Wednesday 21st December 1983
George and I went on a booze hauling trip into Trivandrum, leaving Martin doing his laundry at the well. I wrote a postcard to Martin’s mum bemoaning his fate, pretending that it was from Martin himself, as we waited for the bus.
We passed the beavering stone-chippers and villages of palm-thatched buildings as the bus hurtled along the uneven road. Mysteriously the bus fare had increased by 40 paise, to 1.60 Indian Rupees.
We arrived in town and toured all of the Government approved liquor outlets on the way up to the General Post Office on Mahatma Gandhi Road. Many of them had a sudden price increase as we walked in, but we eventually got 3 bottles of Haywards XXX Rum for 34 Indian Rupees each.
We despatched our postcards and aerogrammes at the G.P.O. and stopped for a coffee over the road. Here they had a mysterious system by which they poured hot milk and water into a metal cup until it overflowed into a metal bowl that it was standing in. They then dumped a teaspoon of Nescafé onto the brimming cup so that it overflowed again and served it up.
At the traffic lights an ox cart and a coach vied for a good starting position, waiting for the green light. George invested in a vitamin supplement that looked like axle grease and we returned to the bus stop where a familiar chump was waiting.
Martin had been to Trivandrum Medical College for “treatment” for his aching arm. He had taken buses and autorickshaws to get there as he was convinced that he was dying. Luckily only a pulled muscle was diagnosed (probably as the result of being tossed onto the beach by a vicious wave in the powerful surf on Lighthouse Beach). He seemed unconcerned that he had jumped the queue of Indians with more serious complaints, by virtue of the fact that he was a rich white tourist.
He left clutching a tub of painkillers and met us at the bus stop for the return trip to Kovalum. We had the usual punch up getting on the bus but secured some seats behind a couple of weirdo’s who were also conveying beer to Kovalum.
Back at the Sreevas Lodge we dined on egg curry before going for our daily dip in the Arabian Sea. There were some big breakers and we were tossed and buffeted in the savage surf. We emerged refreshed to chuck a frisbee about and returned for another delightful meal in the Shangri-La.
We started on another bottle of rum and very soon we were under the influence. We laughed and joked with the three staff, who were Ambi, “Chapati” Mohanan and “Roti”. They in turn nicknamed us after the three soft drinks available, Thums Up (George), Gold Spot (me) and Limca (Martin).
The staff nicknames came from chapati flatbread which they specialised in (alternatively spelled chapatti, chappati, chapathi, or chappathi), also known as roti, safati, shabaati, phulka and (in the Maldives) roshi, is an unleavened flatbread originating from the Indian subcontinent and staple in India, Nepal, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, East Africa and the Caribbean. Chapatis are made of whole-wheat flour known as atta, mixed into dough with water, oil and optional salt in a mixing utensil called a parat, and are cooked on a tava (flat skillet).
We were three sheets to the wind when “closing time” came and tottered back to our room. Just before entering Martin fell to his hands and knees to execute a “technicolour yawn” and I snapped away merrily with my camera to capture the moment for prosperity on celluloid.
See Intoxicated Abroad for travel inspiration. Life's too short to be sober at home!
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