Kochi, India
As any student of Indian theatre knows, performances can last nine or ten hours. As Tensing drives us to the Kerala Kathakali Centre to experience the traditional art form we are assured that we'll be out in time for dinner. But at times we start to wonder...
The small auditorium is hidden in winding streets and then up some stairs into what feels more like a back room yoga hall than a theatre. There are about 100 seats crammed into the room with a stage at one end and it turns out we have front row seats, in which are sat a pair of Dutch women.
We enquire as to whether they have got the wrong seats and after much huffing, puffing and ticket checking they finally admit they're actually meant to be on the tiny balcony above, accessed up a rickety staircase. I get a look that could curdle milk from one of them as she gingerly ascends. Thank God she's not wearing clogs!
Today's performance is taken from the Mahabarata and is called The Killing of Baka. To help us understand we are given a handy print out of the story so that we can follow all the intricate movements and gestures, as the actors don't speak, instead they communicate through eye movements, sign language and, to be honest, a lot of fannying around.
To get us in the mood, the first 45 minutes or so is devoted to us watching as the various layers of make up (a mixture of coconut oil and different colour stones) are applied to the performers. Each colour signifies a different character trait, with green being good, red meaning cruel, black being demonic and so on. Cotton is also packed on to the features to alter the shape of the actors faces, stuck down with rice paper.
In time an actor emerges from the wings and addresses us all from his microphone. He explains the meanings of the make up and tells us that the actors stick seeds in their eyes before the performance to make them bloodshot. Ouch. A yellow-faced actor then sits down and our narrator, accompanied by a drummer talk us through the meanings of the various movements the seated actor portrays.
These range from subtle eye, lip and cheek movements to hand gestures and full blown charades. The five-minute-long expression of an elephant is pretty effective complete with huge flapping ears and simulated trunk, and mother, father, baby, brother and so on all involve relatively simple hand gestures. The demonstration of husband and wife however both seem to involve fingers that express the penis in varying stages of size and position. Nice!!
And throughout it all I can't get rid of the fact that the eye-rolling, hand-sweeping, shoulder-rolling, booty-shaking painted man in front of us, with bells on his legs and heavily-glossed, bright red lips is camp as Christmas and could be a character played by Matt Lucas in Little Britain.
Seated in the front row, directly in the actors' gaze, means that our amused giggles are fully suppressed, which is probably for the best. It also means that we are stuck in our seats until the bitter end of what is to come.
The thirty-minute acting demonstration moves into the opening incantations of the singer who bangs his cymbals together while the drummer, now joined by a colleague, bashes out various rhythms. At times they all actually seem to be in time with each other, but often the beats bear little rhythmic structure to each other, let alone the ululations of the singer.
The painted actors now make their appearance; a lowly holy man - the Brahmin - and the two main characters; Bhima, the hero, and Baka, the demon, both dressed in elaborate garb and make up. By now the drumming is pretty deafening and the characters hop and squat around the stage, flicking their hands, rolling their eyes and pointing at each other while the chanting continues.
According to the printed story we are being treated to the likes of, "Vile vermin, you think you're so great with your rogue elephant's strength. You are a foul beast! I'm eating and drinking right now because when I've killed you, I'll touch your dead body. I'll have to take a bath to cleanse myself before my next meal."
And retorts involving, "Miserable wretch, go on. You can enjoy all that food. It will give a better flavor to your dry skin and bones when I eat you. You dishonoured my sister, plunging the demon race into eternal shame. Let's get on with this fight. I'm starving!"
About 40 minutes into the dancing, prancing, drumming, numbing display the couple next to us grab their things and make for the exits. We look at each other quizzically but decide we'll keep going... after all, these performances often last all night and we're merely two and a half hours into the display.
Eventually Bhima kills Baka, in ridiculously comic style, by shoving his truncheon into various orifices, bashing him around the head with it and generally putting Punch & Judy to shame, with much OTT groaning and bellowing from Baha. It takes the demon forever to actually expire his last, accompanied by a cacophony of ear-splitting drums and much wassailing from the narrator, but finally he does and everyone shoots for the exits. We're running late for our dinner reservation but it transpires we needn't have worried.
Tensing drops us off at The Brunton Boatyard, the sister hotel to the Eight Bastion and the snazziest place in town. It's a vast colonial building on the water's edge with a sought-after restaurant on the terrace with a renowned seafood grill.
Our reservation was made yesterday by the concierge at our hotel but no-one can seem to find it. They tell us they're fully booked but we sneak a peek at the terrace and there's definitely room for another table out there. We're polite but firm about our reservation and finally they agree and carry a table from their indoor restaurant out onto the terrace and place it close to the open-air kitchen, effectively giving us a Chef's Table.
Considering it is also covered in a silken table cloth, unlike the terrace tables, and has posher chairs, the other diners must think we're honeymooning VIPs being given special treatment. We get straight to work and order a G&T, beer and a bottle of wine - the alcohol licence here is a welcome relief after the three hours of theatrical enlightenment we've just been through.
The fish is all purportedly caught in the Chinese fishing nets earlier today and as fresh as can be, in fact it's laid out for us to see. We order a Keralan fish curry made with grey mullet and Meen Patachualli, which is sea bream in a brown shallot masala, grilled in a banana leaf. Preceding our mains we are presented with an amuse bouche of one small cube of tandoori fish (indeterminate variety) followed by a delicious prawn bisque, of which I get double helpings as Coman is allergic to shellfish. Result!!
It's a beautiful setting but the terrace overlooks the jetty for the ferry and the smell of diesel as it arrives and departs wafts up at regular intervals. The food is also of variable quality with the Keralan fish curry being both oily and bland, which is a disappointment considering it cost the same as a main course in The Ivy back in London.
Combined with the bill, which is enough to wipe any smile from our faces, we can't help but feel that we've been taken for tourist suckers when we could have eaten at a little restaurant on Princess Street for a fraction of the price. Ah well, tomorrow we leave Cochin to explore new parts of Kerala so at least we've done our final night in style.
Our next stop is high in the mountains, in a rainforested spice gardens next to a wildlife reserve. There's just the matter of a six hour drive to come...
