The strangest thing about human beings is the expansive behavioral spectrum upon which we operate. Our species is capable of monumental levels of selflessness, bravery, and goodwill, but we also commit atrocious, destructive acts with frightening ease.
Perhaps one of the best examples of this is the treatment of our coastlines. We frequently handle the parcels of land that ease into the earth’s oceans–land that very often contains some of the most astounding natural beauty on the planet–with a level of respect better suited for the Detroit Lions. Visiting Seaside, Oregon, or Myrtle Beach, or Sarasota is like an epic battle from Lord of the Rings, where the forces of good (you) battle the hordes of evil (endless stretches of resorts, bumper-to-bumper traffic, ten thousand stores that don’t sell anything substantive) with overwhelmingly bleak odds for success.
If that’s a tenable metaphor, then the coastline in Kannur, Kerala might be our Frodo: the one last stretch of beachfront property that humanity hasn’t developed to the brink of insanity.
It may not be like this forever, but as of this moment, there is an actual jungle that leads almost directly up to the sand, and it’s filled with the sounds of birds instead of cars, and you can’t see anything except the giant fern bushes and towering palm trees, which stretch, at impossible angles, high into the heavens. There are never more than ten people on the beach itself, and the warm water is actually pretty clean and devoid of trash or jellyfish.
Kerala is the state in India that covers the country’s southwestern-most corner. We can probably thank the (good kind of) communist government for our enjoyable stay, since they most likely restrict unfettered resort building. Kerala’s education system is top-notch as well, claiming a 100% literacy rate–though in fairness, they define “literate” as being able to sign one’s name. Even so, there are probably more people who can read here than in Arkansas. Jobs are scarce, as there isn’t a lot of industry, and finding people who are willing to do the menial labor is tough, since so many Keralans pride themselves on their excellent education. So this isn’t, by any means, a state of paradise–but it is remote, quiet, and subdued, which makes it remarkably different from any other state in India. All the revolution needed to be successful is some coastline, apparently.
Colonies of dead coral hem in the beach, and they’ve provided fun excursions when the swimming and sunbathing gets tiresome. There are two kinds, and neither are particularly safe for traversing: one, a ruddy tinted rock with honey-comb like holes, has edges that are as sharp as steel. The other is a porous, brainy-like substance that is not particularly firm and occasionally crumbles beneath the weight of footsteps. But what’s in an adventure if there’s no danger?
Last night, we attended a Theyyum, which is a religious ceremony completely unique to Kannur. The Theyyum revolved around a main “performer” (for lack of a better word), who adorned himself in vibrant paint and colorful flowers that looked like an eye-popping blend between Thai, Bali, and Japanese Kabuki costuming. He then channeled the spirit of a deity, and with the help of several acolytes, performed a series of rituals and dances with fire, oil, water, a coconut, and a bow and arrow. A legion of drummers accompanied his actions with a rhythmic pulse reminiscent of West Africa, and there were also a couple of horn players who–to my western ears–played in a way that sounded very much like Free Jazz. Devotees lined up to receive blessings in regular intervals. We were present from about 4:30-6pm, but the performance lasted until three in the morning (and then the same guy began another one at 6am under the assumption of a different deity!)
We’ll be relaxing here until Monday morning, when we’ll take a bus to Mysore in Karnataka. Then, the majestic ruins of Hampi.
