To the Ashram for a hug from Amma

I set off with the French girls on a local ferry that we thought would take us to Kollam further south down the coast.

Only stopping for a traditional Keralan lunch in a remote village, it was another relaxed backwaters experience and I sat on the edge of the boat and absorbed the breeze and beautiful sights.

We chatted to a French guy, Paul, who offered us sweet fresh pomegranate - a great way to make friends! He had been travelling for years and years it seemed, and he had that slightly weathered look of someone who had embraced the world and all its extreme climates.

Paul was getting off at the next stop: the Ashram. In my ignorance, I didn't really understand what an Ashram was, apart from it housed a Hindu temple. After a long discussion in French with Paul and the girls, of which my understanding came and went, and then a brief chat in English for my benefit, we decided that we too would stay at the Ashram for the night and not go to Kollam after all.

As we stepped into the Ashram walls, we were confronted by people everywhere dressed modestly in white. It was quite disorientating as these people, a staggering amount European, all walked and talked with a great sense of purpose and seemed enthralled in their life at the Ashram. We felt like complete outsiders - especially with our backpacks and brash multi-coloured attire.

After a few minutes where I can only assume we stood and gawked at this small walled world of white, we worked out where we had to go to sign in. Faced with a barrage of questions from the man behind the desk and then a thorough form, we were eventually given a room. Before leaving, we chatted to a French girl (the Ashram seemed particularly popular with the French), who spent six months of her year at the Ashram, and six months back at home. It became apparent this was not uncommon, and some people had lived there for years. I then realised that all around me there were people working - making magazines, sweeping floors and other jobs I didn't fully understand. Jobs aside, it was a far cry from the 'real world', I felt.

Our room, or rather dorms, were in one of the (out of place) skyscraping blocks of flats inside the Ashram. We were on the 11th floor and, while the views of the backwaters and the sea were spectacular, our rooms were bleak in comparison. I will spare the details but let's just say I had my worst night's sleep in a long while that night. We shared our floor with Indian girls who could be no more than 12 or 13. They were at the Ashram to study for 2 years - how they must miss home!

We spent the first hour outside in the main square in front of the pastel pink temple. It was fascinating to watch these people go by, and ponder what had brought them here. We were promised a tour as newcomers but, when no guide arrived, we let ourselves get caught up in the throng of people who were all heading in the same direction: the beach.

The sea of people in white knelt down on the sand and then sat cross-legged around a platformed woman, also in white. I soon gathered that this was Amma, who I had heard mentioned and seen on posters around the Ashram. Amma is a famous Hindu guru (there are thousands of gurus in India) who inhabits the Ashram when she is not on tour around the world. We perched uncomfortably on the rocks that the sea crashed into, and occasionally caught the spray as the sun started to go down.

A voice on a microphone then led everyone in the twice-daily meditation. I was shocked to see how many European girls my age knew all the words to the chants and seemed to embrace this ritual. After what seemed to us like hours, it was timed for the dashram. Newcomers, leavers and people who were 'feeling sad' were invited to join the lengthy, winding queue to receive dashram - at this stage I had no idea what I was queuing up for but I went along with it - when in Rome!

It turned out that Amma was giving out hugs to everyone. As we got near the front of the queue, our bags and water bottles were taken from us and we were asked which language we spoke by her supervisors.

It was my turn next and I didn't really know what to expect. My head was pushed onto her shoulder and she held it there - quite intensely - for a while. It seemed like I was there awkwardly for a long time until she eventually whispered "my love, my love, my love" into my ear and released her firm grip before placing a small brown parcel containing incense (which I later found out was made of burnt cow poo) and a small sweet. I wasn't, and am still not, sure what to make of it. As far as hugs go, it was pretty good but I don't think I felt anything beyond that! I have since chatted to another French man, who said his first hug opened up his heart and he felt intense energy - I guess if you're hoping it to have an effect on you that anticipation might be strong enough to do that for you.

After a great deal more hugging (I am told Amma has given dashram for 2 days straight before with just sips of water in between), everyone was flocking back to the centre of the Ashram, where we witnessed a large ceremony in celebration of Amma's return from overseas. The Ashram has about 2000 people in on average and the full extent of this was obvious here.

I awoke the next morning at 4.30am, feeling almost feverish in our fan-less room, to hear people attending morning prayers. Any guests staying more than a couple of days were invited to carry out chores during the day, in between meal times, prayer and meditation.

I went to the Ashram feeling I should think 'outside the box' and have an open mind to this way of life and living. What I came away with was a sense that these people were living inside a box, between the four walls of the Ashram, discouraged from interacting with the nearby village amongst many other rules. I wondered what jobs and perhaps families they had given up to live at the Ashram and what the very small children being brought up here were missing out on.

Amma and the Ashram was great food for thought, but we did let out a little cheer as we stepped outside the gates.

All the way to Alleppey

For one night!

Alleppey, further south along the Keralan coast, is another way to enter the backwaters and, as I discovered, not much else for tourists. After leaving pretty Fort Cochin with its rich sense of culture, my expectations were high and Alleppey, for me, not quite cut the mustard.

I needed to strap a sandwich board onto me saying "no houseboats, thank you!" as Alleppey is a place where flocks of people, many holidaying from other parts of India, come to take a houseboat along the backwaters. For a cost!

The houseboats, which fabulous air conditioned bedrooms and luxurious dining and communal areas, sail along the backwaters and cost a minimum of Rs 15,000 for one night, about 200 pound sterling. Glorious, but not on my backpacking budget!

With the French girls, I took a quaint and much cheaper boat through the backwaters once again - and they hadn't lost their charm.

However, the great highlight of Alleppey was our serendipitous invitation to eat at a local wedding reception. Earlier that day, by chance we wandered up to a modest Hindu temple nearby our friendly hotel. First of all we were invited into a room to hear a singing practise. India girls have a very unique, almost shrill tone, to their singing voices and we were spellbound by the music they produced, serenaded by just an old and battered accordion.

We then stumbled across a small, local Hindu wedding. Not quite knowing what to do with ourselves, even though we had been invited into the temple, we were eventually beckoned over by some of the wedding guests, who insisted we go inside and eat. We were hesitant but they insisted we try the food and celebrate with them. We were led to a lofty room, adorned with many chairs and tables in long lines. Paper imitations of the traditional banana leaf were laid out in front of us. The men dished up a feast (it is surprising in India how male-dominated the restaurants and food outlets are) of many different parts, including fried banana and hot, fresh chillies. They crowded round as we tucked into this unexpected meal with just our right hand. In India, the left hand is seen to be impure and therefore it is proper to eat with the right hand - a task I find difficult being an avid lefty!

The food was delicious - and deliciously messy! I ate every last thing I could pick up, despite having a big breakfast. After chatting with the wedding guests, and seeing the bride taken off to her new home with the groom's family, we went outside to face the midday sun - feeling very lucky to have been gifted this experience.

The strike

On Tuesday 27th April, the whole of India stood still. Well, almost.

There was no public transport in Kochi, apart from a few bold autorickshaws, and many of the shops and restaurants were closed until 6pm (I assume they didn't have the staying power for the whole day!).

Many people who I asked about the strike didn't seem to know why they were striking, and others had slightly different versions of the truth. I guess the backwaters seem a million miles away from the big cities.

When he stopped by me, I asked one lone rickshaw driver in Fort Cochin about the strike, and indeed who he was not striking. He, whose name was Salu, told me the strike was lead by a group of 13 political groups in protest of the rising cost of living across India (something that I hadn't considered myself, as comparatively India is insanely cheap compared to anywhere I've ever been). The aim was to send a message to the current Government, although it struck me that maybe they should focus their efforts on one thing at a time, rather than a general cost protest - this may have been done before though.

When I asked Salu why he was not striking, he said he had lived in Kochi all his life and was not afraid like the other people here. Maybe he was trying to act like the tough guy in front of me, but, by implication, if you did not strike you risked a beating.

I wondered what effect it had in the big cities, such as Delhi and Mumbai, and how much money the country as a whole lost in that one day.

Let's hope the Government is listening!

April showers

Whilst it is currently summer in the south and the Monsoon isn't due to hit until June time, the heat of the day is occasionally broken by a brief but impressive rain storm.

The clear blue skies will suddenly be consumed by dark, menacing clouds. The women's saris start to fly in the whipping winds and the sky cracks and bellows. Then the rain will set in, usually for an hour or so.

It is the type of rain that will drench your clothes and skin in seconds and it is hopeless to attempt to walk around in it. Most people run for cover or hail an autorickshaw to get them home (including me!), and many of the shops will close. But it is so much fun and it freshens up the air for the evening, cooling the summer temperatures.

It has made me wonder what the monsoon rains are like. The south experiences more monsoon rain than the north and thunderstorms dominate the weather. Kerala is one of the first places to be hit and electricity and water supplies are problematic, not to mention the large scale flooding.

So, I am more than happy with these modest rain storms - and I'm escaping north before the serious rain sets in!

Falling in love with Fort Cochin

There are goats everywhere in Fort Cochin, and I quickly gathered that's what I had in my tea with breakfast - goat's milk. Fort Cochin was a lazy and beautiful small town laced with European influences.

My new home for the next couple of days was a quirky homestay (family guesthouse), enshrined from the road by big leafy trees. Breakfast was served on the rooftop, which was cleverly made with bamboo. I lounged in a hammock while I ate a tasty breakfast of egg and potato curry with bread and sweet, small bananas - this is the life!

As the next day India was to be on strike (more about this later), I took the opportunity to go to Cherai Beach, on the neighbouring island of Vypeen. I took a crowded ferry (Rs. 3) with the locals and then came my first Indian bus experience. I thought I must be the very last person to squeeze onto the crush of the bus, but then throughout the bumpy 20km journey to Cherai town, we casually picked up more and more passengers - I felt like we were being vacuum packed!

Along a dusty road from the town, lay Cherai beach. Despite some litter (a common entity in India), it was a lovely, white sandy beach and I sat and watched the powerful waves crash on the beach for an hour or two, enjoying the fresh breeze.

While I am still amazed how Indian women wear such layered and beautiful fabrics so effortlessly in the heat, I was even more shocked to see a man clad in motorbike gear (including his helmet), walking up and down the beach - sheer madness!

On strike day, I took the opportunity to wonder around the quiet streets of Fort Cochin before heading the the waterfront where the Chinese fishing nets were poised and ready for action. These are huge mechanical structures that are operated by 5 or 6 fishermen. The work on a weight balance system, using ropes to pull the net in and then the men's weight to push the net back in. I was invited (for a small tip) to have a go myself. It was fun and the fishermen were singing as they worked - my catch was modest but about right for the time of year. As I left, the men started the process yet again and they would then sell their catch to the nearby market.

I lost count of how many hands of children and adults I was invited to shake during my time in Fort Cochin, and since then. There is a strange esteem given to Westerners, and they seemed particularly delighted to hear I am from England - maybe they think I am related to the Queen!

I was sad to leave this lovely haven, but I made arrangements to head south the following morning with two French girls, who were also staying in my leafy homestay. There are so many places to see, and I know the time I have won't even scratch the surface.

Backseat on the backwaters

After my second restless night's sleep, I jumped into the cold shower as today I was visiting the famous backwaters - a vast network of lagoons, lakes and narrow waterways taking up half of Kerala's coastline. There are more than 900km of waterways, which surround a cities, towns and endless amounts of villages.

As I hopped into the back of a dilapidated minibus, I was glad to meet other tourists and share their experiences of India - everyone has a story to tell.

A short bumpy ride away was a quiet, traditional backwater village and we all felt quite intrusive as we headed to the water's edge. After a relaxed cup of delicious chai (tea with Indian herbs and spices), we gathered onto a worn out boat where we were to spend four hours that morning.

We sailed through the chains of water, encountering local families and fishermen, who waved ferociously at us. For them, traveling the backwaters was a daily event and meant getting rice from the town, going to school, or fishing for survival.

Our tour guide, Shajas, who spoke immaculate English, explained how the majority of the islands were owned by wealthy farmers from the cities and many of the villagers were here as tenants. During the Monsoon, the water levels rise by up to 2 metres - and so some people are forced to leave their homes for drier ground.

Most of the land in the backwaters is dense with trees - mostly coconut. The villagers maintain a high level of self-sufficiency and I was truly impressed by their resourcefulness. After passing a hard-working man who was fishing for tiny clams (he threw a handful to our boat), our first stop helped us to understand the significance of these small little shelled creatures. My (very poor) scientific understanding is that they burn shells to create a form of calcium carbonate (a white powder), which could be used as fertiliser for their crops, as whitewash paint for their buildings and as a key ingredient in toothpaste and medicinal tablets. Scientists, shoot me now! We also tried 'toddy' here, made from the sap of coconut palms and can prove very toxic if left to ferment for too long (100 proof toxic! And perhaps the reason for the phrase "blind drunk" as we heard that some Indian alcoholics were turned blind from how much they drank). At 2%, even the babies and young children enjoyed it. It was very sweet tasting but most of us tried to hide our screwed up faces - yuck!

After enjoying a magical morning in the backwaters, we headed back for a traditional Keralan lunch, which I helped Shajas to serve (that would explain the rice on the floor, perhaps!). The main curry was fruity and spicy, accompanied by chillies, tasty carrots and tomatoes and other veggies - simply wonderful! I am not so fond of the local deserts though, which on this day was like rice pudding, but made with noodles, interesting.

We then headed for the canoes, which were to allow us down the narrow canals. Comically, and now I realise, typically, there were just 2 life-jackets for the group of 10. When I pointed and asked about them in amusement, our afternoon guide simply said "symbolic" - how we laughed!

We were punted along and it seemed a million miles away from the hustle and bustle of the mainland. We sauntered past children playing and washing in the water, some of whom held on to the canoe for a "lift please". We got up much closer to the villages and felt almost voyeuristic as we watched the local people do their chores.

We stopped to see the art of 'coir' making, by two aging women who were not at all phased by our presence. This was rope made by entwining fibres from the coconut tree using two large spinning wheels. The rope is used everywhere in Kerala, for everything!

That night I took another boat to the quieter town across the water.

Land of Contrasts: Human traffic

What struck me in my first couple of days in Ernakulam (the mainland of Kochi), was the sharp contrast on the street. The gentle ebb and flow of the people, many of whom take time to stand around chatting or just observing, was so different from the people driving rickshaws, scooters, cars and buses.

Drivers are impatient and noisy and their vehicles are fast and jerky as they weave through the traffic. They appear not to the phased by the oncoming buses packed full of people - not if it means getting to their destination faster, faster, faster. And yet the people on the pavements seem unperturbed and the honks and loud engines don't seem to penetrate their laid back way of life.

Keralan's take it all in their stride until they get behind the wheel.