Last Day in Fort Cochin

The next morning was Claire’s and my “free day” in Cochin. We had breakfast, getting to know one of the novitiates as we ate, and then had help from him getting a “top up” on Claire’s phone minutes. He also gave us a quick lesson reading the first two letters in “Fort Cochin” in Malayalam so we could spot our bus. A crowd of women were getting on the front, so we walked to the rear door, not knowing there was a difference, and found ourselves in the back surrounded by men. But a grandfatherly gentleman offered us his seat in the back corner and then talked to us the rest of the way in Hindi (figuring, I suppose, that if Malayalam would not work, perhaps Hindi would), proudly trying to get the shy boys we took to be his grandchildren to greet us in some common language. Very sweet.


Our first mission was a brewed cup of coffee to make up for many days of Nescafe. We found a little organic café called Solar, where Neal Young was singing “Harvest Moon,” and the menu featured what I had been loudly craving for several days, French toast. I had had such success craving tomato soup already, and eggs—they had both appeared on the menu at Father Nelson’s cousin’s house. And cold water, which we found at the train station. So I believed I needn’t settle for calling the white bread, butter, and jam at the pastoral center a good 2/3 of a French toast. At the Solar Café we had the real thing, and French press coffee, and fresh pineapple and watermelon juice. And Neal Young. And funk. A western hippy’s dream.






Continuing to indulge our occidental cravings, we stopped by the internet café for awhile, then shopped and walked around till it was time for lunch. We loved the signs indicating that particular attractions were “0 Km” away and the ubiquitous orders on walls to “stick no bills.” Every way we turned, we always seemed to end up at St. Francis Church, so we went in again, and taking a closer look learned that Queen Victoria was (at least according to the British) Empress of India. We then went on an impromptu church tour, visiting the Santa Cruz Basilica Church and the pretty blue and white Syrian Church of St. Peter and St. Paul.













Again I had picked something out of the guidebook for lunch and we did well again: an overpriced but pretty hotel with a bayside café where we ate fish and chips and watched fishermen in a small boat throw out their nets, let them trail, and pull them in as the boat drifted sideways downstream, and then paddle upstream again to start all over.

We too drifted along, though less purposefully than the fishers, taking pictures of the gardens, strolling around the so-called “ultra modern tourist complex” (see picture), and then making our way past the Chinese fishing nets to discover that what the tourist map called a “sea wall” was actually a walkway that curved along the shore, tracing the fleshy part of the thumb that is Fort Cochin. Every hundred feet or so was a trashcan shaped like an elephant or a rabbit, bearing a sign that said “use me.” It wasn’t just a tourist haunt. Real people, people who looked like they belonged in Cochin, strolled with their families in the afternoon breeze, buying ice cream and watching the Arabian waves. Evangelism was happening there. Several lengthy Muslim treatises on the secondary place of women had been painted on the old bastion walls. Someone else had painted “JESUS SECOND COMING SOON” (BIBLE). Evidently a third person imagined a more interfaith option, showing Jesus and Vishnu back to back with a mosque over their heads. An “Om” graced with a cross and a crescent moon completed the montage.

At the end of the sea wall was a small beach, and beyond it yet another inviting tourist hotel. This one had couches under umbrellas (or at least, the permanently affixed umbrellas were somewhat nearby the couches, shading something in the vicinity), overlooking the sea, being enjoyed by the kind of people who sit still for afternoon tea. So we took our couch and lazily drank overpriced drinks, with me daydreaming aloud to Claire about her and Sajal enjoying their honeymoon in Cochin, and Claire daydreaming about opening a bed and breakfast of her own in Pokhara someday. That was enough eating and drinking for the day, and soon we found a rickshaw to take us home.

That night we said fond goodbye to Sister Elizabeth, and in the morning to our other friends, the old woman who pinched Claire’s cheek and asked with indistinguishable speech but clear gestures about grandchildren, the novitiate who had taught us to read the “Fo” in “Fort Cochin,” and the others, and rode to the train station to depart for Father Nelson’s parents’ home in Coimbatore, which is pronounced, as far as I could tell, “CoAMador.”

Monday in Cochin

I took pictures for this day, but somehow lost them!

On Monday morning Claire, Melissa, and I set out toward Mattancherry near Fort Cochin. We had just realized that the buses’ destinations were posted only in Malayalam when Father Junish rode up on his motorcycle and pointed out the approaching bus to Mattancherry. I don’t know how he does it, but Father Junish has a special talent for showing up at just the right moment to save the day.

This brings up an interesting point. Unlike priests and pastors in some other places, the priests we have met in South India seem to take very seriously their call to service, as seriously as nuns do. I was often humbled by the hospitality and helpfulness that they regarded matter-of-factly as their duty and privilege. It was not just because we were Americans or foreigners either: I saw them treat everyone with genuine kindness—parishioners, cooks, watchmen, children, the very old, were all treated with dignity. If anyone ever treated all they met as if they were Christ, it is the Christians I have met in India.

So we boarded the government bus running toward Mattancherry. It was rush hour and crowded, but soon enough we arrived at the end of the line, at the Dutch Palace which was really built by the Portuguese for a local dignitary whose favor they wished to curry back in the 17th century. It looked much like the Durbar palaces of Kathmandu—a rectangle built around a central courtyard, with large alcoves with window seats and windows overlooking the outside view. The upper floor featured two interesting things: frescoes telling the stories of the Hindu gods, still showing their color and liveliness, and a museum on the history of Fort Cochin. We learned, for instance, that saris have only been worn since the 19th century—before that, even the noble women went bare-breasted or perhaps wore a strip of cloth around their chests, beneath their arms. Even then, showing breasts, they didn’t show legs. A real difference in sensibility.

We shopped a little, entering one store to see real or more probably replica antiquities, and headed toward the Pardes Synagogue. The Jewish community in “Jew Town,” as it is called, was quite vibrant during the era of the spice trade, but most everyone moved en masse to Israel in the 1940s, and only a few families and the synagogue remain. When we arrived there were large groups of children waiting to enter, so we didn’t go in.

Instead, we headed for the nearby Jain Temple. Claire has a friend who is Jain and she has visited the temple in Calcutta. Jainism is a reform offshoot of Hinduism. They show deep regard for all living beings. Not only are they vegetarians, but the more religious avoid stepping on insects and do not eat any part of a plant that would kill the organism (such as digging up potatoes).

Around noon each day they sound a bell and feed the pigeons. We arrived in time to walk through the shrines before the bell sounded. They were small and bright, light in color, and otherwise resembled the structure we had seen in Hindu temples, with a main shrine in front with room all around it to circumambulate. We saw women bringing offerings and putting their hands up to bring them as close as they could to the figures in the shrines.

When the bell sounded we went outside and watched two men praying while holding birdseed in open hands. A pigeon landed on one hand and ate as they prayed. Then they walked slowly in a circle, scattering the seed till a circular area about 25 feet across was filled with pigeons eating, pecking, chasing one another, and enjoying their daily bread. It was quite a lovely sight.

By then it was time to move on to our lunch appointment with Chris and Annie. I had picked it out of the guide book, and it turned out to be quite nice, a hotel just behind St. Francis Church, where we sat outside, some of us eating Indian and some sharing pasta. We were just talking about Father Junish when he walked in. Nelson had asked him to try to get train tickets for Claire and me to Coimbatore, and he had stood in line for some time and had ridden his motorbike to deliver them before departing for a meeting in Palliport. For some reason train tickets require travelers’ ages. Junish had made a wild guess, erring on the safe side, making Claire 6 years and me 12 years too young. Thank you, Father Junish, for your many kindnesses!

Claire and I stayed in town while the others left, and returned just in time to see them off. That was when we discovered that I had lost the only key to the cupboard where we had locked our passports and electronics. Panic. We went to see Sister Elizabeth and make confession. Before it was over, four different people and thirty different keys were involved. Sister finally said, “Pray hallelujah hallelujah hallelujah,” so we did, imagining that at the very least they would have to take a sledgehammer to the cabinet and to my budget. After another dozen unsuccessful tries somebody who knows something had brought another set that magically opened the cabinet. Passports found, apologies made, hallelujahs sincerely raised, all with Sister Elizabeth and the others remaining as placid as ever. That night we listened to the voices of song from a nearby mosque, and in the morning we heard prayers raised from a Hindu temple. Hallelujah, hallelujah.

Sunday in Palliport

On Sunday we awakened early to travel north to the seaside village of Palliport to attend mass in a Passionist congregation. We were supposed to attend a children’s program before mass, but our bus was an hour late. So instead, we stopped at the beach briefly to stick our toes in the water before going on to the church, where the children and their parents were graciously waiting for us.
The church was brand new and very beautiful, the dancing was splendid, and the welcome warmhearted.












After church we rode a fishing boat in the Arabian Sea, watching eagles and spotting dolphin and seeing how fishers worked. Then we split into small groups to eat lunch in the homes of several church members. Our host was a woman whose children were grown, who had bought her home on the seashore by working several years in the Emirates. Once again, the fish and shrimp was splendid and plentiful. After lunch we walked up a lovely seaside lane to visit with other parishioners briefly and eat ice cream before returning to the bus and to Cochin. Sea towns, including Palliport, all seem to share a laid-back, sunbaked character. I enjoyed the atmosphere and the people very much.

That evening we had our final farewell dinner in a very nice restaurant. Some of the group had been craving pizza, and they got their wish—in addition to salads, sambars, pastas, and incredible desserts, there were tiny pizzas. Sadly, after this the group that was taking the overnight bus to Bangalore had to leave us, and the remnant made our way back to Cochin realizing the adventure was almost over. The following afternoon five others would fly out of Cochin, and Claire and I would be the last ones left.

I think the poor fellow in the last picture was wondering why he wasn't getting many dates, till we told him what his t-shirt said.

Saturday on the Backwaters

The weekend in the state of Kerala was all about the water.

On Saturday we left Cochin and drove south to Allepey on the backwaters of the bay formed by the peninsula where Cochin sits. As Father Joe described it, if Cochin were San Francisco, Allepey would be San Jose. There we boarded one of several houseboats with basketweave roofs. Ours was a two-story, with a kitchen and two bedrooms below and a shaded porch above.

Our lunch was cooked as we rode along the backwaters, watching the other boats and the birds and beautiful land, chatting with one another, and relaxing. The pictures tell it all.






After a seafood meal, we gathered to share what we would take with us from the pilgrimage, the impressions we have, and what has changed for us, what was on one another’s minds as the journey approached its end.

more to come...and French Toast!

Claire and I are now staying in Coimbatore with Father Nelson's parents. It is a wonderful time, full of traveling Indian-style, going to see wildlife, and lots of EATING! But I have more pictures to post and stories to tell, so as soon as there is a chance, I will add more.... In the meantime, thanks for reading!

And by the way, for those on the journey who will know what this means, I will post a picture of Claire and me the morning after the last of the other travelers left, in a little organic restaurant in Cochin called Solar Cafe, eating French Toast!

Fort Cochin and Ernakulam

We set out about noon to find a nice lunch and then to explore the primary historic area of the peninsula, which is called Fort Cochin. Along the shore were Chinese fishing nets, giant nets that were lowered into the sea by a system of rock counterweights. I think these were mostly for the tourists, but we did see others later, further into the sea, that seemed to be more functionally placed. Certainly picturesque.

We visited St. Francis church (see earlier blog) and got a sense of the area, then rode to the mainland to Ernakulam, the metropolis part of town, where we hunted for spice shops and bought fresh vanilla bean pods, cardamom, whole nutmeg, star anise, cinnamon, and many other spices. We ended up waiting for the van in a little coffee shop talking to a woman from North India, who ordered a drink for us called “hot badam milk,” milk that was flavored with almond, vanilla, cardamom and other spices.

In the evening the group went to the Passionist Seminary for dinner and a program, but Claire was not well so we stayed in. That was our first day in beautiful Kochi.

About Cochin, or Kochi

In South India hardly anyone speaks Hindi. The languages here are not even related to it. The ancestors of South Indians are Dravidians, who evidently migrated here from the Iran-Pakistan border regions some five or six thousand years ago. At least, that is what is thought, since the only other language that resembles the languages here is found there. In less that two weeks, we have lived among three languages we had never heard of before, that are related historically but have different scripts: Kanada in Bangalore, Tamil in the state of Tamil Nadu, which includes both Tiruvannamalai and Trichy, and now Malayalam in the state of Kerala, which lies along the western coast of southern India. Children learn much more English than Hindu in school.



Cochin (or in the post-colonial spelling—think Mumbai instead of Bombay—Kochi) is a peninsula, mainland, bay, inland waters, and some islands, with a very different character than the inland. More laid back, more touristy (in a pleasant way) and endowed with history connected with our own story. Remember what the European explorers who ended up accidently in America were after? Spices! This is the place the were trying to bypass the Arab middlemen to reach. Vasco da Gama lived and died here in Kochi. The Dutch East India Trading Company was here, and then the British. There is a Jew Town here, though the Jews themselves mostly migrated to Israel in the 1940s. Because of Kochi’s trade history, Malayalam’s vocabulary includes loan words from Hebrew, Arabic, Portuguese, Dutch, and English.

But the history of east and west goes even further back. St. Thomas is supposed to have come here, and in fact Christianity here dates to at least the fourth century with the Syrian Church. (I saw an auto repair shop whose posted address was: Anna Auto Spares, Near Syrian Church, Palluruthy, Kochi.) India’s oldest standing church is here, the early sixteenth-century St. Francis Church, which began as Portuguese Catholic, and became Protestant with the Dutch, Anglican with the English, and is now a parish church for Protestants, the ecumenically united Church of South India.

Another interesting feature of Kerala is that in 1957 it became the first state in the world to have democratically elected a communist government. Land reforms have created more equitable distribution of property here than in other parts of India, and literacy is high. Beggers are relatively few, and there are some very prosperous places here. But I am getting ahead of myself.

We came to God’s Own Country, as Kerala is called, on Friday morning, and we did believe the nickname when we saw our new accommodations at the pastoral center here, especially after living with the dust and critters at Shantivanum. Generous and clean rooms with attached bathrooms in which the cold shower, sink, and western toilet all work, are not taken for granted any more in this group, nor after a week of ashram feeding, are tables and chairs and a dining room where talking is permitted. We fell into the rooms and the showers with great delight.

During breakfast, my daughter Claire arrived from Nepal to join us for the last couple of days and to take another week with me in India. She had just a little time to tell her name and story over and over again before we left for the first day’s activities.