Munnar, Kerala

skin hooks
Originally uploaded by helen beeson

Six hours from the coast into the Western Ghats (mtns) we hopped off the bus into a parade and discovered what serious religious devotion can look like here. Two men were swinging through the air about ten feet up, their bodies suspended in the air with lines attached to metal hooks stuck through the skin on their backs and legs and attached at the other end to a giant pulley five feet above them, the whole contraption pulled by a small decorated tractor and surrounded by people yelling and chanting along with the swinging man. Following them up were women with hooks attached to lines in their backs, dancing wildly as if puppeted by the man holding the ends of the lines. A group of men drummed, costumed children danced, women carried decorated umbrellas, a few women danced with six foot long metal poles stuck through their cheeks, and long rows of women in beautiful sarees struggled to pull huge wooden floats by giant ropes.

The next day was normal - as if all the days before it forever had passed uneventful, like nobody had been out of their mind on faith the day before. We rented a moto and followed fancy Bombayite couples and their drivers to the sites, snaking higher up the mountain through lush tea estates that cover all but the very vertical of land, a stark contrast to the otherwise dry hills. In town we fell in love with an assortment of charming mini-dhoti-sporting older men over ginger chai, soda water, one hand sewn sack (the standard box for mailing), and peas masala. We threw around our few words in Malayalam as much as possible, exclaiming "beautiful!" or "beautiful place!" as often as possible and savouring the smiles it received.

village party #3

Trichur, Kerala

We came here because the lonely planet calls this city "the cultural cherry on the festival cake" and an Australian woman we liked said she saw elephants out the train window here. We had lost the ability to cast good interviews or care after a day of moving cities and our inquisition of the late-night chai man had gone nowhere - "which country? why do you come?" "we heard there was a party! where's the party at tomorrow?" we get nothing but a bewildered look. In the morning we head to the tourist office (which are surprisingly helpful here, mostly for translating the local newspaper). They give us our VIP pass for the night - a slip of paper with a village name written in malayalam on it (where there is a festival, of course). That evening we show it to various bus officials to get on the right bus and then a few women on the bus. They designate one of them for us to follow, so when she gets off we get off. We find a street vendor and resort to our newfound way of getting what we want in this sort of dining establishment: poking around in all their covered pots and pans and pointing at what we want. Delicious peas masala omelette. Even the cheapest food here is filled with fresh herbs and whole spices.

The temple the party is held at is decked out like what I imagine one of those pink floyd light shows would be like, with flashing constantly changing bright red and green patterns covering its roof. It turns out it's the first day of a 7-day festival, but tonight is just the religious part. We are again amazingly treated as the guests of honor. An older man welcomes us and says he speaks for many others who, he says, are embarassed they can't speak english to welcome us themselves (no, no, we say, our fault). We are befriended by adorable misbehaving boys who tell us their names are frog, chimpanzee and "godfather". We teach them to say cool and they teach us about Ayappa, the son of Brahma, to whom their temple is dedicated. The leader of the puja ceremony comes out and gives us sandalwood paste to smear on our foreheads and delicious banana rice served on a banana leaf, amazingly kind despite us crashing his elaborate ceremony. We think about leaving but the boys say we have to stay for the fireworks. They sound like bombs, with no sparkly lights, but everybody stares at the sky in wonder while Lauren and I cower against the cement wall in surprise and fear. Very strange. We miss the last bus back to Trichur, but we didn't care enough before to find out when it was, figuring it would work itself out. The few rickshaw drivers there are don't seem interested at all and mumble something about a bus a little ways away. So it's coming? We sit down and watch a group of 15-16 year old boys clustered around a motorcycle and decide there's no harm in asking. You take us to Trichur? We smile big smiles. Peer pressure works in our favor and soon we scoot away, leaving the boy's astonished friends in our wake. The moon hangs half-full and heavy through the jungle canopy and the air is delightfully warm as the three of us swerve slowly towards the bus stop a few km away (aha!). The boy is nervously silent and won't take any money for gas, adding to our list of things gifted to us that day (including having lauren's pants taken in - the tailor refused any payment, saying it was nothing, just zip zip!). This is an amazing country and we are lucky lucky girls.