The Gynecolgist.

I stand near the campfire. A man walks up to me “are you married?” “No not yet” I respond. He stands closer, head leans in, brandy breathed, whispering conspiratorially, moustache now tickling my ear “I am a gynecologist”.
The first word on everyone’s lips here in Kerala is marriage. The question comes out of the blue without any warm up or pleasantries like Indians habit off beeping there horns without reason it is an impulse and can not be controlled. Yesterday I attended a betrothment, an engagement ceremony. Down in the hot and sticky town of Mundekayam. I vowed to myself last time not to overdress but I forgot. Jeans, shoes and a shirt was almost the death of me. Everybody else turned up in dhotis (men skirts) and sandals. A massive meal of beef and fish curry followed. I melted as the food was piled on to my banana leaf. Are you married asks the man next to me “Yes”
In Kerala as in the rest of India everyone in their mid 20’s is married. Single status at my age is an anathema it is beyond comprehension. Puzzlement and bewilderment always follow when I say I am not married this is followed by a sense of shame and inadequacy on my behalf, for everyone’s benefit it is best to claim married status. Over the last few years I have been married more times than a serial bigamist could ever wish for. I have been divorced more times than Joan Collins (keeping it topical) and on some occasions I have even been a widower. I might, even, whilst under the influence of beer claimed to have kids as well. To be a bachelor, or here a “chronic bachelor”, has serious undertones. It assumes sadness, misery an absence of a real life. Worse still it means a virgin and that you probably haven’t kissed a girl. At 36? (all possible, truth and reality have become blurred) So better to make it all up?
Before I have tried to explain my position of loves lost but this goes down even worse, men stare at there feet, women cover their mouths, birds stop chirruping in the trees it can take minutes to recover conversation.
Devas and Lucosh and all the brandy men in the village of Kuttikanam are scheming now. Glass after glass is poured down. We will arrange it they say. No rush I say but if it does end, or start like this I would like a lass who could cycle. First children and housewife then she can cycle they assert. Sounds good. Anyhow I have a months respite; at least amongst the Christians; no one can get married in the 25 days before Christmas without the a letter from the Archbishop of the Antioch himself. To everyone else reading in Kerala I am a happily married thanks. No more questions. Good night. Are you married?

Panam Poyee (money gone)

I am back in Kerala and it’s costing me a fortune. Old friends are welcoming me back with open arms and empty pockets. Jillmon; mustachioed driver with a look and a drinking habit of an early Oliver Read; was 1st in touch. He appears shortly after 8 a.m dressed incongruously in dirty white jeans pulled up over his burgeoning stomach a white shirt is tucked into this and foreign made black trainers complete the look. He is ready for an interview that morning for a job in the Middle Eastern. After shoveling down his breakfast paid for by me he explains his “house money problem, you are my ATM” 1500Rs swap hands with an explanation that he would give it me back after the next tour. No problems.
Next up Sanjay who had borrowed a large sum last year to buy his 1st car. He can’t drive but the plan was to employ a driver as is common here and take tourists both domestic and foreign. He had given a vague promise before that the said same alleged car would take me back to the mountains the following morning. He phones, the possibly fictitious car has had a disastrous and untimely brake failure so I am back to asking Jillmon to organize transport for tomorrow. Sanjay meanwhile can still make it for tonight’s pre season staff complimentary booze up. I assume he will turn up with an explanation and a draught repayment scheme. In the steamy, dark, tomb like conditions of Cochin’s Embassy bar no mention is made of either, brandy is poured down with abandon, Jillmon is mixing his with super strong beer now. My boiling beer takes on the consistency of syrup in a syrup sponge; the bill comes, its time to pay up.
Kuttikanam. I am back. The trainees are summoned. Bikes are brought along. The Kona has survived well at first sight, while the Trek 4500 looks like a house has collapsed on it. Nothing has survived. It appears that every child and adult in the village have twiddled with the now demolished shifter pods, the grips look like they have been laid over with 6 inches of tarmac, the front mech is at a right angle to the frame and completed seized up, wheels are egg shapes and all the cables are missing. I ask Chippy if he thinks he has looked after the bike well this summer he looks sheepish and turns to Sinoj for encouragement “Yes”.
Nighttime and we are Devas’s restaurant for more brandy. Lucosh has been dispatched by me in his auto rickshaw for a bottle of brandy and a box of beers. 1 litre of Mansion House Brandy is returned, opened and poured down in an hour. I stand outside with Devas as it starts to drizzle ‘ very healthy, jump” he says as he kicks his heels of the ground giggling manically.

Pedals to Paddles

I am back in Kerala now but will blog my way back to date bit by bit. A slow start wityh thsi one but here goes.
I am back in Delhi again another tour has been and gone and I am in a transitional phase between North India Tours and South India tours, from the hectic hustle bustle of the tours to having time to think and be alone in my peregrinations. It takes some getting used to.
The Singalila Ridge tour this year was brilliant, riding tough with some cracking descents great views and good company. White water rafting was a new addition to the tour schedules redefining the word “extreme” (I will give a little background here). All our group had some good WWR experience from African torrents to NZ fast flows, in comparison Rakesh can’t swim and is (was) scared of the water, while my experience was limited to a testing time in the Teesta river on a section of rapids that “even a Bengali child can do”. We arrived late to meet our guides who all sported piratical scars, with one fellow replete with a missing eye. Rakesh quizzed them on which was to be the most challenging route and came back ashen faced “extreme”.
The 1st lot of rapids almost had us all in the Teesta and found Rakesh in a brace position hidden at the front of the boat way out of his supposed position of weighing down the front end to keep the boat from toppling. After the initial scare it was all a bit tamer with some rough and tumble sections but hardly the Zambezi. Good fun with a few Hawaii 5- O team (showing my age here) sprints to make us (me) feel professional.
Left Darjeeling at a good time really, from the 15th November its curtains for some of my favourite drinking establishments as taxable alcoholic drinks are being banned in an attempt to deprive the West Bengal Government of revenues. The ban is part of a wider agitation in support of a separate state of Gorkhaland to be carved out of West Bengal. Already there is a payment strike on electricity bills and they hope this “double measure” will further pressurise those in Calcutta. On the good side though drinkers can still tipple on locally made arrack and millet beer, I hope the super -strong is back on the shelves though when I go back next year.