You Never Know

Asleep in our beds, a bus load of tourists stormed every room around ours just after midnight. And apparently they had not learned about “inside voices” when they were younger as they proceeded to yell up and down the hall for well over an hour. I lay awake in bed wondering if it would be better if I actually understood what was being said, or if it was better I didn’t, or maybe it didn’t make a difference. A loud thud emanated from a side door in our room as someone was trying to open it from the other side. Marc and I both got up wondering what the heck was going on.

We opened the front door to our room and gave the stare. You know, the “stare”. It’s that look you give where your eyes meet the agitators holding a firm gaze with an ever so slight squint longer than the comfortable and typical glance of merely acknowledging another’s presence. Clint Eastwood may have the most famous stare, and when he added the words, “Go ahead, make my day,” it was curtain time for the bad guys. In my experience, the stare is internationally recognized as it goes well beyond most cultural comfort zones. I’ve even been the deserving recipient of the stare (please don’t tell my Mom).

Standing in the doorway in my shorts with hair swished in eighteen directions, I gave what I thought was a good solid stare with direct eye contact, even followed with some solid door slamming, but it was only temporarily effective. Minutes later, Marc would give his shot at the stare, repeating the open, stare and slam process, again with an impermanent effect. At the risk of creating an international incident, Marc and I decided to stand down and deploy ear plugs as a counter measure. I didn’t like it, but I knew the sweet taste of revenge awaited at 5:00 a.m. when Marc had to rise for his flight home.

As scheduled the alarm went off at 5, and Marc was on his feet, making the final travel preparations for his pack. This was my chance to strike back to the inconsiderate lot. Should I try the door handle furiously as they had? Should we start talking loudly or turn on the television so that everyone can hear what we’re watching? These were the thoughts going through my imperfect mind, but fortunately, remembering one of the five principles behind the Art of Living course, i.e. “don’t see intentions behind other’s mistakes,” I held back from tasting the nectar of revenge.

Marc was ready twenty minutes before his scheduled taxi pick-up. He kicked back for a moment and we thanked each other for sharing the past eleven days. While we had known each other for five years at work, we had not really gotten to truly know each other. And now, having traveled on the same path for only twelve days, sharing meals, life stories, jokes and amazing experiences, I realized I had found another true friend.

It struck me as Marc left that you never know when you meet someone for the first time what path lies ahead. Maybe you are acquaintances at a party and never see each other again, or perhaps you share a common interest and become lifelong friends, or maybe the woman (or man) you’re speaking with on the railway is your future spouse. One day you just look up and bam, you’ve got a circle of friends who enrich your life. Some come and go, others are lifers, but all of them add something to our lives: lessons, love, companionship and support to name a few.

The phone rang and Marc said he’d be right down; it was the front desk informing him that his taxi was waiting. I followed him into the hall and watched the elevator doors close wishing him a safe trip home and he wished me well on my continued journey. Willie Nelson began singing to me as I returned to the room, “On my own again,” the familiar tune started. Even some of the not so good songs are catchy and I might add, not conducive to getting back to sleep.

My Kingfisher Airline flight departed Bangalore at 2 p.m. and by 3 p.m. I was on the ground in Cochi, Kerala, in the center of a southern state in India. (By the way Kingfisher Airlines may be the best airline I’ve ever flown – great planes, great food, great service.) I hired a pre-paid taxi to Ft. Cochin, an island just off the coast connected by a bridge and ferry service from the mainland.

Ft. Cochin has a rich European history beginning with the Portuguese and then the Dutch took their bite before the British stepped in. Immediately, the quality of life stood out as one superior to any other place I had visited in India. The cars were nicer, the homes larger and better maintained and the people appeared healthier. Also striking was the number of Catholic churches spread over just a few square miles. For a month, I saw Hindu temples and Muslim mosques in the north, but in Ft. Cochin, churches with statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary were prominently displayed around town. And no longer did I struggle with first names as Christian names like David, Joseph and James were common among local residents. National Geographic has apparently listed Ft. Cochin as one of the top fifty places to visit.

While the mood about town was clearly more relaxed than Bangalore, the heat had crept to a dehydrating 38 degrees Celsius with sweltering humidity. Locals with whom I spoke agreed it was hot, but none of them used air conditioning as it was too expensive and they were acclimatized. At the recommendation of an old friend, I made my base at the Napier House, a homestay arrangement, and sought out a rickshaw driver named Saleem. The guesthouse was familiar with Saleem and they phoned him on my behalf.

Twenty minutes later, Saleem appeared. He was a kind, gentle man with two kids and a wife. His mother died when he was one and a half years old so he was raised by his oldest sister in Ft. Cochin. He never knew what his mother looked like as apparently they did not have any pictures of her. But he had his own family now and his siblings still resided in town. This was the only place he had ever known except for a thirty kilometer radius on the mainland and a few visits to Chennai. He was hard working, honest and knew how to show a newcomer around town with a smile on his face.

We stopped first at the Chinese fishing nets pictured below, where everyday, except during monsoon, five or so fisherman hoist each net out of the water several times an hour in the hopes that some fish are swimming over the net at the same time. It was mildly successful while I observed as a few small fish were pulled from the net and thrown into a large bowl of water nearby.


(Chinese fishing nets above; hoisting the nets up pictured below.)

The state of Kerala is also the birthplace of the ancient healing science of Ayurveda. Throughout the state, ayurvedic massage is offered and ayurvedic herbs and spices are grown, prepared and packaged for distribution worldwide. Saleem brought me to a courtyard surrounded by old Dutch style buildings where ginger was being dried, separated, and bundled. Another warehouse we visited was packed with rucksacks full of raw spices and herbs being readied for commercial sale.

Knocking down the tourist attractions in less than four hours, I asked Saleem if he knew of a place for ayurvedic massage. He took me to a place near his home so he could have lunch with his family while I got a massage at the sports clinic (basically a single family home with a sign that read, “Sports Clinic”. Not surprisingly, the same masseurs giving massage at the local place also serve some of the top hotels where the price is tripled or even quadrupled.

500 rupees ($11) and an hour later, I was ready to return to the guesthouse as the humid heat and the massage beckoned me to cool down and rehydrate. But Saleem was not done with his tour and wanted me to see everything so we continued touring until just after sunset where be bid the sun goodbye as it disappeared behind the Arabian Sea. Tourist season was coming to a close so the town was winding down until the end of monsoon season in late July, early August.

Returning to my room, I basked in the air conditioning blowing from the wall unit. My body didn’t know whether to sleep or dance so I showered. Reenergized, I decided to have a nice dinner at the Malabar House, an upscale hotel less than a block from where I was staying. For the first time in a month, I devoured fresh vegetables and fruit. My body had given up on such luxuries, once a part of my daily diet, but tonight I would give it a generous reminder.

The following morning, I sat on the upstairs patio of the guesthouse to write and catch up on e-mails as the sun and humidity began their ascent to their daytime peak. At noon, my best friend in Ft. Cochin, Saleem, showed up to see if he could take me around town. While earlier I had decided the day would be one of rest and laundry, I changed my mind opting for running errands instead. First stop, an ATM, second stop, a shave for fifteen rupees (35 cents), third stop, the Kashi Art Café, rumored to serve euro/American cuisine. Rumors confirmed, being late for breakfast which had been French Toast (darn), I opted for the soup and salad lunch (once again spoiled with fresh veggies). After lunch, I could not remember if there was anything else to do when Saleem reminded me, “How about another massage?”


(Getting cleaned up in Ft. Cochin.)

“Isn’t that a bit over indulgent?” you might ask. My answer, “Would you buy a $40,000 car for $10,000 if you already had?” Of course you would. Massage numero dos coming right up. Saleem took me to an actual ayurvedic doctor with whom I decided to get only a foot massage as the thought of oil on my body in the stifling damp heat was not appealing.

After a bit of shopping at Saleem’s request (as he gets a few rupees just for bringing tourists by the shops and a small commission of anything they buy), I returned to the hotel to escape the heat for an hour. Insistent that we go to dinner at a local restaurant, the Krishna House, Saleem and his friend Johnson picked me up at 8 in Saleem’s rickshaw. We drove to a side of town where I had not previously been. This was the side where prices reflected what locals paid, not the inflated tourist prices found near the hotels.

Saleem ordered traditional local Keralan dishes, Masala Dosa and Chippati, for me to sample while Johnson and he ate slowly waiting for my reaction to the meal. They enjoyed watching me eat with my hand, a skill that was slowly improving with each meal. For five packed delicious plates of local cuisine and three drinks, our tab came to sixty-seven rupees. Reverse sticker-shock set in. As I suppose with most tourist spots, there were at least two levels of pricing, tourist and local. Dinner was just as good as any I had had for 100 rupees or more.

(From left to right: Restaurant owner, Johnson and Saleem at dinner.)

Thanking the guys for showing me the local dishes and prices, I returned to my room where a single line power outage left me in for a steamy hot night with minimal sleep as my Jedi mind tricks failed to start the AC. Such is life on the road. I reminded myself that if this was the worst thing that happened, I would be the luckiest man alive. While I couldn’t control the sweating, my mantra for the evening was ironically, “don’t sweat the small stuff,” and this was small stuff.

With the extra waking hours, I reflected on something Saleem explained to me earlier in the day. He said that there are Hindus, Muslims, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Jains and Buddhists living peacefully in Ft. Cochin as they have for hundreds of years. According to him, there is never a religious dispute, and in fact, his best friend, Johnson, is a Catholic. Interesting to note, Kerala has the highest literacy rate in India, a factor which contributes to a higher education and standard of living. Does that translate into a higher level of tolerance? Or a decreased level of ignorance? Are there lessons we can learn from a place like Kerala? I suspect they are here if we scratch below the surface, you never know.