We awoke to Martin’s grumbling of discomfort and indulgently ordered coffee in bed, brought down by Roti. I went to write my daily log and have breakfast at the Shangri-La while George and Martin did their dhobi (laundry).
We then hit the beach, further along the coast than usual. The sun was merciless, and thousands of Indians clad in Y-fronts were splashing about in the sea. Others in colourful dress walked up and down the beach staring at the Westerners as if they were exhibits in a Safari Park. Dirty old Indian men openly perved at the bare tits on display by sunbathing white women on the beach while trying to look pious.
We had a second breakfast of 4 boiled eggs and toast in the company of other Londoners in a beach bar before splashing in the sea for a while. When I reached the point that I thought that the sun would broil me I returned to our room. I finished reading “A Kiss before Dying” and returned to the beach.
Christmas Day passed in this manner, drifting between the beach, dips in the ocean, drinks and snacks in cafés and rests in the shady interior of our room. We bickered, haggled and saw off fruit vendors, sarong sellers, dope traders, and dhobi wallahs. So much for Christmas on the beach.
We now wait in the Shangri-La to see what they have managed to rustle up in the way of Christmas dinner with the component chicken and vegetables. I borrowed another book from the library: “The Chieftains” by Bob Forrest-Webb. This was billed as “A fantastic book set in the 1980's/90's about 3 tank crews, one a British Chieftain, another a British scimitar light tank, and the third an American M1. It follows the first few days of World War 3, and the Russian and Warsaw Pact forces invading into West Germany against NATO”.
Apparently, the author was born in Nottingham, but raised and educated mainly in Merseyside with his Cheshire family, then served in both the army and merchant navy. He had crossed the Sahara and back on a motorcycle, spent long periods of time in Indian and African jungles, won the British Kayak Championships and attained 3rd Dan Black Belt status in Aikido!
The cooked chicken appeared to consist of a very rugged plastic material and after a long battle we got about three hard-won mouthfuls each. Still, the vegetables were alright. The Shangri-La continued to fill up rapidly but although the three other tables were packed, we retained the fourth with just the three of us on it. Nobody wanted to sit with the social lepers that regarded them with disdain!
The kitchen was soon in chaos with Ambi, Chapati and Roti like whirling dervishes trying to keep up with simultaneous orders from all and sundry. We vacated our table and left them to it. We wandered along the beach in search of a café with power (there was none at the Shangri-La), good music and a non-lairy crowd of customers and an inexhaustible supply of Thums Up cola to dilute our last bottle of Haywards XXX Rum.
The beach still had electricity and the fairy lights were in full swing everywhere. One bar even had an obscure tree outside with a cardboard star on top and draped with lights. We found a place that was playing David Bowie’s “Young Americans” album and moved in to polish off their last two colas.
The music suddenly stopped for no reason, and we moved on to a scruffy looking shed with a table outside. Our hosts were an tall, effeminate, bespectacled man with nail varnish on, and a youngster with Donny Osmond teeth and a winning smile.
We were introduced to the Malayalam language and were launched into lessons in how to speak it. Malayalam is a Dravidian language spoken in the Indian state of Kerala and the union territories of Lakshadweep and Puducherry (Mahé district) by the Malayali people. Variations in intonation patterns, vocabulary, and distribution of grammatical and phonological elements are observable along the parameters of region, religion, community, occupation, social stratum, style and register. Dialects of Malayalam are distinguishable at regional and social levels, including occupational and also communal differences. Not easily mastered when full of Haywards XXX Rum (or perhaps it is)!
Further general chit-chat included a recollection of famous cricketers (Ken Goose?) which pleased George. The lanky wretch made obscene models out of a lump of dough and Martin looked increasingly bored as the level in the rum bottle went down. He was not drinking it as the chump couldn’t be bothered to buy any in Trivandrum and besides, the last bottle made him sick.
I tipped over backwards on my stool as the rum took effect, much to the amusement of all. We returned to the Shangri-La as a group of lairy Indians came over to ask if they could share our rum. We took the piss out of the other patrons of the Shangri-La as usual and argued about professional boxing (George was a big fan) before turning in for drugged (alcohol) night’s sleep.
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