Toddy

The guidebook we're carrying says, "if you learn to read one word in Malayalam, it'll probably be the one for toddy shops (kallishoppu)". Toddy is the fermented coconut juice that the farmers in the backwaters drink in lieu of beer. I've got a much clearer picture of to just whom this guidebook is being marketed. I guess it's me.

We pulled over to shore after a couple hours cruising on our first day so Moncy, our engineer, could stock up on paan to chew on. When he returned from his errand, I said, "Oh, I thought maybe we were at a kallishoppu..." Moncy's face lit up.

"Toddy?! You want toddy??" He and Cap'n Thomas had a short conversation in Malayalam, then nothing more was said about it by anyone.

The next day we stopped at a fish market to pick up some karimeen ("black fish") for lunch. Back on the boat again, I asked whether karimeen would taste good with toddy. Yes, they said, it would, and then there was some questioning to discern whether or not I really wanted it. I made clear that I didn't want the sort laced with elephant tranquilizer, but that otherwise, yes.

At some point further along the river, we passed the 500 year old church at Champakulam. Moncy pointed into the village nearby and said "toddy shop". We tied up and disembarked. I was getting excited. After some shuffling, it looked like the Captain would take us over to the shop. I gestured toward Deb and asked if it was alright for her to come, too, "Will she be safe?" Oh, yes, we were assured. So, we crossed a small footbridge, and headed through a row of commercial stalls along the canal. A few shopkeepers came out to lure us into theirs, "come in, just looking?", but we pressed on. Eventually, we came to the church, an impressive structure; a whole complex, in fact, of schools & plazas & auditoria. I read that the church itself was built in 1579 by the Portuguese, on the site of one of seven chapels in Kerala supposedly established by Doubting Thomas the Apostle. The Captain crossed himself and entered. He knelt in front of the altar. Deb and I glanced at one another and knelt behind him. I was wondering if he was taking us here to repent of the sin of wanting some toddy. Raising my head as if to do so (or in exasperation?), my gaze met a ceiling covered with iconography, all sorts of colorful gilded scenes, some recognizable, some not. Above the center of the room, someone (presumably Christ) stood in the middle of a row of six man-sized candles, wielding a sword in one hand and juggling seven stars with the other. It was kinda like drinking toddy, perhaps -- I could only guess. I plugged a few rupees into the charity box, we snapped some pix and left. Outside, by a 25 foot tall concrete mound, moulded and painted to resemble a stone "grotto", with a statue of Mary in a glass cabinet on its face, Captain ran into an old Sunday school teacher of his. They had a chat while Deb & I inspected a nearby sculpture under a pavilion, of a large dinghy, donated by some charitable organization according to an adjacent plaque, and currently being filled to the rim with water by a long hose snaking over from the church. We left whatever questions it raises in the air.

Captain led us back down the row of shops, and this time seemed more inclined to coax us into one. We passed on offers of a shirt or two, a cookbook, some sculptures, a coffee-table volume on the beauties of the backwaters. Eventually we came to a place that seemed a little less tourist oriented -- at least there was no merchandise on display -- and I thought for sure we're now at the toddy shop. But the shopkeep brought out a couple of enormous freshwater prawns.

Vijay, our cook, had been talking about these the day before, calling them "exporting quality", but I kept hearing "sporting quality", which I couldn't decipher. I pictured a man with a rod on the back of a yacht, raving about the fight that last prawn gave him before it broke the line. Anyway, I don't think I'd ever seen a prawn with claws before, but the largest of these had arms about a foot and a half long, with pincers at the end. Not a lot of meat on the claw, but the rest of it looked enough like a lobster. Even a spiny ridge between its eyes.

We got five, for us and the crew. I asked how much, and he said Rs1000, at which I should have balked and haggled, but didn't. I'm guessing this came out to roughly $10/lb.; exorbitant by Indian standards, but more than fair for monster prawn at the Safeway seafood counter.

And soon after, we were back on the boat. We took some pix of everyone holding the catch. I didn't wait long to remind them, "I thought we were going to a toddy shop". Moncy and Captain got into a conversation. I asked if it goes well with prawn. They and Vijay all thought it would be good, and that we wouldn't end up with elephant tranquilizer. They sorted out a place a little further downstream, and across the canal from Champakulam, and off we went.

As we pushed off from shore, we passed a fleet of houseboats heading in, all of them of the three of four bedroom variety, with satellite TV, and a smattering of silver-haired passengers on deck. "Package tour", Captain said. And the shopkeepers outside the church rejoiced.

Finally, a few hundred meters later, we hitched up outside a little tile-roofed hut, painted white, but dingy with the mildew that quickly takes over any wall in these parts, and with a patina of fingersmudges along the doorjambs, from all the men who work in the mud and come here to cut loose. Inside was dark and basic -- a few small rooms, each with a bare table and benches; and the backside, where I could hear a ladle dipping repeatedly into a reservoir of some sort.

I walked in with Moncy and let him do the talking, of course. Then, Deb popped in behind, which had me a little nervous, as this was unmistakably a man's abode, and there was every likelihood I may have to fight for her honor. But other than relentless staring, of which I was served plenty myself, she escaped unscathed.

The barkeep poured a sample for us into a glass, sloppily rinsed in questionable water, and I thought, well, here's the dysentery I've been looking for. We've gone the entire trip without evidence of food borne illness thus far. I'm sure to have asked for it now. Deb & I each had a sip, and passed the glass over to Moncy, who cleverly poured it into his mouth without lip touching rim -- why didn't I think of that?!

Thumbs up all around, on the taste. I was surprised to find it tasted exactly as it should: a little like coconut juice, and a little like home-made hard cider. It was a thin, milky color. We approved the purchase and indicated to Moncy it was for the five of us. He put in the order.

Deb and I sat at a bench, and almost immediately, a man leaned across the table and leered, about an inch and a half from my nose. It took him some time to speak, which he did slowly, in hushed tones.

"Where... from?"

We've taken to answering this question, "California". No one has heard of San Francisco, and we're not in the biggest rush to say "USA". But everyone, even this guy, glows, as they repeat, "Cal-ee-fornia!" It occupies a golden place in the imagination, all over the world.

"What isss... your name, sir?"

"Damon. And yours?"

Pause.

"What is your name?

Pause.

"Dee Dee.... What isss... your work?"

"I'm a sign writer. How about you? What do you do?"

"Rice!"

He got a little animated at this point. It was clear he had a lot of strong feelings about the rice, and seemed to be calling out to the rest of the bar to get his back on this one. I was glad when Moncy turned around with a 1 liter plastic water bottle refilled with toddy, and we retreated. I got no beef with the rice farmers. I know they're having a hard go of it in Kerala these days. Still, we saw a lot of lush, ripe rice paddies, and we passed a couple of rice cutting machines riding out toward the farms, each straddling a pair of canoes. Nonetheless, our host, Alice, back in Alleppey, says they're getting all their household rice nowadays from Andhra Pradesh. It could drive a local rice man to toddy. And has.

We cruised another hour or so before tying up for the night. Deb and I went for a walk along the canal, as we did the night before, while Vijay prepared dinner. That first night's hitching post was very bucolic. We just ambled along the narrow spit of land that serves as a dike between the canals and rice paddies and lakes. Every so often, there's a little knuckle in the dike, and a small hut, with some people, and a few animals. Sometimes, beyond the hut, there's a coconut farm, or a fish farm. Somewhere in the unseen distance, a Hindu temple had taken on the task of public radio address. Until about 8:30pm we were serenaded by Tamil or Malayalam pop tunes that echoed across the canals, and even, at times, seemed to be picked up and rebroadcast further down. The location kept changing, but always kept its haunting reverberant quality. For some time, a woman in the nearest hut was chanting some other music concurrently; and briefly, across the canal, a drum troupe started up. So, it was a bit of a chaotic soundtrack to our candle-lit dinner, but it all let up for the frogs and crickets by bedtime.

The second night, we were closer to a village, which oddly enough, was quieter. I imagine everyone in town has a TV or radio, and doesn't need their entertainment blasted across the paddies.

Vijay roasted and skewered our prawns, and served them with another helping of karimeen, some carrot/coconut slaw, a cheesy potato curry, some boiled veg, a spicy stew, fried bread, okra curry, and Keralan rice. About as many courses as all our meals have been, each day on the boat.
Oh, yes: and a mug full of toddy. We all had a glass and toasted our terrific crew and enjoyed our final night on the kettuvallam.