A bike ride to the sea - a short adventure by Tim K

Monday was our final full day in the state of Kerala, a tropical paradise of coconut palms (Kera = coconut + la = land), banana trees (much smaller but sweeter than what we’re used to seeing US markets), and a broad assortment of other fruit and spice plants including pineapple, nutmeg, cashew, vanilla beans and other delectables. A rich variety of birdlife nest in the trees and fish the backwaters: the Indian cuckoo, or Kuyle, with its distinctive sweet call, Kingfisher, Kites, Cormorants, Herons, as well as the ever popular and noisy crow, and too many others to mention.

The days activities consist of a cooking class for the ladies in our group, presented by the matriarch and culinary goddess of the Philipkutty farm, featuring traditions and spices of the local region of southern India. The men, John, Gopi and myself, choose to take a bike ride through some of the local village area, lead by our guide Shagzil, and assisted by our boatman/escort. For the sake of comfort we decide to get an early start, so as to avoid thee heat and humidity of midday. Temperatures quickly reach the upper 80’s, with high humidity as a result of the vast network of backwaters.

We finish breakfast and meet Shagzil at 10:00, who has come across to our island via one of the small wooden boats. Shagzil and our boatman wheel out bicycles from a storage shed, and we make adjustments to more-or-less fit our height. The bikes are single speed but of good rugged construction to withstand the rocky terrain and typical village roads.

We cross by boat with our bikes onboard, our boatman using a sturdy bamboo pole to quietly push us across the narrow waterway, which in places have heavy overgrowth of water hyacinth – lovely but basically an invasive weed. On the other side we set off on a quiet, mostly paved road that weaves through coconut groves, and links the small farms that are worked by the village folk.

Two or three of the farms have large quantities of coconut “hair” or bark in various stages of production – from tangled masses to neat bales, that eventually result in evenly braided rope. The rope has many uses in and around the region as well as being a chief sustaining byproduct for villagers. We watch firsthand as Shagzil explains the process by which the rope is created, which includes a crude but efficient spinning wheel of sorts, consisting of a bicycle wheel driven by a small electric motor. An elderly woman feeds out the coconut straw and rope magically appears.

As we continue it soon becomes cleat that we’re getting closer to the local temple. Sung prayers and chants are broadcast over a PA system, which carry for a good distance throughout the area. Waking up to the sound of amplified prayer melodies before dawn, as experienced the last couple of mornings, can put one off at first, though some of the music can be eerily beautiful. In general, I prefer waking up at a more leisurely pace, along with the birds. As we pass the temple, the volume increases to a level on par with a cricket match. Further on we pass by a few nice homes behind gated fences, a stark contrast to the smaller simple farmhouses.

Soon we encounter higher volumes of traffic – pedestrian as well as vehicular – making it necessary to concentrate on safety more than sightseeing. Crowder buses also become a factor, forcing pedestrians and smaller vehicles to the extreme edge of the roadway. We pass the main business center of the village, with its vendors engaged in selling of fruits, vegetables and the usual assortment of staples. Beyond this commerce center is a bridge that connects the village to a larger hub, and eventually to the capitol city of Cochin.

We ascend the bridge, keeping as far to the left edge as possible. I’m acutely aware that we’re sharing the road with buses, cars, trucks, scooters and other assorted vehicles, and it’s hard to tell if the honking that occurs with frequency behind us is to tell us we’re in someone’s way, or a means to announce and warn of an approaching vehicle. Given that commercial vehicles routinely post “Please Honk” on the rear panel, it seems more likely that the honking is a courtesy rather than a reprimand.

Near the top of our ascent we pause to view the ship locks, an apparatus that regulates shipping traffic into and out of the lake. Our guide provides commentary, though hearing everything proves to be a challenge due to the traffic. We cross the bridge and take in the view of the water and land on either side.

The bridge descends to a landmass in the middle of the lake and eventually continues on to a second bridge similar to the first. We pause to catch our breath and discuss procedure. Shagzil explains that we can continue across the bridge, on the course we’re following, or begin a return route to our original base, which becomes the general consensus. Having discovered one of the few physical activities that I can tolerate and actually enjoy, I decide to continue, with our guide’s blessing. Feeling some responsibility for our safety, Shagzil offers suggestions on where to ride, and gets my assurance that I have phone numbers in case I get lost or need roadside assistance. I set off on my own with a slightly guilty sense of freedom. Going solo for a couple of hours seemed OK though.

I reach the far side of the lake in a few minutes and work my way through moderately heavy traffic as the road converges with other routes on the west side of the lake. I pedal for several minutes more and arrive at a juncture with a conventional traffic circle. The main arteries run to the left (south), and straight ahead (west). Shagzil suggested I take the southbound route for a pleasant ride. I decide to go straight.

Soon I hear the sound of drums and see a group of young men a short distance down the road, marching in procession surrounding an elephant. The elephant is adorned in simple red and white banners, and carries a rider under a colored canopy. There’s no other traffic as I pass the procession on the far right and ride ahead a few hundred feet so as to dismount and take my camera out of the backpack. Just before the group reaches me they turn off the road and enter a courtyard area, which I assume is part of some temple grounds. One of the marchers noticed me and motioned me to follow. I wave, hesitate for a moment and watch the parade disappear.

The road continues past coconut and banana trees, and a mixture of small buildings – corrugated metal shacks, more impressive tiled roof houses and small unassuming businesses.

I continue in a general westward direction, which seems like the right way to go. I haven’t fully admitted it to myself but I have a vague idea in the back of my head that I could ride west and, if I went far enough, I’d eventually reach land’s end and the Arabian Sea. I’d looked at maps the day before, when our group spent the day on a houseboat on the lake I’d crossed earlier. From memory it appeared that the distance to the ocean was no more than several miles. As long as the roads held up I’d have a good chance of getting there and back before too long I figure.

Many of the small roadside businesses are places of congregation, where young and old stand around in discussion. People routinely say “hello” and “hi, how are you?” on seeing this outsider riding through. Boys and girls in buses and walking along the road to or from school smile and wave enthusiastically.

Road construction signs appear and it looks like a detour is coming up. A sign reading “Use Diversion” with an arrow blocks the road. Behind the sign, the road is torn up, with big mounds of dirt where the roadway was. A flag-waving worker directs cars to the direction of the detour. Motorcycles and scooters appear to be going through. The man sees me and indicates with his flag that I can take the torn up route. I ride a short distance until I’m forced off the bike by the large mounds of dirt and sand.

Beyond the detour, the road soon becomes more congested with cars, and the buildings on either side of the road are now larger commercial buildings, more tightly spaced, some 2 or 3 floors. I concentrate on avoiding the numerous motorbikes and pedestrians that I have to weave in and out of. Immediately I reach the center of the small town, which is the usual beehive-like hub of activity and shops selling colorful merchandise. Just as quickly, the commerce dies down as I get past the center of town.

The road soon gets quieter again; with the occasional merchandise seller who waves and says “hello” I wonder if the Indian “namasté” greeting is less common in this part of the country. I try both to see if I could judge the response.

On several occasions a small group of 3 or 4 boys ride up alongside me and practice their English with a serious of questions “What is your name?” “Where are you from?” Where are you going?” “What is your wife’s name?” I’d interject some questions of my own to test their compression, which was always surprisingly good among the school aged youths. We ride for a while, the boys weaving around either side of me, and making conversation that results in a lot of laughter. I can’t help wondering what it was they find so amusing.

One boy is more vocal and does most of the talking for the group. I ask him how far it is to the water. The question was not clearly understood so I decided to rephrase it. “How far to the ocean – the sea?” Still not clear. Perhaps “sea” is ambiguous (“see”, “C”). I used my hand to indicate motion of the water. “The Arabian Sea?” Now it makes sense. “Oh yes, the Arabian Sea.” The boy thinks for a moment and replies, “4 – 5 kilometers?” This is encouraging enough – I try to assign mileage to the numbers and figure around 3 miles is a good guess. This is easily reachable in 30-40 minutes at a leisurely pace, even with bad roads. After a few more minutes they turn off of the main road. We say goodbye and I thank them for talking with me.

I ride for some 15-20 minutes, the heat now coming on strong with the sun near its highest point. The road curves one way and the next and I check my direction regularly by noting the shadows. I figure that as long as my shadow is to the right I’m heading west. I stop to drink from one of the three half-liter bottles of water I brought. I’ve just about drained the first.

Soon I stop at a small roadside market and say hello to the clerk behind a counter with the usual assortment of fruits and packaged chips and candy. I go through the same questions and get a blank stare. I try the hand gesture for moving water, which is more effective. “Oh, about 4 kilometers” he replies. I figure that I’d made better progress than this, but realistically, the boy earlier probably just made an educated guess. “Do I continue on this road?” I asked. “Yes, but turn right after 2 roads” he adds. I want to be sure I understand him correctly. “Not the next road, but the one after?” I ask. “Yes, down where you see that car there” the man replies.

Another man is standing nearby and overhears our conversation. “Here, let me show you” he says. Before I can tell him it isn’t necessary, he starts off and signals for me to follow. Several times before I’d find myself instinctively riding on the right-hand side of the road. My new escort waves me to fall in line behind him on the left, which I do. At the second road on the left he waves me off and I thank him for his help.

This road continues like the others, winding one way and the next, mostly through palms and other large shade trees. I’m grateful for shade as the sun is beating down mercilessly and my clothes are becoming drenched. After what seems like another 20 minutes I stop and asked a roadside vendor who tells me it’s about 2-1/2 kilometers. Either my understanding of a kilometer is off, or people are underestimating the distance. Later I consider that maybe I was going in a circuitous route that was indirect. I make several more turns and begin to become a little concerned that I might not be able to retrace my route back. I’d have to cross that bridge when I got to it.

More boys on bikes who, once again, aren’t sure where I’m going at first. I ask about the distance to the sea, which was a difficult concept. “1 or 2 kilometers?” I ask. Yes, they agree that it was surely 1 to 2 kilometers.This exchange continues for some time, and I started wondering if I’m ever going to reach the coast. Another three boys on bikes and the usual questions. 1/2 kilometer one says. They’re very pleased to have a visitor in their village and lead the way, pointing out highlights of the area. They leave the road at a small dirt drive that leads to a large church or temple. “Come see – very famous temple – very famous. I feel that I should at least give it a look so I walked around the exterior and make a mental note that I should spend a little more time looking at the inside on my way back – if it was allowed to outsiders. At the front of the church is a display of about 100 colorful umbrellas stuck in the sand, which is quite beautiful – a striking sight that I hadn’t seen before and I wanted to learn more, but I’m on a singular mission at this point. Regrettably I didn’t get back around to the temple. These areas of sand I take as a good sign that I’m was close to a beach. The .5 kilometers that I was told several times as the distance to the beach I eventually cover at least 4 more times.

Besides wondering if I’ll ever see that water, or just have to finally give up and turn around, I start wondering what sort of beach it actually might be. I hadn’t done any research on the coastline in this region, and realize that it might not be a nice sandy beach at all. It could just as easily be a beach of all rock, or a rocky cliff and steep drop-off unsuitable for a bike. It might be compromised of mangroves, swampy conditions, trash piles and toxic pollution flowing from nearby villages. Hopefully I’ll at least get a chance to find out.Soon the road comes to a complete dead-end, connecting to a road that runs perpendicular, or north-south generally. I could see down this road for quite a distance in both directions and didn’t see a clear reason to go one way or the other. This is probably the most perplexing decision of the ride – left, right or back the way I came. I’m also becoming acutely aware of the time and that soon the others will be wondering where I am.

I then notice two boys, probably in their early teens, waiting by the side of the road in a small bus shelter. “Hello guys” I say. “Do you know how I can get to the sea?” Without hesitation one of the boys gestures to a small path across the street, just yards from where I’m standing, that continues in the same direction I’m going. The path is hardly noticeable – just a dirt passageway between the palms.

I wonder if I might be crossing private land by taking the path, but the boy gives me an assuring nod. The path is flat, mostly sand mixed with dirt and passes behind or beside a couple of simple houses or farm structures. About 100 yards further I notice a low rock wall ahead and see that the palms appear to end abruptly all along the wall. I hear the unmistakable sound of surf and know that my quest will soon be over. Someone had propped a sturdy board from the ground to the top of the low wall, which I realize will be useful if I decided to take the bike to the other side. Halfway up the ramp it all comes into view: Clear blue sky and bright sunlight, illuminating an infinite sea of blue-green. The 3 or 4-foot high rock wall drops down to a pristine sandy beach. I’m in awe. The flood of emotion might have carried me out to sea.

I could have fallen to my knees and kissed the sand but it seemed too peaceful a setting for such melodramatics. Water gently swells and breaks on the sand – not the pounding surf of larger ocean beaches. I look around and see only a few people working around the area I had passed through. Up and down the beach there are a few distant boats but otherwise it appears quite deserted. I decide to quickly change into my bathing suit before I attract any more attention. There’s no time to waste. I don’t have a towel but it hardly matters since the air is so warm and the sun shines brightly. I stuff my shoes and shorts in the backpack and roll the bike up and over the wall where I can keep an eye on it. “Hello, where are you going?” says a voice. I turn to see four young boys looking up at me with great interest. “Hi. How are you?” I ask. “Fine” they reply. “What is your name?” “Where are you from?” “Where are you going?” they ask. I don’t want to seem rude and brush them off but I’m not interested in conversation at the moment so I change the topic. “Do you like to swim?” “Can you swim in the ocean – the sea?” They look puzzled, speak among themselves and laugh. “I’m going to go for a swim in the water, OK?”

I walk across the warm sand, the boys trailing after me. The water is almost like a tepid bath – no cold stinging shock – the perfect temperature. The sand is soft – no rocks or seashells along the shallow sea bottom. It’s exquisitely relaxing and peaceful, given especially that I’ve worked up quite a sweat to get here. I hear the boys yelling from the shore as I bob lazily in the water, letting the swells carry me in and out gently, waves cresting overhead. I keep an eye on my gear, though I can’t imagine any of these friendly youngsters getting mischievous and make off with my pack or bike. I decide to grab my camera and snap a few pictures. My new friends naturally get in on the act.I still can’t determine if swimming in the ocean is something they enjoy. “Do you like to go fishing in a boat?” That doesn’t go anywhere either. I get the impression that they regard the ocean as just something that’s there – no particular reason to swim around in it. I tell them that I’m going to swim a little more, before leaving soon. “Are you going to walk out to the middle of the sea?” a young boy asks. “Just a little ways.” I say. I splash around a bit, feeling a little uncomfortable about being watched. I splash some water back to the boys. They all laugh.

I could spend hours on the beach but I realize I need to be practical about getting back at a decent hour. An older boy comes up to me – I’d guess around a 12th grade student. His manner is extremely polite and curious. He asks a few questions and seems greatly interested in knowing about where I’m from and what America is like. “Do you have an ocean where you live?” “What is it like?” “How does it look?” “What do you do there?” “Where is your wife?” We talk for a short while. He wants to know everything. I tell him how much I like the area where he lives – beach and all – and how much I enjoyed talking to him. He wishes me well and I sling my pack over my shoulder and start to leave.

I carry the bike over some stones and roll it down the ramp. Some older family members of one of the farms have gathered at the wall to see what’s going on. An elderly man is saying something to me but I can’t make it out. He appears perplexed, as if he’s never seen a strange Anglo-American emerge from the sea before. I smile and say goodbye and namesté. A couple of other goodbyes and I’m heading back, with a little regret.

I ride for a while and see some boys that I might have met before. They ride with me for a while but we don’t say much. I’m trying to estimate how long it will take to get back, if I should try to call for a ride, or if I could somehow get a taxi or auto-rickshaw to give me a lift. The boy riding next to me is singing a Christmas song in English, which seems funny to me. I join him and we sing a couple of verses of Jingle Bells. As before, the boys pull off the road eventually, and yell goodbye and good luck.

It’s really hot now and I decide that I don’t want to ride all the way back. Besides not having any sunscreen to apply after my swim, I considered heat stroke a real possibility. Surely there will soon be an auto-rickshaw that I can hire. Some men are gathered around a truck with a fishing haul, including a couple of taxis. I tell the driver of one of the taxis that I’m looking for a ride. No response. The others are interested in showing me their catch, which appear to be tiny shrimp. After getting nowhere I say goodbye and head on.

A few taxis pass me and I realize that I might have a tough time getting a bicycle onboard one of the tiny vehicles. Several of the taxis pass by with passengers. Soon I see a couple of the 3-wheelers parked along the side of the road. I pull over and explain that I need a taxi for the bike and myself. This was met with some suspicion. I realize that I don’t know exactly where I’m going. “I need to get across the lake” This is met with a puzzled look. “Lake?” the man squints his trying to understand what I’m trying to tell him. We both wait a few seconds for some clarity that never comes. Once again there might be a language barrier. I recall from our guide that the Hindi work “lakh”, a large monetary sum, is pronounced “lake”. I try pantomiming a bridge going over a lake. This gets no more than a slight nod, as if to say “OK, my friend. Whatever you say.” I look to the man’s colleague who gives me a raised eyebrow. I’m sure he’s convinced I don’t have all of my faculties. I look around hoping to see a young student that might be able to help bridge our language barrier. I decide to continue further along and see if I have better luck closer to town.

I soon pass a row of small businesses and decide to see if I can get some information. A shopkeeper is reading a newspaper behind a small counter. I greet the man and realize his business is a small pharmacy. Surely he’ll be able to help me. I need to find out the name of the village where we started. If I can glance at a map I’ll see the village and be able to convey to a taxi driver where I need to go. “Namesté. Sir, I wonder if you might have a map of the area I could look at for a second.” Thankfully he understands me, and starts going through some drawers in search of a map. After several drawers and piles of papers I try to tell him that it’s OK if he doesn’t have a map, I was just wondering… “Please wait here,” says the man, who goes into a back room. After a minute he returns with another, younger man. I tell this man that it’s no problem if he has no map. The younger man replies, “Please wait, sir.” The two men go through a couple more boxes of papers and eventually I convince them to not pursue the matter any further. “Thank you so much” I say and carry on. I’ll ask a couple of taxi drivers about a map. Surely they carry road maps I figure.

Soon I’m back near the last center of commerce and a fair amount of traffic. I spot a small cluster of taxis in a dirt lot and decide to see who volunteers to transport me to the other side of “the lake”. I explain my predicament to one of the drivers and get the same look of bewilderment. Surely they’ve been to the lake and across the bridge just a few miles from here. I repeat “lake” and “bridge”, and search for some other clue as to where I’m trying to go. At this point I realize how ill prepared I really am, then remember the large church in the village. “St. Mary’s church?” I ask with hope. No clue. This is starting to feel like an episode of The Twilight Zone. At this point a group of 6 to 8 men have clustered around, either hoping to help solve the mystery, or just curious. I pick up a stick and draw a crude map with a kidney-shaped lake and a line crossing over. The men wait for more to the picture. I remember that the island, constructed many years ago, is entirely man-made and is thus an unnatural shape. I draw a trapezoid in the lake, resembling as closely as I can recall, the shape of the island that the farm we’re staying at is on. Still no sign of recognition. I’m becoming exasperated. I don’t what more I can say. I almost expect to be afforded the gracious “This is no problem sir” service and attitude that I’ve been spoiled with during our entire trip, but in this situation, it seems as though there is a problem.

Finally, I ask one of the drivers straight-on if he’ll transport me and the bike and I’ll tell him where to go. Surprisingly, this requires no further debate and the man presents his vehicle and an open palm, inviting me onboard. As expected, the bike doesn’t quite fit inside the tiny taxi, and my squeezing in behind the bike is something I wish I’d gotten a photo of. Immediately the cart is rolling down the road as I instruct the driver which directions to take. After a few minutes I get the feeling that he knows where we’re going, since we discussed the lake and bridge. We arrive at the detour and he exchanges words with the flagman. The detour he’s forced to take is brutal. The cart bounces along a dirt road with deep rivets and potholes. The bouncing slams me into the bike and against the steel frame of the vehicle. Several times I hit my head on the roof, fully expecting a minor contusion as a result. The detour somehow channels us into the middle of the roadwork, forcing the driver to turn back and retrace much of the route, in order to proceed further and bypass the road under construction. I’m amazed at how long the ride is, and wonder how bad it would be to be riding on the bike, considering the extreme discomfort of the auto-rickshaw ride.

I see familiar intersections and buildings and my spirits are comforted that I’m heading in the right direction at a good pace. Soon we approach the bridge and the driver turns to give me a chuckle as he points forward across the bridge. I’m amazed that he knows exactly where to go with little input from me. On the other side of the bridge I signal where he needs to turn but it seems unnecessary. St. Mary’s church appears after several turns and he slows the vehicle and pulls off in the church courtyard. I start telling him to keep going, as St. Mary’s was a point of reference, but I decide he’s taken me far enough and I can ride the remaining ¼ mile or so. I’m relieved to have the roller coaster ride at an end so I clamber out and carefully remove the bike, not wanting any additional scrapes to the interior of his vehicle. The driver looks at me with satisfaction, having delivered his fare exactly where I wanted to go, in spite of impossible communication obstacles. I mean to tell the man what a fine job he’s done getting me here.

I’m hoping I have enough rupees to pay him as he makes calculations on a small notepad. He jots down the total fair, which he underlines with his pen: 180 rupees (less than $4US). I’m in such disbelief and relief that I give him 3 100-rupee notes. I later wished that I’d added another 100 in consideration of the bike. I thank him a couple of times and head off for the short ride to the dock – total fare with tip about $6. I arrive at the dock and wait for the boatman to notice me, which he does after a few minutes. I return to our lodging at 4:00, 6 hrs. from the time we left this morning and take a much needed few minutes to relax, before our next adventure…