A northbound journey from Varkala to Munnar.
Kerala is often referred to as ‘God’s Own Country’, a term coined by the tourism industry but rooted in Hindu mythology. The story goes that one day Sage Parshurama, an incarnation of Vishnu, threw his axe into the waters of the Arabian Sea. The force of this divine blow caused the sea to part, creating the land known as modern Kerala; a paradise of palm trees, beaches and backwaters. I learnt of this anecdote some time after leaving India. On arriving in Varkala to begin my northward journey, I assume the coastal state earned its name for its beauty alone.
Varkala
Varkala, Kerala’s original backpacker hub, now sports a fair share of boutique hotels and yoga schools atop its signature palm-clad cliffs. The red rhinestone, now somewhat weather-beaten, is emblematic of the deep heat which perseveres despite the coastal breeze. I begin the sharp descent down the stone steps connecting the cliffside to shoreline – 86 in total – pausing to get a birds eye view of the busy cove. Red, blue and gold; a summer palette in a picture. Aesthetics aside, Varkala Beach, a popular Hindu pilgrimage site, holds spiritual significance. The spring water which flows from the red rock is rumoured to hold medicinal and curative properties, said to heal the body and cleanse the soul. I cannot pass up an opportunity to wash away my sins.
Back on the cliff top, I follow a narrow footpath which runs parallel to the coastline, a tightrope between overly-attentive market traders and the steep cliffside. It continues north on a gradual descent for several kilometres to Kappil, where the now desolate beaches meet the backwaters.
The Ferry from Kollam to Allepey
The backwaters of Kerala are a vast labyrinth of waterways, spanning half of the state and running parallel to the Malabar coast. The largest backwater travel route runs from nearby Kollam, an ancient seaport cum cashew-nut processing powerhouse, a short train ride from Varkala. The public ferry (locally known as the ‘tourist boat’) departs at 10:30am daily and takes eight hours to reach Allepey.
I board the ferry at the half-way point of the journey, from Amritapuri, the Pink Ashram of Amma. By fluke, or what I consider to be a stroke of luck, the boat, which usually holds 25-30 people, is empty besides myself and an elderly couple. The tourist boat takes us through lakes and lagoons; by tranquil waterside villages and rice paddies filled with ducks; past magnificent traditional houseboats and lone fishermen in carved wooden vessels. I am permitted to steer the boat for a short time, until the captain thinks better of it. I spend the rest of the journey sitting atop the bow on the upper deck, taking pictures and drinking in my surroundings until the deep orange of the sunset sky tells me our destination is close.
Allepey
Allepey is the go-to base for exploring the backwaters and home to a plethora of tour operators to assist. In awe of my first journey on the backwaters and eager to get back on deck, I book a trip to leave the following morning. My tour group travel out on to the backwaters in a small passenger ferry. As we approach the first village, a series of near identical white stone huts with brown tiled rooves, it is time to disband. I inelegantly haul myself over the side of the boat and into a wooden canoe with five of my new acquaintances. We sit straight-backed in a line and try not to lean too far over to either side for fear of triggering a capsize. As the canoe weaves between picturesque villages on tiny waterways, I see why Allepey is known as ‘the Venice of the East’. Though the choice local beverage is less than sophisticated. We manage to procure a ‘toddy’ from a riverside salesman, a murky white spirit made from fermented palm leaves and served in a repurposed plastic bottle. Though ideal for a backpacker on a budget.
Another gem of Allepey sits 10 kilometres from town, not by water but by road. I rent a 125cc scooter and make the short drive to Marari Beach, a peaceful, unspoilt stretch of white sand, palm trees and, blissfully, very little else. It is the most beautiful beach I have come by in Kerala. With a cloudless sky and sea with the temperature and temperament of a warm bath, it is an idyllic spot for an afternoon of downtime before I continue my journey upward and inland.
Kochi
Kochi, ‘Queen of the Arabian Sea’, is a historic trading port of colonial India and Kerala’s biggest city today. I see Kochi’s changing faces as I walk the fort: distinct but diverse European architecture from various eras, heritage buildings housing modern art galleries and 500-year-old bamboo fishing nets, still in use today.
Past the Jewish Quarter is Mattancherry Palace, a gift from the 16th century Portuguese authorities planned to appease the King of Kochi during colonial-era struggles. Built in the traditional Nalukettu style of Kerala, the white palace sports wooden shutters and brown tile rafters, alongside large, colonial arches. Having been seized and refurbished by the Dutch in 1663, it is still commonly known as the ‘the Dutch Palace’, though later Raja renovations pay homage to the Hindu gods. Enormous murals of orange, green and gold cover the inside walls of the palace, depicting Shiva, Krishna and Vishnu, Laksmhi on a Lotus, scenes of the Ramayana; a reclaiming of space.
I continue through Mattancherry towards the Jain Temple when I hear shouting, laughter…and music. Around the corner, I come upon one of South India’s few Holi celebrations, tucked away in the North Indian part of town. Fistfuls of gulal powder explode like miniature fireworks, leaving clouds of coloured smoke lingering in the air, distinct but unified.
Munnar
I bid goodbye to Kochi aboard a rickety public bus, on route to my final stop in Kerala. After weeks of adventures by rail, scooter and various kinds of boat, I do not expect this to be one of my more exciting journeys. Following a bus change and an hours-long uphill crawl, the winding road gives way to rolling hills of tea, and the jagged ridges of the Western Ghats fill the horizon. I have arrived in Munnar – a hillstation heaven of hiking trails, waterfalls and otherworldly views.
As is the case with many highland locations across the tropics, Munnar became a holiday spot for British occupants who wanted to escape the heat of South Indian summer. It was fairly unknown outside of the region until European planters took an interest in the Kanan Devan hills and their tea farming potential in the later half of the 19th century. Many former British residences, set within the tea hills, are used as hotels or museums today; another marker of Kerala’s colonial past. Today, it is the nature in the region which puts Munnar on the map.
Disbanding the bus a few kilometres outside of town, I begin a downhill walk, following a dirt path which leads me to my hostel. It is set within a vast tea garden, overlooking a valley all shades of green. A river snakes across the valley floor and I walk down to Attukad Falls to meet it, twisting and turning through rows of tea plants. At the bottom of the vale, I sit beside the rapids and listen to the rush as white water splashes cold on my cheeks.
Munnar is best experienced both on foot and on wheels. In the days which follow, I trek through plantations and up mountains. I reach the wooden cross atop the highest rise and walk the ridges. I drive through remote villages, around tranquil Kundala Lake and up winding mountain roads, stopping at Pothamedu Viewpoint, Top Point and just every so often to enjoy a different view. In the evenings, I eat dosa, drink beer and share stories with other travellers as the cold draws close.
It is March 2020 when I leave Munnar, amidst news of covid-19 spreading rapidly across the globe. I do not know the full implications at this stage but I know what is happening is unprecedented. In the months that come after, I often think of my final days in Munnar and the freedom I felt in the elements, on the open road, and in time spent getting lost. I feel something between longing and pure gratitude.