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Out trusty Enfield

It was late November. The cold Scottish winter had really kicked in - the sort of cold that seeps right into your bones and is almost impossible to shrug off. Edinburgh is dismal at that time of year. The days are short and darkness has fallen by the time you trudge home from work. Thick winter clothes weigh you down and the rain is an ever-present threat. Most of all, I miss the light that lifts your spirits. Fantasizing about far off places with palm trees and warm beaches was starting to become an everyday occurrence for both Garry and myself. The memories of Australia were getting the better of us and a creeping itch had begun. It’s the first symptom of the travel bug. It was definitely that time again; we needed to pack our bags and take off for a while. It had been almost two years since our last excursion, around Australia. We had both fallen in love with the great “down-under” continent and we knew we had to make an effort to get back there. Our plans changed one wet, drizzly afternoon, walking through the Gayle shopping center in Edinburgh.

A big sign in one of the travel agencies caught Garry’s attention: GOA - TWO WEEKS HALF BOARD - DEPARTING DECEMBER 13 - £329. He stopped and studied it, then looked at me. ”How do you fancy spending Christmas in India?” ”Yeah, right! If only.” ”Why not?” he shrugged. “We could start in Goa, forfeit our returns and make our way to Aus via Asia.” ”It sounds great, Garry, but it’s leaving in less than two weeks,” I pointed out, eager to finish the shopping and get home. “What about our jobs…our stuff? Where would we keep it?” ”Our jobs are hardly irreplaceable, and as far as our belongings are concerned, we’ll keep some at my grandmother’s and some at your mother’s, the rest we’ll sell. “I realized he was deadly serious. ”It’s all a bit sudden, isn’t it?” ”Sure, it’s sudden, but were hardly happy here are we?” he said. ”No, but India? We know nothing about the place.” ”I know it’s sunny and look, if we don’t like it, we’ll just move on to somewhere we do like.”

Garry was very persuasive, and I began to consider the possibility. Outside, the sky was dark and the rain was getting heavy. The wind was picking up and everyone looked thoroughly miserable. He watched me as the thoughts worked through my mind. A smile got the better of me. ”Why not? Let’s do it!” I said. “What the hell, we can always come back.” ”That’s the spirit, Rach!, ” he said gleefully throwing his arms around me. “I know we won’t regret it.” And that, roughly, is how I was talked into traveling around Asia. Before I had time to change my mind, we went into the travel agency and booked two tickets. There was no going back now. That evening, we went to the pub to celebrate our brilliant plan. ”We needn’t spend just two weeks in India. If we’re going all that way, why not take in a few more countries,” Garry suggested, now well excited by the idea and making plans at a mile a minute. ”We could go from there to Nepal and trek in the Himalayas!” “And then there’s the beaches of Thailand!” The whole idea was sounding better by the minute and by the time we left the pub, we had our trip mapped out.

Over the next week, we handed in our notice at work, and sold most of our belongings. We spent days packing what we needed and discarding the rest. Our departure date was drawing close but the butterflies were flapping in my gut. ”Are we doing the right thing?” I’d ask myself over and over again. ”Of course we are, it’ll be great,” I’d assure myself, but those damn butterflies would not go away. I’m sure everyone has a certain amount of apprehension when they plan a visit to foreign lands. The thought of India had my stomach in bits! I wasn’t sure what to expect. The country conjured up so many different images in my mind - extreme poverty, suffering and overcrowding, colourful festivals, diverse cultures and religions, strange and interesting customs. It was all going to be very different, but exciting. We were on the move once more. Excellent!

Being HIV positive, I was aware that I was taking a bit of a risk going somewhere like India. Maybe that’s why I had such butterflies but, as long as I have my full health, I have always been determined never to let it take over my life or get in the way of anything I want to do. I’m one of the lucky ones who have non-progressive HIV; I’ve never had illness nor needed medication. The most I have to do is go for a check-up every six months and I considered that I could do that somewhere en route if necessary. By taking the proper precautions and using some common sense, I was sure I would be just fine. At any rate, it wasn’t going to stop me from this great adventure.

After an extremely cramped eleven-hour flight, we were relieved to finally land in Goa. The first thing to hit us leaving the plane was the extreme heat, followed shortly by the chaos in the airport. The baggage carousel had broken down and a bizarre system of luggage collection was in place. The handlers had emptied the carousel to make room for the next load. People were tripping over suitcases and bags that were strewn all over the floor. It was stifling and thronged and full of the vibrancy that sets Asia apart from orderly European airports. Newcomers have a slightly bewildered, unhinged expression on their faces. It goes much deeper than jet lag. We finally found our rucksacks and went to change currency. ”How much will I change?” asked Garry. ”I don’t know, about £100.” After queuing for about ten minutes, he returned humming, “We’re in the money, we’re in the money”. In his hand, he had a huge wad of filthy notes stapled together, worn, torn and falling apart.

”Hello. Welcome to India,” said a holiday rep, placing a garland of flowers around my neck. It was a nice gesture, but I was sticking out enough without the garland. Everyone seemed to be staring - and at me. It was a bit unnerving. “Now I know how those famous actors must feel,” I joked to Garry. The bus trip to our hotel would be our first taste of the “insane” Indian driving. We had just sat down when the driver pounded his horn and sped off as fast as the bus would go. Seemingly oblivious to other vehicles he roared along at top speed. Anything smaller than his bus was forced aside as he carved his own route to the hotel. His overtaking antics could only be described as down right suicidal; around blind bends, over the brows of hills, wherever. It didn’t seem to matter; nothing was going to slow him down. Through the window, I could see the remains of vehicles that had been unsuccessful in negotiating their crazy maneuvers. I held on tight and hoped we weren’t going to become just another statistic.

Thankful to still be alive, we got to our hotel in the small village of Candolim where porters ran out to greet us. ”Please Sir, Madam, let me carry your bags.” They practically grabbed the bags off our arms, so keen were they to show us to our rooms and hopefully get a generous tip. Exhausted after our long, uncomfortable flight, we were fit for nothing but sleep. The hotel was good, although the beds were a bit hard. There was a large pool and the grounds were well kept, surrounded by exotic plants and palm trees. A few hours later, showered and refreshed, we strolled down to the beach. It was hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours previously we had been in the depths of winter, and now, here we were sitting on a beach watching the sun setting over the Indian Ocean. ”This is more like it, eh!” said Garry, leaning back on a sun lounger. “The sun, the sea, a bit of adventure.”“Definitely.” I sat back, happy with our decision, and took a long swig of my Kingfisher beer, as the sun disappeared behind the horizon.

Candolim is a small village with not much more than a couple of hotels and a few stalls and restaurants. We set off to do some exploring the following day. After the previous evening’s bus ride, I had no intention of taking the local mode of transport again. The alternative was to place my life in the hands of Garry and rent a motorbike. I had not been on a motorbike for three years, and I swore I would never get on one again following an accident we had had in Australia. Motoring along at high speed, Garry had leaned to turn a sharp bend. Feeling that the bike would give way under us, I foolishly leaned the other way. The bike went out of control, and careered off the road. Ahead of us was an irrigation channel, about 6ft deep and 10ft across. All I remember is being dragged along the gravel for what seemed an eternity - and pain, severe pain. It’s actually a miracle we cleared the channel and didn’t crash straight into it. Someone must have been watching over us that day. Garry got off pretty lightly too, with little more than a broken hand.

Needless to say, I was just a bit dubious about motorbikes. It took some time for Garry to convince me. ”Okay, okay,” I finally gave in. “But I’m going to be terrified, I know it!” ”You’ll be fine,” said Garry, reassuringly. I still wasn’t fully convinced, but the best way to tackle your fear is to face it so we hired a bike and gallantly took to the roads. This is definitely not for the faint-hearted. Forget brakes and lights, a loud horn and nerves of steel are all you need. More than once, I saw my life flashing before me, as we just managed to dodge yet another huge Tata truck roaring towards us on the wrong side of the road. However, I must admit that after a while I definitely felt safer on the bike than I did on the bus. After exploring the town fully, we took an excursion out to Dudhsagar Falls, about 150km away. All the tourist spots were left well behind. On our way, we passed through tiny little villages, with mud huts, where the people were going about their daily business. The women were collecting water from the well and carrying baskets on their heads. Children were scaling palm trees like monkeys, throwing coconuts down to their friends. Men would sit lazily at the roadside drinking chai and smoking their bidis. The smells, sounds, colours and sights in these villages are captivating, so different to the life we’d left behind. We caused quite a stir when we passed through on our old Vespa scooter, especially with the children, who would run along beside the bike, chanting “Hallo, Hallo” with huge grins on their faces.

Our map had said 150km, but it felt much longer than that. We’d driven for hours before we eventually arrived at the falls. We were dirty and our behinds were numb, but it was worth it. One hundred feet of frothing white water cascaded down the mountainside into the deep pool that lay before us. It was irresistible; we both stripped off and dived in. I washed the dirt of the road out of my hair and allowed the bubbling water to soothe my bones. The trees around the falls were full of monkeys, leaping about. On seeing the food we had to offer, they eyed us up for a few minutes. Then, after plucking up the courage, they came close enough to eat out of our hands. We could have spent hours in this beautiful place, but it was getting late, and driving during the day is one thing but at night - no way!

As the days went on, I was becoming more comfortable on the back of the bike. The driving conditions were becoming less scary and more the norm, although you only had to look at the many tourists in plaster or bandages to remind you of the dangers. The food was good - so far at least - the weather was great; I was really starting to like India. Arambol beach in north Goa is more quiet than the touristy beaches in the south and is a popular haunt for the aging hippies for which Goa is infamous. One day while walking along the beach, Garry was confronted by a strange little man. ”Excuse me Sir,” he said, looking closely at Garry’s head. ”What is he looking at?” Garry wondered. But before he had time to duck, the man had poked a sharp metal device into his ear. ”What the hell are you doing?” Garry said, pulling away startled. The man was looking at his device, smiling knowingly. ”You see, Sir, look what has come out of your ear! Very, very much wax. I clean for you, only 100 rupees.” ”There is no way that was in my ear,” Garry said. “There’s enough wax there to make a candle!” ”Oh yes, Sir, please. Your ears very dirty. You must have cleaned!” He went to take another swipe at the ear, but Garry ducked just in time to avoid another prod. “Listen you! I think I’ll just clean my own ears if you don’t mind!” Eventually, he got the message, and went off to offer his services to some other unsuspecting tourist, leaving us wondering where the hell all that wax had appeared from. Garry was cringing.

Almost anywhere in Asia, the marketplace is a hub of activity. The Anjuna flea market is no exception. It’s a huge event that takes place every Wednesday down by the beach near Calangute, about 10km from Candolim. We’d been told it was the place to get all your trinkets and clothes and that just wandering around was a great day out. We weren’t disappointed. As we walked past colourful stalls selling clothes, ornaments, rugs, we were constantly tugged at. ”Come, come, Sir, Madam. You come to my stall. Best quality clothes in market! “You must see the rugs I have. Very, very cheap!” ”I have big T-shirts, even big enough to fit you, Sir!” ”Look at the beautiful jewelery I have. For you, friend, special price!” Not knowing which way to turn, we told them, we were just looking now and would definitely come back later. A man wheeled himself in front of us, looking up longingly. His mangled legs were grotesquely twisted. His wrists were bandaged and he pushed himself around on a tray with wheels attached to the base. The level of poverty in India was heart-wrenching and disturbing. Even more disturbing is the fact that many of these injuries are deliberately inflicted on these people when they are young children to enhance their success as beggars.

Tightrope walkers and snake charmers vied for space with the stall owners. Ear wallahs were out in force, offering their services to anyone who dared. Garry made sure to cover his ears any time we passed one! Travelers at the end of their journey were selling off their belongings. ”How would you fancy traveling around India on a motorbike?” Garry asked. “My God, I’m only just starting to get used to one, and now you want to tour the country on one! It’s one thing scooting around Goa, but to go around India.” My voice trailed off. ”Come on, Rach. Look at these beautiful Enfield bikes; just imagine it. We’ll see parts of India we’d never see on a bus or train. Going through little villages, traveling at our own pace. Who do you trust more on the road, a bus driver or me? I’ll be extra careful, honest.” I looked over at the bikes. I have to admit, the Enfields are definitely attractive looking bikes. They have real attitude. The more I thought about it, the more I could picture us cruising around on this lovely machine. ”Let’s just think about it, and we’ll come back next week and decide,” I said.

The following Wednesday, we returned to the market. The decision was final. We were buying an Enfield today. I was still a bit nervous about it, but excited. We had our eye on one particular bike, but an English guy named Kevin and his French girlfriend, Crystal, were checking it out so we walked around the market and waited for them to finish looking. When we came back, a deal had already been made. The bike was theirs. ”You just beat us to it!” said Garry, laughing.”Well, I hope you find something else to suit you”, said Kevin. We chatted for a while and they wished us luck with our search, then drove off. Just then, another Enfield came putting in, and was parked up, covered in “For Sale” signs. This one looked even better than the one we had almost purchased. We looked at each other. ”Are you sure you’re sure now, before we go ahead with this?” Garry asked. ”Come on, let’s just go for it.” Before I could change my mind, Garry was already in there, talking money with the seller. It was definitely the best looking bike there. Only a year old, it was in immaculate condition. We agreed on a price, parted with our cash, and drove out of the market. It felt great. This was going to be different. Nerve-wracking, but different.

Our two weeks of luxury were almost at an end. ”Where will we go next?” Garry asked. I wasn’t quite ready to venture into the “real India” just yet, still enjoying the relaxed pace of life where we were. ”Let’s stay in Goa for another little while,” I suggested. Having to find other accommodation was not easy. Being the high season, nearly everywhere was full. Finally, we came across a place right on the beach. ”Let’s check it out. It’s only 50p a night,” Garry said. We weren’t expecting luxury, and certainly did not get it. But it was very cheap. At this stage, we still weren’t sure what to expect from accommodation. In fact, as we traveled around, we were to learn that a lot of hotels are very cheap and of good standard. But we weren’t too fussy at this stage. It was only for a few days. Once we had checked in, I decided to go to the beach on my own and relax. No sooner had I settled down than I heard a group of women, standing right beside me, talking amongst themselves. ”Excuse me, Madam” I looked up. ” Please, would it be possible to get a photograph of us with you?” They had already lined someone up to take the shot. ”Sure, why not.” I noticed another group of people approaching me. I obliged once more. Then, they started appearing from all angles. Eventually, after about the fifth photo had been taken, I had to call a halt. I had come down here to relax! Just about to settle back down and read my book, I spotted a bull, just a few feet away, eyeing me menacingly. He slowly started making his way towards me. I decided to retreat back into the little beach hut, where Garry was sitting. “Getting too much, was it?” he laughed.

Finally ready for our venture into “real India,” we packed up the bike - not an easy task tying three rucksacks to a bike - and started heading south along the coast. The changes were apparent quite soon after we crossed the state border into Karnataka. Bad enough as the roads were in Goa, they deteriorated rapidly as we moved into this less developed region. Our speed dropped down considerably to allow for the hidden danger of potholes. Groups of women sat at the roadside with tiny little chisels, chipping rocks. Given the heat of the blistering sun, this must have been torturous work for them. They would, no doubt, do this from sunrise to sunset. Karnataka doesn’t see many tourists, and our pale faces caused a stir. Stopping in small villages for a rest and a drink, we found ourselves the centre of attention, attracting people from all around. People would stop going about their daily business just to stand and get a look. Nothing threatening, just a deep curiosity.

The small dusty village of Gokarna was to be our first stop. Here, for the first time, we ate in a genuine Indian restaurant. A far cry from our candlelit dinners in Goa, it was very basic. There was a limited and strictly vegetarian menu, which was double-dutch to us. Garry, a strict carnivore with an aversion to vegetables, was a bit worried he was going to go hungry in Karnataka. We opted for thalis, which consisted of four nondescript sauces; a few chapattis and a mountain of rice. Cutlery was not optional, so when in Rome. ”Garry, is it just me or is everybody staring at me?” ”We’re in India, we’re going to get this a lot. You’d better get used to it.” But these weren’t looks of curiosity; utter horror would be more fitting. Then, it struck me! I’m left-handed, and was using this hand to eat my food. In India and other parts of Asia, this hand is only ever used to clean oneself after bodily functions! “Oops!” I quickly switched hands. It’s difficult enough to master eating with your fingers when you’re not used to it but trying it with your less dexterous hand is twice as hard. I had more food down my front and on my lap than I managed to get in my mouth.

Gokarna is a small, sleepy village, with a few narrow dusty streets lined with ramshackle houses and colourful temples. It’s a very religious place. We crossed paths with a procession of Hindu worshippers on a pilgrimage to some holy site in southern India. Dressed in long black robes, and their faces adorned with orange paint; they looked rather sinister. We stood and watched as they filed into the main temple. A small, frail man dressed in a dhoti (a square piece of cloth, wrapped around the waist and between the legs) eyed us watchfully. “Want to see some more temples. Come with me,” he ordered. “Come, come.” We followed him through the streets as he took us from one temple to another. “This one for the worship of Shiva,” he said, pointing to a symbol of the great Hindu God. He led us briskly through the village, then pointed to the hills.” ”Want to see holy men in caves?” he asked. “Come, this way. Not far.”

After about twenty minutes, we reached the caves and crawled inside. In the first chamber, icons of Shiva and the elephant God, Ganesh, stood in recessed crevices along the cave wall. As the cave sloped upwards, the second chamber, with its shrine to Shiva, became visible. Flowers and candles surrounded a pool of water beneath the Shiva lingam, a phallic symbol depicting fertility. From the darkest reaches we could hear voices, chanting repetitively. Here live the “holy men,” devout worshipers who give their whole lives to the worship of Shiva. They were crouched or lying down in tiny crevices; we could barely make them out. They depend on people from outside to bring them food and donations. Feeling intrusive in their midst, we backed out and placed a donation in the box. We admired the beautiful view from this place for a bit, but then it was time to get back down the hillside and out of the oppressive heat.

Moving on the next day, we stopped for a break in another tiny village. This time our presence attracted about forty curious onlookers. ”My God, I think the whole town has come out to see us!” I laughed at Garry. Big, inquisitive brown eyes stared at us from every corner. I tried to see us through their eyes; two pale-skinned people on a large motorbike, with three huge rucksacks strapped to the sides and back. Had they ever seen white people before? Probably not, and certainly not on a big motorbike. Why would anyone stop at their tiny village? Where did we come from? Where were we going? We tried communicating with them, but apart from a few giggles and some shy smiles, we didn’t get very far. Udipi was our next destination. This was just an overnight stop to refresh ourselves for the long journey we had ahead. It was much more affluent than Gokarna, with expensive jewelers, electrical shops and silk merchants, but in spite of this, the poverty and pollution were still rife. Open sewers ran the length of the streets, children were dodging Brahman bulls that feasted on the mounds of rubbish lying around and the flies - those damn flies; unavoidable and a constant nuisance.

After a week of driving from town to town and stopping only to rest and eat we crossed the border into the state of Kerala, one of India’s most fertile states. Cashew nut trees, mango trees, rice paddies and above all coconut palms dominated the landscape. Our destination was Kovalam, at the southern tip of India. Here, we were meeting up with a good friend of mine, Maeve. So the next few days were spent covering as much ground as we could. We were a far cry from Goa now, in the “thick” of India. There were no other Westerners to be seen, so as we pulled into yet another dusty, chaotic town, dirty and exhausted, there was always an audience to welcome us. Like cowboys, we would waddle uncomfortably until our legs were properly stretched. Anyone who has ever traveled long distance by motorbike knows the feeling of the vibrations still running through your body hours after dismounting. Badly needing a break from the grueling Indian roads, we stopped at Fort Cochi. This relaxed little fishing village is just what we needed for a couple of days. Set on a narrow peninsula, it overlooks a cluster of small islands. Rows of Chinese cantilevered fishing nets are strung out along the shoreline. These huge spider-like structures, made from bamboo, are lowered into the water at high tide, left for a few moments, and then hauled out with trapped fish inside.

Cochi is famous for its Kathakali dance performances, so we went along to one. The dancers put on colourful face make-up and adorn elaborate costumes. Two or three drummers and a singer provide the musical accompaniment. Through the use of facial expressions, the performers mime to enact old Hindu stories of battles fought between Gods and demons. These dances were at one time performed for the Maharajas and could last for anything up to ten hours. The performance we saw was compelling; eyes flashing and drums rolling, but thankfully, it only lasted an hour and a half. Not having brought any mosquito repellent, we were eaten alive and left itchy and uncomfortable. However, the mosquitoes weren’t the only ones who were hungry, so after the show we found a small restaurant for our evening meal. ”What can I get you to drink madam?” ”A coke for me, please.” “And for you, Sir?” ”I’ll have a Kingfisher beer.” ”Shh! Shh! Quiet Sir, please,” the waiter replied, looking around, nervously. “Beer not allowed here, Sir. But if you like, I get you special tea,” he whispered. “What’s special tea?” Garry whispered back. The waiter leaned closer. “It’s beer, but you must call it special tea, if you want to order.” “Okay, I’ll have a special tea then!” We looked at each other and shrugged. The waiter returned with my coke, and a large china teapot, a teacup, a saucer and a spoon. ”Your special tea, Sir,” he said with a wink. A group of Westerners came into the restaurant. After a few more “special teas,” we invited them to join us. ”Is that beer you’re drinking?” asked one man. ”Shh,” said Garry, laughing. “It’s special tea.” ”What?” He looked puzzled. Garry explained the set-up to him. Many the convivial pot of “special tea” was consumed that evening!

When it was time again to mount the Enfield, we did so with trepidation. It’s a long journey south to the seaside town of Kovalam. To our surprise, stretched out ahead of us was a road, with two lanes, devoid of potholes; acceptable by any standards. What a luxury it was to have some relative comfort on this drive! But a few kilometres on, we realised that no sooner do drivers get a bit of open road than the collisions occur in earnest. Here, we encountered more accidents than anywhere else. On either side of the road were mangled auto rickshaws and overturned trucks and buses. Indians adopt a very bizarre logic when it comes to driving. Before embarking on journeys, they get their vehicle blessed showering it with petals, and putting little statues of their favourite God on the dashboard. This, they believe will protect them from any accidents, and if one does occur, then it was meant to be. For close on six hours, we drove along this highway with diesel fumes belching in our faces and the dirt of the air clinging to our skin and clothes. Relieved to have finally reached Kovalam, and with our bums aching from the vibrations of the motorbike, we were eager to find somewhere fast to rest our weary bones. At the bottom of a narrow lane-way, a man called out to us.

”Come, come. I have very nice place. For you, special price. My wife; she cook very good food.” ”Let’s take a look,” I shrugged. Garry parked up the bike, and we followed the guy up a narrow dusty lane. At the top was a lovely guesthouse with airy, spacious rooms set in a garden of palm trees. It was exactly what we were looking for after our long dusty drive. ”Perfect!” I said. ” Do you have another room for my friend?” He did, so we took two rooms. Maeve was coming in by train to Trivandrum, not far from Kovalam. She had arrived in India about a week before and had traveled down from Mumbai, via Goa. Had it not been for the Internet, we would never have met up. Over the last week, e-mailing had been the only way of keeping in touch to arrange where to meet.

Feeling human again after a long, soapy shower, we strolled down to the beach to have dinner. Small wooden fishing boats lined the seafront. Finding a lovely restaurant, we watched as the fishermen took their fleet of boats out to sea. They battled against the waves before getting out on the open sea to start the evening’s fishing. We, on the other hand, tucked into a fine meal of king prawns and we were relaxing, enjoying a few beers, when the fleet returned. The fishermen struggled with the weight of their catches, as they hauled them ashore. The beach suddenly came to life with groups of people running down and gathering around the boats. Bedlam ensued as restaurateurs and fishermen haggled over the price of the catch in a frenzy that would match the Tokyo stock exchange. Within a few minutes, the deals were done, and the beach became quiet once again.

Kovalam is where the old hippy trail moved to when Goa started to become too commercialised, and “uncool.” Nowadays, it is just as commercialised as anywhere in Goa. More and more resorts are being built, placing a huge strain on the resources. Small, impoverished shantytowns where the poor carefully measure every drop of water, lie a few minutes walk form big resorts, where tourists lounge beside large swimming pools. Little by little, villagers are being pushed back from the sea front, which was once their home to make way for new developments.

The next day, we drove to Trivandrum to pick up Maeve. Shattered, after a fifteen-hour train journey, she was thankful to have finally arrived. It was great to see her again; it had been six months since we had last met. She had traveled from Mumbai and along the way, she had befriended two Dutch guys, Ferri and Arand, who were now with her. Somehow, we all managed to squeeze into a taxi and drove back to our guesthouse where they booked in. Over the next few days, we all chilled out, with Maeve and I catching up on all the overdue gossip. Two other Western men had moved into the guesthouse: an Irish guy, Neil, who was taking a few weeks holiday from his job in the Middle East, and Marcus, a German, touring India alone on his Vespa scooter. By hiring two more bikes, we formed a convoy, and took off to explore the area. Neil had never driven a bike before and we warned him that the roads in India were no place to learn. But he wasn’t convinced and proceeded to hire his own bike anyway.

Group travel puts personalities to the test. Marcus’s German efficiency, and adherence to plan clashed with Maeve’s laid back “we’ll go when we’re ready” attitude. We’d only been on the road for twenty minutes when Maeve wanted to stop for food. This irritated Marcus greatly, seeing as she was on the back of his bike. After her third request to stop, Marcus was visibly getting annoyed. ”We must go or we’ll never get there!” he said. ”Maybe I should travel with Neil, he’s going slower.” Maeve suggested. ”Good idea,” said Marcus, and he sped off. With no signposts we had difficulty finding the falls and finally stopped the bikes at the end of a dirt track. Garry and Marcus went on ahead. When they heard the sound of cascading waters, they yelled for us to follow. I longed for some cold water, having burnt my leg on the exhaust of the bike. Reaching the falls, we were greeted by about twenty drunken men, who upon our arrival became very excited, shouting and yelling. Maeve and I went in for a swim, trying to ignore their jeers. Obviously wanting more attention, they started smashing their empty bottles against the rocks, shards shattering into the water. “Stop that!” Maeve and I both yelled at them. Garry and the others shouted at them to stop also, but this seemed to just fuel their amusement as they continued smashing their bottles. Needless to say, we didn’t stay too long, but it had been a nice drive, so it wasn’t a totally wasted day.

Marcus, who was heading to Madras, parted company with the group later in the day and that evening, the rest of us decided we’d head to Kollam, from where we could take a trip along the famous Kerala backwaters, a network of canals, lagoons and rivers that fringe the southern Keralan coastline. A day trip along these backwaters was a must. Our boat drifted slowly from its moorings and headed for the maze of canals that lay ahead. It was early morning and so still. The water was like glass, only broken by our boat and the beating wings of cormorants as they skimmed the surface. Beautiful, wooden houseboats rocked and creaked as we floated by. By 9am, the rays of sunlight were streaming through the tall palms that lined the banks of the canals. Women sat by their little homesteads making chapattis for breakfast, smoke bellowing from their clay ovens. Disgruntled farm animals squabbled over scraps of food. ”School pen, school pen, school pen!” Excited cries rang out from the banks as children raced along sure footedly trying to keep up with the boat, in the hope someone would throw them over a pen or, for that matter, anything. The boat drifted along these meandering waterways at a lovely easy pace. I lay back and watched the sky through the over-hanging palms; a million miles away and totally at peace.

At our hotel that evening, the manager, Sundar, invited us to join him for a few drinks. He was a pleasant man with excellent English, and was curious to find out about the general ways of life in our part of the world. He marveled at our freedom to travel, and especially at our attitudes to relationships. ”You are very lucky; in your country, you can make your own choices. Here in India,” he said, “it is too strict. Old traditions and customs are still so important. Take, for example, arranged marriages. I do not agree with this. I had to marry somebody I did not love.” Looking distant, he started telling us his story. When he was a young man, he fell deeply in love with a girl of a lower caste than him.

Ignoring convention, he brought her home to introduce her to his mother declaring, with all the ardent passion of youth, that he intended marrying her. What followed was emotional blackmail of a most vicious kind. His mother swore to take her own life rather than face the shame that such a union would bring on her family. Out of respect for his mother and her religious beliefs, he let his young love go. Eventually, he was married to another woman of the same caste chosen for him by his mother. He rushed to assure us that he has no dislike for this woman, and he has worked to make the marriage a success. However, not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of what might have been had he been free to make his own choice. Sundar now has children of his own, but is adamant that he will not arrange marriages for them. In the future, he believes, that young people in India will have more say in the way they run their lives. They will be free to make their own choices in marriage, without the pressures of religion and tradition being brought down on them. With this, he bade us goodnight and wished us well on our travels.