Up Down Roads and a Field of Suitcases

By Hurricane Cruz

Adam, an Aussie journalist, has always had a penchant for the unpredictable and the chaotic. It is no wonder then, that among the many places he visits, he falls in love with a part of history - a beautiful old town in South India called Kochi, built in the era of the Dutch and Portuguese.

An offer by his Australian publishing house to visit and research the culture of Kochi, whets his fascination to learn more of the town and its people, culture, literary standing and dialect. The offer paves the way to a journey that would lead to surprises, treasures, life changing decisions and long standing friends.

Adam's passion for the wanderlust and his uncanny penchant for this little town and in particular, one house in it, leads him on a trip of discovery and commitment.

Despite the judgement of his very clear headed friends, and adversity in all shape and form, will Adam fulfil his quest and prove that this was no freak accident after all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Oct 21, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453565995

Hurricane Cruz

Born of Indian parents and with somewhat ambiguous mixed European origins, the author lived for a quarter of a century in Southern India. Completing an Economics degree in India, she dabbled in the Seafood and Clothing industries before the inevitable intervened - in the form of a beau and marriage! The author's imaginative albeit slightly eccentric mind was pre-disposed to the beckoning of a foreign land - to calling Australia home for two very compelling reasons. One was that the greater part of her family had already made Australia home. The second reason were the three 'premonitions' of travel that the author had through extended periods in her life, which made it abundantly clear that she would travel across the oceans to make a new land her home - one with undulating roads and wide open landscapes and fewer people! And so it was in 1993 after her final and third premonition that pictured her in a field filled with suitcases and where the land met the sea in a seamless panorama; with a marriage and a fashion career in the wings, she took her leave of one Southern Indian State called Kerala to travel to another - The Great Southern Land of Australia. It was a decision she never took for granted or regretted. Arguably also the land of opportunity (for someone born with a reasonably small & jaded silver spoon), the author soon sought out the many opportunities Australia had to offer sole trader, government employment, the domestic grind. Being somewhat charismatic and determined, the author wanted more and decided to try her hand at fulfilling her lifelong dream - of pursuing a career in writing. Today she is an aspiring author, is a mother to two, a carer to one, a colleague to many and a friend & confidant to few. She hopes to live in Australia for the term of her natural life and leaves weighty issues in the hands of the Almighty! The author today resides in Sydney with her husband of 17 years and counting, her two children and her extended human family, soon to be expanded with the addition of a furry, four legged persona, pending the weighty and oft forgotten discussion of the ongoing care of the animal after the initial adoration during the PPP (puppy pampering period).. The discussion is still open to debate...!

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Are you sure about this? I know you are a well travelled guy, but India is a long way from home, said Peter picking up the Qantas tickets Adam had sitting perched atop a varied array of brochures and time tables, the must take items for the trip.

Adam looked up from the office work he was putting away and grinned at Peter. Sure, but I always loved the far away places. And India particularly South India, with its lush greenery and dusky skinned maidens has always conjured up visions of the exotic for me, Pete. So different from the views you and I see before us now. You know me, always on the look out for adventure. Come on, we’ve got to pick up my passport, duly visa-ed and I’ve still got my packing to do before we head for the airport tomorrow.

Peter laughed, nodding, all too well aware of the recollection of mayhem that surrounded Adam’s frequent adventurous episodes.

Adam and Peter were best buddies, had been since school. Quite unusual, if you knew them, their personalities being as similar as chalk to cheese. There was Peter, the proverbial tall, dark and handsome six foot two male, university taught and raised as the only child to wealthy although slightly eccentric parents.

Adam, on the other hand, always the first to lead the fight—worthy or otherwise, sandy haired with curls and slate blue eyes, slim and five foot nine tall, burnt almost brown and rugged in appearance, always had reliable Peter shaking his head in bewilderment and disbelief at the uncanny turn of events that usually had a way of following Adam.

Adam was quite simply, an accident waiting to happen. He was the one who got himself almost gassed at chemistry class with a school prank gone wrong, broke every conceivable bone over some mishap or the other, missed flights, had bizarre traffic accidents including a seven car pile up when he failed to put the brakes on in his car, the first in a long line of vehicles parked on an incline…

CHAPTER 2

But he has given you all the documents you asked for when he was here the last time. I would know. I was with him! said an exasperated Peter, while attempting to extricate the papers from Adam’s very messy back pack. Only yesterday, they had been standing in this very line being served by this very person (did she not remember them?) handing over what seemed like an absurd amount of evidence of travel and intention to stay in India. Where was Adam? Never around when needed. Trust him to rush for a De-Caff Latte at that crucial time.

Miss Deadpan drummed her long and tapered painted fingertips on the counter, let out an exasperated snort and pointed a noticeably angry finger in the direction beyond him. Those people are waiting for some service also, Sir (or was that Sneer?). Could you step aside while we do so?

I am NOT stepping aside till this matter is finished, said Peter drawing himself to his full height, not to be outdone by the finger shaking passport officer at the Indian Embassy. Look, you gave me a reference number and asked me, okay, asked us to be here after 3 p.m. to pick up the passport, duly endorsed for travel for my friend.

Swearing under his breath, he finally managed to pull out the plastic bag of papers. He emptied its contents on the counter. Take your pick, he said smugly. Adam was not in the habit of cleaning out his back pack so the papers were thankfully in the same shoddy plastic bag they were in yesterday. In fact, my friend has confirmed tickets for travel tomorrow morning, with your assurance that there would be no problem! he added for good measure, looking at her with utter distaste.

What seems to be the problem? said Adam, miraculously appearing at his elbow, looking absolutely relaxed. Where the devil have you been, Adam? The lady is being extremely tiresome, hissed Peter, trying in vain to be discreet.

Adam ignored him, turned to the lady and said, Hi Malika, forgive my friend, he’s had a hard day. He leaned over in a show of conspiratory confidentiality and said in a whisper My friend’s a lawyer, very good one too but not very good with the PR! Winking at the now livid Peter, Adam gave him his best sorry-pal look.

Adam then turned on his gaze and charm at Malika who was actually smiling! Malika, what a charming name! Where was I? Yes, to jog your memory although I’m sure my face is etched in your memory forever—the name’s Adam, I spoke to your office yesterday regarding some additional papers that were needed and was told that I was required to be here to sign for the passport and present these and yesterday’s originals again. I see my friend has been kind enough to get them out of my bag for me!

The now thoroughly charmed and smiling Miss Deadpan scanned through Adam’s documents with dexterity, then handed over his passport, complete with visa endorsement while sweeping Peter with a look that said Brainless. Peter sighed. Some things never changed.

Later that day, on the bus home to Balmain, where Peter lived, with the incidents of the Indian Embassy behind them, Adam excitedly began to talk about his impending trip. He was going straight to Kerala via Mumbai, he said. And would be stopping at Mumbai for forty-eight hours en route to his final destination.

Adam sat back with a contented sigh, letting his thoughts drift over the last few days. He was looking forward to this trip, planned so many times but never brought to fruition due to other conflicting journalistic trips covering other cities, even countries. Not that he had a problem with that.

Adam loved travel and the fact that his job took him places and paid for his travel was more than he had ever hoped for. When Peter and he had made a joint decision after their HSC to opt for the path to journalism, only one of them was to stay true to their dream and that had been Adam.

Peter’s parents, both coming from wealthy families and being solicitors, had been insistent that their son follow into the family business. Peter had never been one to dispute the opinions of mum and dad, and generally towed the family line. He decided to quit journalism in the first year in Macquarie and settled into a changed career of a double degree in Law and Finance. It turned out a good decision because now Peter was steadily building on his repertoire of law contacts and was ‘shaping up well’ much to his parents delight …

When Adam’s editor had called him in to discuss the ‘new’ project, he was unaware that the job had been handpicked for him. After all, there was not a day that went by that Adam did not make mention of visiting his dream place, Cochin. This often brought about mixed feelings from his colleagues, having already made prior trips to the place.

No problem with English, said one, "although it will take some getting used to, as Malayalam, the fast, tongue twisting, elaborate dialect of the locals. For one was it’s totally ethnic to that State and even this changes as you move along the Coast."

University degrees—every person seems to possess one with the State having a large ratio of schools, colleges, Uni’s and other educational institutions, both publicly and privately owned. According to one trusted local, Kerala had once been declared as the State with the highest literacy in India! said another.

The hospitality’s overwhelming, said Mark, but don’t be fooled, the locals are clever to the point of cunning and before you realise it, you’ll be the unsuspecting tourist being taken on a trip of dollar draining!

Truly ‘God’s Own Country’, as the travel-promoting authorities were inspired to call Kerala. Incredibly breath-taking and green, so green.

And the spices! If you like spice, boy, you’ve got spice and the residents cannot go without it. To taste South Indian cuisine was to be able to hold your chilli. Liberal is a term to describe it’s use and every South Indian family seemed to use it in copious amounts and in every conceivable dish possible.

Remember to say, NO chilli, emphatically since this translates to, Okay, maybe just a few chillies. However, if you say, Maybe a Few, you’re doomed to spend your holiday inside the Halfway House and Indian toilets, at least the modest ones are not a good sight … shuddered another.

The land of the three M’s, remarked Denzel. The monger’s-of-all-sorts, mosquitoes and the motor bikes. They envelope you like an unseen blanket and I never seemed to be able to get away from them!

All very interesting, was Peter’s rather dry comment. Not Peter’s cup of tea, and as he put it, You’d have to have a stomach lined with hide and a very laid back, tolerant personality to be able to accept Kerala with all it’s charms. And Peter lived too much of a healthy, hygienic lifestyle to enjoy the discomfort he would be subject to. Unless of course, he lived in a five star hotel and had to travel around only when necessary …

Oh, by the way, the name Cochin is now Kochi, through an attempt by an enthusiastic nationalist patriotic government scheme to revert to all things ethnic and connecting contemporary India with traditions of old. said Adam.

Well, fancy that Adam! Where did you find that piece of information? Huh? Oh wait, just another piece of trivia you picked up while reading about your favourite Indian place, eh? said Pete, dismissing it as a piece of useless information he would have no use for, now or ever, and bored with Adam’s constant talk about this land of coconut trees and water ways. India, and Kerala along with it, was one part of the planet he never planned to visit, the slums, the lack of hygiene. He would rather not travel at all than slum it anywhere.

Adam stretched and turned to Peter. You cold, man? I distinctly saw you shiver then … Well, this is the POA. Stay around the township of Cochin, Kochi, for about a week, and travel along the length of the Coastline, said Adam happily. I am hoping to hire a canoe type house boat for a day or two and meander along the back waters, stop for the local grog and a seafood spicy bit ever so often and go wherever basically takes my fancy. That should get me a good feel of the people and the politics of the place. He was so anticipating this trip.

Back in his own apartment, Adam carelessly gathered some clothes into his sizeable and well used back pack. It was one of those touristy contraptions with endless pockets and zips and concealed places. Made in light weight Taslon, of the type umbrellas were made of, only stronger and more durable and with a harness and handle, it was Adam’s favourite piece of luggage. This particular piece was weathered and had endured many a trip with him. No point in taking too many clothes, the heat was going to be considerable. It was mostly summer in Kerala, and would be hot and sweaty.

He was done packing very quickly. What he forgot, he would buy there, anyway. Time to call it a day. He had an early start and he needed to set an alarm. Well, his missed flight episodes were legendary, and lucky that reliable Pete had promised to ring first to wake him up and then turn up to drive him over to the airport. Pete had a key to his apartment and had already threatened to hoist him out of bed, if needed. He was taking no chances this time …

CHAPTER 3

Calling all passengers for Flight IA 217 to Mumbai. Please proceed to Gate 3 for your security check, please, boomed the loudspeakers. Right. Here’s my cue Pete. Call you when I get to Mumbai. No need to worry yourself sick over me, man. And remember. Don’t get into too much trouble without me, Peter laughed. Hey, no need for the sarcasm Adam. Good luck, have fun and don’t come back looking like one of the locals as you did last time you made that trip. And keep the emails rolling in, eh? Adam thumped Peter on his back and waving, made his way to immigration and the usual drudgery of declaration, security checks, bags ID-ing and what not.

Having done this so many times and although quite used to it, Adam never failed to see the positives in the thorough way in which baggage was handled in his own hometown of Sydney. Some of the other countries he visited had baggage handling procedures that were close to chaotic. Better to be assured that the right measures were being carried out than have to watch incompetence leading to dire situations. He was messy about certain things in his life, but he always made sure his bags and items bought were declared and accounted for. And certainly no extra baggage, thank you. His back pack he had put through and now all he would take on board was his ‘equipment’ as he called it. His trusty and expensive digital camera/video and tripod (insured of course). He made sure this never left his custody.

Together with his laptop with extended battery and a mobile phone, he was online and accessible to any job, any time. And that was how he liked working. His employers saw Adam as a no fuss, easily adapting kind of guy and his articles were not too bad either. He was always ready for a challenge.

Being young, single and without family pressures could sometimes be a perk, since this was one reason Adam was always willing to leave town day or night.

It always got him some interesting journalist jobs. This one had been hand picked for him. Besides, what better person to send than one with an absurd fascination for a place infested with mosquitoes and motorbikes and a bursting people population, as one of the journalists remarked?

Hours later and finally in flight, Adam stretched his legs and relaxed with a shot of gin and tonic. It was off peak for the airlines and being a frequent traveller, by a stroke of fantastic luck, he had been upgraded to business class. Wowie, he was finally on his way.

He was just so lucky to be offered the ‘project’, hadn’t believed his ears when David Daniels, Sr. Editor-in-Chief of ‘Our World’, a magazine that presented events and stories across the world, had informed him that he heard of his constant barraging for a trip to the South of India and, given his recent success with his projects in Somalia and Puerto Rico, had decided to let him run a six day documentary covering the culture and lifestyle of people in India’s most literate State—Kerala.

He was to cover issues of human interest—What made them so unique, what gave them the literate edge over the other States? He was to stay where he wished and appropriate funds through the company up to the value of $200/day to cover daily expenses. Any additional expenses could be reviewed and authorised, if called for. His tickets would be booked through their usual airline Qantas and covered an open domestic ticket for optional travel within India.

Adam grabbed the opportunity and in less than a week, here he was, on his way to his dream place. He had always wondered about that though. He was a reasonably travelled guy, yet there was something about this quaint, township that had caught at his heart the last time he had visited briefly.

Perhaps it was because he had made lifelong friends so quickly, perhaps the spicy food had intoxicated him, the beautiful dusky people, their charm and hospitality.

But yet, there was something he could not put his finger on and he was determined to find out why the urge to return to this place was so strong within him—he wondered idly if this trip would reveal a reason for his tenacity to return to a place that was so foreign and yet so familiar. It was definitely weird but most of all, it was bewitching, it was as if an unseen hand was luring him, calling to him, and he didn’t know what it was—yet!.

But he was determined to pull out all stops to find out. And he hoped the opportunity would present itself.

CHAPTER 4

"That will be 600 Rupees, Saar,’’ said the diminutive man hovering beside Adam. Hmm, that would be about Twenty Aussie dollars for a 20 minute ride to the Maharaja Hotel where he intended to stay his two nights. OK, he said to the taxi wallah—driver. As if by cue, a group of little men, you could never tell their ages, descended on Adam and whisked his back pack off him. Adam kept a keen eye on his travelling baggage and couldn’t help but suppress a smile. Four men to carry a back pack?

Ludicrous, but obviously a means to make some baksheesh—money. He wondered what amount they would squeeze out of him for this mighty task.

Adam didn’t mind, he was used to this and he always secretly applauded the way these people seemed to pride themselves in their superior albeit shifty sense of business. He knew if he wasn’t sharp, the Indian Taxi Association could well take him for a merry ride, quite literally at his expense.

Ten minutes later, he was hanging on to life on a thread, being dodged between Mumbai’s late afternoon chaotic traffic amid the sounds of vehicle horns and cries of Chai—Tea, and Kappe—Coffee. The majority of Mumbai’s taxis were called ‘Ambassadors’ and rightly so, they seemed to run on the keen desire to be in the forefront of everything moving and static.

The way they were constructed resembled the Aussie equivalent of an old Datsun with a round curvaceous body and one long seat in the front and back. This naturally translated to cramming as many people as could seemingly fit in. No space barriers here, just pile in till you were sitting in as cramped a space as possible. And then chuck in the excess baggage, that is, the stuff that will not fit in the boot (which could already be crammed with stuff that did not belong to you at all).

Adam’s taxi driver Raju was friendly and talkative, and used Adam to practice his halting ‘Hinglish’ while attempting to hold a conversation with each of the other two men simultaneously all hitching a ride, Since Saar would not mind, seeing we are all going the same way?

Saar, where arrre you venturing? Are you going to stay for a many days? You call me any time Saar. See? I have cell phone. I give you number.

Any time Saar, you listen me, day orrr night, I come and drive you along. I live in slums close to your hotel, so I am happy to come any time. I sleep with cell phone tie to neck Saar. So I never miss the calling. he said happily.

Adam nodded, tired and happy to accommodate anyone who could take him to his destination, preferably in silence and in uncrammed conditions. No such luck.

What was to be a 20 minute ride took 90 minutes instead, thanks to a traffic accident with a hand drawn cart and lorry in the middle of a busy intersection (Where on earth was the Traffic Controller? Did they have afternoon siestas in the middle of this chaos? Perhaps he learned the art of practising yoga, standing on one foot in deep meditation, amidst ongoing sounds of traffic sirens and general mayhem.)

When they finally chugged into the front of Hotel Maharaja, Adam was beginning to lose feeling in his left thigh, wedged as he was between Raju and Mahan. None of the other hangers on alias passengers seemed to be affected by this stiff and endless drive. They were out and about in a flash, talking nineteen to the dozen in Hindi, and dragging the back pack in all directions. Luckily for Adam, the back pack was tough and meant for any kind of weather and situation but No, he was NOT going to let anyone take care of his equipment bag, thank you!

Ten minutes and 800 Rupees later—somehow Saar got mixed up in the taxi fare pricing, it was 600 Rupees or 800 Rupees for help to carry the back pack. Could Saar please settle the matter of only 200 Rupees extra, otherwise Raju was going to get into trouble with the other labour at hand and would have to pay them double for the trouble he had caused them.

Trouble? Are you kidding? thought Adam. Did they not hitch a ride with him, when he could have travelled by himself and did he not share ninety per cent of his boot space for their assorted bundles of vegetables and fruits?

And when had he insisted on having four people help with one back pack that he was accustomed to carrying himself anyway?"

OK, said Adam feebly handing over the 800 Rupees to an excited and now beaming Raju, who disappeared with his mates and a boot full of bananas and root vegetables, into the cloud of Mumbai’s traffic. A warm shower and a nice hot meal. That is what I need. And with this Adam picked up his back pack (with no difficulty) and walked into Hotel Maharaja. ‘Fit for the Kings!’ as the slogan at the entrance proudly suggested. Let’s see if this place is all it claims to be, mulled Adam.

Half hour later, he sat, head in hands. The bed was comfortable, if a little hard. But the place had no water. NO Water! He was absolutely raring for a shower. How long to wait. Only two hours he was told somewhat apologetically. These were new rules laid down by the Mumbai municipality. Peak hours from 7-9 a.m. and 3-7 p.m. brought about water restrictions, meaning that all your jobs had to be done outside of these hours. Meaning, travellers had better check in before these unearthly hours to get themselves a good shower or wait till the appointed hour.

Adam turned to the Receptionist. Well, no option but to wait then. I might as well check out the place, find some food and come back in an hour or so. Will you please ensure my luggage is taken care of and under no circumstances is shifted from the position in the paid locker I have left it in. Understand? Good.

Carrying a few Rupees in hand and deciding for now, not to venture too far away for fear of another taxi ride, Adam stepped out into the evening sunshine and dust that enveloped him. An enormous billboard read, ‘Welcome to Mumbai, the land of Bollywood fame’. Well Mumbai, my friend, I am duly welcomed and here I come friend, let’s part-tey together!

CHAPTER 5

Adam woke up to the sounds of city traffic and the smells of spices. He loved Indian food and could handle chillies like a trooper. He had overslept, it was ten minutes to 9.00 am and the city was fully awake and in business.

Wait, the shower curfew! He was out of bed in a shot and in 20 minutes, was showered, dressed and on his way into the bowels of beckoning Mumbai.

He took a punt and decided to stop at the first street Dhaba—(Al-fresco local restaurant) that promised a Chai, adequately smothered with sweetness and equally milky.

It turned out to be Mustafa’s Cafe. Mustafa himself materialised in front of him. He was a small man, browned to the colour of old Coffee, with a balding hairline, spindly legs bounding with energy and a smile that seemed all disproportionate teeth. Come Sahib, beamed Mustafa. He was not about to let a Ferungi—foreigner, walk away when he smelt easy money so close. Try some hot Chai with extra sugar and milk, Sahib.

Also, if you hungry, a good Chapatti and hot and spicy potato curry is good day starter. You want? Adam grinned. Sure, I want, he said. Mustafa was already barking out orders in Hindi and within minutes Adam found himself seated at a table, deftly cleaned by the elbows of a boy no older than twelve, in a tattered but clean singlet and what looked like striped prison pyjamas. Seconds later, a second boy approached with his breakfast—three steaming hot Chapattis (more if you want Sahib, five Rupees extra