Houseboat Cornucopia and Finding Jesus in Kerala - Alappuzha, India
Alappuzha, India
Happy Thanksgiving! While we are both missing our favorite annual holiday at home, life can't really get much better than this. I just woke up on a houseboat in Allepey, Kerala. It's an incredible experience and good time! No football, parades, or stuffed birds, but we are thinking of everyone back home and wish a happy Thanksgiving to all of our family, friends, and colleagues! I am quite thankful to be on this adventure and I am quite thankful for the life and people I have back home. Can't wait to see you after the conclusion of this adventure so we can fill you in with all the other stories and pictures. The houseboat was a bit of a splurge, but it came highly recommended, and Eric did get me on two overnight Indian Railway trains. So... This was a very welcomed change of pace and dare I say, luxury. If you ever make it to. India, this is something you should work into your travel plans for sure! Nicest bathroom, linens, and towels I've seen in weeks. This place could compete with a five star resort, it's that nice. Two captains, Joseph and Mani, and one full time attendant, Donald, are on board to show us some of Kerala's back water canal villages and spoil us completely. A one night stay, all meals, chai tea, and snacks included for about the price of a one night stay at maybe the Westin or Sheraton in Boston. Last night, over our Indian dinner, we also had several little lizards on board, feasting on flies and other insects, while we had a cornucopia of dal, roti, rice, okra, and potatoes. The food has not only been exquisite, it has been beyond plentiful, like a traditional American Thanksgiving feast. Though it is slightly more easy to loose your appetite here, as it is much easier to think about the starving people we've seen recently, particularly at the start of our trip. Our tuk-tuk had some trouble finding Lakes and Lagoons Houseboat tours, but with the help of a few locals, some technology, and eventually a street sign, we made it. We checked inside a nice building just outside the docks. We took a small canoe boat with a wooden canopy and a motorized propellor to our beautiful House Boat. It really is gorgeous, see for yourself. We were given fresh papaya juice to welcome us, and we docked for a delectable lunch about an hour down the canal. Traveling down the canal might be the closest thing I will ever get to Eric being on a cruise ship. It was nice to be so close to the village life in the area. School kids were marching home, to the beat of a marching band. iIthink they must have been in order by age because the tallest kids were in the front and smallest in the back. The youngest ones were clapping and singing some song. We passed by school boats, the equivalent of our school busses, because boat is the only means of transportation along some of these shores. We saw many villagers dunking beneath the water with soap for a nice afternoon bath, and many more woman doing laundry by scrubbing, soaking, and the whipping the fabric against a rock, hard! There were many canoes filled with rice, or fish, or bags of soil, and let me tell you, they load these boats to the brim. I can't believe they don't capsize with only a few inches of boat not submerged below water with all that weight. Similarly, the homes along the canal appeared to be below water level. They had "good rains" this past monsoon, which is good for producing rice and other crops around India, but some pockets of land had man made barricades to eke water in the canal, off of roads, and away from homes. We passed many rice paddies so lush and green. The women wore little umbrella hats while picking the grains. Similar to the woven hats in Vietnam, but these were much more colorful, blues, pinks, and purple. We also saw a lot of wildlife, toms of ducks, grayish flamingos, and a peacock with its tail feathers still attached! This area of Kerala appears to be even more Catholic than Goa was, another sign of Portuguese influence in the area. The people here are incredibly devoted to their faith. Along the canals, we passed by many churches. Most boats, schools, and shops had the name of a Christian saint in it. I am fascinated by religions around the world. I find religious celebrations to be, almost always, a beautiful display of human spirit, art, faith and community. This is definitely the case here in Kerala. While there are definitely pockets of Hindus, Catholicism is the predominant religion here. A fellow tourist told us the population is 60%2525 Catholic. I was raised Catholic, and religion played a pretty central role through most of my life, well into my college days. But, let me tell you about how I found Jesus in Kerala, or rather, how I think he found me. Just a warning, this is meant to be humorous, the experience was for me, but my hope is not to offend anyone. I'm also a bit embarrassed to share this next story publicly, but it was another part of our "adventure," so I am going to anyway. Our houseboat docked in the late afternoon so that we could get out and explore a village and see one of the oldest Catholic congregations I'll probably ever come across. I'll get to that later. Right off the boat, there was a massage school recommended by Donald, our houseboat attendant. Our boat could compete with a five star hotel, but this place look like a run down Indian home. The house was made of cement. A woman neighbor next door was shoveling dirt in the yard between these two homes. We did the respectful thing and removed our sandals before walking a few steps into the spa/house. On my left, there were four or five plastic patio chairs scattered around the cement floor without any order, rhyme or reason. To my right, a man sat at a foldable card table. Eric took the plastic chair next to him to learn about the spa offerings, he's been itching for a massage. I was itching for a haircut, and thought about hunting for one, in the shops along the canal. But I wasn't sure what backwater living was like. In hindsight, I probably should have, because there was a barber just down the muddy dirt road. Eric signed the two of us up for full body massages. We were escorted by a woman in a bright green sari through a short hallway with more cement, there were buckets, tools and a ladder into a dark attic above. The hall looked like it was "under construction", although there wasn't a sign hanging with the typical courtesy sign asking visitors to, "please pardon our dust." I pardoned it anyway. I have learned to expect the unexpected, here in India. But this next tale from the Adventure Chronicles of Dave and Eric was going to literally beat this concept into me, and we would further understand the notion, "In India, anything and everything is possible." After passing through the hallway construction zone, we stepped down a few stairs to another room with a very different smell. At first I wasn't sure if we were inside or outside in a backyard. I experienced a brief, very brief, moment of excitement as my wondering mind daydreamed about what to expect next. I pictured two side-by-side pillow-top massage tables draped in white sheets, hibiscus and morning-glory flowers growing abound, and floating in a nearby water bath in the shape of a lotus blossom. The massage tables were going to be side-by-side, beneath a pergola made from teak wood, with lace curtains doubling as mosquito nets. I pictured two Indian women dressed in typical Swiss spa uniforms (which come to think of it is odd). There open palms part the lace curtain and their smiles would greet us at the pergola, as they show us to our massage tables. This is where they would work long and deep into our muscle tissue, circulating blood, detoxifying our skin, and eliminating stress and tension. They would end by placing warm Keralan stones and flowers along our spines, like you see in spa brochures along Newbury Street in Boston. I also had a flashback to one visit to Eric in NYC. The time that Eric introduced me to Chinatown massages was also unforgettable. My first Chinatown massage was slightly terrifying as Eric quickly vanished from the safe harbor of our sidewalk, which smelled like both living and dead fish simultaneously. He bolted down a flight of steps and led me into a dark unlit basement. He loves taking me somewhere or introducing me to something foreign and unusual, and then leaving me in the dust to fend for myself on figuring out how it works, what I'm supposed to do, how to eat it, how to act, what to say, how to avoid death. (Remember the Goa scooters?) What is peculiar about this chronic behavior trait, is that he doesn't sit back and watch me struggle, which I think would be fairly entertaining. Even I would enjoy laughing at myself after the fact. Nope, he just moves right on to his spa treatment, massage, or he zips off in his scooter. Come to think of that, he did the same thing the first time he brought me to Pieces (one of his bars). I was beyond excited to see it for myself, meet the bartenders and staff. Before I could blink, he zipped right down into his basement office as I twiddled my thumbs. I may sound a bit annoyed by all of this, but at the end of the day, I actually love this chronic behavioral condition of my strange and unusual boyfriend. He pushes me toward my limits, towards things I didn't think I could do or accomplish, he takes me out of my comfort zone, he challenges me to do new things, and then, I do it. Sometimes with a lot of struggle, sometimes with a little, always with some frustration. But, if I need his help, which I HATE asking for, he's right there, zipping back on his scooter, not a white horse. His aid doesn't come free of course. Some might say his price is part of his true entrepreneurial spirit and talent. I say it's because he's a little punk. The price is a few sarcastic cracks at my expense, but I am regularly making him pay that back with wise cracks of my own. I suppose I am a little punk too. The massages in Chinatown though are lovely actually, and about a quarter of the cost of a Newbury Street massage. Once your eyes adjust to the dark, you can de-robe and they cover you with white linen sheets. I thought this massage in Kerala was going to be similar. Nope! Side note: I realize my blogs are a lot of side stories, so I am sorry if it seems scattered and unorganized. I take brief notes everyday, and then fill in the good stuff later on. Eric is always going on about me writing too much (as in 30 seconds ago), and I'm always telling him to add more to his own blog entries. Eh, cest la vie! But, I am finding this writing stuff to be TOTALLY relaxing and enjoyable. It's my thoughts as they come. Oh, and for those of you that know Todd, yes, he's doing just fine down here in India. He loves curry and has gained a few pounds, which he calls rupee rolls. He's hoping to purchase a treadmill soon since his wheel broke from over usage. ;-) Right, so Indian massages... Two things hit me fast and hard to bring me back from daydream land to India, and to the reality about to unfold, which had nothing to do with Swiss-style massages, by the way. There would be no flowers, no pool, not even a lace mosquito net. First, there was Jesus. That's right, my buddy J.C. was right there in the room with me. He earned the title of, Only Picture on the Wall, so there was no mistake, He saw me, and I, Him. It was a familiar depiction of The Man, The Sacred Heat of Jesus. Google it if you don't know it. I received the same picture when I received my First Holy Communion at St. Pius X, on Cape Cod. I had a plastic frame, true Catholics can't afford gold beyond wedding bands, but this Jesus had a gold frame. In my plastic frame from the Christmas Tree Shop, The Son of God was on the right side of the frame, and joyous little Dave was on the left, with palms and fingers pressed together in prayer. I wore a white sateen robe, with a gold sateen hood (like the grad school ones), and sported a fantastic Dennis the Menace killer double cowlick on the back of my head. I had a buck tooth grin that said, l"ook at me, I'm holy!" This Indian spa version of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, was completed with a marigold flower garland (okay, so some flowers were involved) and some rosary beads, both which hung around the frame. Jesus popped his head outside of the frame and looked right at me, or through me, or deep inside of me. Either way, His eyes said, "I will forgive you for your countless sins, David, yes You, and yes I know Your name, please find your penance behind curtain number one." Curtain number one was therefore the second thing that brought me back to reality. It was actually the only curtain option I was given, is that called divine intervention, or is God's version of a fun gameshow? Curtain number one as it turns out, was not a curtain at all. Much to my dismay, it wasn't a lace-embroidered mosquito net either. It was but a simple bed sheet with yellow and red stripes, draped over a clothes line. I followed Eric behind it, as he said, "it smells weird in here." If the orange zest, masala chai, red hot chili-pepper, turpentine odor wasn't reality check number three, then, the two rectangular, wooden tables before us definitely were. These aren't massage tables, are they? They looked more like medieval torture machines. There were two handles, presumably one for each hand at the table end facing us. But how was the hand placed there? Does the client, or victim, grip it to take their mind off the pain of some strange eastern massage practices? Or, are the hands tied down to prevent squirming or an escape from the dungeon, err I mean spa. We're at a spa... We're going to be okay, right Eric? Eric? We both got silent, as the woman told us, or asked us, I'm not really sure, "underwear okay?" We stripped down and hung our clothes up on some hooks on the wall. Another clothes line ran perpendicular to "curtain number one." The woman who was leading this tour quickly brought another curtain/bed sheet over the line, dividing the two tables on either side of it. Bye Eric! I hope we see each other again! Eric got the smaller but newer looking table, on the side with Jesus' picture. I got the darker almost black table. It was already slick and greasy. I now realized the smell was coming from the tables soaked in the massage oils that were about to grace my ultra sensitive white Irish boy skin. God, I hope this penance doesn't include a rash or skin irritation. What!? I have sensitive skin, okay? At first, I thought that they must be bringing out cushions or some sort of padding for us to lay on. No such luck. But, I was relieved that I didn't see any chains, rope, needles, or stainless steel scalpels lying around. Plus, there didn't seem to be any blood on the linoleum floor which I think was just laid over the earth below. So when I say full body massages, I mean FULL body, which I've been neglecting the past few months between eating anything and everything and barely touching the gym, and traveling around India. I thought I would have been a bit moor self-conscious about having a stranger massage me from head to toe, but I wasn't at all. The tour woman stayed on Eric's side of the curtain, and I got the man that was previously at the card table. I am under the impression he runs the show here. He was a short, younger guy, with your typical nicely groomed Indian black hair and perfectly trimmed mustache. I kept my eyes kept my eyes clothes for most of the next 70 minutes. After about ten minutes of being rubbed down in the smelly oils he departed to Eric's side of the bed sheet, I heard the woman leave Eric's side, and I wasn't quite sure what was going on. I propped my head up off my torture table, and reached to pull the sheet back so that I could see what was going on. Eric's head was not by the arm handles as it should have been. In fact his whole body wasn't on the table, where did he go!? "Nssssh, nssssh!" There was the woman, she found me, just like Jesus did before she pulled the curtain between me and Eric. She had made her way over to my side of the curtain, the dark side. Dark table, no lights, no windows, and no Jesus picture. The sound she made was one I'm familiar with from our travels around India. It means shoo, scat, get lost. Normally, I hear it being directed at mischievous children that are not where they are supposed to be at museums or historic sites, and sometimes to beggars or cows if they are creating a traffic jam. Basically you can make this noise to anyone or anything that is annoying you. If they have some good sense, they will leave you alone. She told me to put my head down, I took this as, "leave the curtain alone, pay no attention to the men behind the curtain." Just before I put my head down Nd closed my eyes, I caught a silhouette of Eric standing up and the man looked to be tying something around Eric's waist. I heard Eric lay back down on his table, the man called the woman back and he came back to continue rubbing oil into my back, neck, arms and feet. Then, he tapped me on the shoulder and through a quick game of charades, (he did not have the best English), I understood what I was expected to do next, the same ritual Eric probably just did. And so there I was, standing up. The man stood behind me and lifted my arms up where I held them in the "T" position, while he tied a loin cloth of sorts around my waist, and pulled my underpants off! I passed the front of the loin cloth, which seemed to be made out of toilet paper and string through my legs and back to him, for proper fastening in the back. The next 40 minutes of his massage technique involved rubbing, various forms of slapping, and several readjustments of the white toilet paper-summo-string-bikini-loincloth. After working my back side, it flipped and he worked on the front side. To say it wasn't relaxing or comfortable is a gross understatement. The only part I slightly enjoyed was when he worked on my feet and calves. We've been doing a lot of walking in flip flops so this helped re-circulate the blood there. One problem though, I have this "thing" about feet. I think they are dirty. And while I love a good foot massage, I believe in treating that area separately with certain sanitary parameters in place. For instance, wear gloves if you're rubbing my feet. Use a different kind of oil or cream, wash your hands before moving from the feet up to another part of the body. As you know, Eric and I have also been removing footwear in multiple locations. As we learned in Goa, mud homes will often use cow droppings which are supposedly sterilizing to wash their floors. Basically, our feet areal ably nasty and germy beyond belief. This guy massaged my feet and then in a single and repetitive motion, brought the oil up and smeared it all over my body up to the neck. What is worse is he then rubbed the same oil all over my face!! Arrrgh! When he tapped me on the shoulder, I was relieved thinking we were done. Nope! He then had me stand up, he once again fiddled with my loin cloth, whatever the heck it was and had me sit on a sort, black, wooden stool. He then went on to massage my scalp. Normally I enjoy this too, but this was unfortunately the only part of the massage where he actually had some strength behind his hands. I like deep tissue massages on my shoulders, arms, and legs... Not my head!! By the way, that cowlick I mentioned earlier, no longer exist. Or, at least not with the ferocity it did before. Some of you are aware that I am a recent user of Rogaine. Hi, my name is David O'Brien and I am suffering from male pattern baldness. It's true. I hated the double cowlick as a kid, but now I pray for Lord Jesus to bring it back. Maybe my penance was not just the full body massage in a toilet paper-summo-string-bikini-loincloth, on a hard wooden and awkwardly slippery table. Maybe it was the messing up of my perfectly sculpted, product-enhanced, doo for the day, and probably loosing half of the hair in the back of my head, which I will now refer to as, my halo. Once my halo was finally polished with orange turpentine Indian oil, the man gave me one bop on the top of my noggin and began lifting me up by the elbows. Eric and I were instructed to enter the adjacent "bathroom." Oh my gosh, this was kinda gross. Now there was pink linoleum laid over the earth below. We each had a bar of soap, and some Indian shampoo in a packet that looked like ramen noodle seasoning. There were dozens of Mosquitos swarming around looking for our blood. The man came right into the shower with us. He kept his clothes on. But removed both of our loin cloths and started washing Eric's and my backs. This wasn't as alarming or awkward as it is now sounding, but that could be due to everything that led up to this point. We quickly dried off, groomed our hair as much as possible without product, and headed for the door to pay. On our way out of curtain number one, the sprinkled some type of powder and patted it into the tops of our heads. This made my allergies go crazy, as we made our way for Saint Mary's Church, just down the dirt road, what an experience though! The Saint Mary's congregation has been here for centuries! Amazing! The inside of the current church was beautiful. Very Portuguese. Everything was carved from wood. After the church we visited a father and son woodcarving workshop where the father makes wood carvings for churches only. Lots if crucifixes, Virgin Mary, and the sacred heart of Jesus depictions, the Sacred Heart is huge down here, you see it everywhere. This was actually really neat to see. And the two men, father and son, were extremely friendly to talk to and explain their craft. But, the Mosquitos were out and we could not wait to get back on the house boat and wash some more of the Indian oil off. After dinner, Eric and I enjoyed a beer on the deck, as we watched lizards hunt for flies on the walls and bamboo ceilings. Which is also when I started this epic-long blog entry! We had a good nights rest, and the Sacred Heart of Jesus found me one last time on the taxi boat from the houseboat to mainland in the morning at checkout. We are now headed for a northbound bus to Kochi, and Jew Town! Yes, apparently there are six Jewish Families left here, and we are going to check it out! And yes, it really is called Jew Town. I am hoping they have a Star of David necklaces, similar or Nike Town's version, as a souvenir. The population of Jews in Kerala spiked with Eric's arrival, he is excited too!