Travel UN!imited

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Surprise, Surprise!

We reach Kovalam, our last stop before the return journey. The entry to our hotel is devious, around a narrow and sharp turn, through a small gate and into a space where no more than two cars can fit. When we arrive, there is already one car there, making maneuvering difficult. We disembark somehow, unload our luggage, and check in. It has a lobby window every bit as good as the Kanyakumari hotel, a dining room which is far more posh, and our room - sea facing, naturally - is on the ground floor with a terrace. It is not airconditioned. However we hardly notice this because one of the first things that catches Amit's eye on entering, is travel brochures advertising backwater cruises. All excitement at seeing our plans come alive once more, we immediately start planning on how to work this new development into our travel plans. Currently we are booked by train for Cochin, and are hoping for flight tickets to Bangalore. These don't seem to be coming through. The other, more expensive alternative is to fly from Trivandrum, which because of the flight schedules will give us only a day in Kovalam. If the Trivandrum flight comes through, then backwatering is out. We are hoping for a Cochin flight on Saturday, which gives us time on Friday to take a backwater cruise from Quilon to Alleppey - the one everyone said couldn't be done. This will mean cancelling the rail booking. This calls for deep thought, much deliberation, and many phone calls.

It is almost four and, as usual, we are starved (despite a substantial breakfast). We need food. But we also need to confirm our return bookings, and the next day or two will not be working days. We combine the two, with the result that I eat while Amit gets on the phone and his food gets cold. It's Chinese for a change, and not very nice, but anything will do when you are starved. We have also ordered fish and chips which is a wonderful dish and we repeat the order several times during our stay here, till I almost fear that the next time we enter the dining room, the waiters will automatically appear bearing a steaming plate of fish and chips. The fish is seer, and it has large, boneless fillets of flesh which are fried crisp on the outside, but white and chewy on the inside. The chips are plentiful - always a good property in food - and not excessively thin.

Once lunch and travel arrangements are done we go to our room for a brief refreshment halt. I unlock the door, chattering away to Amit, head for the dressing table where I deposit my handbag, absentmindedly pick up a comb and run it through my hair, still talking, and turn around to find Amit gaping at me in an amazed fashion. What is it, I ask. He gestures wordlessly around the room.

Only now do I notice the remnants of biscuits strewn on the floor, a packet of banana chips torn and a few chips spilt, a wet mangled biscuit on the bed, next to a yellowish streak of shit. Monkeys, perhaps, I hazard. Amit is too amazed at my initial blindness to the mess to bother analysing the cause. Why do I get the feeling that it is one incident he is never going to let me forget. (Later, he relates it with immense relish to a group of friends with a great deal of exaggeration, and shortly has them all in splits.) Not monkeys, the hotel informs us, crows. We had blithely left the verandah door and the windows wide open, while also leaving foodstuff out.

By the time we get the mess cleaned up and the sheets changed, it is almost five, and we decide to hit the beach. The first thing we do is to buy me a sarong (because I am wearing a pair of white shorts which have got a marked pinkish tinge due to being washed in the wrong place at the wrong time. They consequently look as though they have a split personality or an identity crisis or some other such severe psychiatric disorder).

The beach, as Amit puts it, is not a patch on the beaches of Goa. It is far smaller, and mainly black sand, which sometimes shifts to get streaks of white. It is a very narrow beach, which must disappear altogether if there is a very high tide, or a storm. Right on the beach, virtually, is a row of souvenir shops and restaurants, which lend the area a crowded and slightly sleazy air. There are a lot of people too, which neither of us considers an attribute of a good beach. We take a walk and shortly we are at the end of the beach, where a lot of rocks jut out into the water. There are palm trees, naturally, and notices which warn against climbing the rocks or swimming the waters - most unnatural. There's not much to do, so we sit awhile, then start walking back. This is when we are treated to our most spectacular sight of the trip, a golden sunset. For once we are at the right place at the right time. Since words can hardly convey the colours and shades that follow, I shall not even try.

We spend the evening sitting at the outdoor extension of the hotel restaurant, sipping drinks and watching the waves smashing against the rocks, and the lighthouse light playing games with the waves. It is an evening which is both peaceful and entertaining. We eat dinner obscenely early at eight (considering our lunch at four thirty) and retire. That night, the continuous crashing and roaring of the sea keeps me awake, marvelling at the power and fury. Local say-so is that the sea is always exceptionally rough at this time of year, and the fishing vessels - catamarans - we have seen going over the water have been all but tossed head to toe into the air, then flung down below the waves, out of sight. For me, just hearing the continuous sound is thrilling and new.

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