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adversary. I sat in the front and center of an audience of about 11 people, all Westerners. Whether because of that or because of the power of the acting, I had the uncanny feeling during much of the performance that the actors were looking directly at me.
After the performance, audience members were invited to pose with the protagonist for photographs. I was amused to see three very young, very blond, very innocent-looking boys gather for a photo around the fierce-looking hero who had just lopped a breast off the demon seductress.
Sunday morning I set out for the older part of Cochin. The day was overcast but fine, except for the extreme humidity that is a standard feature of the lowland Kerala climate.
My driver dropped me off at the harbor in Ft. Cochin, where I saw the legendary Chinese fishing nets that require several people to operate and watched the ferries moving between the islands. From there I headed inland through beautiful streets lined with walls covered by moss and vines, uncrowded by either Indians or Western tourists. Goats wandered freely through them. I stopped in St. Francis Church, were the Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama had been buried after he died in Cochin on Christmas Eve, 1524. (His remains were moved 14 years later to Lisbon). The church, like the city, had moved from Portuguese Catholic to Dutch Protestant to British Anglican control.
