September 8, 2002, Cochin, India -- Most of the people who visit India for the first time aren't coming for the peace and quiet.

Exotic contrasts between East and West, perhaps; the ferocious mountains of the North; or the regal features of manmade attractions such as the Taj Mahal. Maybe even the chance to creep near the stolid frame of a richly head-dressed elephant.

What newcomers such as I don't expect to find is the calm of a houseboat ride along inland waterways in the back country, the peace of hill towns ringed round with spice farms, and the dreamy luxury of an Ayurvedic massage, all encountered in a tropical haven far from the crush of the big cities.

Even in this port town with a population of about 600,000, the jittery traffic patterns seem as orderly as a funeral procession compared with Mumbai (Bombay).

This is the beautiful strip of southwest India called Kerala, a state with the highest level of literacy in India--close to 100 percent--and the fragrant center of much of the country's spice production. I came here for work, to see this industry for myself, and returned home as relaxed and soothed as if I'd been on a two-week beach vacation.

The contrast between what I expected and what I found was brought home at every stage of the trip, as different people asked me what impressions Americans held of India. "We rarely get American tourists here, just Europeans," the manager of one hotel said wistfully. "They go up north instead to see the Taj Mahal."

It is true that the charms of this part of the country have been relatively untapped by American visitors until only recently. India, a longer, more expensive journey than one to Europe, can be a hard sell.

Although I answered questions with my best diplomatic spin, the fact is the Americans I spoke to before and after my visit, the ones who had never been to India, have a consistently negative view: chaotic, poverty-ridden, disaster-prone. It occurred to me that my images of the country also had veered between catastrophes broadcast on the news and the colonial daintiness of a Masterpiece Theatre program. And the threat of war between India and Pakistan, which has since eased, led the U.S. Department of State to urge Americans to leave India earlier this summer.

Yet with the official Travel Warning now lifted (see If You Go), I would go back to Kerala in a heartbeat. And not a pounding one.

In fact, I can still feel relaxed just at the thought of walking near the beach in Kochi, on the way to the 16th Century St. Francis church, painted a faint mustard yellow and cooled by big shade trees and branches of frangipani.

Vasco da Gama was buried in this church after the Portuguese navigator died in 1524 in Cochin, which Kochi was known as until recently. A brass plaque marks the spot, although the body was returned to Lisbon 14 years later. He was just one of many foreigners who paused here for a rest, including traders who built a 16th Century synagogue and others who were the first of generations of Kerala's Muslim citizens. The men doing business from the court of Kublai Khan left behind a system of Chinese fishing nets, giant beach-based webs still raised and lowered for a day's catch by huge levers.

The multi-cultural and multi-ethnic flavor of the city is as pleasantly energizing as the homes and storefronts painted in a Key West-style riot of teal, yellow, red and green. The Key West comparison isn't too far off, seeing as how the sun felt so warm and close, the air breezier and the flowering trees and shrubs thick and moist with petals and humming insect life. I spent an afternoon walking around the old part of town, Ft. Cochin, looking for bargains in cashmere and instead, with the word "Sap" stamped firmly on my forehead, was handily led into paying full price for everything.

I also found plenty of fast food; at the tip of a peninsula bordered by the Lakshadweep Sea and Vembanad Lake, Kochi's beachfront is studded with battered shacks selling fried fish and grilled prawns, and street stands touting okra fritters and ice cream. The temperature and humidity can be ferocious, and at the time only fresh coconut water, drawn from the freshly hacked top of a coconut shell, seemed refreshing enough. While I waited for the vendor to chop the top with a machete and pop in a straw, a few teenage entrepreneurs vigorously offered to sell me postcards and cotton shawls.

But even this city seemed too cosmopolitan, too Western, for my taste. Much better was the tour through the countryside, begun the next day as the hired driver, Amar, began our journey into the Cardamom Hills to the east.

All seemed peaceful for a while, on two-lane roads, twisty enough that Dramamine might be in order, yet empty of traffic for long stretches. Then suddenly a psychedelically painted public bus would come shuddering around the corner, packed with people cooling their faces at the open windows. Just like that: quiet country road, then a noisy metal frame painted pink, purple, yellow, blue and gold passing inches from your own window. It was like a regular pinch in the arm as if to say, "Pay attention; you're in India."

We stopped at a village along the way to pick up lunch--cartons of curried chicken, hard-boiled eggs, crisp pancakes and whole mangoes, a fine picnic that we spread out on the hood of the Jeep and ate sitting under trees at the side of the road. The rich vegetation in this area is clustered on every hillside, from terraces of tea bushes to stalks of cardamom to thick jackfruit and coconut trees.

There were occasional stops in little towns along the way, and I attracted some curiosity; nothing unfriendly, just clusters of people who would gather across the street to stare. At one point we saw an elephant being led across the main street and followed it to a small courtyard. What do you know? He was getting decorated, with a jeweled and sequined head dress, for a festival at the temple. I had my pachyderm fix.

It was a good five hours before we finally reached the hotel, the Spice Village, in Thekkadi. Dark as it was, I could see on the path to my little bungalow the spice trees and plants growing all over the grounds. The resort is part of the Casino Hotel group, run by an ecologically minded group of brothers who incorporate environmentally friendly business practices into their hospitality. Guests are encouraged to conserve water, for instance, and to appreciate the flora of the region by understanding more about spices.

The resort also has an Ayurvedic spa, one of several that can be found throughout Kerala.

Everything about Ayurveda but the name was new to me, but as it has become better known outside of India, such spas are increasingly a tourist magnet. As with Chinese traditional medicine, Ayurvedic medicine involves balancing all the elements of the body to achieve health, with an evaluation of the skin, hair, and the functioning and frequency of every bodily function. I don't think I've ever gone into such detail with my own doctor. Fully dressed, I felt thoroughly exposed.

Turns out, my fair coloring and flushed cheeks, fine hair, round figure and damp, warm skin after even a minute in the sun branded me a dual combination of Pitta and Kapha, two of the three doshas, or life forces, I need to balance for health and harmony.

Doses of herbs and a regulated diet of specific foods are some of the ways to bring all three doshas into balance. So are steam baths and massage. And so, apparently, are medicated oil dripped into the nose, enemas and blood letting.

My dual life forces united to say "No" and "Way" to the latter. An Ayurvedic massage would be just fine.

Sarah Stegner, the executive chef at the Ritz Carlton Chicago, had been to Kerala just before my trip and tried to give me a heads up about the massage. "You'll be oiled all over like a pork roast," she teased. I didn't understand at the time, especially as the first part of the treatment was a standard shoulder and back rub performed by my masseuse, Smita, while I sat on a stool.

But then Smita led me over to a long teak table, slightly tilted at the head, bare of any cushion or toweling, and unremarkable except for deep grooves that ran along the edges of the wood. She placed cotton in my ears and a cloth over my eyes.

Then came the oil, gently heated in a copper bowl, spiced with cardamom, and poured from a ladle so liberally that I could have been deep-fried as well. Oil ran in rivers over every limb, over my hair, down the back of my neck and along those grooves in the teak where it pooled at the end--an hour-long massage of kneading and a monsoon of oil, to the point where I began to slide down the incline of the table and turning over had to be done with her help. A pork roast, indeed. I felt like a fish, and eventually was floating, happy, just like one.

When it was time to get up, with much help, Smita took me to a shower and scrubbed my skin with a gritty clay to remove all but the lightest sheen of the oil. She washed my hair and poured bowls of warm water over my head. When I was clean and dressed, I remembered that feeling of being a little kid, warm from the evening bath, snuggly in my pajamas and ready for a hug from my mom. Oh, baby.

That pampered feeling lasted even into the next day, when it was time to try one of the houseboats for which Kerala is famous.

The inland waterways of the back country are home to families and small farms, all lining the canals that pour into Vembanad Lake. The kettuvallam, as the boats are known, are the motorized boats, covered with a canopy of woven coir, making them look sort of rough and rustic on the outside. The interior leans more to House Beautiful, with comfortable, padded chairs on deck, fresh flowers on the table and one or two rooms, outfitted with queen-sized beds, bathrooms and showers.

And me. And a staff of three.

We took off, me still somewhat bewildered at the thought of having this grand setting all to myself, while the cook, Kishore, brought me a glass of fresh watermelon juice and freshly fried banana chips made in the boat's tiny galley. We passed water buffalo grazing among coconut trees, people washing clothes and dishes in the water, and men in canoes laden with bags of harvested rice and grasses. Little kids, hearing the motor, ran along the banks, waving.

Believe it or not, it took a while to realize that it was OK to just slow down, to read and write and take pictures. No phone or radio was on board. The crew had very limited English. And the sun was setting so redly that it was obvious the thing to do was just sit and dream.

Dinner arrived, so many courses out of that little kitchen. I looked; barely enough room to chop an onion, but out came fried fish steaks and prawns, and stew of okra and onions, rice and tomatoes in coconut milk, and sliced pineapple and watermelon and on and on. We had dropped anchor in the lake at that point and I could just barely make out lights from a town in the distance, while our electric lanterns rocked a little overhead along with the boat. The crew slept on a mattress on deck and I pulled the mosquito netting around my comfy bed in the cabin and dropped off like that anchor.

I wouldn't have bothered to see the morning except for the wakeup call of music from a temple, broadcast in full stereo across the water. By the time breakfast was served--another lovely meal of eggs and bananas with coconut flakes and fresh orange juice--I could have mutinied and forced the boat to keep going for a week. But there was a train ready to take me north again, on the way to Mumbai, on the way back home.

I had to let everyone know how beautiful this country was, how interesting and fun and calm. I wanted to make plans with friends and family to come back.

This was India? This was work? Don't tell my editor.

HOW TO GET THERE

From Chicago, Air India (312-782-6263; www.airindia.com) offers direct service three times a week to Mumbai (Bombay), usually with one stop. Other flights may be arranged through the airline with connections--and flight changes--in New York and Europe.

British Airways (800-247-9297; www.britishairways.com) has flights to Mumbai, connecting through London, but be aware that London-Mumbai flights frequently are fully booked. The airline offers sleeper seats in Business Class; the fare is almost $10,000, but if you can upgrade, it will be miles well spent for around 18 hours of flying time. Other airlines offer flights connecting in major European cities. Several airlines serve the Mumbai-Kochi route, but Jet Airways India (866-835-9538; www.jetairways.com) has the most frequent service. The 9-year-old airline claims to have the youngest fleet of planes in the country, and the interior was, indeed, clean, fresh and comfortable. Round-trip fares from Chicago to Kochi begin at about $1,300.