I imagined Mum shopping in the drizzle. With a scarf tied under her chin, she looked like a cross between the Queen and the lady with cold hands and bitten fingernails who worked at the greengrocer’s. Tears puddled behind my eyelids, I squeezed them tighter…
I clung to the guard rail while I looped a rope round the broken foresail. A wave rose, then fell back before it reached me. We were adrift in an Indian Ocean the colour of dishwater. A platoon of grey clouds marched across the sky, softening us up before the storm.
A rare easterly blowing through Cochin this morning has freshened things, brightening colours and tempering Kerala’s humidity. It has lured me from the air-conditioned saloon up into our boat’s cockpit. The breeze brings with it snatches of a lone voice chanting a Malayalam Christmas prayer across the water.
I wonder how many of us can name the southern states, let alone their capitals or tourist attractions. Visitors to the US choose New York, the Grand Canyon or Las Vegas, occasionally New Orleans or Graceland. But the deep south is rarely at the top of the wish list.
Earlier in the week our Gorkha friends, with a twinkle in their collective eye, had suggested we take an easy two-day hike in Singalila National Park. After eight hours of seemingly vertical climbing in driving rain we realized their idea of easy was quite different from our own.
The sports field lies on the edge of a high ridge above Barranumber, overlooking the Alpha Nursery School. The fields and jungle drop down into the river valley a kilometer below us. In the distance we can see Sikkim and Nepal. The common language of all the tribes (Lepcha, Limboo, Rai, Tamang, Tenzing, Bhutia and more) who live in the Himalaya is Nepali. The fiercely fought borders drawn on maps by diplomats, kings, and politicians mean nothing to the people of this region.
Half-remembered images and sounds spring into her head: her father creeping out at night with a small bundle of cloth, her mother sobbing, the bundle crying. If only her baby sister had lived, she would have had someone to share the chores with by now. She buries the shards of memory deep in her heart and makes her way along the familiar cool path.
Dolphins peel off into the navy blue sea, and a hitch-hiking tern flies away. Balancing high up on the boom, Jamie peers into the now crystal water, navigating by sight – and the seat of his pants.
As the train pulls out a man jumps through the open door, and takes up residence opposite us. Sporting sunglasses balanced on top of a sharp new haircut, tight jeans and a smart shirt, he radiates style and bonhomie. We smile. He lurches towards us and we recoil as the sour alcohol oozing from his pores hits us.
We zigged and zagged our way through narrow alleys lined with tall buildings, wandering roughly in the direction of UNESCO-listed Jantar Mantar. Gazing upwards we saw countless skeletons of brightly coloured kites tangled among the spaghetti of cables and wires, which hold all of India’s cities together.
Shunning the easy option, we struggle into walking boots for our trek to sacred Kechopari Lake. Legend has it that birds keep the water pure by carrying away any floating twigs and leaves.
I emerge through layers of sleep to the sound of shouting and something metallic rat-a-tat-tatting against our hull. It’s just after dawn, and we are anchored in the Red Sea near the border between Eritrea and Djibouti.