We settled on the full-day backwater cruise offered by the government-operated Kerala Tourism Development Corporation (KTDC). This, according to the KTDC website, would be a tour partly in a houseboat and partly on a canoe. A pick-up and drop from our hotel, and a traditional Keralan lunch (vegetarian) were included in the tour price, Rs 850 per person.

Although the information on the KTDC website indicates that bookings must be done by paying up in advance at the KTDC office in Ernakulam (mainland Kochi), we discovered that they’re more accommodating than that. Sending an e-mail to the KTDC booking office reaped good results: we could book online by sending them a confirmation, and they would then send us details of how to pay online by credit card. Simple, efficient, and convenient.

We made our bookings more than a week in advance (KTDC need about a week’s notice, in order to figure out the number of people for whom arrangements for travel and food will be required). On the day before the cruise, we also phoned to confirm. Punctually at 8 AM on the day of the cruise, a small 16-seater bus arrived to pick us up. The drive to the pier where the cruise begins took about an hour from our hotel, including a stop along the way to pick up our fellow-passengers. In all, there were seven of us: a German girl, an Austrian man, and a family of three from Hyderabad.

The bus took us well out of Kochi, and finally stopped on a quiet village road bordered by palm trees and flowering hedges. Beside the pier nearby was an impressive kettuvallom, the traditional Keralan houseboat. Past a couple of huts—one with coconut halves drying on a tarpaulin, the other with a woman at work, cooking—and we were met by Shajaas, the young man who was to be our guide. Shajaas welcomed us into the kettuvallom, and while we drank a cup of sweet, milky tea, he gave us a brief introduction to the backwaters, which spread across three districts: Kochi, Kottayam, and Alleppey, with 27 islands dotted across this stretch where the sea meets the river.

Shajaas informed us that the boat we were on was a one-bedroom kettuvallom (two- and three-bedroom ones are available for longer cruises). The kettuvallom is made from wood, and thatched with coconut fibre. Every year, kettuvalloms have to be polished and waterproofed, using either mackerel oil, or the oil from cashewnuts.

(Incidentally, since we’d be spending a few hours on the boat, we were shown the single toilet on board—dark and smelly, and approached through a messy bedroom that seemed to be in use by someone with no very strict rules about cleanliness).

The cruise: Once we’d finished our tea, at about 10 AM, the kettuvallom—steered by a local fisherman—set off into Lake Vembanadu, which is where the waters of the river meet the sea. Shajaas pointed out the distinct line of differing colours of water, where this phenomenon happens.

This stretch of water is very calm, so even though there were plenty of chairs on board, most of us spent a good bit of the ride standing against the railing and watching the islands go by. Shajaas (who used to be an Ayurveda practitioner, but gave it up to become a guide because "I love meeting and talking to people") gave us lots of interesting information. He told us that the largest island in the backwaters has a population of 25,000, and is well-connected by ferries that ply from several jetties. On the smaller islands, fewer people live, and they get about using their own canoes. We saw a few canoes moving swiftly through the water, and one or two bobbing on the waves, with a man, his head and shoulders visible, in the water alongside. "They’re fishing for mussels," Shajaas told us. Mussels abound in this area, and the fishermen use their toes to extract them from the seabed!

The island: We’d been on the kettuvallom about an hour when the boatman drew in to a mid-sized island with a chimney stack rising above coconut trees. We followed Shajaas to the factory—now closed, with only the empty shell of the building left—and he told us that it was a reminder of one of the major industrial uses of mussel shell: in the production of everything from calcium supplements to toothpaste. The mussel shells are burnt along with charcoal to start with, and then processed further.

A few yards further from the factory, we came to a tiny shed among the coconut trees. This, we discovered, was a toddy tapping area; the men who work here shin up a coconut tree and use a large cleaver to shave off the end of one of the branches. A thick bone from a water buffalo leg is used to tap this end, which makes the toddy rise from the root of the tree to its crown. An earthen pot is tied to the end, to allow it to fill—over some hours—with toddy.

For our benefit, one of the toddy tappers gave us a demo of toddy-tapping. The Austrian in our group bought a bottle (for Rs 50) and passed it around for anybody who wanted a sip—it was a fruity, low-alcohol drink, since fresh toddy is only about 2 or 3% alcohol. Interestingly, each of the trees in the plantation is legally a bar, so the bar license number (and other related information) is painted in white on the tree trunk!

Next, Shajaas took us to a small garden nearby, to show us specimens of plants indigenous to Kerala: cinnamon, vanilla, tapioca, ginger, turmeric, etc. He explained their uses—including unusual ones (hibiscus petals polish shoes very well, for example).

Lunch: When we’d stopped at the island, Shajaas had informed us that if we wanted to taste Kerala-style mussels, he would arrange that (for Rs 75 per portion). All of us agreed, so shortly after we returned to the boat, the cook (who, we discovered, had been working at the back of the boat) served them up, each on a ‘plate’ of banana leaf, with a stiff bit of coconut palm leaf to scoop up the mussels. They’d been cooked with turmeric, ginger, garlic, chillies and chopped fresh coconut, and were delicious.

This helped tide us over till lunch, which was back at the pier. Our kettuvallom docked just before 1 PM, and while we got out and stretched our legs, a very pleasant lunch was laid out: boiled rice, rasam, saambhaar, different types of vegetables cooked with coconut; papads, plain yoghurt, salad, and pickle, followed by payasam as dessert.

The canal cruise: Once lunch was over, Shajaas escorted us back to the bus and said goodbye. The trip wasn’t over; the bus took us, 7 km away, to the head of one of the many canals that crisscross the area. These are too narrow—sometimes only about 5 ft across—to be navigated by kettuvallom, so we had to get into a canoe, a long sturdy boat in which we sat down, one behind the other, with the boatman using a pole to punt the canoe.

The canals are very different from the lake. They’re as green and lovely, but this is where we really got to see life along the backwaters at close quarters. There are houses at the edge of the canal, and we came across women washing clothes, or children bathing (in one instance, even a dog being bathed!) as our canoe went past. There were many bright smiles and greetings. For most of the 3 km stretch of canal, it was quiet and very peaceful. The canoe went past plantations of bananas, nutmeg, cacao, tapioca, and coconut. The boatman pointed out birds—kingfishers, egrets, bee-eaters, and ducks (bred at some canalside houses). We saw water snakes, lots of wildflowers (including water lilies), and were taken ashore twice. Once, to see a village woman weave coir rope out of coconut husk, and the second time, to be served some more tea.

The canoe docked back where we’d begun after a ride of about 2 ½ hours. Our bus driver was waiting to take us back to our respective hotels. We got back at about 5.30, tired and sleepy, but pleased with the day we’d had. This isn’t, by any means, a luxury cruise, but we learned a lot, had a lot of fun, and thought it was excellent value for money.

Till well into the 1960s (and beyond), Kodanadu was the site of an elephant training centre, where elephants captured in the nearby forests were trained. In 1977, with the passing of a law prohibiting the capture of elephants, this aspect of Kodanadu came to an end—but not completely. Elephants (especially babies) are sometimes found orphaned and wandering in the forests. These are rescued by the forest department and brought to the Kodanadu Elephant Training Camp, where they are looked after and eventually trained to help in the forest department’s work of patrolling the wildlife reserves in Kerala.

The drive from Kodanadu is an hour and a half. We’d been told that the main highlight of a trip to Kodanadu is the chance to see the elephants going down to the Periyar to bathe—and since that happens at 8 AM, it meant we had to leave our hotel at 6.30 AM, in order to reach Kodanadu by 8. We’d hired a taxi for a day (it cost us Rs 3,500 for the entire trip, from Kochi to Kodanadu, then on to the Thattekad Bird Sanctuary, and back to our hotel). The staff at the hotel packed sandwiches and some cake for us for breakfast, which we consumed in the taxi.

The road from Kochi to Kodanadu passes through, initially, the urban and suburban areas of Kochi, Ernakulam and their outlying areas—lots of churches (and, in an ironic twist, lots of photos of Hugo Chavez; red flags and sickles—evidence that Kerala’s people, despite being highly religious, also made this state the first ever in the world to have an elected Communist government)!

We arrived at the Kodanadu Elephant Training Camp just about five minutes before 8 AM. Beyond the gate is a small shed which functions as a guard room and a ticket counter; having bought our entry tickets here, we walked a few metres on, to the major heritage structure here, the elephant kraal. The kraal at Kodanadu, originally built in 1895 (when the capturing of elephants in the nearby Malayattoor forests began), was renovated in 1965. Today, it’s used mainly to house the very young calves the forest department rescues. When the elephants are old enough (and trained enough), they are taken out of the kraal and tied up outside, in a field bordered by rubber plantations, on the way to the river.

When we arrived at the black-painted kraal, two of the six rooms here were occupied by a baby elephant each. The one at the far end was being attended to by a mahout; the one at the front, overlooking the fence which keeps visitors separated from the kraal, was busy playing to the crowd. This particular baby elephant (whom we privately nicknamed ‘Fluffy’, because of its very cutely hirsute head) was utterly adorable, and very friendly—it put out its little trunk and ‘shook hands’ with a passing forest guard, and squeaked cutely at all the tourists clustering about taking photos.

A few minutes past 8, and all of the tourists who’d gathered here—about 15 of us—were told that Fluffy would now be off to his bath. Fluffy’s mahout, a wiry, middle-aged man, led Fluffy out, ‘holding hands’—a stick, held at one end by the mahout and at the other by the baby elephant. This reminded me of the way toddlers hold on tight to parents’ hands when crossing a street: and, sure enough, Fluffy seemed to have been very well-trained: he didn’t let go of the stick even once all the way (a couple of hundred metres, maybe less) down to the nearby river.

At the riverside, there was a break of about ten minutes, in which Fluffy posed for photos (and ‘shook hands’ with people—my husband tousled Fluffy’s little mop, and was rewarded with Fluffy trailing a curious and somewhat muddy little trunk all over my husband’s T-shirt. Once Fluffy had been admired and cooed over (and the mahout had collected Rs 50 from everybody around—this is an informal fee charged for the privilege of petting an elephant), Fluffy was led down into the river, where the mahout commenced to give him a bath, scrubbing him down with half a coconut shell. Fluffy was more inclined to play, so the mahout had to keep scolding him and getting him back to business.

While Fluffy (who, we were told, is 1 ½ years old) was being bathed, a more sedate 20-year old elephant, beautiful tusks and all, was brought down to the river for a bath too. This one proved an interesting contrast to the baby: she was very dignified, and did not waste her time posing for tourists or playing in the water. She simply lay down in the shallows and let the two mahouts who’d accompanied her do their job of scrubbing her down.

That, then, is what Kodanadu’s main highlight is all about. We looked at the rubber plantation on the way back to the kraal, and admired some of the other adult elephants under the trees nearby, grazing or being readied for their baths.

Near the kraal, and separated from it by a narrow road (which is inside the camp, so is free of traffic) are the toilets. I tend to avoid public toilets—especially in rural India—but I needed to go, and this one turned out to be surprisingly clean and non-smelly. Outside the toilets, there’s a grassy area shaded with trees and saplings, and dotted with large panels containing text (with photos and illustrations) about elephants: their physiognomy, their reproduction, babyhood, and lots of other trivia. I found this well-written, informative without being pedantic, and generally absorbing.

We left after our loo break, although—according to some signs at the ticket counter—watching the elephants bathe is only one of Kodanadu’s attractions. Elephant rides are also possible, at a charge of Rs 400 for four people (if Indian) or Rs 500 for four people (if of foreign nationality).

Kodanadu is open from 8 AM to 5 PM on all days of the week except Mondays and national days. Entry fees are Rs 10 per adult (Indians) or Rs 25 (foreigners); children between 5 and 12 years are charged Rs 5. There are separate, nominal charges for cameras (Rs 25 for a still camera, Rs 100 for a video—if you’re not going to be using your digital camera to do a recording, you can pay for a still camera). Parking fees for tourist buses or cars are Rs 30 and 10 respectively.

We visited Thattekad after our trip to Kodanadu. The driver dropped us off at the main gate to the bird sanctuary’s ‘wildlife interpretation centre’. We bought two entry tickets at the ticket counter next to the gate, and my husband asked the person manning the counter if there’d be a chance of getting a guide to take us around the sanctuary. We were informed that the actual entrance to the bird sanctuary was a short walk away, and that was where we’d be able to get a guide. We decided we’d go have a look at the interpretation centre, then try finding a guide.

The interpretation centre is housed in a rather dimly lit double-storeyed building (the trees all around make it even more gloomy when it’s cloudy, which it was the day we visited). We went up two short flights of stairs—past a gigantic plaster representation of the face of Dr Salim Ali—and into the interpretation centre. This is meant to be a sort of educational and informative introduction to birds in general, as well as to the flora and fauna of Thattekad. Illustrations, photographs, dioramas, and specimens, along with text (thankfully, not reams of it!) explain different aspects of birds: their evolution, nesting, beak types, feather types, and so on. I found most of it quite fascinating, even if not very well-maintained. Parts of this gallery were in semi-darkness, and there was a very unpleasant smell emanating from some of the specimens preserved in jars in one section.

Having emerged from the interpretation centre, we had a look at the two deer enclosures on the slope below this building. One houses a herd of sambhar, and we got to see quite a few of them. While we were at the fence of this enclosure, looking in, a young man dressed in a camouflage-print T-shirt and tan trousers turned up. It turned out he was a birding guide, and had been informed that we’d been asking for someone to show us around. We agreed, and after a very quick loo break (the toilets are on the ground floor of the interpretation centre building, and were quite clean), we set off on our bird walk.

Our guide first led us further uphill from the interpretation centre. "This is where the Ceylon frogmouths live," he explained. This particular species of nocturnal bird—while fairly common in Sri Lanka—is relatively rare in Thattekad, so the area where they nest is fenced off and not accessible to visitors who are unaccompanied by a guide. Our guide, having led us up a somewhat slippery (it had rained the previous night), muddy, rough path, told us to wait while he went into the undergrowth to see if he could find a frogmouth—which he did.

He returned a few minutes later, and led us back in, through thorn-laden bushes and dripping trees, to a sapling on which, about 7 feet from the ground, a juvenile female frogmouth was sitting. In whispers, our guide explained that the frogmouth, unlike nightjars (which roost on the ground) and owls (which roost in trees), chooses mid-height trees and saplings. The frogmouth, even though we were only about 5 feet away from it, and even though it had its eyes open, sat docilely (perhaps dazedly, considering this was daytime and it’s a nocturnal bird) and let us take lots of photos.

The frogmouth having been seen at such close quarters, our guide now led us back, out of the enclosed area and down to the main road. A minute’s walk down this—past a pond on which he pointed out pied kingfishers, cormorants, purple herons and pond herons—and we arrived at the start of the ‘Salim Ali Bird Trail’, a well-marked trail that leads into the heart of the sanctuary and includes areas where one is most likely to see not just the birds, but also the other animals that inhabit Thattekad.

This is a forested area, with lots of bamboo thickets, interspersed with trees that our guide identified for us: wild jackfruit, wild cashewnut (we saw a deep red cashew apple—the fruit from which the nut hangs—lying fallen across the path), wild cinnamon (the leaves of which, when crushed, have an unmistakable scent of cinnamon too), pandanus, rubber, etc. More importantly, he pointed out lots of birds. The most common were the striking black racquet-tailed drongos, but we also caught glimpses of common kingfishers, hill mynahs, Malabar grey hornbills, bulbuls, and jungle babblers (which initiate ‘mixed hunting’, as our guide informed us: the babblers peck about in the undergrowth, disturbing insects and worms that attract other bird species too—babblers, thus, are invariably followed about by other birds eager for the pickings!)

Our guide was remarkably well-informed, obviously very experienced, and was enviably observant. He pointed out to us (though we could invariably only see a flash of feather, or maybe not even that) white- cheeked barbets, a flame-backed woodpecker, and lesser whistling teal, among other species. He also identified and pointed out fauna other than birds: bonnet macaques, for example, feeding on jackfruit; the Malabar giant squirrel (the largest squirrel in Asia); two types of lizards, and butterflies such as the sedate chocolate pansy and the more striking Malabar raven.

We got back to the interpretation centre and our car about 2 hours after we’d set out on our bird walk. We were very sweaty, bitten by insects and scratched by thorns, but extremely pleased with the walk we’d been on. Thattekad has a recorded 284 species of birds, and even though we probably saw only about 10% of those, it was a very satisfying experience.

The entry tickets to Thattekad are Rs 10 per person; a still camera attracts a further fee of Rs 25. The fee for the guide is Rs 500 for a two-hour walk.

We took that to mean that ‘middle-class’ restaurants cater to the local populace, and therefore, carry on cooking, irrespective of season. We bowed to Thomas’s wisdom, and when he stopped outside the Dhanya Restaurant ("A/C" written on the sign outside), we were happy enough to go down the short flight of steps from the street into the restaurant.

Dhanya, as it so proudly proclaims, is air-conditioned, a blessed relief in Kerala’s very humid summers. The interior is a long, rectangular room, its floor of polished wood. The tables and chairs are neat but not stylish, and the white walls are punctuated by lightly carved wooden pillars and prints of traditional paintings (mostly from Kerala, though we did see one large one depicting a Rajasthani theme).

A waiter came by, and (thankfully for us) knew rudimentary English. No menu, it turned out—at least none that was written. So what did Dhanya serve? Fried rice, biryani, vegetarian and non-vegetarian fixed meals. My husband, who has a liking for ‘fixed meals’, decided he’d have a non-vegetarian fixed meal. "Fish fry?" asked the waiter, and my husband agreed. Yes; fish fry with that would be a good idea. I ordered a biryani—mutton was my initial choice, but that (sadly) was over, so I had to opt for another, and chose a prawn biryani.

While we waited for our food (which took only a couple of minutes to arrive), we checked out the ‘condiments’ on the table. These weren’t, for a change, the usual salt-and-pepper, or even the pickled onions-and-green chutney that’s common in most Indian restaurants. The condiments at Dhanya consisted of three mid-sized ceramic jugs. One was full of rasam, a tart and spicy soup-like drink that is based on lentils and tomatoes. Another contained saambaar, also lentils, but thick, and with added vegetables. The third jug contained a tempered yoghurt-based curry, the type we know in north India as kadhi.

We tasted these, loved all of them, and figured the food itself would probably be pretty good too.

My husband’s non-vegetarian fixed meal was brought, in a series of little bowls, each containing a different dish. One—a larger bowl than the others—held a large helping of chicken curry. The smaller bowls had vegetarian dishes: drumsticks (a chewy, fibrous pod-like vegetable) cooked with coconut; green beans with coconut; and some spicy mixed pickle, probably from a bottle. Another waiter came by with a huge platter of boiled rice, and served my husband—you could ask for additional servings of rice, with no extra charge. Lastly, our waiter brought the fried fish: a whole, deep-fried one (we couldn’t identify the species), cooked to a crisp brown on the skin, with the gashes revealing tender white flesh underneath. Alongside came a bowl of salt, and wedges of lime. Sprinkled with salt and with lime juice squeezed over, the fish was simply sublime.

My prawn biryani was a little less fantastic. It came in a huge bowl (too large a portion for one person, actually; my husband ended up having to help me finish it). The prawns had been cooked in a very spicy mix, then layered with the cooked rice and allowed to infuse. Not bad, but not mind-blowingly good. On the side came some of the spicy mixed pickle, plus a bowl of raita made with sliced raw onions, chopped green chillies, and whipped yoghurt. The yoghurt was mouth-puckeringly sour, so it swamped everything it came in contact with. I eventually ended up putting the raita aside and eating the biryani only with some of the crispy, completely non-spicy fried papads that had been placed on our table.

While we were eating, the waiter came by a couple of times to check I we needed anything else, and offered us some fresh juice. We settled for pineapple—wonderful, freshly squeezed pineapple juice—and I made that my dessert. My husband’s fixed meal came with a dessert, a dish we couldn’t identify, but which was quite palatable. This was a thick broth-like custard, a dirty green in colour, served in a small paper cup. It looked vile, but tasted faintly of coconut milk, and seemed to be studded with sago pearls, and with perhaps a dash of cardamom in it. Unusual, and delicious.

Our bill at Dhanya was Rs 535 (including a bottle of mineral water). Considering the food was mostly good, and the portion sizes so huge, that was a very good bargain indeed.

Of course we would, so the driver drew the car in beside a lovely triple-storeyed building, wood-panelled and with the sloping roofs, intricately carved pillars and balconies of traditional Keralan architecture. We got out, stepped into the tiny yard that surrounds the building, and were greeted by a young lady dressed in a cream-coloured cotton sari with a gold border, a very traditional Kerala sari. She sold us our tickets (Rs 100 per person, plus a further Rs 50 for the camera—this is an unusual museum in that photography is allowed everywhere).

Having first taken off our shoes (no footwear is allowed inside the museum), we stepped into the first large hall that comprises the bulk of the gallery on the ground floor. This came as a surprise to us, since we’d been expecting something along the lines of a ‘typical museum’—exhibits carefully arranged in chronological order, by function, by material used, etc. This, instead, was a merry hotchpotch of just about everything under the Keralan (or south Indian, since it’s not just confined to Kerala) sun.

As soon as we entered the room on the ground floor, for example, what we saw was a large painted wooden bull on the left, towering up behind a pair of massive urns (which turned out to be funeral urns), and lots of very varied items—medieval musical instruments; statues of deities or animals or humans in wood (both painted and unpainted), stone, etc; decorative furniture; puppets; jewellery; window screens and frames; votive items (some odd ones here, made of clay and shaped like male genitals—according to the label, these were offered at temples in an attempt to ensure male progeny!); intricately carved doorways; masks; and much more. It’s all a higgledy-piggledy clutter, but well-dusted, mostly fairly decently labelled, and quite fascinating.

What is also fascinating is that all of the artefacts in this museum—over 4,000 of them, ranging from over a period of 1,000 years—form part of the collection of a single individual. In a country like India, where collections of art and artefacts are generally jealously guarded when in private hands, this came as quite a surprise to us.

From the ground floor, we made our way up the stairs to the first floor. The stairs, both here and to the second floor, are lined with interesting old portraits and photographs—one that really drew my attention was an interesting one of East-meet-West: a traditional Tamilian lady, clad in sari et al, in the early 1900s, standing holding a bicycle by its bars. Very modern, yet very traditional too.

As on the ground floor, on the first floor too, a large hall occupies most of the space, and is filled with a mishmash of artefacts. The difference here is that most of it is on sale. Do note: these aren’t really old or really valuable antiques. The bulk of them, from the hurried glimpse we got before moving on to more interesting things, consists of turn-of-the-century picture postcards, photographs, painted crockery, and other Victorian bric-a-brac. We didn’t see the price tags, but I’m guessing they were not cheap.

The more interesting stuff on the first floor—and not on sale—are costumes, masks and props used in traditional Keralan performing arts. These include the elaborate costumes and headgear worn for Kathakali performances, and the distinctive costumes of Theyyam. The latter is also known for the intricate and very striking red, orange and black patterns the dancers paint on their faces; these are depicted on masks alongside the costumes.

Finally, up another staircase (also lined, like the one below it, with old photos), and we arrived at the topmost floor of the building. This isn’t a gallery of the museum, but is, instead, an auditorium where performances of traditional performing arts of Kerala—Kathakai among them—are held in the evenings. We’d arrived hours too early to watch a performance, so we contented ourselves with admiring the carved wooden pillars and beams, and the lovely painted wooden panels that form the walls of this hall.

The Kerala Folklore Museum, despite its huge collection, doesn’t take too long to see—we spent less than an hour here—mainly because it’s all rather cluttered, and while the labelling is adequate, it doesn’t offer a huge amount of information. It was an interesting collection, but the feeling that it’s been put together in an amateurish way lingered with us long after we’d emerged.