Where the Rain is Born: Writings about Kerela

by Nair, Anita

  Nowhere in official literature do you read of Babu Verghese’s crucial role in the revival of the kettuvallom, the rice boat converted into a backwater cruise ship. These woven barges with stitched planks and bamboo canopy had almost gone out of business, thanks to faster transport options. The craftsmen who built and gave them an annual overhaul were pessimistic about the success of any conversion attempt and Babu Verghese’s first job was to overcome their negativity. The barges had to be redesigned and this task Babu undertook personally, at his own expense, by trial and error, each model being an improvement on the last. As with India’s fleet of steam locomotives which were saved from indiscriminate scrapping by the intervention of one man (Mike Satow), the kettuvallom (down to 200 survivors by the 1980s) was saved by Babu Verghese. He launched his first modified boat in 1991 which was powered veils remisque, but the traditional sails and oars were soon replaced by a Yamaha outboard engine that purrs along without too much of a wash. Run on kerosene, it is not as polluting as diesel-powered boats.

  Very much alive to the sustainability of Kerala’s eco-tourist appeal, Babu moved from the backwaters to apply his hands-on tourist doctrine to the threatened forests of the Sahyadri. Our Saraswati symphony starts here, especially south of the Palghat gap where the stepped rise of land from the ocean, combined with the warmer latitude, results in a riotous arboreal cover as well as spices and timber. With the steep fall of rivers slicing the Malabar coast, the Malayali has been forced to turn his attentions seawards. For millennia black pepper has been traded and this creeper of the middle hills can even claim to have been responsible for the accidental discovery of America by Europeans fed up of a starchy, salty diet.

  The best place, I discovered, to understand the western-facing sea-stance of the Malayali over the centuries, is Top Station on the crest of the Sahyadri. Westwards, lush cash crops of tea, coffee, cardamom and a dozen other exotic plants descend gently with the altitude and the fall of the ghats. Steeply dropping eastwards from a formidable precipice, the South-West Ghats yield suddenly to the barren red plains of Tamilnadu.

  Technically, Top Station is inside Tamilnadu and to prove the point, I bought a nip of brandy from the local thekka. Kerala at this time was convulsed with a change in liquor policy which meant that even if the tourist did manage to find an outlet he would be charged a fancy rate for his trouble.

  In no other area is official thinking so disastrous for tourism as in the reluctance to sell liquor. Common sense dictates an application of first principles which would point out that Kerala is a hot country whose drinking water is not uniformly reliable and hence beer is a profitable alternative for both state revenue and tourist thirst. But what you get (at the government bungalow in Munnar) is a notice put up on the bar door, to greet a party of Americans returning from a trek—‘Dry Day’. Amidst the expletives of these young tourists (who help create a market back home with their word-of-mouth recommendation) was the vow next time to visit China where pragmatism governs policy. At least in the privately run ‘Coconut Lagoon’, the management had the good sense to advertise the dry day well in advance and the rueful sympathy to add ‘Please bear with us’. For my nip I had to pay three rupees extra and when I queried this random surcharge, the shop owner pointed down the precipice where a goat track could be discerned. Then he wiped his brow to indicate the sweat involved in importing my grog. I accepted his reasoning and stored the nip away against the next dry day sprung upon unsuspecting tourists.

  This brings us to the central doctrine of Babu Verghese’s tourist philosophy, totally at odds with official ‘couldn’t care less’ attitudes that have resulted in India’s poor image abroad. In his company brochure he writes, ‘We in Tourindia always give top priority to the demands of visitors and believe in the idea of welcoming a visitor and sending back a friend.’

  What differentiates the south from other parts of India is the level of intelligence which, in Kerala, is tied to the impressive literacy rate, the highest in the country. This results in greater civic awareness and the very agreeable situation where things of better quality invariably come at a cheaper price. Added to the value-for-money scenario is the general air of self-respect the visitor finds. Even the poorly dressed are cleanly turned out. The only scruffiness I have found is in the plying of government buses where a free for all ensues amongst passengers, confirming Darwin’s theory of the survival of the fittest. However, it is the sum of little excellences that flavours the memory of one’s trips through Kerala. Good quality wood is not only tastefully carved but elegantly polished. Simple traditional fittings like sliding battens to close doors cannot be bettered for their functional beauty. Or, for that matter, the umbrella made in Alappuzha that I bought in the smartest showroom I have seen in India. Another elegant souvenir I acquired was a kindi, a water pot fashioned from sweet ringing bell-metal and distinguished by its superb design and graceful spout.

  After Kuttanad I headed inland. The game sanctuary at Periyar was said to be noisy, with diesel boats shattering the sylvan quietude, but thanks to my privileged status as a government guest, I had the splendidly isolated Lake Palace bungalow all to myself. In the morning, looking across the lake, I could see the fawns splashing around in the water as the adults grazed. It was a scene from the first days of Creation, the calm expanse of water reflecting both the joy and wonder of Nature’s pristine ordering.

  The saddest thing I saw during my trip was the elephants at Guruvayur, two dozen temple beasts chafing at their chains and confined to the proximity of their steaming ordure. The most disturbing was to note the absence of birds on the backwaters. In 1986, when I made the ferry trip from Quilon to Alleppey (as they were know then), black shags dive-bombing to spear fish were a constant accompaniment to this most vivacious of voyages. But the toll of diesel outboard engines and the fallout of pesticide for increased rice yield have killed all the fish and in turn decimated the bird population. For all its acclaim as one of National Geographic’s ‘must see before you die’ destinations, Kerala’s paradisiacal appearance is fragile and worms are visible at the core of Eden’s apple.

  ‘Coconut Lagoon’, the sumptuous private resort done with superb concern for Kerala’s architectural heritage sits on the bank of Vembanad, the shrinking lake alongside the Kumarakom resort recently visited by Prime Minister Vajpayee. Both resorts are shown in the advertisements as set amidst exotic, aquamarine, tropical beauty, but land there and you find the water soupy and the connecting canals choked by a deadly carpet of water hyacinth. Kerala’s unique waterways are being reduced at an alarming rate and the government is in a dilemma whether to let in fresh water to clear them—and upset the farming lobby—or keep the level down and allow the state’s most profitable tourist asset to die from the spread of weeds.

  The horn of the dilemma can be witnessed at Eravikulam National Park where Tata Tea for years has provided a salt lick for the elusive Nilgiri tahr, native to the precipitous terrain around Anai Mudi. Sadly, I found these shy mountain goats begging outside parked tourist cars, the chief feature of this reclusive species having been lost in the successful bid to preserve them. They now behave just like the family billy-goat.

  In Munnar’s main street I dropped in on another of the characters who helped put the area on the map of foreign visitors. Joseph Iype is an unpretentious tour operator who stands in a nondescript office because there is hardly room to sit. Visitors from all over the world converge to meet him and pay fifty rupees for the privilege, which is extraordinary when you consider he only gives information similar to what the district tourist office provides free next door. The difference is that Iype is an enthusiast who is automatically interested in anything his client brings to his notice. Ask at the district office about vintage trains (for example), and the receptionist will look blank and press (figuratively) one of two buttons all government outlets are provided with—‘I don’t know’ or ‘Sorry, out of stock’. Iype, having pocketed your money, invites you to sit down (metaphorically) an
d share a cup of tea. He will tell you how to get to Ooty and on the way experience other fascinating railway lines. From Top Station you can hike down a precipice to Bodinayakkanur and take a branch line to Madurai, or go by a little used road through fine Ghat scenery to Pollachi on the line to Ooty. He will also provide a dozen other options that lie along the way because he likes his job and can earn a commission from his recommendations.

  Throughout India, government tourist offices come in for scathing comment from most foreign guide books for their uselessness. Iype has been criticized for demanding a fee for providing information, but it is his commercial motivation that makes him popular with even budget travellers. People are ready to pay if they can get what they want. By adopting a more intelligent attitude to visitors, individuals like Babu Verghese and Joseph Iype have contributed to Kerala’s appeal.

  True to his innovative creed, Babu Verghese has sought to tackle the problem of eco-degradation by going to the root of the problem. In Periyar, he side-stepped the loud picnicking atmosphere and the clatter of diesel launches that disrupt the serene expanses of wood and water, by introducing wildlife walks led by a tribal who follows the spoor of animals for a silent and sometimes dangerous encounter. The aim here is to capitalize on the talents of the local villagers and give them employment that will blunt the urge to poach. Throughout India, wildlife parks tend to follow the colonial assumption that villagers are the problem, not the solution, to the conservation of wildlife.

  Similar talents are harnessed in the mountains of Wayanad, where Babu has created the ‘Green Magic Nature Resort’. Tribals have constructed tree houses in the canopy of the Sahyadri forest and Babu’s engineering genius has worked out ways to reach them other than by a Tarzan of the Apes approach. Nowhere in India, nor probably in the world, will you find as glowing, almost mystical entries in the visitors’ book. My houseboat kept two which were of high artistic and literary content, inspired by this lone ranger’s skill in teasing out the poetry of Kerala’s varied natural bounty.

  Thanks to a handful of gifted and energetic individuals, tourism in India has flourished in spite of the government’s unimaginative hand at the helm. Before Babu Verghese in Kerala, there was Mishra in Haryana, a bureaucrat who performed the miracle of putting this tiny adjunct to Delhi on the international map by the introduction of quality motels along Haryana’s corridors to the capital. Thirty years later, few traces of Mishra’s insistence on excellence remain, but his memory outlives that of the politicians. Another name to enter tourist folklore is that of the Poddar family in Khajuraho, who by the stubbornness of their belief in the sensational beauty of the temples, managed over the decades to convert this forgotten backwater into one of the world’s most ravishing heritage sites.

  Babu Verghese’s role in Kerala has been to sow ideas and give traditional virtues modern expression. Perhaps his greatest (and unintended) achievement is to spur the Kerala government into taking tourism seriously as an industry. Investment in advertising has paid off, and today international guide book publishers issue a separate guide for the state.

  Babu’s pioneering instincts (now that some 200 kettuvallom ply the waterways) remain at the forefront of development. Now he has joined the struggle to contain the degradation of the Western Ghats whose biodiversity had till recently been one of Kerala’s chief glories. I was unaware of this project when I was booked into a jungle resort at Vythiri in Wayanad, and set off with my magnificent Alappuzha umbrella in the pouring rain to explore the surrounding countryside. To my surprise, as I entered the really thick jungle I found a narrow but excellently surfaced tarmac road capable—but only just—of carrying a jeep. Having lived for the past forty years in the Himalaya and shouted myself hoarse over the wastefulness of building wide roads that see but one vehicle a day, I was astonished to find this intelligent solution in the jungles of Kerala. I walked for miles, blessing the road builder since it meant the single greatest curse of the Sahyadri in the rains—millions of tiny bloodsucking leeches—were kept at bay by the tarmac.

  After three miles of a pleasantly undulating climb through the most sensational greenery, alive with bird song, the road ended and I turned back, puzzled at its sudden termination. When I reached my resort I asked who had built the road and why it stopped so abruptly. I should have guessed: ‘Babu Verghese’ was the reply. Apparently his ‘Green Magic’ tree houses lay just beyond the end of the tarmac. To preserve the integrity of the experience, visitors have to walk the last bit which puts them in the mood for the unnerving ascent to their lofty quarters. Strict control is exercised over the entry of non-biodegradable substances, which means humans are allowed in but without their television sets! Comforts, however, are in place once you get to your eyrie. Double beds with attached bathroom, flush toilet and shower are provided, albeit without windows or indeed walls, but at a height of a hundred feet the only voyeurs are birds, monkeys and flying squirrels. A phone, library and carpeted veranda testify to Babu’s concern to get every detail right, but the first detail is how to get up that enormous fig tree on which the tribals have crafted the eco-friendly hut.

  There are two models of ascent: ‘Mark I’ is the highly original and decidedly adventurous ascent by a bamboo chair that rises according to the amount of water poured into a canvas bag acting as a counterweight to the rising body. (Fat people obviously take longer to arrive than thin ones!) One can have the extraordinary experience of being winched through different layers of jungle for fifteen minutes before reaching the platform. Meals are likewise winched up and must taste marvellous, especially to anyone suffering from a siege mentality.

  ‘Mark II’ is more conventional, but just as exciting. This involves approach by a swaying plank bridge, which means the visitor first climbs a hillside till level with the treetop, then commits himself to a rickety, sagging drawbridge, before it connects to the canopy residence.

  Uncannily, as I was being briefed on these cunning devices, all derived from the mind and capable hands of Babu Verghese, a jeep emerged from the jungle to invite me to sample for myself his ‘Green Magic’. Apparently I had been spotted from one of the tree huts during my walk.

  The following day I went back in the jeep, but only after witnessing the shortcomings of official tourism. I was taken to the Edakkal caves, a fabulously numinous encounter with prehistoric petroglyphics, the like of which you can find nowhere else. However, the local authorities forbade me to take my camera in but allowed the local sons of the soil to use theirs—which they did by posing with their girlfriends to obscure the artwork! At a neighbouring museum of considerable charm, all visitors are required to doff their footwear which, while culturally ideal for purists, means that most parties of well-heeled visitors will simply give it a miss. (Narcissism is a wonderful feeling if you can afford it.)

  In the evening, I repaired to Babu’s den in the woods and found his ‘Mark I’ hydraulic chair (to my relief) under renovation. (The barefoot engineer was perhaps working on a faster model, with inputs from Otis?) So I was taken to the ‘Mark II’ swaying drawbridge. During my walk the previous day I had passed under, around and above this tree hut, but had been oblivious of its existence. I was not aware either that when we arrived unannounced, the person who opened the ‘door’ was any other than the chowkidar. In fact, he turned out to be a Bangalore infotec millionaire who, along with his wife and young daughters, was spending the weekend aloft in the Ghats. As it happened, they were glad to see us because they required extra blankets. Nesting with the birds means a severe drop in temperature.

  All around was the living magic of a flying carpet of greens. The effect of being one with the foliage was hugely satisfying. If the Edakkal caves had failed to bring alive the hoary beginnings of human striving, Babu Verghese saw to it that his guests were reminded of the 130 million years invested by the life force to create the setting for his primeval treetop platform.

  Alive to the polluting fallout of conventional tourist development, no generators were i
nstalled. Energy from the sun was tapped by solar panels and gobar gas, though in the monsoon this means an interrupted supply. The menu explores Malabar cuisine with acknowledgement to the Arabian inputs that came with the sea lanes. Vegetables and fruit are grown organically on site and Babu reminds visitors that the aroma of spices from the kitchen stimulate the intestines to secrete the right gastric juices.

  Kerala’s chief virtue lies in the awareness of nature’s wizardry. The success of the state’s tourism department has been the marketing of this virtue and straying from official policy which talks down to the tourist and tells us what we ought to like. To the rave reviews given by foreign and Indian visitors to the treetop residences, I add my own. I suggest that having single-handedly produced Kerala’s best-selling tourist ideas, Babu Verghese should be consulted by the policy makers in New Delhi on how to turn around the embarrassing statistic that more tourists visit Madame Tussauds’ waxworks in London than come to India. The problem is that the mandarins marketing the world’s richest array of tourist destinations that India has to offer prefer preachiness to professionalism. But things are at last moving. Some years ago when the government’s flagship hotel in the capital sought advice on how to shore up its sagging image, local professionals said, ‘Sell it’. Instead, the tourism ministry paid a fancy fee to an American consultancy firm who recommended they paint it white! Now back in its post-socialist pink, the hotel is up for sale. As the Babu Verghese story shows, it only needs one man (or woman) of ideas to make a success of such things.

  God’s Own Country