and are frightened of experimentation. I confess I am the opposite. On holiday in the 70s, we were touring Normandy by car and arrived in Caen at lunch-time. My eyes lit up to see the famous local delicacy on the menu: Tripes a la mode de Caen. I had never tasted tripe, and I needed to overcome the initial repulsion when the steaming dish was placed before me. I tackled it with a spoon and it was utterly delicious. It is essentially a bowl of a meaty stew in  a rich gravy, served with a basket of fresh-baked crusty bread. 

What more could an Englishman ask for?

But on this trip today, I am a vegetarian. That’s partly because both Mattindia and the Ashram are ‘pure veg.’ and partly because it’s both more adventurous and less risky in these foreign parts when the local cuisine is predominantly meat-free. 

Masala Dhosa - a hot, wafer-thin crispy crunch 

The menu is in English, and here are the words you will recognise: Onion, Garlic, Tomato, Cashew, Chilli, Tea, Coffee, Ice-Cream. 

If you are coming from UK. you've a head start on the mainland Europeans, who stare  bemused  at Poppadum, Chapati, Lassi, Tandoori, and so on. Still, you’ll probably stumble at Dhosa, Iddly and various other Kerala specialities. 

You might find a waiter who can offer an explanation beyond “very tasty” and “quite spicy,” but the only real answer is to give it the Caen treatment and dive in head-first.

The Dhosa is at the heart of Kerala cuisine. It is essentially a pancake, and somes in many forms, from the paper-thin Masala Dhosa that usually around two foot in diameter, and arrives with a filling of spicy mixed vegetables. Smaller dhosas are made from a fermented batter and come with dipping sauces.

Most restaurants serve fresh lime sodas, seasoned with salt rather than sugar (Wow! What a great innovation that is!)

If you feel extravagant, a little tub of pistachio ice-cream will cool the palate and set you back 20p.

Apart from my regrettable forray to tandoori chicken one evening in Madurai, I never spent more than £2 on a meal. This is gourmet tourism on the cheap.

Bus down to Cherthala

Life in Ezhupunna is slow, and I don't know why I am so attracted by this sleepy little village with its mosque, its church and its temple. There is nothing much apart from Mattindia: a handful of simple stores, mostly selling similar products – cheap toys, toothpaste, agricultural tools and general hardware. There is also a very basic tea-shop and an ultra-modern dentist, where Chippy Thrideep sorted out my loose crown and polished my smile back in mid-December. 

Kochi / Cochin airport is off the map to the north

One great attraction of the area is the backwaters, as is clear from the map. There is a small-scale fishing industry in most villages, where women sit cross-legged on the ground in thatched sheds, peeling tiny shrimps, ready for packing and freezing. If you're on the beach when the fishermen are coming or going, you can help to haul the boats up or down over log rollers.

As you can imagine, the sunsets can be spectacular from the west-facing beach.
Unfortunately, my new treatment schedule leaves no time for much in the way of excursions. I have massages in the morning - rough, tough, gasp and scream type massages - and then in the afternoon I have leeches on my leg to reduce the thrombosis. Add to that "purgation" tomorrow, which means I won't want to be far from the loo, and you can see that my mobility is limited. You must be wondering what the effect of all this is, and I can only say that I am impressed by the steady improvement in my general health. It is a tough discipline, and there are some weird treatments (they rub half a teaspoonful of powder into the scalp on the crown of my head, after my massages) but I can only judge by the way that I feel. One woman did the 3-week detox and is now doing 20 days in solitary - shut in her room, windows curtained off with blankets, alone in isolation with just a stack of books.

I did manage to arrange a couple of hours free time earlier in the week and headed off to the little town of Cherthala, 17km to the south. There is no sign for the bus-stop, in Ezhupunna, but you can usually see two or three people loitering opposite the tea-shop while they wait for the regular buses that run down from Ernakulam. The fare is 13p to 15p depending on the bus operator, and it’s an enjoyable 20-30 minute ride with plenty to see along the way.

Cherthala has both bus and railway stations, a few banks and a wide variety of little shops and general stores. As always in India, there is a really good textiles shop with fabrics in every imaginable colour and pattern, and several tailors in the immediate vicinity who will transform a length of cotton into whatever garment you choose.

I dropped my watch when I was in Madurai, and the glass was smashed. I was relieved to find a little clock and watch shop in Cherthala, and asked the owner if he could replace the glass. He took great care in doing so, and took at least a quarter of an hour before he was satisfied with the job. The total cost: thirty pence.

I continued to search for artisan knives made by local blacksmiths and sold by street pedlars, but increasingly now household items are shiny stainless steel and brightly coloured plastic. I found a couple of nice primitive kitchen knives, and I'll look around  at the weekend, when I have to head out and find an ATM: I'll need to withdraw cash to settle my bill next week.

Ah, here's the man with the leeches!

City Life - Madurai : A city founded around 500 BC

It’s a long time since I spent a few days in an Indian city – not in a tourist hotel on the outskirts, sipping Cappuccino and eating pizza, - but in the city centre with all of the buzz and vibrant atmosphere of a bustling city. I only wish that I was a little more comfortably mobile, because I was far too proud to bring my walking stick with me from Mattindia, and I find my replaced hip just doesn’t have the balance it should have. This especially true on pavements full of potholes, with high kerbs and steep steps. It doesn’t hold me back too much, but I’ll swear that the super-strong penicillin jab I had from the doctor really hit hard, and has sapped a lot of my energy.

It’s the day after Pongal, and has what once might once have been called a “Boxing Day lull” about it. Most of the shops are opening late, if at all, and I have searched everywhere to try and find an internet café, but even those that are open are unable to offer wireless because their supplier has closed for the day. No, I know that doesn’t make sense, but that is as far as the discussion has progressed. In the end I headed to the temple area to look for gifts, on the basis that tourist shops are always open. Not that I wanted touristy stuff – I was looking for some of the cottons and silks for which Madurai is renowned, and perhaps some kitchen knives for my latest collecting fad.

Shops in the Temples quarter

It is definitely becoming increasingly difficult to find hand-made everyday items. 4 years ago I bought a beautiful, small, blacksmith-made penknife with brass fittings and bone sides to the handle. Now they are mostly factory produced with plastic handles. I did find a lovely pair of hand-made scissors and one pocket knife which isn’t really artisan, but it’s original.

The market bazaar area is crowded with the little wild men in black, but it appears they are actually not fakirs or sadhus, but pilgrims heading to a major holy site further south. The fact that they are pilgrims makes them nonetheless fearsome as they parade in gangs, haggling threateningly with market traders over brass lamps and trinkets to take back to their villages. I wonder if they’ll still be around in a decade.

The West Tower

This is one of the four towers of the amazing Meenakshi temple. Each tower is about 160 feet high, and the temple is estimated to house over 33,000 sculptures and statues. 

I managed to get round the temple compound on the day before Pongal when it was not too crowded, but this morning there were long queues. 

I am still working out how I relate to Hinduism. In the past I would have been very dismissive of the whole religion, but I can now begin to see the value in using stories and metaphors that emphasise human fallibility and the benefits of humility, generosity and kindness  – which I think are some of the core messages.

This evening I went looking for a different restaurant and wished I had stuck to my vegetarian favourites. I had dry, tasteless Tandoori Chicken with leathery roti bread. And the cost was more than three times what I would have paid if I had stuck to pure veg. That was my first meat for almost a couple of months, and it was not in the least appetising.

Tomorrow is an unplanned day apart from going back to the bazaar for a couple of things that caught my eye. Feet up and read in the afternoon, then off to the bus station for the night bus to Kerala and a few more days of tough Ayurveda to see if they can get the circulation in my legs working better.

Overview of the temple compound -
  © Jorge Royan / http://www.royan.com.ar. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons 

Pongal Village Festival

I wish I'd seen this poster before I booked !

The local tourist office organised a coach trip to a village for the Pongal festival. This is widely celebrated in Tamil Nadu state, and the government organises tourist trips for publicity. I had no idea what to expect, but it was free and at worst would show me another side of local life.

I should have known there would be shades of Benidorm Club 18-30 for this event, but the village made a big effort to put on a good show. . . .even if this did mean that we were hounded by journalists, cameramen and photographers always looking for photo-opportunities.

The coach was almost identical to the one that took me on a tour of Jaipur when I first came to India in 1970.

When we arrived, we were greeted with full honours, garlanded and marked with coloured powder to the forehead.

Tourists were encouraged to join the band

 

Throughout Tamil Nadu, whenever there is cause for celebration, people decorate the ground in front of their home with patterns made of coloured powder

Every vehicle, bike and motorbike carried a bunch of white flowers 

We were seated in a clearing on the outskirts of the village 

for a demonstration of tribal dancing (I feared the worst!)

Like most traditional country dancing – from Austrian thigh-slapping to prancing English Morris Dancers, the local versions were slightly ridiculous but very clever. This man stood on a ball and balanced a decorated vase on his head. 

Love the costume, – don’t you? 

Predictably, he then hauled people up out of the audience to make fools of themselves. Now once upon a time I would have fought to get up their and join in. 

No, I have not grown old! I have matured elegantly.

This man had a flexible 10ft steel blade that he swished through the air at high speed, narrowly missing the front row of the audience (and the band played on . . .)

The audience were not invited to join in with the fire dances.

In this one the man danced energetically and then spun round with a sort of iron candelabra that he twirled precariously.

In this one this man hurled a bundle of flaming rags around his head. 

Finally, the entire village went to a feast in the village hall seated at long tables and eating in the traditional style, with the fingers of the right hand, off banana leaves.

I found myself sitting next to two women who blog under the name “dusty old bags.” They were not much younger than I, and have been making various trips all over the world, by motor-bike. The current 3-month trip in India is sponsored by Harley-Davison and they are speaking at a big biking event. 

You meet some amazing people when you travel.

On to Madurai

Farewell to the Ashram

Railway timetables in India are legendary; that is to say, you can never be sure how much is true, and how much is ancient myth and folklore from times past. My first journey was timetabled to take an hour. I clambered aboard the train at Kalithulai when it arrived 40 minutes behind schedule, and climbed down when it arrived at Trichy an hour later. My connecting train, optimistically called the Guruvayor Express, was the best part of an hour late, but still managed to reach Madurai on time. I was hustled by the usual crowd of autorickshaw drivers, and haggled 20% off the fare before we could do a deal, knowing full-well that I was still paying 50% above the local rate. Still, one should not complain about 80p for a mile and a half.

I had chosen the YMCA Guest House for nostalgic reasons, having lived for a year at the YMCA in Nairobi when I was a VSO back in 62/63. The Madurai property was perfect for my needs; across the road from the pedestrianised  temple quarter, and a large, clean room with a desk space and power for my laptop. The en-suite is spacious, fully tiled, and fairly modern. And the bed! Ah, the bed! They generously gave me a free upgrade to a double room, and the large bed has a foam mattress, about five inches thick. After 3 weeks on a solid-stuffed kapok palliasse, this was half-way to heaven. I unpacked my bags and stretched out, my head on the lump-free pillow. I didn’t move for the best part of a couple of hours.

£9 per night - bed & breakfast

When I woke, my legs and back reminded me that my back-pack was ridiculously heavy, considering I had tried to stick to the traveller’s rule of “one to wear, one in the wash and one in reserve.” I had done a bit of shopping, treated myself to two made-to-measure, long “kurta” Indian-style shirts, one with matching trousers, and I’d found the fabric I’d wanted to make a runner for my sideboard. It didn’t look much, I had struggled to swing the pack onto my back, and nearly clouted nearby train passengers in the process. I felt weak, but I downed a bottle of water and ventured out to explore.

By now, it was dark and the area was coming to life again after resting in the heat of the afternoon. I chose to come to Madurai at this time because of the “Pongal” harvest festival celebrations, which are especially well celebrated in this temple city. Like most big religious festivals, it’s a time for families and a time for gifts, and the streets were crowded with mums and dads, aunts and uncles, with young boys and girls, - the children in their smart new clothes, clutching new toys, or hanging on to a father who was shouldering a bright pink bicycle with stabilisers for an extremely excited daughter. 

They came in their coach-loads. One group turned a corner in front of me and streamed past: a horde of 40-odd housewives of all ages and all vociferously unaccompanied, all about five-foot-nothing, wide-eyed and chattering loudly. Then a flock of schoolgirls, young teenagers, immaculate in a riotous rainbow  of multi-coloured Salwar Kameez with flowing scarves.

Along the road outside the pedestrian area came a convoy of SUV’s – Land-Cruisers and the like. The roof-racks were stacked with tents and drums and the occupants stared out, looking like refugees from the hill villages. These men were sadhus and fakirs, holy men whom I later saw wandering barefoot along the street. They had very dark skin, contrasting with the dabs of coloured powder on the brow, over the “third eye,” which gave them a frightening appearance.  Most were naked to the waist, and all wore similar black lunghis (sarongs) or loin-cloths. They carried themselves with a pride that verged on aggressive arrogance, but that was surely my own fear and insecurity being manifested.

I was dragging my feet, and moved away from the central area in search of a restaurant. I found a “pure veg” establishment and looked forward to my first dhosa of 2015. Dhosas are huge paper-thin, crisp pancakes that come with dipping sauces, or stuffed with vegetables. Mine was almost a yard across,  with the usual trio of a soupy dip, some vegetable curry and my favourite, which is a spicy coconut sauce.

After three weeks in rural isolation, it will take me a while to get used to the buzz of the city, but it’s the contrast I wanted, and it’s lively and stimulating.                                                                                                                                                                                   

Returning to Everyday India

This is my last day at Saccidananda and I am reflecting on my experiences of the three weeks here. If you’re interested in this ashram’s original twist on Christianity, you’ll find I’ve written about it in my spiritual blog.

On a practical level, we’ve had virtually no internet for the past few days while the builders have been working on enlarging and redecorating the office. I’ve been obliged to take an auto-rickshaw to the village, and squeeze into a tiny booth at an internet shop-front, where they rent web access at 20p/hour. Not the perfect environment for composing business emails in connection with my training assignment next month, so when possible I’ve drafted everything out back at my room and then pasted it into an email when I went to the village.

Happily, my cellulitis is just about under control now. I wear flight stockings each night and this stops the skin blistering. The snag then is that when I remove the stockings my skin itches terribly and if I scratch my leg, the skin tears. When I get back to Mattindia I have some emollient cream which will sort that out and I’ll be none the worse. Apart from that, I am in fine form: a bit of a summer sniffle and a dusty cough, but that’s all par for the climate. The enforced slow pace and strict regimes have made me take things gently and spend time on reflection, and that’s done me a world of good.

You learn funny little anecdotes when you travel. I learned yesterday that Indians used to identify the denomination of missionaries by their footwear. Catholics were mostly from Spain and Portugal and wore sandals; Protestants came from Northern Europe and wore shoes. These days you want to wear slip-on mules or loafers whenever possible, because you are forever taking them off, every time you enter a building.

I’ve worn my old sandals every day for three weeks and while most sandals have smooth soles, mine have a big swirling pattern. Over the three weeks I’ve retraced my steps in the dust time and again, and now there’s that big swirling pattern wherever I walk. Over the coming week that imprint will gradually disappear, unless there’s a thunderstorm, in which case all trace of R J Harvey will be gone in ten minutes.

Tomorrow it’s the slow, stopping train to Trichy. One class / third class, single ticket 20p, so that will be interesting – but it’s only an hour, so I’m not worried. Then I have a 2-tier A/c sleeper compartment, window seat with “pantry service” for the 3-hour journey from Trichy to Madurai.  That’s a 4-person compartment, with the top bunks folded up in the daytime. Having sneaked into that class of carriage from Varkala to Trivandrum I know how very comfortable that will be and I’ll enjoy it. The fare is £4.30 with my senior citizen discount, and pantry service means that the pantry-wallah will be up and down the train with pots of tea, lunch and snacks for sale.

I get to Madurai around 4.30 on Monday afternoon, and I’ll take a rickshaw to the YMCA where my single room is booked, (fingers crossed.) Strange as it may seem, I am not yearning for a change from vegetarian food, and I haven’t missed alcohol. On the other hand, I might feel different if I smell grilled prawns or see a bar.

And yes, you’ve all spotted the deliberate mistake I’m sure. My plan was originally to spend Christmas in Kerala, but I changed my route after I’d started the blog and had already titled it “KeralaChristmas.” I’ve been in the neighbouring state of Tamil Nadu since just before Christmas, and I’ll be back in Kerala next week, after the Pongal festival in Madurai.

It’s a wonderful journey.