For two days, we’ve drifted past schoolchildren waving from grassy banks and coconut groves, watched fishermen untangle their nets at dawn, and played endless games of travel backgammon on a rickety little table on the deck, as the kettuvallam houseboat glides through Kerala’s sleepy backwaters, greeted by kingfisher calls and the gently bobbing palms that nod as we pass.
Everything has slowed right down. I am captive to these water bound meanderings.
At first I would ask the captain: ‘What will we do today? Where are going?’ He would smile and nod, and say something about ‘perhaps this, perhaps that’. Not one to be pinned down to a schedule, he would shrug and gesture to the tray of dishes that the chef had prepared for breakfast.
Each meal aboard the houseboat was a feast for the palate and senses. Breakfast of Appam (rice pancakes) served with a milky coconut sauce, lunch of rice with sambar, or thoran (a stir-fried veg with coconut dish) and pachadi (a yogurt-based side). Then fish marinated and wrapped in a banana leaf — Karimeen pollichathu. Later we would enjoy Kanji (rice porridge) with pickle, pappadam, and chammanthi (a spicy coconut chutney). It is easy to see how Kerala became a hub for spice trading, attracting Arabs, the Chinese, Romans, and later the Portuguese, Dutch, and British, a history in trading captured as far back as the 13th century by traveller Marco Polo who wrote of the Malabar coast’s spice trade.
At first, it can be almost overwhelming: the scents, sounds, the vibrant colours.
But now, after a couple of days of this soothing river pace, drifting past emerald rice paddies, immersed in a lulling soundtrack of temple bells and muezzin calls (sometimes simultaneously, a nod to Kerala’s syncretism) or serenaded by the Vanchipattu boat songs of fishermen, I had begun to surrender to the sense of the quiet unknown.
One of the most wonderful things about travelling by houseboat is watching the light shift through the day, from the warm glow of early morning, when the world seems to crack open into birdsong along the banks, to the orange-pink night skies, stark against the palms and lush greens of the waterways. There were so many new sounds to discover: lapping water against the hull, the low bleat of boat horns as backwater vessels danced gracefully around each other, strident birdsong like the Malabar whistling thrush, or the thrumming of rain one night on the roof of the houseboat. The cinematic journey weaved its way downstream, broken occasionally to visit a village – whereupon leaving, groups of polite children sitting at a canal-side school would turn to wave.
Other stops included chatting with an Ayurvedic healer over chai then touring their garden full of neem, turmeric and ashwagandha. Another afternoon was spent exploring a backwater market – full of spices, plantains, woven baskets – a riot of colour and scents. An early misty morning start saw us travelling by wooden canoe through paddy fields and narrower canals, the boat low, just the splash of the oar in the water, and further away the voices of villagers and the tinkle of cow bells.
One night we watched the sunset over Vembanad Lake, the boat crew swapping tales of Keralan folklore and river superstitions. On another evening, we came ashore for Chenda melam, traditional drumming under the stars in the jasmine-filled night air.
I had brought books to read. After the first day, in the late morning I would sit on the wicker armchair, piled high with cushions, in the shade of the boat’s bamboo canopy on the deck. Its curved roof protected me from the sun, as I sat facing the backwaters and passing by villages on stilts, egrets swooping alongside the fishermen’s nets, while I dove deep into reading The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. This book, for me, as near to perfect as a novel can be, is set in Ayemenem in Kerala: personal and political, rich in detail and nuance, it is written with immense love. Lush, languid, piercing storytelling. A perfect mirror to my surroundings.
Later I took photo after photo of goats on the banks, lizards basking in the sun on rocks. By a temple, on a bend of the waterways, a troop of macaques watched us pass by, chattering amongst themselves. I snapped egrets, herons, cormorants, turtles, and clouds of butterflies too.
Kerala is not an easy place to forget. It touches your senses and your heart. Drifting on the river channels, meandering this way and that, teaches you the art of letting go, of being present and learning to surrender to the unexpected.
Laura McVeigh is a novelist and travel writer. Her writing has been translated worldwide. She has authored books for Lonely Planet and DK Eyewitness and regularly writes on green travel issues. This article originally appeared on The Green Travel Guide. Read more at lauramcveigh.com | lauramcveightravel.com