If the world is a fast lane, then India hogs it with millions of scooters, Hindustan Ambassadors and children flashing their life-affirming, neem-whitened teeth. But you don’t actually realise how huge the former jewel in colonial Britain’s crown is until you go there. And still, I have already been here for a week and it feels as if I have seen nothing but temples, temples and a few more temples.

When those obsessed with the sub-continent ‘go to India’ they usually stick to Rajasthan, with its beautiful lakes, welcome carpets of green and its world-beating, rather than world-class, hotels. I decide to experiment so I fire the start-gun to my trip at Tamil Nadu.

Here, I manage to stay in hotels so awful that on one particular occasion I find myself arguing vehemently at reception, insisting that no, this little pile of foam could not be called a pillow, holes in the window overlooking the traffic were not a perk and that yes, hotel rooms do come with towels. I go on holidays to relax not to ‘experience the real thing’. When you find various types of Kafkaesque roaches watching their reflection in the bathroom mirror, you have no choice but to acknowledge that the real thing has become surreal.

So far, the brilliant thing about India has been the food, which is divine from even the most rickety of shacks, as well as my lovely driver and his Ambassador car. I beg him to take me away from all this and he starts manoeuvring the hours-long trip to Kerala. It is difficult to explain to a man who is sleeping overnight in his car in order to save his €5 per diem that your bed doesn’t cut it, but explain I did. We set off.

The entrance into the southern state of Kerala is like the gate to heaven. The roads can actually be driven on. There is signage and no dirt. And the beautiful hills may be giving me motion-sickness but stepping into a huge cowpat in order to photograph the tea plantations and inhale their fresh aromas is worth every ounce of embarrassment. The driver laughs and I laugh. And I would do it all over again if the end result were Spice Village.

The first thing that hits me as soon as the driver opens the Ambassador’s door is the perfume of lemongrass lingering in the air. When it meets the cardamom bushes, the lemongrass scent becomes freshly invigorating. It is more effective in waking me up than the chilled towel proffered upon check-in does.

The rooms at Spice Village are simply decked out. Ecology is a big thing here and there is no air-conditioning in any of the huts. Nonetheless, the architecture, planned to complement the shade of the enormous trees, takes care of the temperature in a natural manner. The bathroom is more plain Jane than the standard in most barefoot luxury resorts, but it does its job efficiently. The cleanliness is top-notch. The products look simple for their lack of chic packaging, yet they are made from organic products grown on the resort.

The beauty of Spice Village lies in the surroundings, rather than the room itself. On the first day, I join a spice walking tour around the resort and meet the king of spice - pepper, in India’s case - in its various colours and stages of growth. The guide shows us how they lure mosquitoes to strategically placed bowls of water and make them drown themselves. During the night, I am never bitten, even if the windows are always kept open. Most fruit and vegetables are grown, always organically, on the premises. The staff takes great pride in this - their eyes glow when you ask them a question. In the evening, the chefs prepare food according to what had been harvested on the day and they only use their own produce.

I had been warned that shopping is not easy in India but I thought the person telling me had simply been to the wrong places. But they were absolutely right. All around the resort are shops selling tourist tat and the kind of clothes you can find in the European high-streets. Yet at Spice Village, the tiny boutique sells the most beautiful linen clothing fashioned in very contemporary, rather than hippy or ‘Indian’, styles. They also stock a wonderful selection of pearl jewellery, so I unleash a week of credit-card longing on the poor salesgirl. I pile tunic after trouser after pairs of earrings on the counter. I pay. Then I return and shop some more. By the time I leave, the salesgirl and I are on first name basis.

My only other foray into Kerala’s shopping world is into a tiny spice shop right outside of Spice Village. The resort itself sells very chicly packaged spices but I am after the cook’s dream of industrial quantities of the real thing. After choosing kilos of black, green and white cardamom, myriad shades of pepper, flower-scented cloves, chunky pieces of cinnamon speckled with orange dust, vanilla pods oozing oil, star anise, nutmeg and mace, the shopkeeper takes pity on me and arranges for my boxes to be carried back to Spice Village. Their acceptance back at the resort was greeted with knowing nods and smiles rather than sighs of pity.

For most of the day I walk through the beautiful green grounds, nostrils flaring at the scents, eyes wide at the beautiful flowers dotting the trees and shrubs. I sit on the grass and read. In the evening, I sit in the old-worlde charm bar and play board games. Or read. I read so much I had to help myself to their library, which for once is not packed with paperbacks in German.

When I venture out, it is to go, by ferry, to the supposed tiger reserve: suffice to say I do not see any tigers. But by now I am used to India’s promises of wildlife and so I decide to stop searching for whatever I was searching for - I am not even sure myself - and wake up to the realisation that like the best things in life, it is staring me right there opposite the lounger outside my hut: nature, tweaked slightly so that it caresses your olfactory senses, all around me.

 

This article has been republished with kind permission: http://www.fmlifestyle.com

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