Manathavedy

We returned to the hills as we ascended into Wayanad national park, passing groves of Toddy trees, from which the local liquor is made - it's supposed to be drunk in the morning, as by the evening it's vinegar. Vile. We arrived in the exceptionally untouristy Manathavedy to mixed receptions - a Richard (rickshaw-driver) directed us to leave the town, but a troupe of schoolchildren carried us hotelwards.

We stayed in the Century Grand hotel, which may have been grand a century ago, but was still great value despite its lack of character. Fuelled on room service I took courage and opted for a haircut at the local "man hub" - it seems a "layered bouffant" was lost in translation.

The next morning we woke at 6.30 in order to arrive at Tholpetty - the entrance to the wildlife sanctuary - as early as possible. We may well have seen as much wildlife on the bus en route - not that that was a bad thing, although it was fairly terrifying when everyone leaned to one side of the bus to see the animals as we hurtled round corners. We hired a jeep (built for shorter Indian men = reclining positions adopted) and a fantastic guide, and set off into the forest: I entered Attenborough mode, though my impersonation sounded curiously like Nelson Mandela. We saw a fine array of wildlife, the highlight of which was the group of wild elephants - just after the sighting, the guide showed us a video he'd taken when his car was chased by a huge tusker. Nervous laughter abounded.

It was a welcome break to be in an area with absolutely no development - buildings would no doubt ruin the awesomeness of the forest, in which my camera battery inconveniently died.

Post safari we had uber sugary/milky coffee in the roadside cafe, and witnessed the tedium of the workers in such remote places - with hardly anyone stopping by all day, it's easy to see why they hassle tourists so.

We returned to Manathavedy and, feeling suicidal due to the sheer awfulness of the Valentine's day films on show, left to Mysore.

With love

kannur

"Floor it" I yelled at the tuktuk driver, but awkwardness descended when we trundled off at a pace slower than an arthritic snail without a foot. It was possibly the worst race-against-the-clock-car-scene ever, with 7 minutes to make our crucial train, when we'd taken the wrong train to a station 10 minutes away. Who were we trying to kid being all dramatic? Timetables in the South are not so much rules as guidelines, and soon enough we were rolling towards Kannur on the coast.

Our hotel, KK heritage, was a comfortable distance outside grubby Kannur, right on the northern backwaters and next to the incredible Thottady beach. The beaches in the area were the best yet, but one could tell that within 2 years they'll be bustling and built up.

Feeling the effects of excessive sun-worship, I almost chunned everywhaa at the communal dinner: this may have been fitting given that our fellow diners were talking about the intensive meditation they'd undergone - one woman had paif to spend a month in silent meditation at the Ashram of Amma. I couldn't help but draw similarities to telling a group of children to play "sleeping lions", whilst asking them to pay me.

I don't think I've mentioned Amma yet - she is a world-famous Hindu teacher, who tours the world giving her reputedly healing hugs to up to 30,000 people a day! Rather incredible, and it always transpires that we miss her by a couple of days in each town - perhaps a sign pointing to our imminent spiritual enlightenment.

The second day I was back on my usual, hilarious form, which was put to good use conversing with the local youths - a dialogue achingly reminiscent of a gcse oral as we were asked "what did you do last weekend/do you have sisters/what do the English teenagers do for hobbies?" Regarding the last question, we were embarrassingly confounded in trying to decide what the English do these days. A safe bet, we settled for "drinking". Bleak.

The rest of the day was spent chilling on la playa, before an early night in anticipation of the next day's venture.

4.15am. Waking in order to see the Theyyam festival, Jack is lying in bed trying to muster the energy. Lissy screams and sprints out of the bathroom. Jack enters the bathroom. Jack sees Shelob, the mother of all spiders. The battle begins.

I don't exaggerate when I say this was the largest spider I've seen outside the zoo, and at 4.15 it seemed all the more massive. It charged towards the bedroom door, and I slung it back with my plastic travel folder. Adrenaline pumping, and thinking back to my heroics at the rifle range, I found enlightenment: I grab the butt-hose-toilet-thing and try to spray it down the plug hole. Too large. Water cannoning this 8-legged freak, I call on Lissy to trap it under a bucket. On her own agenda, she hurls the bucket at it and we both flee the room.

Soon after 4.30 we arrive at a nearby temple, where preparations are underway for the Theyyam performance. One of the oldest Keralan traditions, Theyyam is a ritual in which the participants dress as, and resultantly become possessed by, the gods.

It was an incredible sight, with one participant - painted like a zebra and with a 20-foot-tall palm structure strapped to his back - dancing increasingly vigorously to the drums, whilst on stilts! We left at around 7.30am, after the incarnate gods had been clothed and painted in the costumes the photos can only come close to describing. What was most fascinating and crucial was the truth that it wasn't simply a spectacle, but was an intensely sacred festival - as was clear from the large amounts of locals who turned up at such an ungodly hour!

With love

Thrissur

Waking early to flee Shelob's lair, we endeavoured upon our first long coach journey - reassuring how it seems here that everyone will help to get you headed in the right direction. Our first leg - to Perumbavoor - was straightforward, despite the increasingly draining heat as we left the hills.

It was between Perumbavoor and Thrissur that we came unstuck: without a seat, we had to stand at the front of the coach in the sight of all the locals - a novelty that soon wore off. After my attempts to start chants failed (turns out only the English are easily pleased enough to shout "we're the leeeeeft side/we're the riiiiight side" endlessly), we became the target of looks dirty as Britain's track record in India. One old woman's nose-wrinkling made us particularly insecure - I've learnt that smiling sickeningly at horrible people disarms them far more effectively than they can you.

We arrived at our hotel, the Wariyam heritage - staffed by an outrageously kind manager and an ancient caretaker whose English consisted of the most vigorous head-wobbling we'd yet encountered. Hungry, we headed to the supposedly "jetset" (becoming increasingly doubtful in LP) Joy's Palace, where joy came in the form of ludicrously over-priced sandwiches... perhaps one of the most silly status symbols we've encountered. (Except, maybe, for the "fancy stationary" (sic) sold at Jolly & Jolly).

Thrissur is built around a large, circular, mound, at the middle of which stands the temple, to which we were denied entry by the fashionista guard on account of our unstylish clothes.

Walking around the perimeter wall, we were adopted by a local who fancied his hand at being a tour guide - insightful knowledge, despite a total lack of English. His pointing and view-finding did explain the source of the Savile-esque puffing coming from the other side of the wall: Elephants! 15 of which roam the temple grounds. Caught in an elephunk, we ventured into the pen to meet one of the massive mammals, which is when things got awkward: as I was stroking Sri Ramana's trunk, he seemed to get a little overexcited, to say the least. The keepers then tried to convince Lissy to stroke Sri's second trunk - they must've thought we were properly stupid, especially as they then had the cheek to ask for a tip (in vain)!

We fled back to our hotel, before heading out for a slap-up Chinese meal in town, such a relief to be off the curry for one night at least.

With love

Munnar day 3 - day at the dam

"I was at this existentialist photography exhibition" began lissy, but she was drowned out by the cheering of the crowd gathered behind us.

We had arranged a tour of the nearby mountain 'sights' with Hussain, a rickshaw driver whose "tour guide certificate" looked more Mickey Mouse than a Legoland driving licence. We had stopped by one of the two dams that generate power for the Munnar district, and which seemed to be the hub of entertainment to be had on a Saturday afternoon. Having admired the stunning views across the reservoir, and having taken necessary selfies, we were drawn to the rifle range.

A sizeable crowd had gathered to witness the white man with the gun. As I burst balloons left and centre (I missed the right), the crowd whipped itself into a frenzied excitement, cheering louder and louder. When I burst the balloon with my final slug, so raucous was the celebration that I was overcome: I turned and, raising the rifle above my head, yelled "freeeeddooooooom" in a Braveheart-esque manner.

In hindsight, I regret my overreaction, as it seems to have triggered an uprising: we genuinely passed trucks of armed cadets on our return to Munnar.

We rickshawed higher and deeper into the strangely-shaped hills, peaking at "top station", where the morning cloud had unfortunately not yet burnt off. This turned the famed view point into a bit of a farce - in fact, I'm almost convinced that there's no view to be seen, and that in fact it's a point for locals to easily view westerners: every man and his goat wanted a photo with us (we returned fire by catching several off guard and asking for a photo with them), and binoculars were genuinely being pointed at us.

(On the plus side, I spotted several Indians taking selfies - glad to see the movement taking off.)

Returning to town we checked into a cheaper hotel - a line I hope never to repeat: it was morgueishly grim. Instead of towels and loo roll, we got blackouts, an inexplicably flooded bathroom and an ant infestation. Sensationally dire, and an unfitting ending memory for the vivacity of Munnar.

With love

Munnar day 2 - fifty shades of green

Having feasted the previous night on Oreos and Indian crisps, we soon became delirious on our massive morning walk through the plantations, hallucinating with visions of humungous picnics - I bizarrely convinced myself into believing that the local supermarket would sell Parma ham. Colonialist dream rapidly shattered.

When we finally lunched, I was so hungry I could've eaten in horse - I may well have, in fact, as the "chicken" curry certainly didn't cluck when it was alive... Other delicacies included "ladies finger" which is in fact recommended by Lonely Planet, and anyone who says they don't abide by LP is either lying, not telling the truth, or they're fricking ugly.

I appreciate that this blog is named Marco Yolo, but what we did next was simply bat-shit crazy: we visited the tea museum. Call me a renegade. I'd say it was interesting, but that'd be lying: it was mind-blowing. Not only did we see the tea-making machinery, as well as countless photos stirring awkward colonialist history (plantation chief Eric sat next to numerous slain tigers being the most painful), but we also listened to an address given by a man who styles himself as the MLK of tea-related oration. Informative and compelling. Jokes aside, it was cool to see how this drink we take for granted is made - and also quite gutting to realise that western "tea" mostly consists of the butt-ends of the process.

In the hope of avoiding another Oreos-based dinner, we scouted some of the restaurants next to our homestay: no sooner had I entered was I swelled by a suicidal urge to hurl myself out of the window into the plantations below, rather than remain in this dementor-esque setting. The large, communal tables were deserted, save a lone diner who sat in the corner ogling us, frequently belching. Our table was strewn with what looked like clipped fingernails, and even the tray on which our lime juice (we didn't have the heart to leave without ordering anything, so dire was the business) had "good luck" scratched onto it.
Oreos round two it was.

With love

Munnar - wrong direction

6.30am is no time to be making friends, let alone a time to be sat on the lap of a stranger - 4 of us had been squished into the back seats of a pokey car (we became so sweaty that we had to peel ourselves of one another if we wanted to move) for the 5 hour journey to Munnar. I had the fortune of being sat next to an entertaining Canadian (a paradox outside of India), who recounted a time when, at my age, a Sri Lankan couple had proposed a threesome in want of a white child. Watch this space.

We stopped by the Kudanadu elephant training camp (I'm not entirely sure what they're being trained for nowadays...), to see the young elephants having their morning wash. It wasn't as cute as expected: the elephants were pinned down and sat upon by the whooping scrubbers; I sympathised with their being mounted whilst having a morning wash, having had similar experiences in my early school days...

With a collective sigh of relief we arrived in Munnar - 1850m high, and covered in plantations of tea, pepper, cardamom etc, the hills were an otherworldly green, so epic views were in all directions. Speaking of directions, we were jumped upon by the local incarnation of 1Direction as we wandered through town, who wanted an impromptu photoshoot - I've come to learn the routine when being asked for a photo:

(1) get asked for photo
(2) engage in excruciatingly awkward conversation before
(3) someone plucks up the courage to suggest getting on with it
(4) their friend walks over, return to (1) and repeat.

A quick note on Indian "bromance" - guys of all ages engage in a hyper-developed form of bromantic activity: walking hand-in-hand, hugging at inappropriate moments, back-seat-motorbike fondling etc. In short - less Band of Brothers, more Brokeback Mountain.

Walking back to our homestay, we were swamped by hordes of children who'd just left school - it was fine preparation for my future fame, but still pretty curious: "hello white man!!!" they cried, to which I (in hindsight, pretty crudely) replied "hello brown children"! Eloquence comes naturally.

We detoured through the tea plantations: I thought it a wise idea to infiltrate the rows of trees, seeking revenge for the awful tea adverts on Indian tv - I hadn't realised quite how very steep the plantations are, and was almost lost to the sea of green.

With love

Kochi - terracotta testes

Choked by the pollution of Ernakulam, we hurried into the folklore museum, a heritage building containing the treasures of Kerala: foetal position burial urns? Check. 'Where the Wild Things Are' style masks? Check. Prehistoric terracotta penises? Of course.

A bizarre, but interesting, collection, it was reassuring to see that a history exists beneath the constant beeping and hassling. However, it was clear the museum was on a downer: the curators offered to sell us some of the displayed items - amazing pieces of gap trash they'd be, Im not sure lugging a 300-year old wooden sculpture around would be ideal.

Post-lunch we took the ferry back to fort kochi, immersed within the locals who have named me "jacky boy". Quite honestly, we had a sensationally lazy rest of day, in anticipation of the following day's madventure.

With love

Kochi - hassle free hassling

When I came to India I knew that, according to gap yah tradition, the likelihood of me adopting a child was fairly high. What I hadn't anticipated was that I'd want to adopt an adult: we had moved hotels in kochi to "green woods Bethlehem", and the owners - Sheeba and Ashley - are too adorable for words, it's almost absurd.

Releasing ourselves from the hugging arms of Sheeba, we set off exploring most of Fort Kochi: as we passed the Chinese fishing nets - 400-year old nets operated by weights - the locals operating them beckoned for us to join them. Admittedly, our rope-pulling didn't add much to their efficiency, but it was great fun - more so as the men, whilst they were pulling, chanted like something out of The Dark Knight Rises... We were then guilt tripped into giving the fishermen money - has anyone ever paid to do the job of another? Their disbelieving laughter as walked away confirmed my suspicions.

Borat jokes aside, we then wandered to the area known as Jewtown, whose highlights included the world's biggest Varpu (Indian frying pan) and a herd of feral goats that tailed us for hours. Overcome by a misguided confidence in our senses of direction, we endeavoured to walk back to the hotel through the spider's web streets of Matancherry. Thoroughly baked by the sun, we eventually returned to Sheeba's welcoming nest for tea on the rooftop terrace. It was there we met a charming, albeit extremely deep, German man who, as we tiredly sipped our Chai, lectured us on how "men are truly animals", quoting from hamlet etc. All stereotypes of the Germanic sense of humour were confirmed.

Our most expensive dinner yet (£15 in total) continued this evening of sophistication, especially due to the local yazz flute performance accompanying it - Rondeep Burgundy nailing it. Craving alcohol, we headed to a dodgy looking bar, which doubled up as "black magic tattoo parlour" (fear not, no related gap traj misadventures), where we were accosted by the over-chummy barman/drugdealer:

Barman: "we are like brothers, but we have different mother and different father"
Lissy: "aha! Brother from another mother?!"
Barman: "yes. And father."

With love

Alleppey/kochi

How did you spend your Monday morning? We spent it cruising the deserted backwaters, as Indian music - from speakers at the top of trees - played in the distant. Disgraceful gap year living, I'll be first to admit, but it was indescribably awesome - except for the scary keralan breakfast surprise: tasty looking pancakes with... Curry spice! Jokes aside, there was LITCHRALLY an ethereal haze sitting over the paddy fields we passed.

Reluctant to leave, we sprung onwards to kochi - a town colonised by Portuguese traders, with a 400-year old Jewish community and remnants of the British raj.
We checked into Spencer's home, a hotel within the civilised area of fort Cochin, which Lissy rightly likened to clapham - you need a visa to visit both, after all. Beside Spencer's was a huge playing field on which local boys were playing football and cricket: I was eager to get involved, but they totally blanked me - perhaps news of my last footballing venture (during which I knocked out the front tooth of a 9-year old - he was being cocky (I joke, but I genuinely did maim a child...)) has spread to these parts. #whyalwaysme

We've frequented a cafe called teapot, whose walls are adorned with teapots. Worryingly British vibe, but we never mention the C word out here. (Colonialism). Having heard about the buzzing art scene of kochi, we were pretty excited when a man approached us promising free entry to his friend's "art exhibition" - it soon became clear that we'd been scammed, unless one artist genuinely mass-produces miniature scale tuktuk souvenirs as a form of social commentary... Ironically, many shops hassle you to advertise their "hassle free shopping" - I ought to teach the shop-owners 'sausage' so at least they wouldn't be breaking their promises; sausages are quite a foreign concept here, however, and 'chapatti' hasn't quite got the same ring to it...

For those doubtful of father christmas's existence, be assured - I've found him: we ate in the fantastic dal roti, run by the indian incarnation of Santa himself, beard, minor alcohol problem and all.

With love

Alleppey - our first train journey, houseboating and hippies

Our trip from kollam to alleppey started startlingly smoothly: tickets purchased, we waited in the sweltering heat of the platform. An Indian lady brandishing a baby approached us, her entire family watching on eagerly. It felt a little like the lion king - I nearly took the baby from her hands and, holding it to the sky, started singing an old Indian folk song. I decided against it - perhaps a little too much.

We triumphantly found our seats, which were comfier than your average national rail offering, I even almost texted my family as I was so pleased with my success. Lissy rang hers. Then came the ticket inspector: perhaps it is by a secret code that ticket inspectors worldwide are total wankers. "Get up, get up, get out of this carriage", with 40 minutes of the 135min journey we'd done so well, albeit illegally - we were dumped next to the doors, one of which was flapping open.

We arrived at Johnson's in alleppey - run by the ginger-dyed, zealous Johnson, a very cool Indian with a tendency to "balance on his head whilst listening to trance music" (Tripadvisor). Having dumped our gear and fled - far too many beards and piercings on display - we explored alleppey, touring the beach (not unlike West Wittering), the spice market (Lissy's hand smelt like tikka masala for days after), and the "tourist office", where we conducted frustrating conversation regarding houseboat hire with the proprietors.

Disappointed (and chased on motorbike by a boat-owner hoping to close a deal), we returned to Johnson's, where we found Johnson, astonishingly on his feet, rather than head.
"Oh guys I've been searching for you, my houseboat has been repaired - do you want it until tomorrow lunchtime?" Bingo.

We spent the evening on the houseboat which was moored on the backwaters outside alleppey; a ridiculously tranquil/beaut location. The houseboat was huuuuuge, with hanging chairs downstairs beside the ginormous table, and a top deck with bedroom upstairs. As the evening grew dark, and candles were lit so we could see the vast amounts of food laid out, it felt like we were out of Heart of Darkness, minus the psychological anguish.

With love

Photos below: train malarkey, the carriage to which we were expelled,fellow yoloist, creepy sign; houseboat pt1

Kollam day 2 - moustachioed punting

"Newsflash: a wooden raft overburdened by the weight of 15 rusty cars and numerous obese tourists sank today, after some genius benightedly thought it a legit form of canal crossing" was a possibility that ran through my mind as I looked over my surroundings: en route to the backwater canoe trip our taxi had driven up what looked like step-ladders onto an already packed "barge". With tuktuks perched precariously on the edge, our impending fate seemed more inevitable than the loss of readership for this blog.

I'd like to say the canoe trip was worth the terrifying journey, because it was. As we ("we" being me, Lissy and two bearded Belgians - both men) were punted through the canals, we experienced a peacefulness quite distant from the wail of the towns. I half expected our punter (a young, excitable Indian whose name I forget, let's call him Clive) to break out in song a la Venetian gondolier. Fortunately, for all our sakes, he didn't.

Excited by the sight of an ancient local diving for clams as he swam the river (a seemingly impossible task given the water's murkiness), Clive took us round a villager's garden, pointing out the pepper, pineapple, cashews etc etc growing there. Actually quite fascinating to learn how resourceful they were in using the various plants for alternative medicine, despite having the cynic in me recalling Tim Minchin's "Do you know what they call 'alternative medicine' that's been proved to work? Medicine."

Clive handed me the pole, this was it: I was becoming a real man. A punter. Notorious my balance may be, even Clive was impressed with my efforts - the congratulatory bum-squeeze seems a little off in hindsight, though.

We visited a local rope factory, where coconut husks are harvested -in an ingenious, but laborious process - to make string. After Lissy had fashioned a small rope out of coconut fibre using a machine, Clive folded it up and handed to her: "now you can be like the rest of us with our facial hair", turning to me and the bearded Belgians. An awkward silence followed soon after my lack of beardiness became apparent.

Having returned to our hotel, we spent what remained of the afternoon hammocking. In the evening we were given some "black monk" rum (apparently drunk by the Indian army - quite tasty and in a monk-shaped bottle!) by fellow guests who got awkwardly hooned - they were cousins who lived in Canada/India, and they admitted to having Skype drinking sessions together. Just no.

Lissy beard update: pretty ropey
Jack beard update: prepubescent

With love


Ps - Lissy bought a cigarette packet whose safety warning picture looked astonishingly like John Terry (picture below)