It all began with a name. Cochin.Or rather the old synagogue in Cochin. The place and its synagogue became a dream of a journey. In January 2001 the dream was realised. And this is the story about the journey to Cochin in the state of Kerala in India. We traveled in January, a good month to visit this part of India, in-between the two monsoon rain periods in November and June-July. This is also the coolest part of the year, although the temperature does not vary all that much throughout the year. We had mostly pleasant warm weather, between 25 and 35 degrees centigrade. Cochin was once the British name of the city now officially changed to Kochi. Like Kochi many places are referred to alternately by the old name and the new, which can be a little confusing. Although Kochi was the initial inspiration for this journey, we did not begin there. Our travel plans had expanded and included as much of the state of Kerala as we thought we could cover in two weeks. We flew to Madras, or rather Chennai, and then continued on a domestic flight to Kochi. From Europe, the natural destination is Thiruvananthapuram (Trivandrum), the capitol of Kerala. Many major airlines fly directly here. The Thiruvananthapuram airport is efficient and modern and the city also has a major train station. More about this later.

Munnar

So, we begin in Chennai and board a domestic flight to Kochi. Kochi airport is only two years old and very well functioning. Right outside the entrance we are met by Joy, our driver, and without further delay, we head straight for our minivan and depart for Munnar, the first destination on our journey. We quickly realise that we have entered a new traffic culture. Around 30 million people live in Kerala, making it one of the densest populated Indian states. Yet Kerala has no gigantic cities. Rather, people live along the routes of transport, roads and rivers, in a never ending village, which now and then expands and becomes a little regional center with a few shops, a bus station, churches and restaurants – and the inevitable cyber cafe’. The roads are mostly of a reasonable standard, although rather narrow. Head on meetings with trucks are heart-stopping experiences for the untrained passenger. The little black-and-yellow motored rickshaws add to the excitement as they fearlessly meander like chubby buzzing wasps along an additional lane either side of the main traffic.

The main feature of all vehicles is the horn and the use is developed into a fine art with intricate combinations of varying lengths of sound signaling the intentions of the drivers. The brightly painted heavy trucks – all bearing personal names on a board on the roof – have no side mirrors, but painted on the rear is an instruction to fellow drivers to use the horn. Also painted here are other important messages, such as promotion of birth control, with slogans like "Two is enough" and "One child, happy family." 

During our journey up to Munnar at an altitude of 1524 meters, we slowly adjust to the traffic culture. Lush vegetation frames the road on either side: rice paddies, fields with tapioca, pineapple, coffee, pepper, betel palms, and as we reach higher grounds large areas with cardamom plants. The driver is an excellent guide, talking and gesticulating while engaging in hair rising over- takings. Focusing on enjoying what seems not unlikely to be our last moment, we cling to our seats as we watch the landscape rushing by outside the windows. We are told that most crops yield several harvests a year, some up to four – which we readily believe seeing the intense greenery outside. Gradually, other crops give way to tea. An endless quilt of bright green covers the hills wherever we look. At close up the plants are ancient bonsais, shaped and stunted by fortnightly picking year in and out, some for more than a hundred years. Workers from the neighbor state Tamil Nadu dot the fields, head and shoulders covered in plastic this wet and chilly morning. As we reach ever-higher grounds, visibility deteriorates and eventually we are completely enveloped in a white, impenetrable fog. We are pleased the traffic is now very sparse.

We reach our destination, a tea plantation called Windemere after approximately four hours. The farm sits on a high hill overlooking the valleys, of which we can see nothing on arrival. Instead, we feel cocooned in a soft, silent whiteness, the rest of the world a distant memory. There are a small number of guest rooms in a separate building from the main one, where the owner, a doctor from Kochi, lives with his family.

Our room is cozy and we are served tea — excellent, as can be expected. There are no other guests around, and we eat a pleasant dinner alone in the small dining room: fish, vegetables, rice and bread. We share a large bottle of Kingfisher beer, a concession to our tourist status. Kerala is a dry state, where alcohol is strictly controlled and sold only in licensed shops (which are often difficult to find) and tourist restaurants. The local brew, made from coconuts and sold under the name of toddy is an acquired taste, but can be obtained a little more readily. During our journey we saw no obvious alcohol abuse. We retire early and wake up in lingering fog. After breakfast, we decide to make a trip to Eravikulam National Park, hoping to spot the Nilgiri tahr, a near-extinct mountain goat. Here we are above the clouds and the air is clear, but still wet and rather chilly. We leave the car at the car park at the entrance and wander up along the well-prepared track. We see no tahrs, but meet groups of Indian tourists, mostly young men on leave from schools around the country. Many are keen to have their pictures taken in our company, and we are intrigued and amused at the thought that our picture will sit in photo albums in homes around India. On our way back we stop in Old Munnar and spend some time wandering around the market. The ground is muddy and people carry uniform black umbrellas – this part of Kerala is the center for umbrella manufacturing. We look more than shop, but come away with bags of tea and a shirt. We make another stop at the roadside teashop near one of the many large tea factories owned by the TATA concern, which dominates the tea processing here. We buy more tea, and allow ourselves to be talked into buying a jar of strawberry marmalade — more costly than all the tea together. Then we head back to Windemere for lunch. Here, the fog is as dense as before, and we decide to skip the suggested tour to the Mudapetty dam, and instead head back to Old Munnar. We visit the pretty stone church, Christ Church, where we happen to hit the end of a major ordination service. The congregation seems to be in good spirits, enthusiastically singing away to recorded lively music. After the service we are repeatedly invited to stay for coffee and cake at the adjoining church hall. We decline politely and slip away down the stairs to the main street. Here we decide to further explore spiritual Munnar and head for the Hindu temple on the other side. We have been told not to expect to be allowed to enter, but a friendly, white clad gentleman waves us in and we wander around the empty temple for quite a while. A faint smell of incense lingers in the dark corners, but the incense holders contain only ashes and the little oil lamps are empty. The only sound is the chirping of the birds in the trees outside. We have planned an early departure the following morning, so return to Windemere, have an early dinner and retire. It’s raining. In the morning, we have a light breakfast and leave around seven thirty. The fog has lifted and we have an extraordinary view over the green valleys. Initially, we follow the same route as on the way up, now down towards the coast. Our destination is Allappuzha (Alleppey), where we are meeting Felix and Hanna, our two fellow travelers. They have flown in to Thiruvananthapuram (Trivandrum) further south. At Allappuzha we will board a rice barge, adapted for tourist travels on the vast backwaters. Backwaters Our trip is uneventful and we arrive at Allappuzha on time. As do Felix and Hanna. However, there is no boat available here. An unexpected visit by the Indian Prime Minister has upset the plans. In Kollam, we are told, there is a boat waiting for us. We get in our car again and make the half hour trip there. The boat is an extraordinary construction of heavy wood, with an intricate canopy of woven palm leaves. It contains two bedrooms, each with a tiny ensuite, and a small kitchen at the back, where a cook is busy stocking the cupboards as we board. Two men, one at the front, one at the back, push the barge along using long poles. We glide soundlessly — there is no motor. It is early afternoon and as soon as we have left the shore behind we are served lunch. We sit on deck in the shade of the canopy, watching the breathtaking views on either side. We glide down narrow canals where the intense daily life of the people living on either side goes on uninterrupted by our presence: bathing, washing, fishing and cooking, children playing, men sitting chatting on the river banks. Mobile shops in the shape of narrow canoes hurry past, one collecting empty bottles, the other offering tailoring services with the sewing machine sitting at the bottom of the boat. Behind the tidy pastel coloured houses, intensely green rice paddies stretch into the distance. Cows and goats stroll leisurely in the gardens, where here and there the large discs of TV antennas make up the backdrop.

There are children everywhere, doing what children always do: running up and down the banks, playing in the shade of the trees, diving into the water. As they spot us, the wave and shout: "How are you?" and "One pen, please!" Having dispensed all available pens, the pleas change to "One bottle, please!" meaning a plastic one, or "Candy, please!". We are intrigued to learn that only as a last resort do they ask for rupees.  In the evening, we anchor up on open water, the crew light kerosene lights, and we sit on deck and eat while stars emerge in the sky above. Having finished our meal, we lie down on the warm planks and let our thoughts drift, looking up into eternity above.

Eventually, we withdraw to our respective bedrooms, where we fall to sleep under our mosquito nets, gently rocked by the soft undulations of the water below. The distant crowing of cocks awakes us. We pull up the anchor and glide on. Between breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea and dinner, we read, write our journals and talk with people on the shore. Meditate on the goodness of life. The day drifts on peacefully and becomes another starry night.   Kochi After breakfast in the morning, we reluctantly pack, quiet and filled with a common sense of melancholy. We reach the depot around ten o’clock and find our car waiting. With lingering looks through the windows out towards the water, we head off for Kochi – the original primary destination of this trip. The road between Kollam and Kochi is partly under construction, but otherwise of very good standard. After an uneventful drive, we reach Kochi and our hotel in Fort Kochi before lunch. Our Hotel, The Old Courtyard Hotel, is a charming converted old villa, built around a courtyard with an old well and a huge mango tree. The dozen or so guest rooms are on the two upper floors, three large rooms facing the street and the remaining smaller rooms overlooking the courtyard. We drop off our luggage and take a short walk. Kochi consists of several separate parts: Ernakulam on the mainland, the islands Willingdon, Bolgatty and Gundy in the harbour, Fort Kochi and Mattancherry on the southern peninsula and Vypeen north of Fort Kochi. Bridges and ferries connect the parts. Most hotels and restaurants are in Ernakulam, but two reputable hotels are on Willingdon. Most of the historically significant places are in Fort Kochi. Fort Kochi is touristy; there is no denying this fact. But the tourists are of the discrete kind. It seems like Kochi attracts visitors with a genuine interest in the region and willing to adapt to the local culture. We find Kochi refreshingly free of noisy partying and semi-nude western tourists. It is New Years and Fort Kochi also has a large number of local visitors, flocking to the beaches and to see the New Year Carnival. Our hotel sits right in the center of the festivities, yet we notice no disturbing behaviour, only pleasant, joyful celebrations. In the afternoon of New Years Eve, the beach is full of families in their finery, strolling along the edge of the water, dipping their feet in the sea and watching the sun set. The atmosphere is filled with happy expectation. The setting sun spreads a forgiving warmth over us all as it sinks into a sea of gold. It is easy to believe in a good start to the new year. We tear ourselves away and return to our hotel. It is time for dinner. The courtyard has been dressed up with candle lit tables. Four Indian dancers, one male and three female, entertain us, dancing to live south Indian classical music played by a three musicians and one singer. Reluctantly, we agree that this very touristy entertainment is actually – entertaining!

As the clock strikes twelve, we hear the odd firework out in the street. We retire not too late. Or too early. Next day, it is finally time to visit the synagogue. It has been my inspiration and primary destination on this trip. It sits in a part of Kochi called Jewtown, where many houses still bear David stars and Hebrew letters, reminiscent of times when Kochi had a significant and influential Jewish population. Nowadays, this is reduced to a handful of families. The narrow alley leading up the synagogue is framed with little shops selling touristy curios and antiques, real and not so real. This area is also the center for the spice trade, with warehouses and spice shops. At the end of the alley is the back wall of the Mattancherry Palace, and the entrance to the synagogue is to the left. Immediately inside is a ticket counter and to the left is a separate room with badly painted pictures telling Kochi’s Jewish history. But then you step over the threshold to the synagogue itself. It is painfully beautiful. None of the forbidding darkness of many European houses of worship here. Instead here there is a kind, warm light, filtering through the many windows along the sides, and reflected in the numerous glass lights and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The floor is covered with blue and white Chinese tiles. The entire room has a strange clarity about it, as if it were lit from inside. I linger behind the rest of the group, let my hand run along the soft wood of the benches. I don’t leave until the next group of visitors begin enters. I wander around the building outside. Along the garden walls, stones with Hebrew inscriptions rest, as if put there temporarily. I take numerous pictures, which I will discover later, are all blank. Surely, this is a sign that I will be allowed to come here again.

We carry on to Mattancherry Palace, built in 1555, a few years earlier than the present synagogue. The original synagogue on the site was destroyed by canon fire during a Portuguese attack and the present building was founded two years later, in 1557. The Mattancherry Palace exhibits a small number of artifacts, such as costumes and weapons from the Raj period. More interesting are the wall paintings, covering the walls in almost all rooms of the palace. The bedroom paintings are perhaps the most engaging.

We eat lunch in a vegetarian restaurant recommended to us by our travel agent. The food is superb, and by now we manage very well without cutlery. On the wall behind us is a replica of one of the wall paintings we have just seen in the palace. We spend the afternoon shopping in one of the many textile department stores, Emporiums, that Kochi offers. This one is a vast multi-storied temple dedicated to shopping. On offer are both ready-made clothes of all kinds, both Indian and Western, and materials, particularly silk. The sari department is fascinating, both the display of brilliant material in all imaginable colours and patterns, and also the procedure going on around the young women choosing wedding saris, surrounded by groups of friends and family.

I get carried away and buy four Punjabi outfits, two silk and two cotton. Will I ever wear them at home? In the evening we have dinner at one of the many restaurants near our hotel. Live classical Indian music in the background while we eat another delicious Indian meal. We drink lime and soda water. No alcohol.

Kovalam

Next morning we start early. Our driver meets us outside and we drive south, destination Kovalam. Or rather one of the beach resorts just south of Kovalam. We drive along roads with the usual intense street life on either side. This time in the morning we see flocks of children on their way to school, all wearing colourful school uniforms. The girls wear Punjabi dresses in the school colours and have their hair braided with matching ribbons. All carry piles of books. They look remarkably happy.

I remember images of Swedish or New Zealand children on the way to school and reflect on the difference. Kovalam proper and its small beach was once a picturesque hippie dwelling, but is now a heavily developed resort with several large high-rise tourist hotels. We travel through and continue south. Our hotel is a smaller establishment on the beach south of Kovalam. It sits enveloped in greenery high above a small private strip of beach. The guests seem to be mostly middle aged Europeans, many here to practice yoga or undergo one of the many ayurvedic treatments on offer in this region. We make ourselves at home, have a light lunch in the little outdoor hotel restaurant and venture down to the beach.

Beach life here deserves a few words. The beach is hauntingly beautiful: an endless white sandy stretch, which disappears in the distance as a shimmering blend of sand and surf. It is also a very active work place for the thousands of fishermen who operate the traditional fishing boats, which during the day rest on the beach. The boats are put to sea every evening in a dramatic display involving dozens of men per boat. Early in the morning the boats return and are taken up in an equally intricate display of man’s skill pitched against the power of the sea. Thereafter, the nets are hauled ashore in an operation that takes hours of pulling, again engaging all the men. To us the reward seemed meager; in fact, we never saw any fish at all, and the women who had been crouching further up on the beach left with their bowls empty each day. To us, the entire process was a captivating, timeless drama, for the fishermen it was probably an exhausting and unrewarding toil. One aspect of the meeting between the hard working fishermen and sun-burnt tourists is the place itself — the beach — and its use. Every morning the staff employed by the hotels above flock to the allocated strips of beach for the morning clean up. Using homemade rakes they collect rubbish, flatten the sand, unfold umbrellas and sun chairs in preparation for the deluge of tourists as soon as breakfast is over. At the same time, thousands of fishermen utilize the sea as a communal toilet. As far as the eye can see, the edge of the sea is dotted with crouching figures, their mundus hitched up away from the water and the eyes on the horizon. The ritual is safely out of the way and the traces considerately swept up by the sea at the time when the tourists arrive, cheerfully throwing themselves into the turquoise waves. However, we spend an enjoyable day on the beach, sun bathing, swimming and playing soccer with a group of young locals.

Thiruvananthapuram

Next day, we drive into Thiruvananthapuram, the capitol of Kerala. Our driver insists that we should visit the zoo, but we manage to resist and instead head for the Sri Padmanabhaswamy temple. Entry into the inner sanctum is not allowed for non-Hindus, as we already know, and we are restricted to tour the outer parts. We are instantly picked up by an enthusiastic temple official offering his services as a guide, in return for a voluntary donation to the temple. The temple grounds are vast and groups of visiting pilgrims rest in the shade along the walls. There is little of interest to see and the visit turns out to be rather disappointing. So is our donation to the temple, it seems. Turning our backs to our guide’s complaints we dash down the steps to the street. We fight our way through a massive wall of hard-selling nut-mongers blocking the way to the Puthe Maliga Palace on the right. The Palace was built as a residence for the Maharaja of Trivancore two hundred years ago, and about twenty of the eighty rooms are now open to visitors. The collections of furniture, art and other artifacts are exquisite, we have been told. Sadly, we find the museum is closed between 12:30 and 3 pm. It is now around 1 pm. and we decide to go to the railway station and sort out the tickets for Felix and Hanna, who will be traveling north to Goa and Bangalore the following Saturday. The station is a large building in the center of the city, with an equally large and very busy car park outside. After some initial hesitation and brief queuing in the wrong place, we get the required information, find the correct queue and finish the purchase quickly and smoothly. A plaque bearing the following words of wisdom by Gandhi sits demonstratively on the wall opposite the ticket counter:

A customer is the most important visitor on our premises. He is not dependent on us. We are dependent on him. He is not an interruption in our work. He is the purpose of it. He is not an outsider on our premises. He is part of it. We are not doing a favour by serving him. He is doing us a favour by giving us the opportunity to do so. A customer is not a person to argue with. No one ever won an argument with a customer.

As we make our way out to the waiting car, I am reminded of my three hours of hard struggle at the central station in Stockholm last summer, trying to purchase tickets to Zürich. Perhaps a similar plaque would be good for Swedish Railways!

We finish our day in Thiruvananthapuram with a little shopping. We buy some mundus, the traditional white loin-cloths worn by most men here. Two elderly customers generously engage in showing us the correct way of wrapping them safely around the waist and the process of shortening and lengthening them as required. Felix enthusiastically adopts the practice and finds the mundu a very practical and comfortable outfit in the hot climate. We travel back in the dry afternoon heat and end the day with a walk on the beach and short swim.

Kanyakumari

Next day, we venture beyond the state of Kerala and drive south over the border to Tamil Nadu, heading for Kanyakumari at the very tip of India. It is a three our drive and we have to stop and pay an administrative fee at the border. Otherwise, there is little to mark the passage from one state to the other. The language is Tamil rather than Mayalam, which is the prevailing language in Kerala, but as we speak neither this is not a significant change. We will have to rely on English as before.

After an hour or so, the landscape widens and we drive through areas of vast rice paddies and wet areas with little lakes and ponds covered with pink, blue and white lotus flowers. Further south bare, grey rocks unexpectedly emerge out of the soft greenery, dramatically changing the landscape. We arrive at Kanyakumari around noon and find the harbour buzzing with activity. Kanyakumari is an important goal for Hindu pilgrims from all parts of India. Dusty buses decorated with wilting flower-garlands fill the car parks along the beach. Groups of goats slowly move around area, nibbling at the dry decorations.

The commercial activity is also intense, with rows of stalls selling clothes, bags and all sorts of memorabilia. Pilgrims bathe in the rough water below, where the Arab Sea meets the Bay of Bengal. Two large monuments dominate the harbour: The Swami Vivekananda monument, commemorating the end of the Swami’s long pilgrimage through India in 1892, and the statue of the Tamil poet Thiruvalluvar. A ferry takes passengers to the Swami Vivekananda monument, where visitors can wander, meditate and explore the various relics on display. We meet a group of pilgrims from Manipur, who have made the long trip from far north, near the border to Myanmar. They are contagiously happy and keen to have their photographs taken with us. On the ferry back to the mainland, one of the women removes her only piece of jewelry – a plastic ring carrying an image of a Hindu deity – and offers it to Hanna, our young blonde fellow traveler from New Zealand. She in turn, impulsively removes her only piece of jewelry, a jade pendant, and offers it in return for the ring. The woman quickly accepts, puts it around her neck and fires off a wide and virtually toothless smile. Hanna looks overwhelmed, her cheeks blushing and an uncertain smile on her lips. Later, during her continued trip north, she will be told that the ring truly is divine and well worth the exchange, but here on the ferry she is looking with mixed feeling at her finger with the plastic ring.

We wander through the market above the ferry landing, meeting poorer and sicker beggars than we have anywhere in Kerala. Pilgrims are everywhere, their respective home temples identified by the colour of their outfits. We find a little bookstore where we spend quite a while selecting books on philosophy and religion. Before we leave Kanyakumari we make a short stop and visit the beautiful Catholic Church, where a group of women are congregated for a simple service. Hanna stands reflectively in a pool of light, streaming in from a window high above. Perhaps her Irish-Catholic ancestry is in her mind. We stop for lunch on the way home and have another very nice vegetarian meal, finished off with kulfi, Indian ice-cream flavoured with saffron, rose water and pistachios. No alcohol, of course. Further north, we stop at Neyyattinkara, a village dwarfed by its impressive Hindu temple, Sri Krishna Swami Temple dating from the 18th century. Although we have been told that this temple is particularly strict when it comes to allowing non-Hindu visitors inside, we are warmly invited and superbly guided by a young priest. He takes us around the temple and engages in a lively description of its history. We are told of some of the architectural peculiarities, such as the hollow pillars, which can be made to play music. Furthermore, at the end of the tour he is obviously pleased with the size of our donation and waves smilingly as we wander outside into the soft afternoon light.

We drive homewards in the sunset and arrive at our hotel just as dusk turns into night. We eat our last dinner together here in a mood of light melancholy. The following morning we will say good-bye, Frank and I returning to Chennai and Felix and Hanna traveling north, towards Bangalore and Goa.

After dinner, we sit and listen to the frogs croaking in the darkest corners of the garden. The sky is sparklingly clear and when the electricity fails (which it inevitably does every evening) and the table light goes off, the stars invade the blackness.

We are struggling to sum up our impressions, finding it impossible to choose any single highlight. Every moment in Kerala has contained such a multitude and such an unprecedented intensity. It seems like the colours are brighter here, the greenery lusher, the smells stronger than at any other place we have ever been. The throngs of people are vast, but never threatening, dense, but never impenetrable. There is visible poverty, but also obvious prosperity. The overwhelming impression is that of unexpected harmony, defying description or comparison. And everywhere a prevailing undercurrent of hope. Kerala’s long coast has always welcomed visitors from afar. Chinese, Arab, Dutch, Portuguese and British ships have anchored here. And stayed on. Religions have found tolerance and freedom. And they live on, side by side. It is easy to feel at home, to feel welcome and included, and to want to stay. And it is very hard to leave.