Snapshots From Along a River

On the River

jess_lee — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 07:57:00 GMT

No local wants to plunder the river but unless they’re given viable alternatives for making a living the stripping of the Nila’s resources will continue.

I’m onboard a traditional boat called a thoni slowly gliding down the river. Beside me on the banks egrets and storks pick through the grass to find a snack. Smoke rises from the chimney of a shabby hut where a woman sits washing clothes. Despite the problems the Nila faces, it can still present itself as a rural idyll.

This boat once carried a very different cargo to the camera-toting one it has today. Piles of sand carried from a mining site used to weigh down the thoni as it meandered down the river. Thanks to The Blue Yonder the captain no longer has to plunder the river to make a living.

Using tourism as an option in this way is a new and rather exciting idea. Not only does it mean the thoni captain doesn’t lose any income he could have made, but it also means he can now have a sense of pride in his work. No longer is he helping to destroy his home, he is helping to promote it, and he does it with a new-found pride.

I sit back and watch the palm trees swaying gently on the bank. A kingfisher flitters past in a flash of blue. This river really is rather special.

In the long run replacing sand for tourists may only be a tiny step forward, but it’s a definite foot in the right direction on a long road to the river’s regeneration.

Gallery: india

jess_lee — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 06:31:00 GMT

Music

jess_lee — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 05:01:00 GMT

Today is the opening day of the Kalyani Para music centre and the atmosphere around me is electric. Sweaty cameramen from Malayalam TV jostle for good vantage points while assembled villagers excitedly take their seats. Dedicated to the memory of his father, a famous temple devotional singer, Hari Govindan is setting up this centre so that the Nila’s music continues on and to make sure that the caste system will never be an obstacle to being able to perform.

Despite the public demise of the caste system, it still can be used as a barrier in real life. The right to perform inside temples at festivals has often been reserved for musicians from a high-caste leaving other talented performers without a platform to be heard.

The talented musicians of the Mannan caste were among those not allowed to perform. Unable to find an audience, The Blue Yonder and Hari conspired to bring an audience to them; taking tourists to hear the unique music of the Nila played by these musical masters.

Tourists who heard them came back raving and those who had once banned them from playing began wondering what they were missing out on. Now the original musicians of those first tourist performances are in such popular demand at temples that new players have to be found for the tourists.

The Nila’s musical traditions revolve mainly around percussion. There’s the Mizhaeu: recognised as the oldest theatre drum in the world, the Maddalam: which weighs a whopping 30 kilos, and the Idakka: a bizarre contraption decorated with colourful pompoms and the world’s only drum that can produce every note on the scale.

This morning the air is alive with the pounding vibrations of these instruments as the musicians skilfully beat out their songs. Music here has a history as long as the river itself and these traditions are thankfully in no danger of disappearing anytime soon.

Vayali

jess_lee — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 04:04:00 GMT

There’s at least a dozen kids all sitting on the floor in front of me. They are wriggling about torn between curiosity and shyness. Furtive glances and whispers are exchanged before the boldest one is half pushed by the others to come over. All neat pig-tails and shining eyes she stands in front of me. “What is your name?” She finally blurts out. “Jess,” I answer, “what’s yours?” But she’s already collapsing into a fit of shrieks and giggles and is darting back to the safety of her friends on the floor.

They eye me up with trepidation but I’m only an entree for the real entertainment tonight. The Vayali folklore group began in 2003 when a group of young local people set out to preserve the indigenous traditions of song, dance and drama in the region. With little more than bags of enthusiasm they have succeeded in launching a revival of folkloric culture and bringing back to life the songs of their ancestors.

Dancers weighed down with huge silver anklets and elaborate headdresses of peacock feathers shake and convulse in front of me as the choir sways to the beat and sings stories of old. These oral traditions may tell of the battles of Hindu gods on the surface but behind it all is the story of daily life in the paddy fields, of harvests and celebration.

Local families have squeezed into the small courtyard to watch; parents, children and teenagers clapping along to the rhythm of the drums and swaying to the beat. Dancers disguised with thick make-up and masks stalk sneeringly in front of the children who recoil screaming and then cry out for more. There’s a tangible feeling of community here, an inclusive connection between performer and audience that is rarely seen elsewhere.

And suddenly the children are up dancing, spontaneously lifted by the beat to join in. The musicians thump their drums faster in response and the singers pick up the change and flow with it, raising lilting voices to a quicker pulse. The dancers begin to grab more people and I am thrown into the whirlpool of the stage with them dancing around and round till it’s all a blur. It’s like one of those mid-90’s warehouse raves before drugs and health and safety precautions sprayed cold water on the enterprise.

The music stops, we all collapse back into our seats trying to catch our breath and laughing at the same time.

The Snake Worshippers

jess_lee — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 03:11:00 GMT

The picture is slowly taking shape: two massive entwined serpents which cover the courtyard. The little girl beside me looks out from heavily kohl-rimmed eyes, entranced by the strange colourfully swirling shapes emerging upon her courtyard.

Bent over in concentration, a woman and three men are drawing on the floor. Beside them are bowls of coloured powder: black, white, green and red made from ground up charcoal, rice powder, leaves and turmeric. The picture is known as a Kalamezhuth and is drawn in praise of the serpent gods.

The Pulluva community are traditional snake-worshippers. There is none of our western perception of snake charmers here. No cobras hiding in baskets in Indiana Jones’ style dramas. This ceremony is performed to bring health and well-being to a household and the only snake included is the one being drawn on the ground.

An oil lamp is lit. The Pulluva sit to one side of the drawing and pick up their instruments. The youngest boy stands to one side carrying a lit flame. The music is eerie and haunting and slow and seems to exist without needing a steady beat to make it flow. It’s like an orchestra unleashed from a conductor, a jangling jam-session with no rhythm.

The music becomes wilder and the young boy with the fire begins a willowy sinuous dance, running the licking flames over his body. We all hold our breath as he moves panther-like around the drawing with hypnotic eyes. Slapping the flame continuously over himself like a man possessed. The air is brushed with the smell of his singed skin as he leaps and dances in front of us wielding the flame.

And suddenly it is all over. The music croaks and groans to an unexpected end. The boy stands still. The woman puts down her instrument and picks up a broom of twigs. She bends down before the drawing and sweeps it into a Jackson Pollock swirl of colour. The intoxicating atmosphere is broken. The little girl next to me giggles. The fire-wielding boy puts his t-shirt back on and chats happily to one of the family. I sit there startled and wonder if that all just actually happened or if I just made it all up.

Just Another Roadside Attraction

jess_lee — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 00:57:00 GMT

The workmen walk along the road dressed in crisp blue shirts tucked into colourful lungis. I love the fact that here you see men proudly wearing sarongs of dazzling floral displays of fuchsia-pinks, aqua-blue and lemon. You never know what you’re going to see next while driving down the street here.

Elephants plod down the street led by their mahoots, tiny temples spew out ear-piercing tinny music from massive speakers, crumbling red-tiled bungalows slump in half-decay at the roadside. It’s impossible to be bored by Kerala’s daily road-side entertainment.

We stop to watch a road-side festival procession for Vela: all clashing cymbals and banging drums provided by a tiny but enthusiastic orchestra. A massive gaudy effigy sits beside the players waiting to be heaved upward onto the shoulders of an army of devotees to the nearest temple.

A rickshaw passes by with a sparkling tinsel creation mushrooming out of its roof. It looks like a Dr Who dalek who decided to dress up for the night. Then it’s an entire invasion of daleks as a whole platoon of rickshaws bearing this weird cargo begin to whizz by, another then another, turning the rural roads into a surreal sci-fi tribute show.

Driving along in the evening I come across a more modern distraction. A van we are stuck behind has converted its rear into a TV screen which plays a flickering succession of glossy, gauche advertisements. All the cars behind putter along at a snail’s pace to bathe in the shimmering glow of the mobile TV.

Just when you think there are enough diversions on the roads here, they go and create one more.

Artisans Along The Nila

jess_lee — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 02:28:00 GMT

Gopalan Ettan is a potter. Just like his father and his grandfather before him he spends his days at his wheel shaping clay brought from the Nila’s banks into bowls and water jugs to sell. There are still plenty of potters along the banks of the Nila; small family-run cottage industries that survive despite of the factory production lines. But when the last of this old generation of potters dies, there may be no one left to continue the craft.

Gopalan takes a lump of clay and begins to knead it expertly while his wife sits on the ground sifting through sand to remove stones. Gopalan’s son perches on the wall beside his father playing with his mobile phone. He doesn’t aspire to be a potter. Who can blame him when he now has the chance to be anything he wants. The breaking down of the caste system has made it possible for this to happen. The problem is that for anyone who did want to become a potter, there is simply no recognition for the work.

Making pottery has generally been a low-caste job and as such, is looked down upon. It’s no wonder Gopalan’s children aren’t interested in carrying on the family tradition when it garners little respect. Interestingly tourism, could in its way, provide a solution. Bringing tourists to watch the potters at work could instigate recognition of the importance of this craft and the skill of its artisans.

Gopalan throws the clay onto the hand-propelled wheel and expertly begins to shape it. Like anyone who’s been practising a craft for a lifetime he moves with ease, completely at home at the wheel. His thin sinewy arms deftly move around the clay forming it quickly and efficiently into a water jug. He puts it aside and immediately begins work on another lump.

As I leave I am told that the word ‘kusavan’ in Malayalam means creator but is also used to describe a potter. I’m not at all surprised. This is an ancient and important trade and I hope Gopalan isn’t one of potteries last master artisans.

Problems in Paradise

jess_lee — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 01:21:00 GMT

Kerala is in the middle of a vast building boom and all that concrete needs sand. A lot of that sand is being sourced illegally from the Nila’s banks. I look out of my window here and see, not a peaceful river view, but a bunch of clunky construction trucks and dozers on the far bank, systematically grinding and scooping the shore away. I presume (from the amount of machinery) that this is a legal mining operation but unfortunately there are many more shady endeavours that are ripping away the banks unchecked.

It’s not hard to see why local people get involved. If your average wage was 250 rupees per day and you were suddenly offered the chance to earn 1500, you’d take it wouldn’t you. But this slow plundering of the river’s resources is reducing the once sprawling Nila to little more than a puddle in some places. And it’s not just illegal sand-mining: upriver deforestation and converting paddy fields to grow cash-crops are all playing their part in the rivers degeneration.

In ancient times the river was considered a divine being; now it’s a commodity to be exploited. But there’s always hope. I’m travelling with The Blue Yonder, the tour company arm of The Nila Foundation. The foundation was set up to help regenerate the river and raise awareness of the environmental problems the Nila faces with local people.

To raise the funds needed to do this they turned to tourism as a means of not just creating cash-flow for their projects but also as a way of promoting the Nila and the fascinating cultural heritage that has sprung from its banks. It’s an interesting concept and I want to find out if Ken Haley can be proved wrong when he stated “Responsible travel, what’s that - staying at home?”

A Different Kind of School

jess_lee — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 01:20:00 GMT

Most tourists who visit Kerala go to see a Kathakali show. Characterized by bright makeup and masks this uniquely Keralite performance acts out Indian epics using only mime. For many travellers here Kathakali is the state’s major art-form but beyond this there are numerous traditions that have been slowly dying out. On the outskirts of Cheruthuruthy a unique school is focused on turning that tide around and reviving these generation-old art-forms.

By the time I arrive at Kerala Kalamandalam University classes are already in full swing. Established in 1930 by the poet Vallathol, this school is not only a training ground for young artists but also devoted to promoting and preserving Kerala’s indigenous forms of theatre. There’s an aura of dedicated concentration over the leafy campus very unlike the aura of any school I remember, and its students have been hard at work since 5am this morning.

Six delicate girls in the open-air class in front of me are practising a dance known as mohiniattom: a kind of female-only ballet. At the beginning of the 20^th century this dance was fast becoming a declining art. Its historic association with temple davadasis (girls that served inside the temples and performed a similar role in Indian culture as the geishas of Japan) meant that many people had become embarrassed by the dance itself and it looked like mohiniattom would fade away, like the davadasis before it, into history. The university has managed to restore Mohiniattom to its rightful place as a respectable art-form in Kerala and is one of the school’s many success stories.

But it’s not just about one dance. The staccato beat of a dozen drums beats out from one class where a group of young boys practise. In another class neat lines of children learn the intricate hand gestures and facial expressions of Kathakali. The whole campus is alive with rhythm. It’s a wonderful experiment in preserving art that is successfully nurturing young performers and is assuring the future of theatre in Kerala.

Driving to The Nila

jess_lee — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 23:51:00 GMT

I’m in a car being driven by the Hindu version of Michael Schumacher. After one month’s sojourn back in a world where a stop sign actually means stop and traffic lights are obeyed, it’s good to get back to a bit of street-mayhem.

Staring out the window, the roads are a never-ending carnival of chaos and diesel. Trucks with colourful hand-painted sides, spluttering buses that are fixed together with little more than rubber-bands and hope, hand-pulled carts and the auto-rickshaws of course careening through the traffic like fly’s hoping not to be swatted.

I’m on my way to Cheruthuruthy, to begin a 10 day journey into the Nila river region; an area of Kerala that is near untouched by the state’s tourist boom. The last time I was here I took the typical backpacker route. Cochin followed by the backwaters and then onto the hippy-ville southern beach of Varkala. This time I head north.

The Nila is practically impossible to find on a map and now here I find out why. It turns out that the river also goes by another, official, name: the Bharatpuza, but is known simply as Nila to all who live along its banks.

The name doesn’t give anything away. Nila simply means blue in the local language Malayalam. So what’s so important about this river I wonder? I watch palm trees, paddy fields and rows of tapioca fold into a blur of green outside my window and look forward to finding out.