We crossed from Karnatika into Northern Kerela . As soon as we crossed the border it was noticeable cleaner, the trail of plastic and rubbish beside the road almost disappeared.
We were in Kerela 4 years ago, wow! what a dramatic change. Kerela is " Gods own country" according to the native people. It is fresh green, rich in agricultural farming, banana, coffee and spice plantations . It has obviously prospered hugely from the Indian boom. Large "Surrey style" brand spanking new houses painted in fuchsia , banana leaf green, bright orange and other almost toxic colours , sit up and back from the side of the roads looking like Del Boy cocktails. Large verandas with shinny chrome balustrades , Tata 4x4 s in the drives. We have since learned that the money that is funding this property explosion is made in Dubai and bought back to India by migrant workers.
It became apparent from the black head scarves and the black full lenght dresses of the women walking along the roads that we were driving through a Muslim area. The one and only significance of this is in todays title.
Banasua Hill Resort.
We arrived at our very beautiful mud constructed resort, checked in and took in the surroundings. Dinner time. It was Peters birthday, let's order some wine. Ho Ho Ho! "Solly Sir absolutely no wine Sir, no alcohol it is here Sir." after some nod nod , wink, wink, they managed to produce two beers.
.
The beds at Banasura were full on Indian style. That means hard solid wood bases with thin mattresses. There was little sleep , tempers short. We requested softer mattresses " yes madam, most certainly " the result was two more mattresses were added on top but these were at least 6 inches narrower than the bed itself. Result? the bed was reminiscent of The Princess and The Pea with the added 8 inch drop on my side to the lowest mattress . " totally absolutely , fantastic" Yaar.
We set off on our trip to the Edeneky caves some 2 and 1/2 hours away. We needed an ATM . Sounds simple enough , 3 hours later we were in a town Sultan Battery, it was busy, densely hot and dusty the pavements were an assault course that make English health and safety laughable. Just why can't we have some danger in our lives back home? Dodging drain gullies and yawning gaps in pavements just adds so much twang to the daily grind.
The first ATM was out of order. We understood that there was another one further down the road.
Off we go.
We leave the main street and turn into a court yard. It was approximately 30x30 feet square, the shops round the edge were a tyre shop, a mechanic of some sort,some closed roll down shutters , it was hot grubby , the sun was burning down and the queue at the ATM ( which of course was at the bottom end of the three sided yard ) was long and squashed up.
The ATM booth had two machines in it. One did not work but quick thinking smarty pants young smoothies were marching up and going into the overcrowded booth to try the broken machine. They would then sneakily move over to the working machine as the users finished. Neatly jumping the queue. (are these people related to Italians ? )
These young Gits, had however made a BIG miscalculation as to who exactly they were queueing alongside . Trouble was brewing in the form of Mrs Jones.
Unaware of the power of the storm brewing a tall young man in a black and white check shirt , low slung jeans , cool jet black hair in a western style quiff. Mr Cool shimmied forward from at least five places back and into the booth to use the broken machine. Surprise it was not working. As the family beside him finished their transaction he shimmied over to the left to the working machine.
Woa ! Here she comes. With all the force of the British empire at the height of its powers.
Enter: Mrs Jones.
She opened the heavy door to the booth grabbed the tall,charcoal skinned young man firmly by his arm and literally dragged him out "oh no you don't " she cried " just you get back in the queue , out ! Out you go ,get back in the queue like the rest of us" not a spoken word was understood, but no translation was needed. He rejoined his friend with good nature and a sheepish smile.
The rest of the queue was sniggering and smiling at this young smartiy who had just been "grannied"
Respect rules yaar! The head scarfed women flashed twinkly hidden smiles.
The day got worse really, the tour company had booked a completely unsuitable trip to some caves at the top of a very high mountain. The climb was up a steep and I mean steep metal staircase , not very wide . Entire families of Indians going up. Entire families of Indians coming down . Just right for people of a certain age and one hop along . We decided against it but at the gate we meet the bravest tourist I know. A couple from the midlands who had actually hired a car and were driving them selves round India. Hey ! respect!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
We were in Kerela 4 years ago, wow! what a dramatic change. Kerela is " Gods own country" according to the native people. It is fresh green, rich in agricultural farming, banana, coffee and spice plantations . It has obviously prospered hugely from the Indian boom. Large "Surrey style" brand spanking new houses painted in fuchsia , banana leaf green, bright orange and other almost toxic colours , sit up and back from the side of the roads looking like Del Boy cocktails. Large verandas with shinny chrome balustrades , Tata 4x4 s in the drives. We have since learned that the money that is funding this property explosion is made in Dubai and bought back to India by migrant workers.
It became apparent from the black head scarves and the black full lenght dresses of the women walking along the roads that we were driving through a Muslim area. The one and only significance of this is in todays title.
Banasua Hill Resort.
We arrived at our very beautiful mud constructed resort, checked in and took in the surroundings. Dinner time. It was Peters birthday, let's order some wine. Ho Ho Ho! "Solly Sir absolutely no wine Sir, no alcohol it is here Sir." after some nod nod , wink, wink, they managed to produce two beers.
.
The beds at Banasura were full on Indian style. That means hard solid wood bases with thin mattresses. There was little sleep , tempers short. We requested softer mattresses " yes madam, most certainly " the result was two more mattresses were added on top but these were at least 6 inches narrower than the bed itself. Result? the bed was reminiscent of The Princess and The Pea with the added 8 inch drop on my side to the lowest mattress . " totally absolutely , fantastic" Yaar.
We set off on our trip to the Edeneky caves some 2 and 1/2 hours away. We needed an ATM . Sounds simple enough , 3 hours later we were in a town Sultan Battery, it was busy, densely hot and dusty the pavements were an assault course that make English health and safety laughable. Just why can't we have some danger in our lives back home? Dodging drain gullies and yawning gaps in pavements just adds so much twang to the daily grind.
The first ATM was out of order. We understood that there was another one further down the road.
Off we go.
We leave the main street and turn into a court yard. It was approximately 30x30 feet square, the shops round the edge were a tyre shop, a mechanic of some sort,some closed roll down shutters , it was hot grubby , the sun was burning down and the queue at the ATM ( which of course was at the bottom end of the three sided yard ) was long and squashed up.
The ATM booth had two machines in it. One did not work but quick thinking smarty pants young smoothies were marching up and going into the overcrowded booth to try the broken machine. They would then sneakily move over to the working machine as the users finished. Neatly jumping the queue. (are these people related to Italians ? )
These young Gits, had however made a BIG miscalculation as to who exactly they were queueing alongside . Trouble was brewing in the form of Mrs Jones.
Unaware of the power of the storm brewing a tall young man in a black and white check shirt , low slung jeans , cool jet black hair in a western style quiff. Mr Cool shimmied forward from at least five places back and into the booth to use the broken machine. Surprise it was not working. As the family beside him finished their transaction he shimmied over to the left to the working machine.
Woa ! Here she comes. With all the force of the British empire at the height of its powers.
Enter: Mrs Jones.
She opened the heavy door to the booth grabbed the tall,charcoal skinned young man firmly by his arm and literally dragged him out "oh no you don't " she cried " just you get back in the queue , out ! Out you go ,get back in the queue like the rest of us" not a spoken word was understood, but no translation was needed. He rejoined his friend with good nature and a sheepish smile.
The rest of the queue was sniggering and smiling at this young smartiy who had just been "grannied"
Respect rules yaar! The head scarfed women flashed twinkly hidden smiles.
The day got worse really, the tour company had booked a completely unsuitable trip to some caves at the top of a very high mountain. The climb was up a steep and I mean steep metal staircase , not very wide . Entire families of Indians going up. Entire families of Indians coming down . Just right for people of a certain age and one hop along . We decided against it but at the gate we meet the bravest tourist I know. A couple from the midlands who had actually hired a car and were driving them selves round India. Hey ! respect!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:Northern Kerela / Tamil Nadu
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