Bekal Fort

Not another fort.  Our farthest North base in Kerala was Nileshwaram, north of the Northern Backwaters.  One of the days we did not find the backwaters was the day that The Kid had a touch of the traveler's dread.  Being young and strong, however, we managed to venture even further North to Bekal Fort.  All of the locals talk about this place and we felt like we should be doing something so they guilted us into it.

Bekal fort had all of the usual suspects as tenants during the colonial era.  What is unusual about the place is that it, like the fort in Palakkad, was built by local rulers, not by the British or Portuguese or Dutch.  And, the locals kicked some serious colonial ass from this base for a good long time before inevitably succumbing to the might of the Europeans.  The fort is huge, its really cool and it juts out into the Arabian sea, providing stupendous views and amazing sunsets.

The sunsets over the Arabian Sea as we gaze towards Africa.

 A geezer on the walls.  The kids in the red shirts, playing on the beach, were part of a massive bike ride to Bekal Fort.  More than a thousand kids on really crappy bikes were dodging the deadly traffic along the coastal road.

The brave, red-shirted cyclists, apres' death ride.

Treasures

When the brain and body battle for supremacy in the war of Jet Lag, sometimes its best to just give in.  And at 4:30 in the morning, blogging is an outlet.

On our last day in Kannur, while trying to book a fancy bus for the long haul to Bangalore, we stumbled into one man's treasure trove.  We were not, however, able to book the bus.  Indians travel on Sundays. Just a word to the wise for future reference.

We did come across a funny little garage building whose contents stopped me in my tracks.   Inside were a 1937 Fiat and an Austin Seven, both looking like they had just rolled in from a jaunt around colonial India.  

As a matter of fact, that is what each of these classic automobiles used to do.  Our host, pictured with the GE, had photos of each of these machines out and about in pre-WWII India.  Amazing history!

 Like Gear heads everywhere, when someone starts admiring the object of your obsession, you invite them in for some hang time and a closer look.  Our Indian friend was no different.  Turns out, both of these rolling beauties belonged to our host's father, a portrait of whom was venerated at the back of the garage.  These cars had been in the family since their original purchase.  The Austin had a battery charger on it when we arrived and it was only removed and the bonnet lowered to allow for photos.  Both of these bits of history are completely road-worthy.

Like the rest of our experiences in Kerala, when the foreigners show up, the locals are not far behind.  Our friend in the foreground of the Fiat picture is just a passerby hamming it up.

Joyce in the Tropics

I have been told that there are two kinds of people in the world.  There are those who have read "Ulysses" and those who have not.  Despite some past attempts at Joyce's stream-of consciousness classic of modernist literature, I have remained one of the latter types of reader, much to my chagrin.

My first attempt at reading "Ulysses" came after the somewhat smug success of reading "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" when I was, well, a young man.  Thinking to myself that the one Joyce novel was a springboard to any other Joyce novel, I fell too it, not realizing that the difference between "Portrait.." and "Ulysses" is much akin to the difference between jumping an orange crate with your childhood bike, and trying to ride a rocket powered moto on a leap across the Grand Canyon, a' la Evel Knievel.  The second is a mite further to fly than the first.

In all honesty, my first serious attempt to read the Irish tome came to naught from a more-than-passing acquaintance with heroin and scotch, rather than from anything to do with the novel itself.

My second attempt, in my early sobriety, saw me pioneering my way about two hundred pages into Leopold Bloom's day in the mind of the author, or a little less than a quarter of the way through.  I was then side-tracked by something else; another, perhaps more accessible, work, and Bloom faltered and took not another step.

Now, in the twilight of my middle-age, with geezer-hood staring me impishly in the eye, I have once more picked up the cudgels, only to find the joy in Joyce.  Perhaps the chaos of India has acted as my Rosetta Stone for "Ulysses," or perhaps it is just the right time in my life, but for the last three weeks and more, Leopold Bloom has been my traveling companion, his long day unfolding across Dublin as our travels roll across the Subcontinent and back to these United States.

So, as my receding jet-lag tells me it is time for sleep, I will retire to my lovely bed, my own bed of home.  Before I sleep, I will see what Leopold is up to until I drift off and dream of the next journey, be it Dublin, Bangkok or whither unknown.

Transitory

As I have said a few times in this blog, every time one steps on any form of transport in India, one is likely to have a dramatic demonstration of the transitory nature of existence.

As The Kid and I left Kannur, and began the climb towards the Western Ghat and the state of Karnataka, he suddenly started saying "Grab the camera, grad the camera!"  He was pointing forward and as I looked, I saw our maniacal bus driver bearing down on a propane truck.  Even more impressive than the closing speed was the hand painted "Danger" and skull and cross bones.

Despite the tight, twisty road, oncoming traffic, scooters on both shoulders, a steep uphill grade and an incredible lack of horsepower, we eventually careened past this truck.

In the ongoing game that The Kid and I played, the gag after this event was:  "So, what ever happened to Mark and Liam?  Well, they were on a bus in India.  The maniac driver collided with a light propane truck and everyone within a quarter mile radius was vaporized.  There wasn't even a fingertip left of either one of them."  

Then we laugh like maniacs.  

The Myth of the Ferry

The Ayitti Ferry Dock, the mythical place that required three days of searching, finally becomes a reality.

Even if you had searched for three days for this boat, would you step aboard once you got a good look at it?

Like every other mode of transportation in India, there are no guarantees you will survive the trip.

The back water views are just another example of the incredible fecundity of this landscape.

Bekal Fort

Cricket