The Diving Range

Looming before you is a big mid-sea rock with a little whitewashed shrine perched atop. This is the Roman Catholic shrine of Enayam. It was once at the end of a vast beach, but thanks to relentless erosion—this after all is a land that was ravaged by the tsunami last year—the shrine can only be approached by boat. At Christmas, there is a profusion of boats bobbing around the holy rock.

Closer, there’s a much rarer sight. In the middle of the sea, there are clusters of shaky little log boats, essentially two tree trunks cleverly lashed together. There’s barely standing space for two men—but these are uncommon men. Save for a loincloth, they are naked, doing what their forefathers did for centuries. The modern age has, however, contributed to their diving masks. Their taut, black bodies glisten in the sun. Most have six-packs and ripped arms from repeated dives and hauling nets from the sea. These are the limestone divers of Enayam, famed for their ability to hold their breath under water for more than a minute.

It’s a buddy system. Every few minutes, one of them will dive into the sea with a net attached to his buddy on the boat. Once the net is filled with limestone from the seabed, a quick tug and the anxious buddy begins a frenzied haul. The limestone is used for construction all along the coast. Turn the vallam now to the next group of raucous divers. Outsiders are rare and a cause of much merriment.

‘‘From where? Can you give us a loan?’’
‘‘See saar, best in the world!’’

The young man proffers a giant conch. ‘‘Take it,’’ he says generously. He goes by the grand name of Napoleon (everyone has only one name). This conch could fetch him up to Rs 100, but generosity is a feature of the conch divers. As the locals do on holidays, you can pack beer and a picnic lunch, wander along the coast, and watch the conch and limestone divers.

When we return to shore, the ride isn’t over. The boat is swiftly beached on the high, white sands. The boatmen start bellowing down the largely deserted beach for help and soon six men materialise. They shove and heave the vallam over a spit of land and into the backwaters. There are four young men, all speak careful, spotless English. ‘‘We are pleased to have you here,’’ says Jehan, a trim 18-year-old with a neat goatee, a cross around his neck. Clad in bicycle shorts, he drips water as he explains his calling in life: He is a trainee priest, passing that time of day splashing in the Arabian Sea before going back to the seminary. ‘‘Stay cool, take it easy,’’ grin the others as we cast off into the lush calm of the backwaters.

If water isn’t your thing, you can hire a car from the district headquarters (the quiet, southern town of Nagercoil), reach the coast in 45 minutes and wind through the narrow road that runs through the fishing villages. You can explore boat yards, the churches or try to get invited to a local home for an atmospheric meal of sticky rice, fresh vegetables and up to three varieties of seafood. We ate fried fish and two very varied types of coconut curries, yet our hosts—a local teacher and her husband who managed tsunami rehabilitation for the church—apologise for the ‘‘simple meal’’.

There’s some charming history tucked away in the low hills around Enayam (and sister villages with equally winsome names, like Muttom). These were once part of the princely state of Travancore. Their seafaring traditions are ancient and include the only defeat of a European naval force by an Indian kingdom in 1741.

So, if you find your way to a little chapel near the fort of Udaygiri, you will find this elegy: ‘‘Stand traveller and behold! For here lies Captain Delannoy who served Maharaja Marthanda Varma and Travancore faithfully for three decades.’’ After the defeat of his Dutch East India Company force, Delannoy actually went on to command the forces of his former foe. In Enayam, it’s best not to expect the obvious.