Down The Trivandrum Roads

Today is a beautiful day.

Although the sky is patched with several dark clouds, it is still more infinitely bluer than what we had suffered in the last few days.

It is also a day of strike. The buses, taxis and rickshaws are not running. The BJP has organized it in order to complain of the increase in the price of petrol. If a driver dare use his auto, he can be lynched by the strikers.

The streets are empty of any passing vehicule; they are entirely ours.

Marie and I can no longer resist one of our first original urges since we had arrived, going for a walk.

So, at 2 o'clock, we decide to set off the Trivandrum roads. The boys are in their bunker, unattentive to our quiet escape. Marie has to speak loudly in French and I to open the gate in order for them to come out, wondering what is going on. We laugh together spontaneously. My godness, they haven't finished wondering what to do with us.

"Which way do you want to go? How long will you be gone? How many kilometers will you be doing?", they ask a bit too inquisitively, (although we know it is for our own good sake). Baahhhh..."we'll see", we reply and we happily trail off, leaving the boys perplexed.

We wonder off on the back roads. Few people are out due to the sun peak. Voices in Malayalam filter out of windows and doors, through the shadiness of gardens and homes.

Very soon, people come out of their homes to stare at us. A little child says "hallo" and giggles with the rest of his family, a grandfather taking a walk with his little grandson asks us where were from and women give us big, shy smiles.

Where there is usually a buslting street of shops, buses, pedestrians, bicycles and wondering dogs is only left a ghost town. Some men are sitting in front of their little roadside shop, others zoom by on their motorcycle, honking at us and saying "hayeee" but, a part from that, life is quietly still.

As we let ourselves be guided by the windy road, we discover what is our neighbourhood. Mile after mile do we notice the ever continuous lushness of the area. It is the trees that reign in this kingdom; houses and people are only its uninvited guests.

Marie and I are struck by the architecture of the homes : a majority of them are in retreat and below road level which means the roof is on the level of the street. And for those who are not, they look like miny expensive Floridian homes, with paved driveways, palm trees, plastic pink flamingoes, curtained windows and "post no bills" signs painted on the outer walls.

What delights me the most during our walk is the women who look at us with their lovely and trustworthy smile. Some quickly pick up their little children and have them wave at us, almost as if, in some way, us being there makes it such a novelty that it is as if we were considered as gods who could give them blessings. Some children follow us, giggling. Others are scooted out by their mother, too shy to take a peak at us.

We come back to the house sweaty and happy to have used our legs for the first time in two weeks.