Varkala, Kerala
November 14, 2009
The muezzin’s chant wakes me at 5 am. It is still dark outside except
for the occasional lightning bloom over the Arabian Sea. The early
morning rumbles with ominous portents. 
First a ferocious dogfight down
the lane with anguished howls from the injured, then an argument
between man and a woman close by, the first public display of such
emotion I have witnessed. I lie back on my pillow to read with my
nightlight, trying not to disturb T who is sleeping peacefully beside
me. But peace is not the order of this morning. An enormous swarm of
screaming blackbirds begins wildly swirling the palms in the walled
garden just to our south, reminding me of a Hitchcock movie with it’s
eerie freneticism.
Had I not been over-concerned with an infection that had developed next to my left ear last night I might have paid more attention to the shouting I thought I heard in the distance. But infections in this environment get first attention. Then the shouting increased in volume. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I ran for the door, gently pried it open to avoid waking Tuck, and popped out onto the balcony. Just as I feared, way out beyond the surf line I could see through the palm fronds two heads bobbing on the waves. The shouting was much louder and as I slid up and down the perimeter of the balcony to improve my sightline, I soon spotted a large group of agitated men moving excitedly along the headland. They appeared to be pulling on a long rope reaching into the surf, apparently a lifeline to the drowning men. I rushed back into the room, told Tuck, who was now awake and abluting, that I was dashing to the shore to see what was up.
Hurrying down the red mud lane between the high masonry walls that are so much a feature of India, I rounded the end, wobbled over the four board bridge that spans the ditch where yet another wall is being built and sprinted back south toward the shore, now hidden by the shrimp hatchery. As I came round the corner, the scene began to come into focus, but far from the pattern I was expecting. Instead of a heroic rescue at sea, I found — 35 villagers hauling in a purse seine.
As I was soon to see first hand, it was filled with a heavy load of small silvery fish And one skate. After their two hours of shouting, heaving on the ropes and chanting the Malayalam equivalent of “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,” I had hoped for more. Maybe a shark or at least a sailfish. But no, just sardines.
This did not dampen the enthusiasm of the villagers, though. There was much smiling, some self-important shouting of directions, and the occasional departure from shore of some brave soul who swims out through the frightening waves to straighten the lines or beat the waters to scare the fish back into the net.
As the huge seine nears the shore the fishermen skillfully close its mouth. The two teams of pullers accomplish this by dancing in a tightly arranged choreography around the intervening palms. Shortly two women arrive carrying large metal tubs on their heads. The first load of shimmery fish makes its way hand over hand up the shore. Then several motorcycles roar in with huge plastic milk crates tied to the back. Clearly the whole village works together on this. I can see how an elected communist government works here. These people do everything communally. Not much different than what they had before, I imagine.
A group of men are scooping up a large pile of fish that has dropped into the sand, shoveling them back onto a tarp where the main treasure trove lies. Tuck and I assume that everyone shares equally in the catch including the boatmen at sea and those who transport the catch to market.
A young Czech woman joins us to snap some photos from our prime vantage point. Her apparently non-English-speaking boyfriend stands mutely apart As we are talking I notice one of the scoopers surreptitiously slip a handful of fish into his pocket. He avoids my eyes when he notices me noticing. I quickly shift my attention back to the Czech woman.
This is her second trip to India. The first took three months. “What brought you back,” I ask. “Well,” she said, “there were things that I didn’t understand on my first trip that I wanted to understand.”. She is two weeks into her four week return trip now. I am expecting an insight into fate, acceptance and the durability of the soul.
“Like what,” I inquire.
“Well, the first time I didn’t understand why I don’t find Indian men attractive. Now I understand. It is because their faces are round, not oval.”
I am stunned into silence. This took 14 weeks of travel to unwind? I sneak a peak at Tuck, who is atypically mute. I have to avert my eyes before we both catch the giggles.
Still, I give her the benefit of the doubt. I often regret my impromptu utterances when put on the spot. She probably just didn’t feel like discussing her spiritual velocity with two fish voyeurs.
Probably we would have made a better impression with Beatrice, the Austrian woman who introduced herself to us yesterday as “fisherwoman.” Another reply that left us nearly speechless.
“But isn’t Austria completely landlocked?” T asked.
Even though she avowed that she had raised young fish in a kibbutz in Israel, I had to doubt her bona fides when she demurred our invitation to view the shrimp hatchery in front of our hotel.
The fish are now separated into small and smaller, the fishermen are smiling and Tuck and I are retreating toward breakfast. Always friendly, Tuck stops to talk to an older man in a lunghi whom we have seen working on the construction project day after day. In that warm Indian way he wants to share the joy of the morning with us. We exchange pleasantries and names, shake hands and amble on our way.
As we leave the shore probably for the last time I think, “His face looks oval to me.”
{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
I’m loving the blog postings from both Bradfords. I mainly keep up with the site via RSS, so I haven’t had a chance to comment. Sounds like it has been an amazing experience for the both of you. Thanks for sharing!