Waterways in God’s own country
Kerala becomes a
waterworld in the monsoon, observes ; explore the less frequented backwaters
and the tiny islands nestling amongst them
There’s a poem in Malayalam that describes the serene
beauty of Kerala. It roughly translates as: “She has her head resting on the
lush green pillows of the Sahyadris, and her feet resting on the shores of the Arabian Sea, and her immaculate body is adorned with the
ornaments of the backwaters.”
These ornaments criss-cross the entire stretch of the Malabar, from Thiruvananthapuram to Kasargod, and measure over 900 kilometres in their undulating length, making a blue-green labyrinth of canals, lakes and rivers. The most picturesque of them are in the southern part of Kerala spread over four districts: Ernakulam, Alappuzha, Kottayam and Kollam. There are five large lakes there, interlinked by canals, and fed by 38 rivers.
Adjoining these backwaters is another special habitat called the Kol wetlands. Much like Kutch in Gujarat, large swathes of land near the backwaters get submerged during the monsoon, creating innumerable islands. In Kerala, this happens in Parappur, Vembanad and Ashtamudi. When the water drains off from here after the monsoon, they once again become flatlands where paddy is cultivated from October to March. Four species of migratory fish have been found in the Kol wetlands, and they have been declared as Ramsar sites for their international ecological significance. The variety of flora and fauna here is unique because of a mingling of sea water and fresh water.
Just as there are National Highways in the rest of India, there are National Waterways in Kerala to navigate these waterways and wetlands. The longest of them is National Waterway No.3 that runs from Kollam to Kottappuram, a distance of 205km.
Four years ago, I had stayed on a Kettuvallam or a houseboat on a waterway for a night and two days at the ever-popular Kumarakom. I remember sleeping on the deck under a canopy of twinkling stars, thinking how different it was from sleeping in a fishing boat out at sea, which I had done near Bhayander in Mumbai. Out at sea, the wobbly fishing boat makes you feel insecure, because with no land in sight you feel like a speck in the infinite universe, totally at the mercy of the elements. But on a houseboat in the backwaters, you are the centre of the universe, cocooned in the orchards of coconut palms.
Waterway less travelled
This time around, I decided to stay away from the National Waterways and take a small bylane, so to speak. My search for less familiar waters took me to Murinjapuzha, which literally means Sliced River. A tributary of Moovattupuzha, it’s 25km long as the duck swims.
At the tea-shaap, as I sipped tea and nibbled on a parippu-vada (or dal-vada), the president of the local panchayat, Selvan, said, “Saar, what you have done is right. It is high time tourists leave Kumarakom and Alappuzha, and explore these virgin waterways instead.” True to his words, in Murinjapuzha there was no traffic jam of houseboats. Instead, the channel was criss-crossed by small country boats and smaller canoes.
A boat is the only mode of transport here. So you go to school by boat, you go to the market by boat, and sometimes you visit your neighbour’s house by boat too. Each house has a parking lot for boats, and everyone in the house — men, women and children — are adept at rowing.
Sight-seeing by boat
Anju Jose was the man who took me around this waterworld. Unlike the larger, luxurious Kettuvallams that can be moored only in deep water, Anju’s boat could go practically anywhere at will. Whenever the water became shallow, he would dismantle the motor and fish out a huge bamboo pole to push the boat along. Thus we touched base at many places on the three large islands of Poothotta, Chempu and Murinjapuzha, and many other tiny ones.
In the smaller islands, there was a peculiar problem. Though surrounded by an abundance of brackish water, there are few drinking water sources on these islands. So you get the paradoxical sight of water being transported on water.
Standing on the hull of the boat, I felt the same thrill that Ibn Batuta, the Moroccan traveller, and Marco Polo, the legendary explorer, must have experienced when they came here many centuries ago. There was the Magic Island, which not even the smallest canoe could approach, as the water was only a foot deep all around for a radius of half a kilometre. So you had to wade through the water to reach the island. Then there was this necklace of islands each with its own speciality: poultry farms, duck farms, banana plantations, prawn farms, Chinese fishing nets, toddy-tapping, sand-dredging, shell-meat collection, lime production or coir-making.
Just as our country boat took a U-turn on the waterway, I saw the high tide coming in. And I fervently hoped that one day the rising sea water caused by global warming would not wipe out these beautiful tiny islands.
Gangadharan Menon DNA120624
These ornaments criss-cross the entire stretch of the Malabar, from Thiruvananthapuram to Kasargod, and measure over 900 kilometres in their undulating length, making a blue-green labyrinth of canals, lakes and rivers. The most picturesque of them are in the southern part of Kerala spread over four districts: Ernakulam, Alappuzha, Kottayam and Kollam. There are five large lakes there, interlinked by canals, and fed by 38 rivers.
Adjoining these backwaters is another special habitat called the Kol wetlands. Much like Kutch in Gujarat, large swathes of land near the backwaters get submerged during the monsoon, creating innumerable islands. In Kerala, this happens in Parappur, Vembanad and Ashtamudi. When the water drains off from here after the monsoon, they once again become flatlands where paddy is cultivated from October to March. Four species of migratory fish have been found in the Kol wetlands, and they have been declared as Ramsar sites for their international ecological significance. The variety of flora and fauna here is unique because of a mingling of sea water and fresh water.
Just as there are National Highways in the rest of India, there are National Waterways in Kerala to navigate these waterways and wetlands. The longest of them is National Waterway No.3 that runs from Kollam to Kottappuram, a distance of 205km.
Four years ago, I had stayed on a Kettuvallam or a houseboat on a waterway for a night and two days at the ever-popular Kumarakom. I remember sleeping on the deck under a canopy of twinkling stars, thinking how different it was from sleeping in a fishing boat out at sea, which I had done near Bhayander in Mumbai. Out at sea, the wobbly fishing boat makes you feel insecure, because with no land in sight you feel like a speck in the infinite universe, totally at the mercy of the elements. But on a houseboat in the backwaters, you are the centre of the universe, cocooned in the orchards of coconut palms.
Waterway less travelled
This time around, I decided to stay away from the National Waterways and take a small bylane, so to speak. My search for less familiar waters took me to Murinjapuzha, which literally means Sliced River. A tributary of Moovattupuzha, it’s 25km long as the duck swims.
At the tea-shaap, as I sipped tea and nibbled on a parippu-vada (or dal-vada), the president of the local panchayat, Selvan, said, “Saar, what you have done is right. It is high time tourists leave Kumarakom and Alappuzha, and explore these virgin waterways instead.” True to his words, in Murinjapuzha there was no traffic jam of houseboats. Instead, the channel was criss-crossed by small country boats and smaller canoes.
A boat is the only mode of transport here. So you go to school by boat, you go to the market by boat, and sometimes you visit your neighbour’s house by boat too. Each house has a parking lot for boats, and everyone in the house — men, women and children — are adept at rowing.
Sight-seeing by boat
Anju Jose was the man who took me around this waterworld. Unlike the larger, luxurious Kettuvallams that can be moored only in deep water, Anju’s boat could go practically anywhere at will. Whenever the water became shallow, he would dismantle the motor and fish out a huge bamboo pole to push the boat along. Thus we touched base at many places on the three large islands of Poothotta, Chempu and Murinjapuzha, and many other tiny ones.
In the smaller islands, there was a peculiar problem. Though surrounded by an abundance of brackish water, there are few drinking water sources on these islands. So you get the paradoxical sight of water being transported on water.
Standing on the hull of the boat, I felt the same thrill that Ibn Batuta, the Moroccan traveller, and Marco Polo, the legendary explorer, must have experienced when they came here many centuries ago. There was the Magic Island, which not even the smallest canoe could approach, as the water was only a foot deep all around for a radius of half a kilometre. So you had to wade through the water to reach the island. Then there was this necklace of islands each with its own speciality: poultry farms, duck farms, banana plantations, prawn farms, Chinese fishing nets, toddy-tapping, sand-dredging, shell-meat collection, lime production or coir-making.
Just as our country boat took a U-turn on the waterway, I saw the high tide coming in. And I fervently hoped that one day the rising sea water caused by global warming would not wipe out these beautiful tiny islands.
Gangadharan Menon DNA120624
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