On our way to see an ancient cave temple near Baddegama, we saw the huge Buddha statue raised at Peraliya in memory of the 1500 train passengers and the numerous other people killed by the terrible tsunami in December 2004.  It has been placed on an island in the middle of a pond that has been created at the site of the train crash.  The statue, which is a replica of the Bamyan Buddha statues destroyed by the Taliban in 2001, was donated by the Japanese.

The Wawulagala Shri Shailakutarama Purana Gallen Viharaya is a very ancient cave temple near the village of Baddegama.  It is now in the care of the Department of Archaeology for the region, although there is a resident priest and the temple is in use.  Some 70% of Sri Lankans are Buddhists and the religion has been practiced here since the third century BC.  When we arrived, the Buddha’s maxims in Pali, followed by melodious singing and chanting, were being relayed on a loudspeaker, which somewhat spoilt the otherwise numinous atmosphere.

The temple premises which seem to date from the fifth century, are scattered over several large boulders and within the largest, which is surmounted by the ancient stupa, is the cave temple, with a large reclining Buddha.  There are several very ancient wall paintings relating the story of the Buddha and of the arrival in Sri Lanka of the son and daughter of the Indian ruler Ashoka who had converted to Buddhism.  Most of the ancient paintings of the Kandy period are very faded, but the lotus flower decoration of the roof surface of the cave and other parts of the cave have more recently been re-painted.

The solitary priest showed us round this little visited temple, which felt a tranquil and spiritual place.  He then served us fresh coconut water.

The garden of Lunuganga, meaning Salt River,  is an exceptionally beautiful and interesting place to visit.  It was created over many years by Geoffrey Bawa (1919-2003), Sri Lanka’s foremost architect, the originator and exponent of Oriental Modernism, on what had been a rubber plantation on a lakeside peninsula, which he bought in 1949.

It is a garden of vistas and spaces, light and shade, views framed by trees, columns, doorways, windows.  Garden and house merge into each other and there is not one, but there are several structures and artefacts, some seemingly hidden, until alighted upon as if accidentally, but of course by design, and all harmonious, black, charcoal, white and a limited palette.  Nor is the garden highly coloured with its many shades of green, browns, touches of gold and views of water.

Although entirely original, it is reminiscent of the 16th century garden of Bomarzo in northern Lazio, created by Pirro Ligorio for Pier Francesco Orsini.  With its scattered structures, miniature houses, sculptures and enigmatic symbolism, the similarities seem too many to be accidental.  Since visiting I have been told that Bawa did indeed visit Italy and had Bomarzo in mind when creating his garden.

On Sunday our langour lifted and we visited Galle, some forty kilometres south of here.  The 36 acre historic fort on a promontory surrounded by sea and now a UNESCO heritage site, was built by the Dutch who began it in 1663, on the site of an earlier Portuguese fortification.  Within the walls is a harmonious collection of Dutch Colonial style buildings, low and well suited to the tropical vegetation that shelters and softens the structures.

It is a lively place, with small shops selling clothes, jewellery, textiles, ceramics and of course spices, without which there would have been no fort.  Groups of giggling girls and young courting couples formed a large section of the crowds wandering through the historic buildings and along the battlements near the lighthouse, while tourists, including ourselves shopped and ate in the surprisingly large selection of restaurants.

The best of the shopping was at Barefoot, which sells a good range of high quality, colourful textiles.  In the 1950’s Barbara Sansoni, an enterprising Singalese lady, wanting to enable rural women to earn their own money  and foster skills that were being lost, arranged that many of them be taught to weave and she provided their looms.  She then opened Barefoot in Colombo to sell their products and now there is this branch in Galle.

Later we visited a silk manufacturer and were shown the textile making process from the silkworm to the weaving.  Inevitably a scarf was purchased.

Almost as soon as we boarded the Sri Lanka Airways flight, life became more relaxed, as though everything had slowed down.  Perhaps it is the high proportion of Buddhists on the island and the fact that as yet we have been in the country, not in a city, but this is certainly a far calmer place than India.   This feeling of calmness however might be generated by our lack of anxiety every time we have to take to the road, as we no longer fear for our lives when being driven.

We had intended to spend our first couple of days here exploring Colombo, but we were both so tired that we remained cocooned in our very comfortable hotel, lazing by the pool, admiring the fragipani and coconut trees, and choosing ever more elaborate forms of seafood from the excellent fish restaurant on the premises. Yet again the hotel was filling up with wedding guests as we departed, in this case there was not one, but two weddings.

After a relatively slow, safe and stately drive we have arrived at a simple but enchanting house by a lake near Kosgoda, about halfway down the coast from Colombo.  Here, time has not so much slowed down as come to a complete halt as we drift from bed to the sea, from there to breakfast, followed by hours of reading or talking on old fashioned reclining cane chairs, before lunch is served, rests are taken and then everyone meets for drinks and dinner.  The sounds of water, birds, squirrels, gekkoes and crickets, overlaid by the whistling and rattling of the trains, form the backdrop to this lotus eating existence, that, and the stupendously verdant and vibrantly beautiful views.

We took the government water ferry to the backwaters, which at Rupees 13 each, namely 15p. was an incredible bargain for a three hour journey.  All life was there, with people getting on and off at the thirty stops along the way.  It must be said that I had grave doubts as to the sea worthiness of the vessel, but it chugged along perfectly well and by the end of the journey the disparate groups of passengers had begun to bond, children, young backpackers, day labourers and us.

All life was there on the backwaters too, as women hung out washing, rowed themselves between houses in their little skiffs and worked in the paddy fields.

Meanwhile the men, or so it seemed to us, were responsible for running the houseboats that many tourists enjoy staying on in order to see the backwaters.  Originally the houseboats were converted riceboats, as modern transportation methods had rendered these beautiful vessels redundant.  It must then have been a delightful experience to drift along in the breeze, under a canopy woven from palm fronds watching the rich water life and the birds along the backwater.

Nowadays, not only are there so many houseboats that in some places it is the marine equivalent of the M25, but they have become so luxurious as to have airconditioning, generators, several bedroom cabins, viewing platforms and a large staff to cater for any and every demand of the clients.  All this puts terrible pressure on the delicate ecology of these waterways.  There are other causes of damage too, including the high levels of garbage, particularly plastic, and the rapid growth of the water hyacinth, a non-native plant from South America, that is gradually choking up the once freely flowing water ways.

The life of a peasant farmer in this region is not easy and the Communist party has a considerable presence in the countryside and along the backwaters.  In fact Kerala has long been represented by the Communist Party in Delhi and Kerala was the first democratically elected communist government in the world and has done much to increase literacy levels, reduce infant mortality rates and improve the health of people.

Doubtless solutions will be found to retain the beauty of this unique water system and of so much else of Kerala, with its memorable land and seascapes and its fascinating cultural mix.

On New Year’s Day we travelled through coconut groves and banana plantations to the village of Chendamangalam, as having seen the ancient Pardesi Synagogue in Fort Cochin, we had learned of the existence of another ancient synagogue in this village.  Once there were several thousand Jews in Cochin, whose origins probably go back to the arrival of Yemeni Jews who were successful traders and perhaps not keen to pay the taxes imposed by the newly powerful Muslims of their homeland.  There is a tradition that they came here at the time of Solomon, but whenever it was that they arrived, there are very few now in Kerala as most left in the 1950’s to go to the newly formed state of Israel.

We had hoped to see the restored synagogue, which we did, but not the interior as it was closed.  However, far more interestingly, for one can see pictures of the interior, it was our good fortune to meet an extraordinary man, Bezaliel Eliahu, who is one of the last of the Jews of Cochin and who returns each year from Israel to his home on the land where he was born, next to the ancient synagogue,  He is also an Israeli citizen and has become a well known Israeli agricultural entrepeneur, and has received awards from both the Israeli and Indian governments for his pioneering work.  It was a fascinating time talking to him and learning about this group of the so called ‘Black Jews’ who have made their home in Israel.

Chendamangalam has not only a synagogue, but a mosque, a Christian church and a couple of Hindu temples.  There is no friction between the communities and indeed they join in each others’ celebrations, sharing the festive meals.  Near to the synagogue are Muslim and Jewish burial grounds.

Just around the corner was the the Holy Cross Church where they were getting ready for Epiphany and the celebration of the visit by the Three Wise Men to the manger with shepherds, animals and an angel.  Meanwhile Baby Jesus lay resting in the church while Mary was being made ready for the procession.    We were also shown a statue of St Augustine, that was from the Portuguese era.

This fascinating combination of religions was made even more evident when a few minutes after leaving the church we came upon the closing stages of a celebration to Shiva.  The drummers were just departing, the temple and its entrance were decked in bananas and coconuts, when to our delight a procession of elephants made their way to the gateway, first stopping to pick up coconut tree fronds. To do this, they cleverly rolled up the bunch with their trunks and then carried them on their tusks.

It was a day that summed up the extraordinary cultural mix that is Kerala.

Here on the Malabar coast we are quite definitely still in India, but it’s an India that has  a cosmopolitan feel, having absorbed people from other worlds for a thousand years and more.  Long before Vasco da Gama, helped by Arabs, landed north of Cochin in 1498 and established a sea route between India and Europe, so that the Portuguese and then the Dutch, grew rich from the spice trade, there were well established communities of Jews, Syriac Christians, who still have numerous churches, and Chinese.  To this day, the nets of the Chinese fishermen can still be seen and many are in use. Even earlier, Greeks and Romans were here buying the fabled spices, cinnamon, cardamom and pepper, grown on the hills inland.

In a museum in the garden of the Bishop’s house is documented the history of the Portuguese presence and early Catholic communities in Cochin, and one can see the foundations of the original Fort that they were permitted to build for their trading settlement.  In the Church of St Francis, built in the mid-16th century, replacing an earlier structure, is the virtually illegible tombstone of Vasco da Gama, who died here in 1524.  His body was later removed to Lisbon.  There are many Dutch tombstones marking the deaths of members of the Dutch East India Company in the 17th century.  One can also see what appears to be a functioning punkah for keeping the congregation cool in the great heat.

In the mid 16th century the Raja of Kochi was given the gift of a beautiful wooden palace by the Portuguese, which was renovated nearly a century later by the Dutch.  There is a superb series of Hindu murals with scenes from the great Indian legends and one of them includes pictures of Europeans, just visible on the left side of the image below.

The nearby area of the old bazaar district was once the centre of the spice trade, but is now given over to tourism and a large array of shops seemingly all selling the same selection of pashminas, alabaster coasters, embroidered bags and joss sticks and interspersed by a few greengrocers, food and other useful shops

But round the corner hard work was being done by the dhobi wallahs in their specially built complex. They do all the laundry for the hotels and homestays in the area and  it is an extraordinary sight to see manual labour on such a scale, when one considers how technically advanced India is and how high the literacy rate is in Kerala, the highest in India at just under 94%

Later we enjoyed a light fusion meal at the elegant and beautiful Malabar Junction, a restored colonial house.

We had arrived in Cochin, in central Kerala, and the room we had booked bore absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to the room not booked in Bethlehem, as it was comfortable, even luxurious, set in beautiful gardens on the edge of town and so free of traffic and other noise.   Certainly it was a notch above our normal and perfectly pleasant rooms on this journey.   We now settled in for a couple of days of a truly multi-cultural festivity, which included roast turkey, cranberry sauce and a selection of curried vegetables.  ‘Silent Night’ drifted through the foyer and little girls in shalwar kameez played around the highly decorated red and gold Christmas tree, while their mothers and grandmothers in gorgeous sarees were even more ornamental. We reclined on sunloungers by the pool, strolled through the manicured gardens and made our first acquaintance with the waterways of Kerala, one of which ran past the gardens.

After a couple of days, the numbers of our fellow guests increased dramatically as they were gathering here for a large wedding.  Soon more and more exquisitely dressed men and women appeared, often in sumptious silks, a dancefloor was erected and then an  external banquet area, until finally, as we were leaving, virtually the entire hotel was taken over by the wedding party and the bride in her finery and henna patterned hands.

All along the way we have been struck by the vibrancy and intensity of India’s cultural wealth and the way in which Indian identity is so strong and certain. It seems able to assimilate whatever is new or comes from elsewhere and then transmute it into something distinctly Indian. It is such an interesting place to be visiting for so many reasons, including the fact that here in southern India there appears to be no friction between people of different religions, all of which seem to be widely practiced. The several varieties of Christianity, Latin, Syriac -West or East and their various denominations, and the different Protestant forms, are all well represented and very active, running schools, colleges and hospitals. Muslims and Hindus live harmoniously and in Cochin there is also a small Jain community with a small temple lavishly adorned with marble.

Folklore museums can sometimes be dispiriting places to visit, suggesting a world just out of reach, in the shadows of the recent past, lost and never again attainable.  A few hand ploughs, some mattocks, mortars and pestles, milking stools and pans, perhaps some copper pots or a very old and blackened range, simple embroidery, rough earthenware, and almost inevitably, a couple of outfits once worn by now extinct peasant groups.  To such a description, the Kerala Folklore Museum bears absolutely no resemblance. It is an extraordinary place created from the the remains of old houses and temples collected by the owner who is an antique dealer.  Each level of the interior is in a different architectural style, Malabar, Kochi and Travancore all with solid teak floors and intricately worked doors and ceilings and it is overflowing with a series of beautiful collections, including a lovely wood-lined theatre with a 17th century ceiling. There are over 4,000 artefacts that include musical instruments, religious statues, temple deities, dancing and theatre costumes, seals, coins, beds, palm leaf texts, ancient bibles and Islamic miniatures.  It is wonderful.

Our various experiences with taxis, Uber and otherwise, and their non-existent or non-functioning seatbelts, had decided us on using a reputable car-hire agent.   Ram and his Etios car duly arrived as agreed, and at precisely 9.15 am, strapped into our seatbelts, we took the road for Kerala.  It was to be a long day, at times it seemed, far too long.  We wove our way out of Mysore, narrowly avoiding overladen buses, trucks, tuk tuks, private cars, taxis and motorbikes, nearly all of which were intricately decorated or adorned with a large selection of images that ranged from a panoply of Hindu deities including Ganesh and four armed Vishnu, to Mary and Jesus and their Sacred Hearts, themselves garnished with flowers or bursts of golden rays.

Soon we had left Mysore and its traffic behind us, and we began to relax.  However, in almost no time at all, the young fresh faced and innocuous seeming Ram turned into Mr Toad on the Open Road, and from then on he toot-tooted his way bellicosely to Kerala.  We sped through countless villages, small towns, past interesting looking temples, weaving in and out of roadworks, new building constructions, over bridges, along rutted dust roads, shorts stretches of super highways, and from time to time braking perilously as we reached toll booths.  After a while, Nick gave up trying to ask him to slow down or explaining that it was extremely dangerous to overtake on a blind bend.  “No problem sir, this my own vehicle, I take no chances…”  We gave up and allowed fate to take its course, from time to time with eyes closed.

What little we saw and were able to photograph of the changing landscape looked interesting and much of it very beautiful, as at first gradually, and then dramatically through twenty seven hairpin bends we descended from the plateau through the Western Ghats to the coastal plain.  Along the way we had seen dusty villages, some with palm roofed mud huts and some with newly built bungalows, some were poor and neglected and others were undergoing change and rapid development.   Most were busy, well populated and made colourful by the apparel of the villagers and the decoration of the houses, temples, mosques and churches.  We had seen paddy fields, lush palm groves, banana plantations, indigenous forests, lakes, rivers, hills and mountains, bullocks, cows, monkeys and signs warning us of the presence of leopards, though none in reality.   And all this in only nine sometimes terrifying, but memorable hours, as at precisely 6.15 pm we arrived at our hotel.  It was Christmas Eve and fortunately we had booked a room.

Mysore’s Royal Palace is vast, oppulent, somewhat over the top, yet rather gorgeous, combining Hindu and Islamic architectural elements, running the gamut from Indo-Saracenic to Edwardian Raj.  This  is perhaps not so surprising when one realises that after the original palace burned down in 1897, it was rebuilt in 1912 to the design of a British architect.   The interior cannot be photographed, but with its public and private Durbar Halls, a Marriage Pavilion that combines Hindu, Islamic and Christian elements, exquisite mosaics, rare woodwork and priceless collections of sculptures and ceremonial objects, it is an extraordinary place to visit.

The surrounding large public garden was filled with local people visiting the palace and the several temples.  Some, including ourselves, went to see the elephants used for moving heavy items, such as the stone columns which were being worked by stonemasons using techniques virtually unchanged since antiquity.

On feast days and Sunday evenings, when 100,000 lightbulbs are switched on to outline the main buildings, the temples, walls and gateways, it is truly an Oriental fairyland – try imagining Harrods at night expanded several times.  We were lucky to experience this, as it was just before Christmas, which seems to be happily celebrated even though most people are Hindu, many are Muslim and relatively few are Christian.

Having visited during the day, on the advice of a friendly tuk tuk driver, we had returned along with a couple of thousand people to see the lights.

Visiting the Spice Bazaar and watching joss-sticks being made was a deliciously scented experience and even more so, discovering the innumerable fragrant oils made from the plants and spices of the region.