Festivals
A snake boat race is a village institution that happens to be a sport
The long rowing boats of the Kerala backwaters are owned and crewed by communities rather than by clubs, which is why a race day looks less like a regatta and more like a festival with a finish line.
By Sofia Almeida3 min read
The boat belongs to a village
A chundan vallam, the type usually translated as a snake boat, is an extremely long, narrow wooden craft with a high curved stern, built to carry a crew numbering in the dozens. Building and maintaining one is a serious undertaking, and the ownership is typically collective — a village, a set of neighbouring villages, or a boat club representing them.
That collective ownership sets the tone for everything else. The boat is a possession of the place, kept in a shed on the water when not in use, launched with ritual, and treated with a respect that is not merely sentimental.
Crews are drawn from the same community, and rowing in one is a matter of standing rather than of recreation. When a village boat wins, the celebration belongs to the village.
The season follows the water and the calendar
The races happen when the backwaters are full, which means the months after the rains, and the biggest of them cluster around the Onam season in late summer and early autumn. Water levels matter: these are shallow inland waters and a course needs depth.
Individual races are attached to particular places and particular days, some of them long established. Not all of the famous water events are races at all — the boat pageant at Aranmula on the Pampa is a religious procession connected to a temple, and treating it as a competition misreads it entirely.
The most widely known competitive event is held on the lake at Punnamada near Alappuzha, and in recent years a series format has been introduced across several venues, which has professionalised the calendar considerably. Dates and arrangements are announced each year, so check the current schedule rather than relying on a fixed month.
The rowing is a feat of synchronisation
A large crew rowing in unison in a hull that narrow is an exercise in rhythm before it is an exercise in strength. The stroke has to be identical across the length of the boat, and a boat that loses its timing loses speed immediately and can become unstable.
Traditionally the rhythm is carried by song. The vanchipattu, boat songs sung by the crew or by singers aboard, set the pace and hold the crew together, and in the older form of the race that vocal element is as prominent as the water noise.
Steering a boat of that length is a specialist job carried out from the raised stern by men working long oars, and turns are the hardest part of any course. Capsizes happen, the water is shallow and the rowers can swim, and the crowd finds it hilarious rather than alarming.
Training has become serious in a way it was not
Crews now train for months rather than turning out on the day, with organised practice sessions, physical conditioning and, at the top level, professional coaching. Sponsorship has entered the sport, and the leading boats operate closer to a professional outfit than to a village team.
This has raised the standard and has also produced the usual argument about what is gained and what is lost. The competitive quality is higher and the tradition is now sustained by money that was not previously available; the flipside is that a village with fewer resources finds it harder to compete on the same water.
For a spectator, the effect is that the major races are genuinely fast and closely contested, and the smaller local races retain the older character. Both are worth seeing and they aren’t the same event.
Watching one
Crowds at the big races are very large and take up every bank, bund and rooftop along the course, with seating in pavilions available at the organised events and everything else being a matter of finding a spot. Getting a place means arriving early in the day for an event that runs into the afternoon.
It is hot, humid and largely unshaded, on ground that is often the top of an earth bund beside water. Sun protection, water and a hat are worth more than a good camera, and the ground gets slippery where crowds have churned it.
Booking arrangements for stand seating, and access to the various vantage points, are handled by the organisers and change year to year, so look up the current position for the specific race. Accommodation in the small towns concerned fills for those dates, and it’s one of the occasions when arriving without a room is a bad idea.
Common questions
Are boat races held only around Onam?
The main cluster is in that season, when the backwaters are full, but individual races and temple-linked water events are spread across a wider period and some venues hold them at other times of year. The schedule is published annually and is the thing to check.
Can you get onto the water to watch?
At some events spectator boats operate, and at others the course is kept clear for good reasons. Where boats are permitted they are arranged locally, and it is worth being confident about the operator, since an overloaded boat in a crowd of boats is a genuine hazard.
Is a small local race worth attending instead?
Often, yes. The smaller races are far less crowded, the connection to the villages involved is much more visible, and you can usually get close to the boats and the crews before the racing starts, which is not possible at the large events.
Deputy editor, Traveology
Sofia writes the explanatory pieces on states, hills, coast & islands and reads the small print so you do not have to.
