Or at least that is what the brochure says. But in a country of a billion people, there must be a well-heeled oasis of pampered seclusion that is probably entitled to the accolade but neither wants or needs the attention. Kovolam is the destination of families on a budget and roaming groups of teenagers from up-state. In the monsoon, the restaurants are populated by empty garden chairs and the promenade by stray dogs and rusting lamp posts.
What makes it special is nature’s contribution. First, Lighthouse and then Howah and Scamandra beaches curve around the edges of a larger bay, each separated by headlands. Vizhinjam lighthouse is a 40m, red and white barber-pole that flashes six times a minute at passing freighters. The red rock of Varkala gives way to black basalt here. Consequently, the golden sand that washes in from the seabed fights an eternal battle with the black coastal sand for dominance. Neither wins but an uneasy truce holds as they co-exist but, by virtue of their different grain sizes, do not mingle and a marbled effect is created that changes with every wave.
The waves themselves are what our surfing brethren call ‘corduroy to the horizon’ and it is a surfing beach, but only for the brave. Rips surge off each headland and the currents carry away several swimmers each year. The surf storms the beach with a relentless barrage of 10 foot waves that swell, rise, and hold up in the perpetual offshore breeze before crashing down as the perfect arc of green water folds under its own weight. Fishing boats have mastered the daily commute through the surf and ride over the cresting waves with a bow forward discipline that is stomaching churning just to watch. Thankfully the coast guard patrol the waters. A Sea King helicopter repeatedly buzzed the beach and at night flashing blue lights signalled night manoeuvres amongst the fishing fleet.
Patrolling the front is the usual band of rag-tag sellers who have more in common with the fishermen than their land based compatriots as they too must play a patient game to net their catch. Their wares are bed spreads, shawls, scarves and the Doti, a wrap-around skirt for men that folds up neatly into a cooling mini. They are unperturbed by rejection, instead insinuating themselves into your daily routine by their perpetual presence. Before long, despite your best efforts to the contrary, a relationship has developed, starting with your name and country of origin, nurtured with bite size instalments about family and culminating in the ‘best price deal’, if not today, then tomorrow. All this is sealed by the paradoxically iron grip of the no obligation inspection of stock. The mistake is to believe that the deal can be avoided by simply resisting the temptation to hand over the cash. Only later do you realise that this crafty fisherman had you hooked at hello and the intervening dance has been about reeling you in, carefully and patiently as the net closes around you.
Simon and Ashreev played the game expertly over three days and were rewarded as we all capitulated to their charm and gentle persistence. Strangely, donning my Doti, I assumed a different persona and an underworld revealed itself. Taken for a slightly harder core traveller than my passport might suggest, invitations began to issue from darkened doorways, first for hashish and then opium. Drawn and addled strangers sidled up to me, offering a list of highs, some familiar, others foreign, but once the doti was stowed, the doorways were empty.
As if anticipating this narcotic brush, we stayed at The Hotel California. The frequent monsoon power cuts meant that the young lad on reception had to light a candle to show us the way to our room. We could hear voices in the corridor and while they seemed very welcoming, we met no one else during our stay. Clare’s worst fears were realised when we discovered that the cellar had not been replenished since the great Keralan wine shortage of 1969 but fortunately, while dancing in the courtyard, she remembered the bottle of pink champagne we had left on ice.Thankfully, while no feast had been laid on for our arrival, neither was there a crowd of knife wielding maniacs wandering the corridors, looking for someone to stab. The lad on reception was more than happy to let us both check out and leave, once we had paid the modest tab.
Kerala is a centre for Ayurvedic therapies of which massage is a central component. After a stressful day watching the waves, we opted for a relaxing facial with complimentary finger, toe and ear massage. Unaccustomed to the routine I was overwhelmed by the onslaught of successive waves of cleanser, astringent and toner rounded off with a honey and vanilla yoghurt imbrocation and aloe vera face pack.
The massage was pleasant but the attention my ears were getting required some complex mental arithmetic to avoid distraction.
The massage was pleasant but the attention my ears were getting required some complex mental arithmetic to avoid distraction.
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