In March 1979 I arrive in what was Madras, now Chennai, South East India. I am 22, wearing a backpack, a sense of awe, and I am more naive than should be legally allowed. Mum kept all my letters home and I write, ”What an unbelievable place! There really are cows in the “streets” (and dogs, and chooks and beggars)”. I go on to describe the incredibly filthy streets, 35 degree temperatures, insane street numbering, and our hotel, which we find with the help of the brother of a work contact back home. Again, “The place we’re staying in has a real toilet (not a squat job), hot and cold running water, a roof fan, and it’s rather clean. It’s costing 50 rupee a night for a double room (that’s $5.60 for the two of us).” I remember it being so hot I’d wet the sheet in the shower and lie under it with the fan going to try and be cool enough to sleep.
This March 2025 I arrive in Kochi, formerly Cochin, South West India. I am 68, fresh off business class, hand luggage only, still in awe, no longer naive but far from world weary. My hotel is the five star Brunton Boatyard. It not only has hot and cold running water and a real toilet, but aircon, room service, a minibar, balcony and view of the river.
After my week at the Sacred Lotus (see previous blog) I am joining a small group tour across the south, ending in Chennai in two weeks. Not being a group travel person my reservations are soon overcome as the other eight people are good company and Sarah Meikle, the founder/director and operator of All India Permit Tours, www.allindiapermit.co.nz is the consummate tour operator: experienced, organised, calm, ready to pivot if necessary, has excellent local guides, and she is ready to accommodate most whims. I choose this trip as it covers some of the same ground of my first trip, but in reverse.
I remember really loving Kerala, the south western state, especially Kochi. It’s a place where history, culture and coconut palms jostle for attention. As a port it has a long history as a trading post, and many foreign nations have had a run at ruling it – the Portuguese arrived in the late 1400s, however they were fashionably late to the party as Arabs and Chinese were already there, along with a Jewish settlement dating from 587. These days, the Pardesi Synagogue with its 1,100 hand-painted Canton tiles and Murano glass chandeliers, counts only a handful of worshippers. The Dutch arrive in the 1660s and the English in the early 1800s, making for quite the garam masala of cultural legacies of architecture, cuisine, customs and language.
The beautifully counterbalanced Chinese fishing nets are used to this day, though once you’ve seen the filthy rubbish floating down the waterways it takes an effort of will, or amnesia, to eat the fish. The Portuguese arrived hungry to trade for black pepper and spices. They seemed to think it was a fair exchange to introduce such necessities as cannons, guns and gunpowder, and of course seminaries, because another religion is always just what the population needs. They also temporarily donated Vasco da Gama. He was buried here at St. Francis Church – his remains were later reclaimed by Portugal, which seems rude, after all the trouble he went to to find the place.
We have a night in the backwaters of Kerala, staying on an almost luxurious houseboat, a kettuvallam, which is at its most basic a thatched roof over a wooden hull. A boat trip through these waterways is less of a journey and more of a meditation – albeit in a humidity that is like an unwelcome hug from a sweaty stranger.
We’re travelling through lakes and canals fringed by rice paddies, where the overuse of fertilisers is just one of the ecological disasters to overtake these waters choking them with water hyacinth. Occasionally a few houses punctuate the narrow ridges that separate the paddies. Time moves slowly and life is lived in and on the water: we pass women sudsing their hair, their clothes, their children; kids playing; fishermen balancing on canoes. When we stop and take a walk we see toothbrushes and bars of soap sitting atop stone steps and ready for use. Next to shacks there are modernish houses, built well above flood level, experience being a cruel teacher. When we stop for the night our efficient boatmen hook us up to shore power, the tangle of cables resembling a poorly constructed spider web, but aircon trumps health and safety.
It’s a relief to head up into the Western Ghats, the hills to the east. At Munnar we’re 5,000 feet and while the temperature is still in the high 20s, there’s no humidity. It’s bliss. We are staying at Windermere, a cardamon plantation among thousands of acres of tea growing estates. I feel I should be striding about wearing a pith helmet and shouting What oh old chap! A trip to the tea factory tells me more about tea than I ever wanted to know, but if you see me, ask, and I’ll bore you about it until you surrender and order coffee.
One thing I note that hasn’t changed in the years since my last visit is the circus that passes as transportation. We are travelling in two vans, and both our local drivers are excellent. You must understand that driving in India is less of a skill and more of a survival instinct and these guys have it in spades. It’s not just about getting from A to B. It’s about navigating a chaotic, high-stakes game of chicken, where the rules of the road are more like polite suggestions. Lanes? No such thing, it’s a free for all even if there’s oncoming traffic. Horns? The universal language that replaces indicators, road signs, and human speech. Tuktuks weave through impossibly small gaps, beautifully painted buses barrel down the wrong side in overtaking moves that defy sanity, and scooters and motorbikes make full use of every inch of available space, usually carrying an entire extended family, a propane tank, and a goat. Pedestrians cross anywhere and street vendors set up shop on busy intersections. And yet, despite all logic, somehow everyone gets where they need to go, and I never once hear anyone shout at or abuse another driver. It’s a miracle wrapped in madness, sprinkled with adrenaline. Driving, or more accurately being driven, in India isn’t just a about transport, it’s a cultural experience, a test of patience, and an extreme sport all rolled into one. It’s best just to breathe deeply and avoid looking out the front window.
