The crossing of Palk Strait took three hours and was uneventful. At Rameswarem the car was transferred onto two small barges lashed together which brought it to a small landing platform near the beach. It was then hauled across the beach by a crowd of enthusiastic helpers and onto the road. Customs was very friendly and easy, although we had to register our cameras, radios and tape recorder for re-export. In Ceylon the customs had been a little suspicious of our currency declarations, quite justifiably, since the figures and our money would not have tallied had they checked carefully. We were already into the habit of changing our traveller’s cheques on the black market. We also found that our cost of travelling in Ceylon, excluding the costs of bringing the car into the country, had averaged less than US$2 per day for food, accommodation and petrol, and this became our budget target for the onward journey.
Although we had arrived in India, we were surprised to discover that Rameswarem was on a large sandy island which was only linked to the mainland by a rail bridge. We therefore had to load the car onto a train for the short journey to Mandapam, 12 miles away. Although we arrived before the evening train left, there was no room available for the car. Next morning it was a race against time to make arrangements to get the car on the 10 am train. By a process of bribery and persuasion we managed to get things done and an hour later we were on the mainland.
We left Mandapam at noon, bound for Madurai. About 15 miles from our destination, one of the hundreds of children along the road suddenly darted across our path, hitting the front of the car with a sickening thud. Pandemonium reigned as an old woman began wailing over the motionless little girl. A young man who spoke English picked her up and we drove them to the hospital where she was found to be uninjured. Fortunately we had hardly been moving at the time. After much discussion at the police station, we paid about US$3 ‘medical expenses’ and went on our way. The helpful policeman said that these things happen all the time and not to worry. Our concern was that we had not yet arranged our compulsory third party insurance.
The centrepiece of Madurai is the Meenakshi Temple complex which has ten tall towers decorated with a brightly coloured conglomeration of Hindu gods. Two of the smaller towers are completely gold plated. The temple is also noted for its Hall of a Thousand Pillars, some of which, when struck, play musical notes. After arranging third party insurance we headed south to Cape Comorin, southernmost point of India. On arrival, we were immediately besieged by hawkers and children looking for money.
The contrast between Ceylon and South India was marked. Few in Ceylon had many luxuries, but all appeared to be well fed and reasonably well clothed. The poverty of India was evident immediately. Beggars would approach us regularly and housing was extremely primitive. Clothing was often dirty and tattered, or even non-existent, except perhaps for the women’s saris, which were very colourful and quite different from those worn in Ceylon. It was very hot in South India, around 100 degrees Fahrenheit every day, and the land was parched. Only the thousands of goats seemed to be thriving. In one village we were unable to buy food because there was none to spare.
As we headed north from Cape Comorin into the state of Kerala, the landscape changed dramatically. It was lush, green and fertile with many palm trees, very much like parts of Ceylon. People again looked more prosperous and well fed. Kerala is the old Malabar Coast, and its ports were a major trading link between the Far East and Europe for centuries. It is known for its canals with their beautiful long boats, propelled by poles, which are apparently of Chinese design. In Cochin we also saw rickshaws which were identical with those in Hong Kong. Along the coast were huge wooden ‘fishing machines’ which lower nets into the water using an arrangement like a see-saw with a balance weight. Throughout Kerala there were many flags and signs displaying the hammer and sickle symbol. This state has the dubious honour of having freely elected a Communist government – something quite unique. There was an abundance of ornate Catholic churches and fewer Hindu temples. It seems that wherever they went, the Portuguese left their religion with the native people.
In Kerala the women did most of the hard manual labour, both in the paddy fields and on the roads. As is common in this part of the world, most things are carried balanced on the head. We often saw women carrying large baskets filled with sand or even blocks of house bricks in this way. Many of the older women wore nothing above the waist, as apparently was universal practice at one time.
It was quite impossible to camp in India, but we had been staying in inexpensive government Tourist Bungalows. In Cochin the ‘bungalow’ was Bolghatty Palace, a magnificent colonial building which is located on a small island and is accessed by ferry boat. It was built by the Dutch in 1744 and later used by the British. That evening we dined in style. It turned out to be an expensive but enjoyable treat. On the road, however, we were getting used to eating Indian style, using our fingers, right hand only and the food, though spicy, was quite enjoyable. I had never, unfortunately, adjusted to the curry in Ceylon.
North of Cochin at Trichur we headed east and inland in continuing hot conditions. The Fiat’s engine was close to boiling. At Mettauppalaiyam we began to climb sharply into the cool Nilgiri Hills which rise over 8000 feet above the coastal plain. Just as Kerala resembles the southwest coast of Ceylon, the Nilgiris are like the central highlands of that country. The hill station of Ootacamund - ‘Snooty Ooty’ in colonial times - shows clear evidence of a British influence as well. Tea plantations were evident but not as extensive as in Ceylon. The descent on the other side of the Nilgiri Hills was equally steep and led onto an elevated plain, the Deccan Plateau. Here, conditions were parched and dry again, and not unlike outback Australia.
We continued on an excellent road into the city of Mysore which has many attractive buildings. For the first time a Moslem influence was evident. We visited the impressive Maharajah’s Palace as well as the very colourful Hindu Sri Chamundeswari Temple. A giant statue of Nandi, Shiva’s bull, sits on nearby Chamundi Hill. Ten miles away at Srirangapatna is Tipu Sultan’s ornate summer palace and mausoleum. This Moslem ruler of Mysore died fighting the British in 1799. Our route now lay north through Hassan and Halebid towards Bombay. Halebid has two temples featuring extraordinarily detailed rock carving. This was made possible by the local stone used to construct the temples which is soft when freshly cut but hardens on exposure to the atmosphere.
The car was causing us some concern. As we had found in Australia, the engine was becoming very hot on long runs, although it did not appear to boil until the engine had stopped. In addition, the engine would continue to run on after the ignition had been turned off, due to the low octane rating of Indian petrol. The front tyres were also wearing prematurely on the inside edges after less than 4000 miles. We rotated the tyres and increased their pressure.
Conditions continued to be very hot despite the elevation of the Deccan (2000 – 3000 feet according to our altimeter). After a day at the wheel driving to Shimoga I began to feel quite unwell, probably due to heat exhaustion. Although most Indian roads were bitumen surfaced, they were often in poor condition, damaged and deeply rutted by the constant traffic of trucks and buses, and sometimes simply consisted of patch upon patch upon patch. The constant pitch and toss motion on the uneven surface was very hard on the car’s suspension which bottomed easily under the load it was carrying.
There was little interesting scenery along the way which would in any case be obscured by the constant heat haze. On our way to Hubli we decided to divert via the Jog Falls for a pleasant change. From Hubli on, all road signs pointed us to Poona. We were on the main trunk route now and the large overladen Tata trucks were a constant hazard as the bitumen was not wide enough for two vehicles to pass side by side. We invariably were the ones who blinked and headed off crashing along on the rough shoulder of the road.
After such anticipation, the colonial hill station of Poona was a disappointment, just another dirty hot Indian city, but we dutifully stopped to sip tea in an outdoor café. As we neared Bombay the traffic became increasingly heavy, the shoulders of the road rougher and road gangs particularly evident. The gangs, as usual, were predominantly female with the men either supervising or sleeping. The women were dressed in very colourful saris with large mirrors attached to their blouses and very long dangling ear rings. It looked just like you or I doing the gardening in a dinner suit or evening gown!
The descent of the Western Ghats after Poona was steep and spectacular. Ascending vehicles were boiling all the way and our brakes were taxed to the limit on the way down. The descent was a series of steep hairpin bends between cliffs and stone walls. At one point there was a large hole in the stone wall and below it a small heap of scrap metal, the remains of an unfortunate vehicle. We arrived in Bombay in the middle of the evening rush hour. The traffic was composed largely of yellow and black taxis which were piloted in suicidal dashes from one intersection to the next. In the confusion, combined with our doubtful navigation, it took about two hours to find the YMCA where we were rather begrudgingly given a room. It was 10 days since we had landed at Rameswarem.
Bombay was a filthy, squalid city. The waterfront with its monumental Gateway to India was quite attractive, but its fringes consisted of countless ugly, multi-storey concrete housing blocks set in what appeared to be reclaimed tidal swamps. Our immediate need was to attend to the car as it was not running well. I found that the distributor points were out of adjustment and rectified that. In doing so, I noticed that the alloy generator bracket had fractured along an old weld – apparently this was a chronic problem. There were no Fiat 600 parts available in India, but the Fiat agent found a specialist in the bazaar who could weld alloy. This is not an easy operation, but this fellow simply squatted down in the dirt and completed the repair without difficulty. As our trip proceeded, we would come to appreciate the skill and ingenuity of Indian mechanics. The welded bracket completed the journey to London without further problems.
The range of motor vehicles in India at that time was very limited as imports were not allowed and only local products were available, with long waiting lists. Only three types of car were manufactured in India. The cheapest was the Standard Herald, based on a Triumph model of the same name. More common were the Fiat 1100Ds, widely used as taxis in Bombay. The luxury model was the Hindustan Ambassador, based on the mid-1950s Morris Oxford. Most of the large trucks were Tatas, which appeared to be an old Mercedes Benz model made under license. The ubiquitous three wheeled autorickshaws were assembled from Lambretta motor scooter parts. The popular motorcycles were the Czech Jawa and British Royal Enfield models. Spare parts for other vehicles, including our Fiat 600, were non-existent.
With our chores completed, we took a launch to Elephanta Island to see some quite impressive Hindu rock temples and transferred to the more agreeable Salvation Army Hostel. Our arrival in Bombay was badly timed as it was a weekend and most things were closed. Since there was nothing to hold us longer, we decided to head north along the trunk road towards Delhi.