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Forever Young

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May 24. Bob Dylan’s’ birthday. An event that Shillong  (capital of rock music in India) celebrates with an annual musical concert. It has been so for 40 years now going back to 1972 when the first  was organized by Lou Majaw, local boy & die hard Dylan fan.

It has been Lou’s’ tribute to the Prince of Blues & Rock n Roll ever since.

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Lou himself is a legend in these parts. Troubadour, guitarist, folk singer who wants children to enjoy Dylan’s music & to dig the poetry & lyrics of its soulful numbers

May 24,2013.  My trip to Meghalaya is planned around this date. The concert is at Cloud 9, a bar at the Centre Point in Shillong.

I run into Lou bounding up the stairs even before the show has begun. He is ecstatic knowing that I am a Bob Dylan fan too & have especially flown in from Delhi for the event.

Cloud 9 is suffused with Dylan-mania, palpable in the air with fans of all groups & ages.  The bar is smoke filled, liquor filled. With no taboos or restrictions it is easy to sit  & relax & I do precisely that with a ‘Pina Colada’, which soon topples over – glass broken, splinters across the floor, contents all over my dress – in the excitement of Bob/Lou.

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Guitar in hand he makes an appearance to loud  & prolonged applause. He is tall, of stocky frame & unconventionally attired. With flowing white hair & bandana, in trademark sleeveless tee, shorts & sport shoes,he is a showman par excellence. With a powerful gritty voice he begins his tribute to the strains of ‘Forever Young’, the audience joining in, followed by all the nostalgic old favorites  “Tambourine Man “ “ Blowin’ in the wind”  “The times they are a changing”

It is a mesmerizing 4 hours.

There is a large Calcutta crowd. Also many from elsewhere in the northeast.

And there is Geetu Hinduja from Bombay who quite literally brings the house down with her rendition of ‘‘There is a house in New Orleans they call the rising sun”………..’ House of the rising sun’

Happy birthday Bob. May you have many more.



Q & A

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Khasi Monoliths

Khasi Monoliths

Q: Guess which is the cleanest village in Asia?

A: Mawlynnong in the East Khasi hills, Meghalaya

So says everyone (Try Google)

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It is about 2 -3 hours or 85 kms from Shillong the state capital & you could reach it by private car, shared Sumo, or tourist bus.

Take the highway from Shillong towards Dawki on the Bangladesh border, slicing through floating white clouds that drift & hang high above in the sky, then suddenly descend to the ground, blocking the path & view ahead.

Not for nothing is it called Meghalaya (the abode of clouds)

Driving past a landscape of quaint Khasi villages, leafy green woods, upteen waterfalls, mist, drizzle & rain it is surreal. Akin to cruising to the ends of the earth into a kind of ‘nowhere’ land

And, the road is rather good.  So you could simply zip up.

Not quite though. Alas, for the clouds.

With a population of 501, (according to the last census) there are 95 households. The village has paved roads, public parking, pay & use toilets, piped water, electricity, schools & post office

Public Toilet

Public Toilet

Parking Square

Parking Square

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A natural nursery of flora & fauna there are benches for the visitor to simply sit, stare & watch life go by.

Practically everything  - from garbage bins to tree houses to skywalks – is made of different varieties of locally grown bamboo.

Mawlynnong is green & beautiful.  And yes, it is spotlessly clean.

October onwards is the best time for a visit. With the monsoon in retreat, a brimming river & sprightly waterfalls, the colors of the hills come alive. And the rhododendron in full bloom sets the forests ablaze.

It is also a good time to trek, to the many ‘living root ‘& ‘ladder’ bridges which otherwise are inaccessible most parts of the year.

If you ever come, do try slices of fresh pineapple, sprinkled with red chili powder. It is an absolute ‘must’. As is the local red chili which has a flavor uniquely its own

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Living Root Bridge @ Ravai

Living Root Bridge @ Ravai

What strikes one most is the quiet stillness of the place broken only occasionally by a loud buzzing sound emanating from the forest.  It is louder than the sound of a vibrating mobile & comes from an insect that is never to be seen.

At a height of 600 meters Mawlynnong can get hot & humid during the daytime. The locals then retire for a siesta. After a hearty meal of rice, meat & vegetable what could be more desirable.

Leisure, after all is the hallmark of civilization.


Mawlynnong

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Living Root Bridge @ Ravai

Living Root Bridge @ Ravai

What started as a promising day began to sour.

First, the spell binding drive to Mawlynnong, a brief stop over at Ravai, a trek to the ‘living root’ bridge  – munching pineapple all along the way.

Then an accommodation fiasco of the worst kind.

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Swapping tales with young back packers that night I narrated how a village homestay had been arranged & how I had been duped by a certain Henry who turned out to be a tout. One meets his kind everywhere.

The room was practically a hole in the wall & the afternoon heat coupled with an empty stomach had added to my woes, resulting in frayed & over wrought nerves.

But things have a way of working out. Always.

I ran into Smiti Majaw, a tourism official who had come to meet the village Headman. She was appalled at the treatment meted out to an ‘honored guest’. Who was this Henry? Not only was it shocking & painful, it was totally alien to Khasi culture. Both of them apologized & proceeded to make amends by offering alternate accommodation, which turned out to be a choice between a modern cottage & a Khasi hut in the woods. I chose the latter. It looked wistfully romantic & was a stones throw from both the restaurant & Skywalk. The latter offering a grand view of the plains of Bangladesh in the distance.

Khasi Hut

Khasi Hut

P1020485P1020481                                                                                                                                                                                                Bangladesh

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Mr Rishot the owner insisted that I was not to pay a single penny. I could stay as long as I liked without charge for either accommodation or food.  I protested. But he was insistent. His Khasi pride injured too.

My 3 young friends had a hearty laugh.

On reaching Mawlynnong they had gone knocking on doors in search of a cheap place to stay. One family took them in offering just enough leg room to stretch out for the night. The family was large & space scarce. Except for the eldest, a college going boy none of the others spoke either English or Hindi yet, they stayed up late into the night & talked – their son the interpreter.

Early next morning everyone walked down to the river to wash & freshen up. When it was time to leave the visitors offered Rs 500 considering it an appropriate sum for their stay.

“ But the old woman – hands solidly behind her – stepped back & declined. After a little charade in impossible sign language she accepted the money, counted the notes & returned 200.”

With a population of 501 Mawlynnong encompasses a large area. It is also fairly prosperous. Practically every family own a nicely cultivated patch of green. There are fields & forests & plantations of bay leaf, areca & pepper. Also giant Grapefruit & Jackfruit trees.

The main guesthouse that was blown away during the cyclone is under renovation, as is the church near the village square.

Churches of every denomination abound & the church plays a vital role in the life of the village. It is beautiful waking up to the chiming of church bells on a lazy Sunday morning. The bells continue to ring at regular intervals through out the day. There are 3 church services. At 7am, 12 noon & at 2 in the after noon. Do not ever come here on a Sunday if it is to be a day trip only. Sunday is strictly a day of rest when nothing stirs. Forget about food you may not even find a cup of tea anywhere. Coffee, in any case is out of the question. Mawlynnong, for some reason has not been introduced to the pleasures of the coffee bean.

I walked the forlorn streets early one Sunday morning. Clear blue skies. Fresh unpolluted air. Clean surroundings. Not a soul around.  Complete silence.

“ Dear God the very earth seemed asleep”

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A word about Mr Rishot.  Bachelor, man of few words, a gentleman, if ever there was one. Schoolteacher by profession he is idealistic & unworldly. Someone who does not even operate his own bank account because he trusts the person who does it for him. The account, in any case a superfluous necessity that must be retained because of the incoming school salary.

He is also the owner of an eating place & guesthouse that offer rest, warmth & friendly service. His contribution I’d say to making his village a more livable place.

And Rishot, to me epitomizes Mawlynnong.  As much as the fireflies that lighted up the forest & glowed in the night sky.

P1020507                                                                                                                                                                                               Mr Rishot

Down to the River

Down to the River

P1020488                                                                                                                                                                                     The Launder’ette


Top of the world

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Gangtok is a mere 124 kms from Siliguri, from NJP & from Bagdogra but the trip by road takes roughly 5 – 6 hours. Not only because of difficult hilly terrain but dilapidated road conditions.

The alternative, by chopper covers the distance in less than 25 minutes.

The Bell helicopter operated by Pawan Hans is a 5 seater that takes off from Bagdogra (weather permitting) thrice every day.

(Bagdogra is a military airport. A couple of international flights operate from here.)

For the return flight from Burtuk helipad, the fare is Rs 2700 – on board baggage strictly according to specification, which is a smaller than 22”suitcase weighing less than 10 kg.

Capt. Sardul Singh, our pilot flew us at heights of 5000’ – 6000’ over flat plains, low hills, valleys & lush green countryside interspersed with villages. The meandering Teesta in the valley below us a veritable delight.

From Burtuk the chopper can be further requisitioned for a 15 minute joyride over Gangtok & around. At Rs 9500 this offers breathtaking glimpses of the eastern Himalayan range – especially Kanchenjunga (if one is lucky & the day clear)

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River Teesta. Aerial view

River Teesta. Aerial view

Perched at 5500’ Gangtok has ample charms, its rare & beautiful orchids not the least. Locals however rue the way it is regressing mainly because of a large tourist influx & poor infrastructure.

I liked Gangtok.

Among other things it is plastic free. One can stroll the promenade, eat the best Chinese ever & get a super duper hairstyle all for a throw.

I did not stay here though but at Mile 5 at 8000 ft. where the air was clean & noise pollution zero. There was even an 18 hole golf course & golf hut to boot.

Mile 5 East Sikkim

Mile 5 East Sikkim

MG Road Gangtok

MG Road Gangtok

The trip to Nathu La the Indo Chinese border post got cancelled several times on account of inclement weather. I bide my time, my patience finally rewarded with clear skies when I can make the trip without hazard.

From Mile 5 at 8000’ to Changu lake at 12500’, to Sherrathang, Kupup 13500’ & finally Nathu La 14400’.

5 am June 6, 2013   At first an antacid, then a hot cup of green tea & biscuits & I am ready. The road is torturous, pot holed & slithery with debris strewn all over. And there are umpteen roadblocks caused by landslides but these are quickly cleared. Can this possibly be our border road? Not much change I notice since my previous visit nearly 30 years before. And why allow so many tourists every day?

The Chinese have state of the art infrastructure across.

Now this is harakiri.

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Past Mile 17 & on to Changu with a halt for breakfast that consists of tea, coffee, Alu paratha, pickle & curd. Everything tastes absolutely divine at such heights.

A line of 10 Chinese trucks is seen approaching the recently opened trading post at Sherrathang. All laden with goods I presume.

The drive up is scenic with mountain springs & waterfalls from melting glaciers. Short bridges decorated with prayer flags span fast flowing streams. There are at least 3 big lakes enroute.

Also the wind chill factor, hence despite the sun it is bitterly cold. Thank God for the woolens.

Changu Lake @ 12500'

Changu Lake @ 12500′

Baba Harbhajan temple at Kupup is a big draw. It is thronging with visitors come to pay homage to the soldier saint who guards the frontier – so it is said – even in death. The mandir for me is a disappointment. I would have preferred something military, simple, dignified & proud of bearing

Baba Harbhajan temple Kupup 13500'

Baba Harbhajan temple Kupup 13500′

And so to top of the world, Nathu La where it is 3 degrees F in May. The one big change I notice (besides better buildings / ongoing construction) is the open camaraderie between the Chinese & Indians. Raw recruits laughing & chatting – in what language I’d love to know.

What hasn’t changed however & never will is the warm hospitality of the Indian army. One experiences it at different locations again & again. Cheerful smiles, handshakes, hot tea & roasted nuts. Everyone ready for a photograph. Memories are made of this

Nathu La Post

Nathu La Post


The land of Kuru

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DSC00122Bronze – Krishna & Arjuna  on the chariot ( 60’ long/ 35’ high) Along the banks of Brahma Sarovar

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DSC00166Bhadrakali temple – one of the 51 shaktipithas. Horses made of clay are traditionally offered here.

DSC00113Brahma Sarovar

DSC00143Ladies bathing area on the ghats

“Where next?”

“ To Kurushetra”

Eyebrows go up quizzically.

I must confess to having some preconceived notions myself. Eventually reduced to pulp as it turns out.

Past NH1 & less than 4 hours from the national capital, Kurushetra comprises an area covering 48 Kos, one Kos roughly equivalent to a mile & a half.

Myths & legends associated with the place go back several centuries BC. Not only is it a revered Hindu site, it was visited by all the Gurus of Sikhism & by the Buddha himself, giving it rare religious credence. Sufis & Mystics followed, congregating at the ghats on the day of the solar eclipse – to practice & to preach.

Despite this combination of history, legend & myth the one lasting impression is of a town firmly rooted in the present. Albeit quietly on the move

Witness the broad roads, residential areas segmented into sectors, the spectacular campus of Kurushetra University, the museum & the Planetarium where school children flock in droves.

The Krishna museum showcasing the past has more than a thousand footfalls a day, as do the Ghats of the Sarovar. It is believed that the mythical Saraswati once flowed through this land. Geographical changes dried up the river turning it to slush before the water from the Bhakra Nangal was brought in to replenish & restore.

A case of past meets present. And all for the good.

Kurushetra is above all an aspirational town with a feel good factor. Pilgrims, striving for moksha continue to visit in hordes but many more come to avail ample educational opportunities in pursuit of a better material life.

The inspiration clearly is Kalpana Chawla.

Not Bhishma Pitamah lying on a bed of arrows (museum).

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Highway Eatery

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Brahma Sarovar


Red Earth

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At the market place

At the market place

You will be attracted if the blurbs read: “Only hill station in India – No traffic”

I had to check this out for myself.

At 2500’ in the Sahyadris, Matheran – literally ‘forest on the top’  – is 110 kms from Mumbai. You could reach it by rail or road but all vehicular traffic must halt at Dasturi. Pay an entry fee here before going ahead by shuttle, on horseback, Ghora Gaadi or foot.

(A shared taxi from Neral the nearest railhead to Dasturi takes 25 minutes / Rs 70 per passenger

Traffic free Matheran

Traffic free Matheran

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The 2 hour ride on the narrow gauge track from Neral to Matheran is not, at any cost to be missed. The engine huffs & hoots at every scenic bend & turn, cheered on by monkeys snatching at food while, a lone guard flags the  way.

Train timings vary according to season with services shutting down altogether during the monsoon. There is a general bogie with 124 seats/ Rs 65 & 2 first class bogies (6 seaters each/ Rs 265)

Matheran is a sleepy town where one wakes up to the sound of hoofs on red sand & stone paths. It is essentially a place for quiet walks & hikes. Of solitude, golden sunrise & purple sunset. Any wonder that it attracts so many honeymooners. Snatches of old Hindi film songs fill the air – “begaani shaadi mein Abdullah deewaana…..”  Even this is soft & mindful. Not blaring.  Like the place with its pretty colonial cottages. Shops open early & shut late.  Most sell forest honey, chikki & leather goods.

 

But

( with due apologies )

There is nowhere to go

When the sun goes down

In this one horse town.

 I go a lookin’

No restaurant,

pub or bar to be found.

In this mean ole town!

Chess Field at Lords

Chess Field at Lords

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Lords hotel, owned by a charming Parsi family has an old world aura & ambience. The food here is good but it is for in – house guests alone. The best view of tabletop Matheran is also from here.

Walking to Charlotte Lake I suddenly hear a strange unfamiliar sound & turn around to see a car. Whatever happened to the ‘no traffic’ rule?  I accost the driver in my best aam aadmi style & am relieved to find it is an ambulance – the only one here – not some Bloated Ego bending the law.

Be Aware  It is one among many of those suddenly multiplying places that have an unwritten code against accommodation to Singles

However, as every well heeled traveller  learns _ there is always a way.


Dagshai Jail Museum

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Dagshai Jail Museum

Dagshai Jail Museum

 

A British era jail used as a MES dump yard post independence, was converted into a museum in 2011. It is also unique in that it is only the second of its kind in India, the first being the Cellular jail in the Andamans

Dagshai jail, set up in 1849 has played host to several shades of soldier convicts. Gorkha soldiers of the Nasiri Regt (1857), revolutionaries from the ship ‘Komagatamaru’ (1914), 12 Indian soldier – sympathizers of the Ghadar movement (1915) & Irish Catholic soldiers of the ‘Connaught Rangers ‘who mutinied against their British officers (1920).

James Daly the best known of them all was executed here.

When Mahatma Gandhi visited Dagshai to meet with Irish mutineers he had stayed in a cell inside the jail. Legend has it that his assassin Nathuram Godse too was briefly incarcerated here before being taken for trial to the High Court in Simla.

Bust:Maj.Udai Singh

prototype of the bust

Distinguished Alumni In progress art work.  APS Dagshai

Distinguished Alumni
In progress art work.
APS Dagshai

The museum is the brainchild of its curator Dr. Anand Sethi, a local resident who researched & contributed most of the exhibits including archival photographs from his private collection. A prized display is a pair of bellows that were used by iron smiths to make chains and handcuffs. Its museum value 50,000 pounds today. More material continues to be sourced from Ireland, UK & Nepal.

Dr Sethis’ initiative fortunately, was complemented by the vision & foresight of the then Brigade commander Brig Ananth Narayanan. The army has since been closely involved with the project

Dr & Mrs Sethi

Dr & Mrs Sethi

On a clear bright day we stroll through the two sections of the museum, the Dagshai Jail which contains 54 maximum-security prison cells and an exhibit area that displays archival photographs of the jail and around.

Most of the cells do not have sufficient ventilation or natural light. There is only one VIP cell with the luxury of a fireplace and washroom. This is where the Mahatma had stayed when he came to commiserate with Irish prisoners with whom he felt a especial empathy & bond. Strange as it may sound Ireland & India had much in common, most important being their struggle for freedom against the same colonial master. Making common cause was a subtle political message sent out to the powers that were.

The exhibit area showcases the history of the region. There are photographs of soldiers, forgotten heroes and of the writer Rudyard Kipling, who wrote ‘Plain Tales From the Hills’ here.

APS Dagshai Bust unveiled 29/04/2014

APS Dagshai Udais’Bust  29.04.2014

The newest addition is the picture – citations of late Maj Udai Singh SC, SM, first battalion the Parachute Regt. Udai had spent the formative years of his life as a student of APS (1988 – 1992), the school a stones throw away from the museum.

Today his Bust adorns the main school square & the children have permission to walk to the museum as often as they like.

That being the Principals’ order.

 

*The museum is located at Dagshai cantonment, less than 2 kms from Dharampur on NH 22 going towards Simla. It is closed on Mondays & opens Tuesday – Sunday 09.30 – 12.30 & 14.30 -  17.30


To Kody – with love

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The Himalayas we know are magnificent. What one didn’t know or imagine was the immensity & panoramic sweep of the Ghats. Until one got there that is.

Kodi was a delightful surprise.

 

At 6998’ in the Palani hills, the southern most section of the Western Ghats, it was green & serene despite not having had rain in the last three years. (It has 2 monsoons annually)

It is July end & all the waterfalls are dry. Be it Silver Cascade, Bear Shola or Pambar of Liril Advt fame. It was here that Karen Lunel had frolicked nymph like. The waterfall, now reduced to trickles of sludge & grime.

 

 

Pambar Falls

Pambar Falls

Rain or no rain gardens are in full bloom & the day pleasant & cool with evening temperatures going down 12 – 15 C. Mist clouds the sky then melts down the mountainside. There is sometimes, what passes for a drizzle. A faint frizzle.

 

Kodaikanal is a 4 – 5 hour drive from Coimbatore. Giant windmills dot the flat, windy & dusty countryside. The hill section of the road starts only at Palani 60 kms short of Kodi. It is a steep treacherous climb with several hairpin bends & turns that set the stomach churning.

1008 steps lead to Murugan Karthikey temple Palani. It has cable car facility & the rare Kurunji tree that blossoms once every 12 years. The next flowering expected in 2018.DSC00681

Bryants Park

Bryants Park

 Pillar Rocks. Each 400' high

Pillar Rocks. Each 400′ high

We are booked at the Kodaikanal club (Estd 1887) bang on Seven Roads Junction, beside the lake & in the heart of town. What seems like the height of the unexpected is a fireplace in working condition, inside the bedroom. A box of matches with dry wood stacked in a corner & what’s more an attendant to light it. He brings us mugs of steaming hot chocolate before we turn in to sleep on crested linen smelling of lavender. Everything around appears to have either a monogram or crest. The tissue paper even. The entire town an epitome of ‘colonial’ at its best

The Club

The Club

The Lake

The Lake

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And Kodi kids are everywhere, especially on a Sunday. From ‘Kodaikanal International School’ they actually are known as Kodi kids & prefer to be called that way. No Brats these. Unlike other hill station counter parts they come from all over the globe & are decidedly here for an education.

Besides a stunning campus of stone architecture & landscaped gardens the school boasts a charming little chapel, a local attraction within its precincts.

School Chapel

School Chapel

What is your idea of a great holiday? Mine is doing nothing special. Like sleeping, eating, reading, walking & taking – in the scene. Nothing worthwhile. Yet worth the while.

Local villagers bring in their ware on Sumthal – the daylong Sunday market. This includes produce of exotic fruit, flower & vegetable. Shops are laden with spices, herbs, oils & home made chocolate. There is ‘Cloud Street’ for free Wi-Fi & the best wood oven pizzas. Or try Pot Luck Café.

 

Bryants Park has 325 specie of plant & shrub & a Bodhi tree that dates back to 1857. A 5 km walk skirts the lake. Also cycles to be hired. The best walk is Coakers, a 2 km stretch along the mountain edge with a deep gorge separating it from the hill across. Spectacular valley view.

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Potters Shed

Potters Shed

Spice Shop

Spice Shop

 

Mansions of the rich & famous enliven the environs. Locals point these out with humour. Everyone from Mani Ratnam to Alagiri (Scam) of 3G fame is there. Black money too needs a home. Don’t you think?

 

In the end as always, it is the people that make the place. So Kodi shall be remembered. For all its wonderful folk. Foremost being entrepreneur philanthropist Mr. Mani.  Cheez Money as he is fondly called because of formidable cheese making skills.

 

 

Egg shaped estate

Egg shaped estate

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From the Cheese Shop

From the Cheese Shop

 



Ouch, I can’t stand still

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Man was not born to stay in one place

Man was not born to stay in one place

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I once chanced upon a post where the blogger had taken a 2 month trip travelling halfway across the globe in the clothes that he was wearing. Except for an extra undergarment his rucksack contained money & documents, phone, music, camera, medicine & basic toiletries. His self imposed rule was neither to borrow nor buy clothes along the way. That was also his challenge

 

I threw in the gauntlet – with amends. Well, he was a guy & I was not. He was a kid & I was not. I would permit myself the luxury of 2 extra sets of clothing beside what I was wearing. Everything else would be ditto, for a fortnight of travel to an equatorial country first, then onwards to a tropical one. The rule was to look presentable at all times. And that was my challenge.

Friends laughed it away. ‘Not possible’, said they. The American may have done it but no Indian can ever travel this way.

( I had a bright colourful stole that doubled up as sarong /scarf/bedsheet/ tank top/ what have you. It was my single most important piece of clothing.)DSC00921

beauty of the unstitched garment

beauty of the unstitched garment

 

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So here were my 2 rucksacks, which I carried as hand baggage, weighing less than 6 Kg in toto. Simply loved the idea as did the airline that looked on benignly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Screen partition Malaysia

Screen partition Malaysia

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There is a certain thrill in the unknown. Of landing & walking on distant shores. A whole new world opens up for you to embrace & to explore. Even for a first time solo traveler nothing is intimidating. Look at the myriad faces, rootless souls all making their way to the same backpacker den or thereabouts, a place that is almost always walking distance from the sights & sounds of town. The butterfly in the stomach occasionally flutters but that is mostly during  pre take off stage when travel plans are being fueled & ignited. One shrugs off that feeling with what the heck. Can’t let it happen. There is the added realization that it could well mean the beginning of the end of any future solo travel plans. The remedy is to have Dutch courage. Muster up plenty of it.

 

Could I ever forget the first time I ventured forth alone?

I look back now and wonder at the sheer audacity of it. Did I actually embark on a voyage to 5 different countries with nothing but school geography as guide? A walking atlas inside the head assisted by such all time legends as The Lonely Planet & Lets Go. Backpacker Bibles both. Those were the days – pre internet days – when ignorance was bliss. To have traveled like that sans credit card or insurance & to be none the wiser. O, the horror of it all!

 

Budget travel has evolved & backpacker joints have metamorphosed over time. Place to place people appear to interact less & less. It has a lot to do with Wi-Fi, mobiles, tablets & laptops. The result being each person immersed in his own. The old bonhomie hasn’t completely disappeared but the long friendly chats over breakfast or travel tales at the end of day are passé.

Miss you Gary of bread & jam fame – 75 Damareus Street Athens, 1997. A true backpacker young Gary traveled the earth in search of a wife. Bread & jam was his staple & he moved from hostel to hostel as he disliked the idea of spending each night under the same one roof.

 

Cafes & Bars continue to beckon, entice, entertain & enthrall. They add to the experience. Nothing quite like the local & traditional – food, drink, people – to round off the plot.

At the ‘Geographers Cafe’, Malacca, over a pot of Cameron Highland tea & scones I watch life go by on busy Jonker street. There are crowds, music, banter & laughter

And an entry password to the golden Loo

“Eh Eh, tri tri “ pipes the attendant

Excuse me!

“Eh Eh Tree Tree’’ he repeats

Once

Twice

Thrice

Oh 8833 ?

(Turns out to be a squat toilet in the end. But who cares when it is for free.)

 

As everyone knows the only way to explore a place is to do it on foot. Just walk, walk, walk. And if you meet a lost kindred spirit from a far away land take time to talk, talk & talk.

Smile. Walk. Talk. Walk the talk. Three simple golden rules.

Remember conversation never did kill anyone. And not everyone is Jack the Ripper.171805_1682378773703_8375429_o IMG-20140810-WA0027 2

 


Ouch, I can’t stand still

Thottapallay

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Thottapallay Kerala: August16,2014DSC00887 DSC00888 DSC00890

Kala’s coffee service

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Off NH 47, 22 kms from Aleppy, towards Quilon & Kottayam is a charming little hamlet where all the colors & shades of the rainbow contribute to the building of homes & cottages. Giant – pink, blue, green, yellow, purple – garish mansions along side simple thatched huts line the waterfront of Kerala’s legendary backwaters. Almost every family has a working member in the Gulf, hence the flow of technicolor in cash.

I am with Kala & her sister at Omkaram, one of the many homestays that dot the lush green countryside. At Rs 1500 a night one has the luxury of a sea facing room –  no less. It is clean & airy & has marble flooring & state of the art fittings. Kala’s prawn curry/ rice combo is to die for. As is the Egg roast, a local specialty. The strong freshly brewed coffee not to be missed.

This is essentially a fishing village from where a variety of ‘catch’ is exported. Laze around if you will. Cycle the broad traffic less roads. Or watch a game of soccer on the beach. Watch the sunrise or set. Enjoy the cool sea breeze with a morning / evening cuppa to the strains of  classical ragas. A sundowner even. (Kerala Govt I hear is threatening suicide with plans for complete prohibition)

Complementing the cool & the laid back Thottapallay boasts an old British era culvert of indeterminate vintage. It continues in use, the busy ‘Spillover’ bridge that spans the dark inviting waters swarming with catamarans.

 

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The Spillover

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Talakaveri Coorg

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Nov16-20, 2014

A tiny less explored corner – that is forever – Coorg (64 Sq Miles).

It is, in a nutshell, coffee & spice & all things nice.

Evening mists. Beautiful women. Warriors.

Hanging Lamp - Coorg

Hanging Lamp – Coorg

Otti Roti/Rice Bread

Otti Roti/Rice Bread

Todays Menu

Todays Menu

Nimmi's Open Kitchen

Nimmi’s Open Kitchen

The much touted KSRTC, the State run bus service turns out to be a let down so I go cross country, taking any old bus from Bangalore to Mysore, then onwards by taxi. A blessing in disguise for it offers the opportunity of enjoying the countryside at will.

The ‘Elephant Corridor’ at Badaga is a 20 acre estate & the Chengappas, Nimmi & Viju perfect hosts. You are cautioned against early morning walks as elephants graze & roam the wilds & can often be heard crunching grass. Yes, quite literally for all around us is the sound of silence. Pachyderm encounters are not uncommon & could be counted among the many joys of life in Coorg.

‘Homestay’ is an organized sector here. There are 200 registered owners who act with rare passion often going the extra mile in their eagerness to showcase all things Kodagu. Hence no surprise that Viju offers to organize transport & keep a track as I commute from Mysore to Badaga via (at his suggestion) the Tibetan enclave & Golden temple at Byeluppe.

The couple are college day sweethearts. That their hearts continue to beat in unison after 35 years of marriage & 2 children is there for all to see. Parked next to their car in the porch, is a Royal Enfield ‘Bullet’ – the one that was used during their courtship & wooing days. Large sums are being proffered for it today but it continues to stand there – mechanical testimony to a Mills & Boon romance.

Nimmi a Srilankan is the epitome of everything Coorg – from language to cuisine to good looking but the banana jam is hers & hers alone. It goes exceedingly well with the local Dosa – Idli. A desi version of pancake with maple sauce if you will, but far more tasty. ‘The Elephant Corridor’, which has been a homestay for over 10 years, looks to becoming a wedding &  pre nuptial destination, as also a location for Bollywood flicks. ‘Coffee Beans’ was filmed here.

Mercara or Madikeri (3500’) as it is now called is the district headquarters. The entire area that was once a rain forest may be termed ‘semi’ rain forest today as large tracts have been cleared for plantations of rubber, coffee, spice & orange. Acre upon acre of cultivated land interspersed with surviving rain forest vegetation – trees so tall that they seem to be reaching for the skies.   Large & small homesteads with red brick tiled sloping roofs dot the countryside at regular if distant intervals. There is hardly a soul around. And silence so deep – except for the occasional bus rumbling by – it is picture perfect

The river Cauvery has long been to the south what the Ganga is to the north. A disputed river perhaps but also the holiest of holies, especially at its source – Talakaveri,

Pilgrims climb the Brahmagiri hill near by for a Coorg view. Also to leave behind make belief houses. Little stone clusters that symbolize their hope of future housing.

After springing forth at Talakaveri, the river vanishes underground. Suddenly & completely before re emerging 8 kms away at Bhagamandala,. Here it meets the waters of the Kanikke & the mythical Sujyoti to become ‘triveni sangam’, a site of pilgrimage.

Breakfast at the gazebo and a Coorg style sit down meal with friends & extended family. Otti Roti, Pandi curry, Kumbala curry – the works

That coupled with the quiet of the countryside is what I shall carry long after.

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Talakaveri

Talakaveri

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Cavery waters at Abbi falls

Cavery waters at Abbi falls

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Tombs - Gaddige

Tombs – Gaddige

The tree of life - Elephant Corridor

The tree of life – Elephant Corridor


CurioCity

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On a dull working day I decide to junk the housework in search of art & pleasure. Here I am at Jogeshwari, in the centre of a road, facing row upon row of antique furniture & curio shops. It is a veritable treasure trove. The auto rick brought me spot on. No parking woes either.

Hayat Ali, with long flowing henna dyed beard, mans shop No:???? He refuses to be photographed as his religion forbids it or so he believes. The first buy is a Japanese teapot in a cheery floral design. A wee bit of haggling & the deed is done. It makes me happy & joyful. Beauty invariably does.

An interesting day it turns out, scouring shops selling everything from antique furniture to curios, lamps, books, coins, stamps, miniatures, paintings, film posters & framed photographs. A frame minus the photograph goes for less than one with a period picture. This is Mumbai. Everything has a price & everything sells. Even empty perfume bottles. I bought one in the shape of a dolphin. And don’t ask me why. There are bargains to be had. Of commonplace household items & freebies if one is lucky. Much like the ‘buy one get one’ scheme at Malls.

A role reversal happens at times, when the seller suddenly & surreptitiously becomes the buyer. “ You have Rolex watch? I give good price,” whispers Hayat

“You have Asharfi? You know Asharfi / Guinea/ gold coin?”

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Folding Deck Chair

Folding Deck Chair

Antique Camphor Box

Antique Camphor Box

Silver, embossed Soporo.

Silver, embossed Soporo.

Artefacts include an old time Pressure Cooker

Artifacts. Pressure Cooker (hanging)

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Life size chestnut coloured  wooden horse

Life size chestnut coloured wooden horse

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Objets d’ art evoking refinement & grace occupy every inch of empty space. However mediocre their lives it must be said that these shopkeepers have a keen eye for the beautiful. Amidst porcelain vases, sculptures & Chinese curios picked up from rich Parsi homes ( from the days of the opium trade) lie everyday household items such as a grater from grandma’s kitchen – made of brass & shaped like a tortoise – Also a pressure cooker, perhaps the first of its kind, polished, sparkling and new.

My prized bargain that day was a ‘Soporo’, a cone shaped artifact with a tiny bird at the pinnacle. It is used in Parsi ritual. This one is in silver & has an embossed Persian design. There is an inscription at the base, a date along with the name of the silversmith, the makers Rustomjee Jahangir. It also, has a name – SN Soonawala – Its last owner I presume.

It is a sad feeling

What could have compelled Mr Soonawala to part with precious family silver? It could not have been penury I am sure. Had he fallen on bad days? Was he emigrating to a far away land? Or could he have died childless? The possibilities were immense.

In any case the shops were all chock – a – block, full of artistic souvenirs from stately affluent homes. And each had a story, a tale to tell.

Exhausted from walking & talking, the heat & the dust I looked around for a café in an area where there was none. A shop owner offered to find me a drink. What would I have?

A Coke preferably or Pepsi. Any Cola

That would be difficult

Why?

Unofficial ban. American company. Nobody buys or sells it here.

‘Minute Maid’ pulpy orange then

That too. Same company. Have a Thumbs Up’ instead. Easily available

A ‘Thumbs Up’? Uggh!


Tale of two cities

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Doha airport

Doha airport

CDG Paris

CDG Paris

Inverted Pyramid, Louvre

Inverted Pyramid, Louvre

Do you believe in ravens, omens & signs?

In transit at Doha on an onward flight to Paris we decide on a quick cuppa before boarding. The coffee spills, oops! over the table, the floor & on Chanson’s clothes. No matter. She has a change. Minor mishap. The first & the last, before journey end, we hope.

All seated & ready for take off, there is an unexpected delay. We are informed about a ‘technical’ snag because of which passengers must disembark, only to board the aircraft four hours later, arriving in Paris past midnight instead of 8 pm.

My friend has traveled ‘Business’; I ‘Economy’ & we have agreed to meet at ‘Immigration’. I see her fetching up accompanied by a policeman. ‘Hey, Chanson”, I wave. She indicates that she is unwell so I leave the queue to join her.

‘Parlez vous Francais?

Parlez vous Anglais?

In the middle of the night! Alas! We have just arrived after a grueling flight. (New Delhi – Doha – Paris)

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Paris:angular streets

Paris:angular streets

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The Seine

The Seine

After a long wait, unending explanations & umpteen glasses of water (my friend is dehydrated) our passports are stamped & baggage collected. This I manage with the help of friendly airport personnel who, manoeuvre me via several shortcuts across, that humongous airport that is ‘CDG Paris’.

We are taken to a paramedic centre where Chanson is made to lie down & get medical parameters checked. Her blood pressure shoots up & down dramatically. This happens over a course of hours. She is anxious & feels dehydrated. Has plenty of water and, wants to use the loo, but no. She is not allowed to move. A bedpan is brought. Fluctuating BP, breathlessness, dehydration, water – bedpan – more water. It goes on into the night. The doctor fears a blood clot from prolonged inactivity on a long distance flight. He cannot take a chance so recommends going to hospital for further tests. We won’t risk the chance either & agree.

Another long wait before an ambulance arrives with assistant & stretcher. It drives us through the dark & empty streets of Paris. An eerie 6 – 10 km ride, on this our first night in the city.

The Robert Ballanger hospital – believe it or not – is blood splattered. Wish I had taken some pictures. And there are patients waiting everywhere. Chanson is moved to a bed & told to wait. It would take time for the doctor to arrive. Those before us would be attended first. A man had been brought in five hours ago & was still waiting. ‘Just relax. Be patient’.

The clock ticks on. Dehydration. Water. Bedpan. More water. Worse, not knowing the blood pressure as there was no one monitoring it.

It is a long night.

Finally. The doctor arrives in the wee hours of the morning. He checks her pulse & voila she is to be discharged.

Just like that?

Yes, just like that. Never mind the BP or the ‘clot’, not to speak of trauma or money down the drain.

Outside, the dawn is slowly breaking & it is another day.

Welcome to Paris.

Old Port, Marseille

Old Port, Marseille

We have six hours before departure. What we must resolve is whether or not Chanson is up for the trip or should it be postponed by a day. She looks & feels better. In any case there are doctors everywhere – if need be, God forbid.

That decides it.

Marseille, the lovely seaside town every travel guide warns you about. Drunken sailors. Muggings. Brawls. Clever sleights of hand. Pick pockets.

Part of the experience.

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‘Hotel La Residence’, overlooks the old port. It is a boutique hotel & we are lucky to have a harbor facing room with the Notre Dame in the distance. Despite a bustling port it is tranquil & quiet in here. We arrive around 4pm & spend the rest of the day loitering around La Panier & Canebiere –  simply getting a feel of the place.

Chateau D'lf, Marseille 'Count of Monte Cristo' Remember?

Chateau D’lf, Marseille a la The Count of Monte Cristo’

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harbour view

harbour view

Calanques,Cassis

The Calanques at Cassis

There are plans for Cassis next day. Cassis, a tiny fishing village 20 kms to the east – along the coast – of which it is said,

“ he who has seen Paris & not seen Cassis, can say ‘I have seen nothing’”

Along the quay fishermen begin to set up stalls early next morning. Displaying every variety of exotic ‘catch’  and – as the song goes, “cockles & muscles alive……. Alive O!” Handsome Catalan faces against an aquamarine waterfront. Weather beaten faces that beckon – come taste the salt of the sea. The Concierge too urges us outdoor on to this, not – to – be – missed scene. I sling a rucksack & go out & mingle with the crowds. Blue skies, bluer seas. It is a beautiful day. Strolling, watching, quizzing, peering, talking, taking pictures, in short enjoying every bit of the action. Fish and Folk.

We would have lingered, but for Cassis.

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What is your worst travel nightmare?

Mine is falling ill and/or losing baggage

In no particular order.

A man at the Metro points to my rucksack warning that it is open. I do remember closing it. However, let me see. Lo & behold, it is wide open, all zips undone. That sets panic bells ringing. I rummage through quickly, turning it inside out, checking each & every pocket, emptying out contents only to find the money belt missing. It had all the cash, credit cards, travel card, medicine and Passport.

I could have kicked myself. As Chanson pointed out, why was I carrying everything in the first place? She advised calm as we walked back to the hotel in the forlorn hope that it had been forgotten there.

Of course it hadn’t. The backpack had not been touched since our arrival. I had picked it up as it lay & walked out into the day.

The tally was euro 1500 cash – lost. Luckily it was too early in the day for merchant transactions. We were able to block all  credit cards & have the balance in the Travel card transferred to a duplicate one. That, fortunately was still in my possession. The next step was to alert the hotel.

Ricardo was speechless with disbelief, as were Eric & Julie. A wonderful lot, they were full of care & concern. Julie, the young manager personally offered help but it being a public holiday there was not much she could do. Worse, it was a Friday, to be followed by Saturday & Sunday. Nobody in the embassy could be contacted until the next working day. We had plans for Portugal (expense paid) but without a passport we were stranded.

Julie thought a meeting with a police ‘higher – up’ was in order & tried to arrange one but, it being a long weekend that too came a cropper.

Police in any case had to be informed just so travel documents were in order.

She accompanied us expressing dismay along the way. No matter what was written & said about Marseille, it was a safe place. She often went home without incident, alone at night. Ours was an unfortunate occurence. She narrated a similar experience in Mexico where she had to borrow $ 2000 to continue with the remainder of her trip. This she stuffed inside a teddy bear, afraid to lose it if she carried it in person. She would stitch/unstitch the bear every night, as & when money was needed. She also told us that every police station in France had a ’lost & found’ cell where stolen goods sometimes showed up.

Julie Pseat

Julie Pseat

Sweet, Julie! her continuous chatter made me forget the problem at hand, to the extent that I actually began to enjoy the walk.

“ Never mind the cash,” I blurted absentmindedly. “If only the passport is returned”

Chanson thought that was a far cry. It never ever worked that way.

“Just a thought”, I murmured, saying a Gayatri mantra to myself.

I am not a religious person yet I said the mantra & I said it without thought of profit or gain. It had been only a few hours since the horrific incident but the mind had reconciled & moved on. Taking stock, the situation did not seem that bad after all. We had scraped through pretty well. The actual loss was euro 1500 only. Perhaps I owed the bloke this money or perhaps his need was more. As for Portugal, that was another 15 days away. I would have a fresh passport by then.

Inside police headquarters Julie immediately got down to the task, explaining everything in detail to the officer on duty. He politely listened, nodding now & then while I stood idly by.

A voice suddenly called out, wanting to know my name.

“Sudha”, I said.

“Voila! Here is your passport”

“What”????

Come again!!!

The passport??

No kidding. No fuss. There it was, in the hands of a lady officer – the black leather belt with everything in it. Everything that is, minus the cash.

Note: Pick pocketing is rampant in France so much so that the Eiffel tower had to shut down one day. Travelers are constantly advised to be careful. We certainly had several near encounters – that we escaped, if only by a whisker.

The French tend to blame immigrants, especially those of Algerian descent but the 20 year old who found & returned the bag was Algerian. He had gone to dispose a cup after having coffee when he spotted it in the bin & brought it to police.

Bless him always!

And

Au revoir Marseille. If I return it will be for the likes of, the boy & Julie.


Marialva

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Duoro river

Rio Douro

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countryside

Ruins

Ruins

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village cemetery

DSC01336 From coastal Porto in the north to the interior southeast bordering Spain and into the Douro valley, a river snakes through gorges of granite & stone. Acre upon acre of vineyard meets the eye. Vineyards interspersed with apple & olive, introduced to the region by the Romans in AD 300. It is today the heart of Portugal wine country, producing & exporting the finest port & wine to the capitals of the world. How could one not indulge in a spot of wine tasting then? And so we did in the course of a typical regional meal at an estate, the Quinta De Marrocos, where  lunch consisted of varieties of bread, cheese, potato soup, green salad, bean salad & Cod – with baked potato. Followed by baked apple, cinnamon cake & coffee. Driving 220 kms from Porto past a landscape of low undulating hills, vineyards & river we arrive at the medieval village of Marialva. It is a cluster of soulful ruins dating back to 12 – 13 century, complete with ramparts, Roman citadel, ruined castle, Chapel of Our Lady of Lourdes, watchtower, cemetery, church & scaffold. Perched at 580 meters, there is a haunting quality about a village that appears lonely & desolate. Blame it on the young for desertion in search of greener pastures. The same old story. Life & livelihood in place of hearth & home. No school. No shouts of joy. No children in the empty park. What could one do in a place like this? For starters, enjoy the serendipity. Learn from the old. If Marialva continues to retain grace & character & exist with dignity & pride it is thanks to its 35 inhabitants who are all in the 75 – 95 age group. No school. No hospital either. Watch them go through the day without an earthly care. Basking in the sun, playing cards, sniffing wine suffused air. The secret of healthy longevity perhaps, as each person is said to imbibe an average of a litre & half wine everyday. So we are told. Not wine alone. Believe me. (Try asking for a coffee at the local café & watch the owner look askance). It’s a charming little place where old folk peer through half shut eyes, out of half open doors & curtained windows, stoutly refusing to be photographed. A suspicion or a superstition. A belief that outsiders ‘click,’ ‘tear’ & ‘throw away’. An euphemism for death. No one is quite prepared for it just yet. Not even the 95 year old up on the hill. Watch him stride down every Sunday just as the bells begin to chime & the chapel doors open. With Bacchus by his side there is no deterrent. It hardly matters that the beautiful stone pathways are uneven & difficult to trod. All one needs is a pair of decent walking shoes.

Lunch at a Quinta, Lamego

potato soup, Quinta De Marrocos Lamego

Portuguese lunch

Portuguese lunch

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aesthetic to be sure & do the old manage

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Ruins

Ruins

Guided village tour with Paulo the brain behind Casas Do Coro

With Paulo of ‘Casas Do Coro’ a rural retreat. History meets luxury with refurbished rooms, cottages, villas.

The Bar:  Duoro cruise

The Bar: Douro cruise

A village home

A village home

Imelda, 72 years.The youngest in the village perhaps manages a Cafe selling Souvenirs

Imelda, 72 years.The youngest in the village perhaps manages a Cafe & sells Souvenirs



Gay Pari – s

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On the face of it

let’s admit

Paris is

dour

arrogant

stand offish

Oui Monsieur

young & old hesitate

step back afraid

refusing a handshake.

You smile madame?

“Sorry, no English,

je me parle pas l’anglais”

Ah yes,

I quite forgot

your problem is

historic.

Never mind the

linguistically challenged

traveler aboard

Menton – Nice super fast

waiting to disembark

as stations whistle past.

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The Romanian

 begging

along the sidewalk

Algerian – Tunisian

 nursing

a hare

grateful for sanctuary

Euro to spare.

Make no mistake

Paris

scintillates

clean air

drinking water

everything in perfect order

until the

Unions suddenly

strike, but why

why are there

cigarette butts

‘neath

the sky?

Youth & beauty

go hand in hand

along the Seine

lip locked

padlocked

sworn unto ……….

prised open

recalls

Café de Flore’s

Berthillon

‘lil doggies

neutered clones

streaked, powdered,

groomed, to match

mistresses

walking alone,

obediently in line

passing

each other

without a sigh

no bark nor cry

inside out

allowed

everywhere

salon, café, bar

as vexed as

mademoiselle’s brow,

with never a boo

boogie woogie do

for gawd’s sake

at least

clean up the poo.

The French nation has

a strange

fixation –

all things feline

hence

black cat Noir

prowls the night

alleys, – alone

sneak previews

Moulin Rouge.

Cat burglars

lurk

the streets

picking pockets

by the hour

shutting down

Eiffle Tower

You may well ask

the cause

for such fuss

malign

harking on

downsides,

honey you’ll agree

it is unexpected

quite unprecedented

a revelation indeed

for a first time

third world traveler

like me.

So

let’s just say

there never was

never will be

a city

like

gay Pari

But

one simply cannot

leave it at that.

I’d rather have

London instead

So

 London it shall be

3 cheers!

hurray!

give me London

any day.

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Hajipir 1965

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We proudly celebrated 50 years of the 1965 war this year. It is therefore befitting to recall the valour & sacrifice of those who made the victory possible.

 

Some reminiscences then, of the capture of Hajipir – Pt 13620, straight – as it were – from the horses’ mouth.

 

Code named Operation Bakshi, 68 Infantry Brigade was tasked with the execution. The orders went out on Aug 15,1965 & Hajipir was in Indian hands by August 28.

 

There were casualties, feats of endurance & bravery but the hero undoubtedly was Gen RS Dyal MVC, PVSM.

 

I have had the honour & the pleasure of meeting the General & distinctly recall a misty November morning, 4 years ago when veterans got together at Nahan for yet another Hajipir Day celebration.

 

A small close knit group had collected around their former Commanding Officer & one of them was heard saying “chalo Saab, assi phir Hajipir chalein

This has been the general lament. A constant refrain heard over & over again, of veterans wanting to know why Hajipir was returned.

But that is another story.

 

On August 28 this year, there was chai & pakoras, joy & bonhomie as Mrs Dayal inaugurated the auditorium named after her late husband. Former comrades in arm reunited. Some limping, some hard of hearing, they back slapped, joked & talked, graphically recalling tales of glory & of their ‘famous’ victory.

 

Col Bindra

Col JCM Rao

Brig AS Baicher

etc etc etc the roll of honour rolls on.

 

All, young 19-20- 21 year olds then & mostly without a clue except, for their inspiring Company Commander Maj RS Dyal who urged his men on, displaying outstanding leadership for which he was awarded the MVC.

 

While Col Bindra gave a presentation with complete military details the others talked of lighter moments like playing volleyball with the enemy prior to hostilities or of engaging him in fierce hand to hand combat when it came to the crunch. They had shared ONE toothbrush & had eaten half cooked meat sans salt or spice – the taste, still lingering in the mouth. The same old war stories ad nauseam but quite different when hearing it from them.

Minor details: On the final assault the soldiers walked 4000’ on foot.

Their field rations were soggy ‘shakarparas’ & biscuits. Soggy, because there had been unexpected showers the night before.

Hajipir was captured at 1100 hrs on August 28,1965. The enemy thereafter, made repeated attempts to recapture the pass, but was successfully thwarted. In recognition of its indomitable spirit & gallantry 1Para earned one MVC, one VRC, 2 SM & 4 Mention in Despatches, along with Battle Honour Hajipir & Theatre Honour Jammu & Kashmir.

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Major RS Dyal

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The Tricolour atop Hajipir

Post Script

 

One may well ask, what manner of men are these? The following story narrated by Maj Gen VB Batra may just provide an inkling.

 

“Two years later, in 1967, the Indian army conducted Exercise ‘Betwa’ in Central India

It was a 45 day affair intended to test new methodologies in mechanized warfare.

1 Para – then part of 50 Para Brigade – was commanded by Lt Col RS Dyal.

I, was a Capt, a Battery Commander then & was affiliated to him. Watching him operate at close quarters, was for me a learning experience. There were lessons pertaining not only to military training but life as well. He’d explain Infantry tactics over a drink……. I still have a book he presented -The battle of Dien Bien Phu’ “

 

Gen Batra also mentioned a 3 day training capsule they were part of.

In a loud booming voice he had heard CO 1 Para exhort his men to go hungry, to stay without sleep & to march, move & dig from position to position.

Most importantly he led by example. Baton in hand, Lt Col Dyal would make the rounds, checking each detail every night. If anyone were caught napping he’d poke & shove the fellow in the rib, startling him out of sleep.

The Capt asked, “ Sir, how do these chaps let you do this to them? what if someone were to snatch the baton or stall you. Would it not be an embarrassment? “

 

mein kabhi kisi ka pate nahin kaat taa” replied the man. Meaning that he neither meant, nor ever did anybody any ‘real’ harm. That was his philosophy. Earthy & elementary. Like the man himself. He was a simple, self contained person, much loved & respected by the soldiers he commanded.

 

Add to that the formidable reputation he had acquired post 1965.

 

His only indulgence it turns out, was the pleasure of good quality Scotch. He liked his drink & the story goes that Chokharam, the barman had remembered to carry it right up to Hajipir that day.

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Mrs Indira Gandhi with troops

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The indomitables

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Journeys in time

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Honors for ruthless efficiency must go to El Al. Despite before – hand warnings we were shell shocked. Gawd, what a grilling!

A Moshe Dayan look alike, on that Delhi – Tel Aviv flight added to the mystique. He was curious about everything including my reason for not flying my national carrier & went on to explain his country’s focus on ‘terror’ & ‘security’. This was pre 9/11. Early days, yet Israel was all on edge. We touched down at Ben Gurion to loud claps & cheers. Unfamiliar & a bit unnerving but quite the norm apparently. Glad to be home safe, I guess.

Two hostesses met us with placards & food coupons, escorting us to the transit lounge, to rest until the onward flight to Cairo that evening.

But. But. But.

Was there a problem? With multi entry visas, we had no intention hanging around the airport. There was a full day in hand with plans for Jaffa.

Exiting the terminal taking a precise number of steps (as instructed by “Lets Go”, our bible on the move) before us lay ‘this’ ‘that’ & the other. Everything as described – exactly. To our right, was a bus stop, from where we could take Egged bus no: 495/ 3.90 Shekels/ 40 minutes to Jaffa. The landmarks along the way came as mentioned, the lighthouse our ‘get off ’ point.

Wandering around Andromeda fort, St Peter’s monastery & Museum of Antiquities we were back at the airport in time for the flight to Egypt.

Yafo, as the Israelis called it, was a gem. What a beautiful sight, watching young artists sitting & sketching on the stone steps leading down to the waters. Digging into fresh tuna sandwich and the sea, a perfect blue.

Flying El Al was a mistake. It was a pain, entering Israel or exiting. If latter the question sternly asked was whether one had visited Palestinian areas. If yes, the next question was why?

Israel’s a remarkable country notwithstanding. I shall forever carry memories of Yad Vashim, the youthful zest & energy of Tel Aviv, Ein Geidi the perfect relax by the Dead Sea & soul stirring Masada.

Not to forget Jerusalem. It touches like none other. The pinkish hue of your stones Jerusalem – early morning, late evening & into the night.

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Zion Square Jerusalem

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Ein Geidi

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There was no such fuss at Cairo International. Touch down at midnight & Zafar, to meet & escort us to our hotel – ‘The President’

Egypt was tremendous. The size & scale of monuments truly mind boggling. But there was something strangely out of sync too. A kind of historical disconnect. As if the present didn’t quite flow from the past. This, said with the benefit of hindsight no doubt but the feeling was constantly there.

A pity we didn’t make it to Alexandria but lucky we did to Cairo, Aswan & Luxor.

Cairo to Aswan by train is an overnight, 15 hour journey. The smiling attendant on board could not figure out temperature control; hence we were left freezing or stewing to death, depending upon whether the AC was switched on or off. The matter was resolved by keeping it permanently on. Sleeping bags were rolled out (shivering Sahara) and we went silently to sleep.

There is something fascinating about rivers. A kind of magic that uplifts & delights, be it the Mekong, Ganges or the Nile. We did the mandatory Nile cruise of course, though it was disappointing to see a placid & tame river. The Nubians along the banks invited us to their home – invitation declined as intentions suspect.

Tall, handsome & appealing they looked splendid in plain white attire.

And the children with the donkeys, ambling along playfully, calling out to toss them a coin.

 

On ‘Captains Night’, I slipped into a Gallabiya, to surface as queen of ancient Egypt. My prize? A queen. No less. A hand crafted, long necked, elegant Nefertiti.

Sailing into Luxor billboards exhorted us to smile.

“ Smile – you are now in Luxor”. Big, broad, tree lined streets. Houses with ivory white exteriors & colonnaded verandahs. A wind – surf swept promenade along the bend of the river. It was a typical colonial town.

Think Egypt & one thinks Giza, Sphinx, Pyramids – naturally

And Amal, our gorgeous guide – if I may.

On the way to the airport, there was a sudden, fierce & sinister darkening of the sky with winds at over 60 miles blowing sand into the face & eyes. Uprooting everything along its path. We are lucky we discover, for this is the infamous khamaseen – desert storm,  not to be missed phenomenon.

My one lingering memory remains the taste of fresh Hibiscus juice that was served by the gallon, day & night.

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Cyprus happened for one reason alone. AKG. The entire 5 country trip in fact was courtesy him. Rather late in the day for an acknowledgement but a ‘thank you’ is in order, so thank you, Ashok Kumar Ganapaty. Out on a lark for a month & a half, without credit card or insurance, one wonders today at the audacity. What if ? ….. Such ignorance! It turned out was bliss.

Arriving at Larnaca past midnight, my friend Denise breezes past immigration while I am asked to step out of line & wait. The fault is in my stars. The snag, in the passport, where I am ‘male’. How come nobody had noticed? Not even all knowing – all seeing El Al? The joke on them, finally. It was nice to get even.

The moon is up as we hit the 4 lane from Larnaca to Nicosia, Ashok’s brand new BMW adding to the exhilaration. We have three nights in Cyprus with Ashok & Mo who show us around the little isle, everything from Kykkos monastery up in the Troodos to beach resorts at Limassol & Agia Napa.

Cyprus is pristine, pure, and idyllic. A country with zero pollution (UN statistics). State of the art roadways with miniature orange trees planted as road dividers. Does nobody ever pluck the fruit? Or is it mere ornamental?

What surprised one most were the number of Philipinos working as maids, in every second household almost.

Also, the large number of hunchbacks. What could possibly be the reason?

Any guesses, anyone?

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With Mo & Denise: Amphitheatre Cyprus

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As the aircraft began its  descent the outline of the Greek archipelago hovered into view. It was like an atlas laid out before the eyes. The waters of the Aegean & the Mediterranean mingling into a dramatic expanse of blue. Athens – 1997 was an exciting place & time to be.

An airport taxi brought us to 75 Damareus Street. The number 75 emblazoned boldly on the door & Yannis there to open it. He did so with a little Anthony Quinn style flourish.

To find our bearings –  first a recce by tram & bus before exploring the city on foot. In the next 10 days we were to cover every inch of ground almost, much as a local would have done.

Greece is  gorgeously hedonistic. A place where one feels no embarrassment. Where Epicurus thrives & survives. It was once a Phallocentric society & though it has long moved on to several denominations of Christianity, one does not feel the kind of disconnect that one does in Egypt.The Greeks know how to live it up. Athens is alive & bustling with musicians, dancers, street performers, theatre & festival. What to say about finding a real life Organ Grinder on the streets – never expected to see one, ever.

The 70 kms drive to Cape Sounion runs entirely along the coastline. Low hills descend to pine groves on the beach. It is spectacular.

Sixteen Doric columns of the Temple of Poseidon {6BC) is all that remains on the promontory. Sitting on the rock jutting out into the sea there is the Aegean deep down below, blue skies & howling winds above. Did Shelley actually drown here? Or is it, as some believe the site of lost Atlantis? Clearly visible in the far distance is the Bay of Corinth. Breath taking!

Timeless beauty marred as usual by the mundane. The last few days saw strikes & demonstrations. Demonstrations outside parliament & random strikes as buses went off roads & garbage piled high. Greece was in turmoil. It was a mess.

As were we.

After that many days of being on the road, a day was set aside for general admin. Yannis allowed us the use of his antiquated washing machine in which a coin had to be dropped for it to take off with a roar. There was no washing powder but we managed a bar of soap that was grated & used. This, from Maria’s shop. ‘Namaste Maria’, as we called her. Having lived some months in Delhi she knew a smattering of Hindi & always loved to greet us with a ‘namaste’

At 75 Damareus meanwhile, Yannis continued to regale. On May 15, Denise’s birthday, he danced a ‘Zorba the Greek’, offering to teach us the steps. But we were off, to a celebratory dinner at ‘La Bonita’ where Poulos would serve the choicest wine & cuts.

And what of Yannis? One didn’t quite know what to make of him. Much like the graffiti on the walls. The zaniest ever:

“create your own space”

“ forget the housework, come to Greece”

“the same shit – another day”

“no girl, no job, no money – no problem”

and ……..most intriguing –  “Greek men made easy”

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Roady Toady

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national highway

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Bombay – believe it or not

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Heritage train Matheran

Vroom, vroom…… off we go, full throttle. The car surges onto NH 22 which becomes a 6 lane a short distance further. Hazy mountain outlines hover into view then become large, dark looming shapes.The first glimpse of approaching destination is always an adrenaline rush. Strange as it sounds, this to me is love of country. Gripping patriotic mania. Nothing quite like a road trip to bring it on.

Needless to provoke & annoy with forced vande matarams & bharat mata jais? Do a ‘Bharat Darshan’ instead. The countryside is beautiful.

“Vindhya, Himachal, Yamuna, Ganga……

Punjab, Sindh, Gujarat, Maratha

Dravid, Utkal, Banga”

I could be on the road forever. Taking in colour & sound, meeting ‘real’ people – away from it all.

Whoever called us lazy? We are most industrious. Seriously. Imagine another country with our kind of weather & see if they could slog it like us.

I have seen Biharis break stones on the heights of Ladakh. Sleeping out in the cold, eating ‘khichri’, laying roads. Stretches of highway with milestones marking the distance to the farther most posts.

Mana:100 miles

500 miles to Mana

Mana:1000 miles.

In the cities traffic is chaotic. Adding to the cacophony is dust, heat, noise, pollution & people. Hordes of them. Men & women, full of zest, energy & drive.

Trust an outsider, a foreigner to point this out & who better than Kristoff, a third time visitor who revels in the chaos.

After getting his fill of madness he will return to the dreary orderliness of existence back home. The soap opera meanwhile…….

(He was outside an ATM, patiently waiting his turn, knowing fully well that the machine may soon run out of cash, as it had, all over Goa that season. Sundance, X’mas, New Year, peak holiday time – no matter.)

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inside a restaurant – no kidding

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India: could be anywhere

 

Step out of the national capital & notice the stark rural – urban, agro – industrial divide where Bharat, not India wins.

Ever seen a Maruti 800 or an aircraft upon a rooftop? You never will until you begin to stir out, for both these are prestige & décor items in rural Punjab. So is the truck parked inside a restaurant with headlights on. Free interior decoration tips, anyone?

Never heard of ‘Maruta’?

A contraption used by farmers, it is in effect, a cross between tractor & car – the ubiquitous Maruti once again.

Make no mistake both Bharat & India are changing –  fast. Hop on to the bandwagon, join the roadshow, take a trip – physical & metaphorical & witness the change.

There is a new cockiness in the air.

A Rabari woman in Gujarat, begging for alms, gives up with a disgusted “eh, mara Babo ne chocolate aapo na”. Don’t miss ‘Babo’ – her darling son. And what does Babo want? Chocolates. Not milk.

In Chakrata, I go scouting for a medicine the lone chemist does not have. He cannot provide a substitute, nor does he think it’s available anywhere up in those hills.

Try Dr. Joshi, instead.

I walk down the road & ask for Rosave 20 or anything else the doctor can recommend.

“You won’t find it ”, says he.

Why not?

“Because nobody here has high cholesterol. Take my word. ‘chiknai kam karo’.

And yet. Some things never change.

In the Prime Ministers constituency there is round the clock activity involving infra structure. All day one hears, the roar of engines going up & down the river, dredging & cleaning the Ganga & the ghats.

Getting off a rickshaw at Assi ghat, I ask, “ how much’?

Adjusting a mouthful of swish n swim saliva, he answers ——

“Don’t spit,“ I yell, seeing the intent “ you are not to spit”.

Yes, he nods in agreement & smiles.

And out comes the spittle. Jet like. Right there, next to me. Juicy red stains on the floor.

Kya karein!

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time on my hands

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Homestay

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still hoping


Roady Toady

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Vroom, vroom…… off we go, full throttle. The car surges onto NH 22 which becomes a 6 lane a short distance further. Hazy mountain outlines hover into view then become large, dark looming shapes.The…

Source: Roady Toady


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