On A Shoestring to Coorg: An Experience of Southern India
Dervla Murphy
Language: English
Pages: 256
ISBN: 1780600127
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Travelling for the first time with her five-year-old daughter Rachel, Dervla Murphy, with little money, no taste for luxury and few concrete plans, meanders south from Bombay to the tip of India before doubling back to the place they liked most - the hill province of Coorg. Anchored by her daughter's delight in the company of her Indian neighbors, Dervla creates an extraordinarily affectionate portrait of these cardamon-scented, spiritually and agriculturally self-sufficient Highlands.
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Gazetteer, I noticed that Rachel had her playmates – all of whom were eight or ten years old – completely under control. Everybody was doing exactly as she wanted them to do, and this is not the first time during the past fortnight that I have observed such a development. It worries me slightly that without one word of any common language a white child, who is being brought up in a totally unimperialistic environment of liberty, equality and fraternity, should unconsciously and effortlessly take.
Closed her ears to maternal words of wisdom; so I soon gave in, feeling she had earned this concession by being, on the whole, such a reasonable travelling companion. In the ticket hall the male queue stretched for over fifty yards – its end was out of sight – but there were only two other women in the female queue. Inevitably I was asked to get a ticket for a man, which I gladly did. He was a very young father carrying a sleeping toddler of fourteen months and whimpering, newborn twins. Their.
Funeral pyre must be lit with embers from his own kitchen fire. Here the fire burns in a low mud stove, which has two holes, one behind the other, for saucepans. It is fuelled with long, fairly thin branches which lie on the floor and are pushed farther and farther in as they burn – or are withdrawn, should it be necessary to lower the heat. All this I observed this morning while standing outside the kitchen doorway watching Shanti boiling water to steep Rachel’s foot; and since it is not my.
Of development and away from the bus stop there are few people to be seen. Close to the sea, palms flourish on low, scrubby sand-dunes where I reckoned it should be possible to camp comfortably; but first we would bathe, and then return to the settlement to eat before looking for a sleeping-spot. Floating in clear green water, listening to pure white surf singing on golden sands beneath an azure sky, I felt as unreal as a figure in a travel brochure for millionaires. The local fisherfolk – whose.
Customs have been abandoned during the past fifty years, or made obsolete by Progress, yet most of those connected with the anthropologists’ ‘rites of passage’ are being maintained. Last night, just as I was falling asleep, I heard two distant gun shots and wondered if Uncle Machiah was still trying to pot that mongoose. But I have since learned that this was the announcement to the village of a bereavement; if those shots had been fired during the day, even at the height of the ploughing or.