Surviving the tourist trap

Mon 2 and Tues 3 Dec 2013  

We had made it to Varkala. The beach town that teetered on the top of a cliff that so many travellers had recommended and sold with such enthusiasm that we simply could deny a visit.  

The previous month had been absolutely jam-packed with Indian adventures, and we had started to forget the Anjuaesque calls of 'come look my shop madam,' endless continental (ish) menu offerings, and fresh pink holidaymakers.  

All hopes of sunning on mystical Indian shores had been dampened by the big grey clouds, leaving me somewhat deflated about this seaside haven. We'd been incredibly lucky to have our Indian dream become a reality in Fort Cochin, and now it appeared that anywhere else had a massive struggle to come close. It also made us realise that big Bob Marley banners and advertisements for 'Jam Sessions' are, in fact, what most travellers appear to love and that we may be in the minority trying to find the 'real' India.  

After having a little sulk and receiving some words of wisdom from Jamie, I took his advice and decided to embrace the situation. There would be no cute little local shack where I could enjoy beef curry for breakfast, but there would be bacon. There would be no smelly old man bar serving beer or whiskey and water, but there would be cocktails on the beach.  

This started to make Varkala more and more appealing, and I managed to turn my frown upside down (with the aid of BOGOFF cocktails).  

Deciding to stretch out our budget, we wandered (staggered) back to our apartment, grabbed some cash, took a booze order from the guys hanging out in the kitchen, and then headed to the offie.  

Inevitably, none of the tuk-tuk's meters were working, so the haggling commenced. After 20 minutes of arguing and walking off to 'make our own way' (a 5km walk in the dark with no torch), the sound of an engine sneaking up on us was music to our ears.  

We jumped in and had to listen to the big story about how we were robbing this man blind, locals don’t even pay what we pay, blah blah blah. When we stopped, I moved to get out of the tuk-tuk.  

'No madam, stay. Not for ladies.'  

The moaning about what we had agreed to pay continued. The guy asked where we were from and was genuinely very shocked when I said England.  

'Are you telling truth, madam? The English never barter, they just pay.'  

It was official—we were in India’s next Thomas Cook holiday destination of choice.  

I explained that we weren’t on a holiday. That the bags we had held all of our things, we didn’t have jobs, and that we had saved money to visit this place, so we needed to make it last, and that meant haggling to try and get a good price, not silly tourist price.  

Still shocked, he asked again if I was really from England.  

Jamie returned after about 20 minutes with his arms loaded with bottles.  

'That was a whole new thing,' he said as he sat down.  

So in Cochin, the liquor store had been a roadside store with barred windows where you had to queue with the village down-and-outs for your poison. Girls in the queue were frowned upon, but everyone was fairly polite, and by the end of our 2-week stay, Jamie was even able to ask questions about what was on offer instead of just shouting out 'Gin' or 'Rum' and having to buy whatever was presented.  

Here it sounded like absolute carnage. The queue was big and rowdy and looked somewhat like a cattle enclosure. Eventually, getting served by shouting the loudest over the bustle of men all trying to force their way in front, Jamie was given his liquor. Next, he had to try to fight his way out.  

Safely back at the apartment, we delivered the beers to the American couple and sat in the kitchen and cracked open the rum and coke.  

With at least 2 glasses warming our bellies, we all recognised the need for food. We decided to decant the rum into a coke bottle, giving it the perfect disguise, and head out.  

Thai was part of the plan to embrace Varkala, so we headed to the place tipped in the book as a 'specialist' to try and get some satay. They also had a tonne of fish out on display to meet the needs of the American duo, making this an official double date.  

We ended up sharing a Thai starter and a huge bargain-priced red snapper cooked in the tandoor. The meal, company, and rum were delightful. Our covert 'rum disguised as coke' cover was also blown. We were all obviously very much more drunk than we were when we arrived. So much so that we actually hadn’t realised that we were the only people left until lights started to get switched off.  

'We’re so sorry you’ve been waiting for us. We didn’t realise you were closing. Sorry to keep you here so late.'  

'It’s ok, we just sleep here,' they said, pointing to the chairs at the top of the restaurant.  

After getting a little lost and walking the long way round, we made it safely to bed and slept like babies.  

I woke first and felt pretty ok. I had an unquenchable thirst but apart from that, I was set for the day. The sun was out and the beach was calling.  

Jamie woke, bleary-eyed, disorientated, hungover, confused, and frustrated about how I could have escaped and be looking so spritely.  

Having spotted a place advertising 'bacon sarnies' yesterday, we headed towards this holy grail with all hopes pinned that they would deliver a cure.  

All expectations were met, and a huge hangover breakfast of fruit, freshly squeezed OJ, lattes, chocolate shakes, and genuine bacon sarnies was scoffed.  

The cure appeared to work, and we grabbed our beachwear and headed out to enjoy the glorious sunshine. The water was warm and the waves strong, so we paddled in the shallows to cool off before soaking up some rays.  

It was simply too hot to lay without shade, so we soon headed back up the cliff to indulge in more hangover food.  

We continued to have a lazy day and decided a movie on the Nexus and takeaway pizza in bed would be the only suitable finale to our time here.  

We headed out into the dark, this time armed with a torch. At restaurant Cafe Del Mar, we ordered pizza to take away with chicken goujons and dips... as close as we were gonna get to Dominoes!  

They were well-prepared with pizza boxes and everything. We sat and waited for our food with a lime soda, and then the downpour began. A truly tropical storm unleashed a month’s worth of rain.  

When our pizza came, we decided that waiting for the rain to stop would probably lead to a cold dinner, so we grabbed plates and chowed down. It was pretty good.  

About 30 minutes later, the storm turned into drizzle, and in the darkness, half a pizza in hand, we made our way back.  

It would have been better in a boat—the rain had instantly blocked all the drains, and we waded through lukewarm water which contained all manner of miscellaneous items that we tried in vain not to think about, as we hopped, skipped, and paddled from one protruding rock to another, something a childhood of playing 'stepping stones' had prepared us for.  

We made it back, and promptly washed our black tarry feet, stuck on the TV in our den made of mosquito netting, while Jamie finished off the rest of our western sensation.

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