MAY 13: TAWANG
Power returns. I take a bucket bath and dress in everything that's dry in my rucksack. I need an umbrella. Maybe tomorrow, if the rain continues. I make a run for an Chinese restaurant three buildings down on the same street. A notice on the wall forbids smoking and alcohol. Two tables of inebriated chain-smokers provide local colour. I cross the street to a second choice. The choice is up an exterior circular steel staircase. My ascent is watched from the balcony by the owner. I reach the top. He says, "Restaurant closed."
Yes, Tawang is fun.
The last option is an archway lighted with multi-colour bulbs. Can't be the local whore house. Whore houses don't advertise. Possibly a night club?
Monday, May 24, 2010
INDIAN MATTRESSES
MAY 13: TAWANG
I am wet and cold. There is a promise that Power will return to Tawang at 7 p.m. One hour to wait and a further half hour for the geyser to heat sufficient water for a bucket bath. The Tawang hotel has mattresses that Indians believe to be orthopedic and a nail-bed Fakir might find comfortable. Normal mortals prefer something with more give than a concrete roadway - roadways liberally spread with bumps. I drag one mattress on to the other, spread the padded cotton duvet off the spare bed on top, change underwear for dry and cover myself with the second duvet and two blankets. How is it?
Cold and damp.
I am wet and cold. There is a promise that Power will return to Tawang at 7 p.m. One hour to wait and a further half hour for the geyser to heat sufficient water for a bucket bath. The Tawang hotel has mattresses that Indians believe to be orthopedic and a nail-bed Fakir might find comfortable. Normal mortals prefer something with more give than a concrete roadway - roadways liberally spread with bumps. I drag one mattress on to the other, spread the padded cotton duvet off the spare bed on top, change underwear for dry and cover myself with the second duvet and two blankets. How is it?
Cold and damp.
SPECIALISTS IN CELLAR AMBIANCE
MAY 13: TAWANG
Tawang in the rain does not impress immediately as a party town, wrong vibes.
A few open umbrellas scurry up Main Street. Very few. A bright tartan number covers two soldiers holding hands. A good friend from Assam recommended two hotels. I choose the Tawang as the cheaper of the two. It is a modern building and should be waterproof. Two young women show me a single room at the back on the first floor designed by a specialist in B movie cellar ambiance. The women apologise for that old Indian faithful, Load Shedding. I point out that a window might help. They show me a double room with twin beds and a hot water geyser in the bathroom that will heat water once the Power provider stops shedding load. The room opens off a covered walkway and on a fine day would have a fine mountain view. For now the view is black cloud, rain, parked eight-seater jeeps and even fewer umbrellas.
WATERPROOF KEEPS OUT WATER
MAY 13: TAWANG
$7 WallMart waterproof trousers give adequate protection against a light drizzle when strolling slowly round a municipal golf course on a warm summer's evening. I am riding a motorbike (all be it a small one) up a cold mountain in a downpour. Maybe I should be grateful that the pants act as a sieve and break some of the force of the storm - or learn to buy upmarket, say $10, or even $15. The final kilometer into Tawang is a mud slide. Tawang would look less depressing in sunshine - though not much. Tasteless concrete construction is tasteless concrete construction. Cheap paint is cheap paint. My wet WallMart pants should feel right at home.
$7 WallMart waterproof trousers give adequate protection against a light drizzle when strolling slowly round a municipal golf course on a warm summer's evening. I am riding a motorbike (all be it a small one) up a cold mountain in a downpour. Maybe I should be grateful that the pants act as a sieve and break some of the force of the storm - or learn to buy upmarket, say $10, or even $15. The final kilometer into Tawang is a mud slide. Tawang would look less depressing in sunshine - though not much. Tasteless concrete construction is tasteless concrete construction. Cheap paint is cheap paint. My wet WallMart pants should feel right at home.
KICKED IN THE CROTCH
MAY 13: UP TO TAWANG
The ride down from Sela has been too joyous. Punishment is inevitable. Look across the valley and a faint mist smokes the road up to Tawang, a climb of 5000 feet in 34 kilometers through steep fields and villages. The town is shrouded in dark grey cloud. So, now, is the Sela Pass. Down in the valley an iron girder and steel-plate bridge spans true white water. The road up is mostly rock, mud and potholes. The tires slither and bounce. The seat kicks me in the crotch. I got my second wind riding down. Second winds are temporary. Tired? Very...
Rain falls. The road has collapsed in a couple of places. Women road workers carry baskets of aggregate on their heads. Others squat beside the road chipping boulders in the rain. Female liberation to do a man's work – or a machine's work. Children too (why aren't they at school?), armed with a heavy hammer. Their homes, shacks built of rust-decayed tin made waterproof with road tar. Hill people, they grin as I pass, answer my greetings with a lifted hand and a Hi. My anger on their behalf won't improve their lives...
TRIBALS?
MAY 13: SELA PASS
Lunch is rice with vegetables midway down the Pass. Passengers from two eight-seater jeeps crowd the three tables in a tin-shack cafe. Two girls serve and wash plates outside at a hand pump. The girls are joyful and pretty – surely qualifications for Tribal status? I pose for cameras while waiting my turn for a seat. Look, guys, this is me with that bearded foreign Oldie and this is so-and-so sitting on the seat of his bike. The photographing happens everywhere – and more often now than in the first weeks. People recognise me from TV and newspaper coverage. Fame? I don't believe so. More a freak status. That's OK...
GOOD-NATURED YAKS
MAY 13: SELA PASS
The mountain has got bored with being kind. No more gentle slopes, more a sheer drop and an end to the good road (good as in reasonable rather than good as in actually good), mostly dirt with 350° hairpins ripped to bits. Yaks grumble good-naturedly at being requested to move aside. Brave enough to peek over the edge and there's a village within spitting distance. Getting there takes half an hour as the road zigs and zags a half K one way, half a K the other and so on and so on. The first few fields are bare reddish earth. Drop further and a few green shoots grab for sunlight and white rhododendrons are in flower. Down another thousand feet and the fields are carpeted with emerald green while harvest is approaching near the valley bottom, the fall approximately 8000 feet in 38 kilometers - the climb to the Pass from Dirang was steeper by 8 Ks.
DOWN IS EASIER THAN UP
MAY 13: SELA PASS
The ride down begins in sunshine with an easy stretch of reasonable tar down a glorious upland valley, two lakes on the left, a few stunted high-altitude pines, a proper mountain burn with short, white-water runs over smooth boulders into crystal pools where a worm dangled might tempt a trout. Drop a little and the road begins to zigzag, at first only a few small rhododendrons all in bud, then a couple of deep reds in bloom. Minute almost white, wild flowers speckle the turf, moss on rocks, a few tiny ferns.
Drop further and I am in yellow rhododendron territory, small and bright by the road, tree-size and pale pink through the scattered pines above sheets of drum-stick cowslip primulas the far side of the burn.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
SELA PASS
MAY 13: SELA PASS
I've been on the road two and a half hours, uphill all the way. And I've been scared much of the time. Now I've made it. I am at the top, the Sela Pass.
The pass is the narrows between two mountain peaks.
My legs threaten to crumble when I dismount. A cafe on the left advertises tea and food. A woman serves at a small shop counter inside. A corridor leads to a circular space with seats and tables and with windows all the way round. I sit there a while. Nothing happens, no tea. I don't have sufficient energy to go find someone. I sit a while longer, then go back out to the bike. My legs are steadier. I lean against the cafe wall to steady my arms and photograph the sign board as proof that I made it. Then I mount, press the start button and ride on down the mountain towards Tawang.
UP AND UP
MAY 13: SELA PASS
I rode through deciduous forest early this morning in joyful sunshine, then tall conifers. The sun continues to shine. The trees are stunted high altitude pine. The white peaks that were way up there have become close neighbors. I stop on each corner to photograph them. Why? Mostly because photographing mountain peaks is what travelers do. I remain astride the bike while photographing. Dismounting would require trust in my legs. I stopped at an army-run cafe a while back. The cafe was a hundred yards uphill from an army camp. A sentry at the gates of the camp waved me to park on round the next corner. No cup of tea is worth walking back down to the cafe and then back up from the cafe to the bike – not at this altitude. Truth is that I am beat. The pain in my right side may be a stitch caused by holding my breath when under stress – and I am stressed. The Sela Pass is stressful.
NOT FUN - SCARY
MAY 13: SELA PASS
The Sela Pass is not fun. Some stretches of the road are being widened. A few short stretches have been widened. The new stretches, freshly tarred, already have deep craters. Not surprising given that the tar is less than an inch thick. Someone is making money. Lots of money.
Most corners are loose rock and dirt with rain-gouged ravines on the inside of the bend. Truckers keep to the outside which is OK if that is the driver's side of the road. Tough if it is my side. Do I go over the edge or dump myself into the ravine? At least the ravine is safe.
Parapet? Yes, in some short stretches and the mountain is near vertical. Look down and I feel sick. Worst is the wind. Come round a corner and it blasts you in the face, cold as a cold beer but minus the welcome factor. The wind comes off those snow peaks that were distant this morning and way up there. Now I am way up there with no sign of the expected gap.
THE TWO Hs - HEIGHTS AND HOSPITALS
MAY 13: SELA PASS
I expected to follow the river. The river becomes a trickle. A near vertical mountain bars the route. Water streaks mountains left and right, thousand foot falls plunging through pine forest - or two thousand foot falls. It should be beautiful. It is beautiful. However that mountain face ahead scares me. There is no gap. A faint white line zigzags up through the pines. The many gaps in the zigs and zags must mark an absence of safety parapet. Did I write before that I don't like heights? Or, truthfully, that heights scare the shit out of me? The two Hs, Heights and Hospitals...
Even in movies, I close my eyes and shrink down in the seat.
WHITE PEAKS
MAY 13: SELA PASS
Dawn and I open the curtains to the Dirang valley, forested mountains on each side, in the far distance white peaks tinted by sunrise with a faint pink wash. Somewhere up there lies the Sela Pass. I am out of the hotel and on the road by 7 a.m. Lower Dirang has charm with balconied houses along the main street decorated with pots of primulas. Stone walls coral neat, freshly-tilled fields the far side of the river. India's roads in and through and out of towns are always rough. The Sela road continues rough for a few kilometers, loose stone surface and narrowed by piles of boulder each side. Road workers squat on the boulders. Most are women, ages ranging from fresh faced teenager to crinkle faced grannies. Female Liberation to do a man's work? Or India's standard use of women as beasts of burden?
Yes, it angers me pretty much every day of this journey.
The one plus is that the women here respond to my Hi and Good morning.
Wave and smile down on the plains and they cover their faces against the evil eye. Or against the evil Fat Old Blimp.
Friday, May 21, 2010
BOLIPARA PASS
MAY 12: TO DIRANG
Heading down hill now into a fierce bitter wind that tares small rents in the cloud. The cloud thins and lightens. Sunshine blotches the tar. The last cloud clears. A winding drop leads to a river then the next climb first following the river then up through thin broad leaf to pines and rock to the Bolipara Pass at 10000 feet with higher peaks spiking the blue, cascades on naked cliff flashing sunlight. Bolipara is one of those charmless concrete hill towns India excelles at. The many Army camps come of a different culture, clean, properly planned, respect for trees, lots of white paint, no garbage. See what staying ten days with a retired Colonel does to a Liberal!
Cross the pass and plummet down through sparse pines to Dirang and the Hotel Pemaling where I negotiate a 50% discount with the owner for a room with a superb view down the river valley. A patchwork of small fields covers the right bank and lower slopes of mountains already dark in late afternoon, peaks hidden in cloud. A kindly maid brings a Tata Sky box for the TV and the dinner menu – orders must be in by 7 p.m. Hot shower and I watch BBC World News. The receptionist brings dinner on a tray, chicken soup and vegetable momos.
“You look too tired,” he says.
Too tired to go down stairs to the dinning room for dinner and I intend climbing Sela Pass in the morning.
“Will it be fine?”
“Maybe...”
Heading down hill now into a fierce bitter wind that tares small rents in the cloud. The cloud thins and lightens. Sunshine blotches the tar. The last cloud clears. A winding drop leads to a river then the next climb first following the river then up through thin broad leaf to pines and rock to the Bolipara Pass at 10000 feet with higher peaks spiking the blue, cascades on naked cliff flashing sunlight. Bolipara is one of those charmless concrete hill towns India excelles at. The many Army camps come of a different culture, clean, properly planned, respect for trees, lots of white paint, no garbage. See what staying ten days with a retired Colonel does to a Liberal!
Cross the pass and plummet down through sparse pines to Dirang and the Hotel Pemaling where I negotiate a 50% discount with the owner for a room with a superb view down the river valley. A patchwork of small fields covers the right bank and lower slopes of mountains already dark in late afternoon, peaks hidden in cloud. A kindly maid brings a Tata Sky box for the TV and the dinner menu – orders must be in by 7 p.m. Hot shower and I watch BBC World News. The receptionist brings dinner on a tray, chicken soup and vegetable momos.
“You look too tired,” he says.
Too tired to go down stairs to the dinning room for dinner and I intend climbing Sela Pass in the morning.
“Will it be fine?”
“Maybe...”
AHHHH...
MAY 12: TO DIRANG
I crawl for a further half hour through mostly minimal visibility. The road is narrow tar with potholes only seen at the last second. Bits of the road have fallen down the mountain. Other places boulders have fallen on the road. One light in the murk could be a bike but is more probably a truck with a faulty head lamp. Trucks keep to the center. Fear weakens bladder control. Gloves off, dig under waterproof pants, trousers, slinky black Alpinestar Long Johns, underpants. Hurry. Hurry. Where is the damn thing? Ahhhhh...
I crawl for a further half hour through mostly minimal visibility. The road is narrow tar with potholes only seen at the last second. Bits of the road have fallen down the mountain. Other places boulders have fallen on the road. One light in the murk could be a bike but is more probably a truck with a faulty head lamp. Trucks keep to the center. Fear weakens bladder control. Gloves off, dig under waterproof pants, trousers, slinky black Alpinestar Long Johns, underpants. Hurry. Hurry. Where is the damn thing? Ahhhhh...
KISSES FOR TWO COPS
MAY 12: ROAD TO DIRANG
The kitchen stove is truck drivers' privilege. The cafe is smaller than a double bed. I sit at a wooden table. A small window in the entrance door lets in a smidgen of light. My age and nationality are common knowledge. Two young cops dressed in combat camouflage approach. “Grandfather,” one calls me and leans across the table. Face close to mine, he mimes drinking. He is already drunk and armed with an automatic rifle.
“Drink,” he says.
“Tea,” I say.
His companion, also drunk, leans even closer. “Kiss me.”
Never resist a drunk cop carrying a large gun.
I kiss both cops on the cheeks.
A large-breasted woman elbows the cops aside and sets my tea on the table. One of the cops fetches a pack of sweet biscuits from the tiny shop counter. The biscuits are a present.
Tea with two cops at the kissing stage of inebriation differs from my memories of tea with my grandmother – Georgian silver and bone china on a white lace tablecloth.
This is not a good day.
The kitchen stove is truck drivers' privilege. The cafe is smaller than a double bed. I sit at a wooden table. A small window in the entrance door lets in a smidgen of light. My age and nationality are common knowledge. Two young cops dressed in combat camouflage approach. “Grandfather,” one calls me and leans across the table. Face close to mine, he mimes drinking. He is already drunk and armed with an automatic rifle.
“Drink,” he says.
“Tea,” I say.
His companion, also drunk, leans even closer. “Kiss me.”
Never resist a drunk cop carrying a large gun.
I kiss both cops on the cheeks.
A large-breasted woman elbows the cops aside and sets my tea on the table. One of the cops fetches a pack of sweet biscuits from the tiny shop counter. The biscuits are a present.
Tea with two cops at the kissing stage of inebriation differs from my memories of tea with my grandmother – Georgian silver and bone china on a white lace tablecloth.
This is not a good day.
Friday, May 14, 2010
VERY OLD, TOO OLD
MAY 12: TO DIRANG
Nechipu Pass is 5000 feet above sea level. The road climbs towards thick grey cloud. Creepers cascade from the swaying giants of the forest, clumps of orchid on a bough, bromiads. Great leaves drip and droop from beneath the trees. Bananas compete with tree ferns, black rip of a land slide. The road is mostly tar with potholes, rough dirt on some hairpins, but OK, manageable – and the thick rich warm scent of the cloud forest welcomes. I feel good. Continuing was the right decision. A small notice on the right side of the road advertises tea with a cup and arrow. I am traveling at less than ten KPH. And I am tired. No excuse for grabbing the hand brake. The front wheel stops dead. Over I fall. I have only the one bag and can lift the bike. Freewheel down hill to restart and punish myself with no tea. Clouds close in. Visibility 30 feet. The road is narrow two-lane. No safety parapet. Trucks loom out of the fog. I crawl for an hour, stop for tea at a shack with a jeep and two trucks parked outside. The drivers crouch over a stove in the kitchen. One driver speaks a little English. “No good,” he says of the visibility.
“No good,” I agree.
“Road no good,” he continues.
“Road no good,” I agree.
“Road bad,” he says.
“Road bad,” I repeat.
“Road very bad.”
“Very bad, yes...”
“Where you come?”
“England.”
“How old?”
“Seventy seven.”
“Seventy seven...” In surprise, “Very old.” Then, “Too old,” he says.
Not encouraging...
Nechipu Pass is 5000 feet above sea level. The road climbs towards thick grey cloud. Creepers cascade from the swaying giants of the forest, clumps of orchid on a bough, bromiads. Great leaves drip and droop from beneath the trees. Bananas compete with tree ferns, black rip of a land slide. The road is mostly tar with potholes, rough dirt on some hairpins, but OK, manageable – and the thick rich warm scent of the cloud forest welcomes. I feel good. Continuing was the right decision. A small notice on the right side of the road advertises tea with a cup and arrow. I am traveling at less than ten KPH. And I am tired. No excuse for grabbing the hand brake. The front wheel stops dead. Over I fall. I have only the one bag and can lift the bike. Freewheel down hill to restart and punish myself with no tea. Clouds close in. Visibility 30 feet. The road is narrow two-lane. No safety parapet. Trucks loom out of the fog. I crawl for an hour, stop for tea at a shack with a jeep and two trucks parked outside. The drivers crouch over a stove in the kitchen. One driver speaks a little English. “No good,” he says of the visibility.
“No good,” I agree.
“Road no good,” he continues.
“Road no good,” I agree.
“Road bad,” he says.
“Road bad,” I repeat.
“Road very bad.”
“Very bad, yes...”
“Where you come?”
“England.”
“How old?”
“Seventy seven.”
“Seventy seven...” In surprise, “Very old.” Then, “Too old,” he says.
Not encouraging...
SEPTUAGENARIAN TEENAGER
MAY 12: THE ROAD TO DIRANG
A Hornbill sounds reveille at the Eco Camp. Hornbills whistle sweetly. The whistle ends with a deep and very loud honk. Think rubber valve water-pump. A Woodpecker is next to wake and goes on and on. The only Indian cookoo is surprisingly gentle in his call. Perhaps he has a hangover. I feel fine.
Noel and I have been invited to early breakfast by the Sikh Commander at the tented army camp. The Commander has been operational all night and hasn't had time to change. I depart with a warning that the road is bad. Bad is a ludicrous understatement. Two hours to cover the first ten Ks is good progress through a mess of slush, mud and boulders. Two locals ahead of me take falls – mud from head to foot. My survival is luck – and following outriders. I know through most of those two hours that I should turn back. Turning back makes for a poor last Hurrah. So on I go. Yes, I am aware that I am repeating the idiocy that earned me a smashed ankle in Tierra del Fuego. However I remain what I was then: the only septuagenarian teenager.
RED NECK BIKERDOM
MAY 11: ECO CAMP
Four chilled Fosters and what did Noel and I discuss? Most of it is private or sensitive. The source requires camouflage – a lesson learned on my trip North through Central America. Be wary of what you put on the Web. I had insulted the outer reaches of Red Neck Bikerdom in reporting the beliefs and opinions of Hispanic Americans viz a v the US. Spot him, went out the message, smash him off the road. Ouch...!
Four chilled Fosters and what did Noel and I discuss? Most of it is private or sensitive. The source requires camouflage – a lesson learned on my trip North through Central America. Be wary of what you put on the Web. I had insulted the outer reaches of Red Neck Bikerdom in reporting the beliefs and opinions of Hispanic Americans viz a v the US. Spot him, went out the message, smash him off the road. Ouch...!
DRINKING CHILLED FOSTERS
MAY 11: ECO CAMP
Drinking chilled Fosters in Noel's one-bed thatch-roof bungalow is immensely pleasurable. Noel was one of a gang of bright kids from St Edmunds who made it to Delhi, India's premier University. Now he reads omnivorously. A friend from Delhi days, a leading literary critic, passes on books sent to him for review. Books pack shelves, form piles on every table, overflow into unlikely corners. Add sculpture, paintings, even a David Bailey portrait of Noel's sister, and the sitting room should feel overcrowded. It doesn't. It feels comfortable. And it is a reminder of my early 20s in Kenya and visiting British District Commissioners in the Northern Frontier District or the hills, men who are routinely mocked today as buffoons or twits but ruled over vast areas not by force but through wisdom and a desire to benefit the people. They were cultured men with First Class Honours degrees from good Universities in a day when a First was hard to come by and demanded original thought. Above all, they were incorruptible and believed a career of service was more rewarding than accruing wealth. So there I am, revealed in my true colours: an old fashioned Brit Blimp! The Colonel in Rajen Bali would be proud of me. So would the writer...
Drinking chilled Fosters in Noel's one-bed thatch-roof bungalow is immensely pleasurable. Noel was one of a gang of bright kids from St Edmunds who made it to Delhi, India's premier University. Now he reads omnivorously. A friend from Delhi days, a leading literary critic, passes on books sent to him for review. Books pack shelves, form piles on every table, overflow into unlikely corners. Add sculpture, paintings, even a David Bailey portrait of Noel's sister, and the sitting room should feel overcrowded. It doesn't. It feels comfortable. And it is a reminder of my early 20s in Kenya and visiting British District Commissioners in the Northern Frontier District or the hills, men who are routinely mocked today as buffoons or twits but ruled over vast areas not by force but through wisdom and a desire to benefit the people. They were cultured men with First Class Honours degrees from good Universities in a day when a First was hard to come by and demanded original thought. Above all, they were incorruptible and believed a career of service was more rewarding than accruing wealth. So there I am, revealed in my true colours: an old fashioned Brit Blimp! The Colonel in Rajen Bali would be proud of me. So would the writer...
ONE OF THE GOOD ONES
MAY 11: ECO CAMP
Noel sits on a bamboo bench on the central lawn in company with an Sikh army officer dressed in shorts, sandals and a T-shirt. The Indian Army in the North East States is in two parts. The main Army guards India's frontiers against possible Chinese incursions. Other units specialise in counter-insurgency. Of the latter, the good ones do much of the crime-fighting that the police can't or won't do. Illegal logging, brigandage, etc. This Sikh from the Punjab is one of the good ones. He is a big burly bruiser of a man, soft spoken, newly married, angered by Civil Administration's incompetency in law enforcement.
MAY 11: ECO CAMP
Noel sits on a bamboo bench on the central lawn in company with an Sikh army officer dressed in shorts, sandels and a T-shirt. The Indian Army in the North East States is in two parts. The main Army guards India's frontiers against possible Chinese incursions. Other units specialise in counter-insurgency. Of the latter, the good ones do much of the crime-fighting that the police can't or won't do. Illegal logging, brigandage, etc. This Sikh from the Punjab is one of the good ones. He is a big burly bruiser of a man, soft spoken, newly married, angered by Civil Administration's incompetency in law enforcement.
TEA GARDEN ENGLISH
MAY 11: ECO CAMP
The camp lies a few Ks down a dirt track through forest. I don't see animals. I do pass elephant dung. The camp is a circle of large tents under thatch. Each tent has a bathroom at the rear. The bathrooms are tile and have geysers. The manager is Noel to his family and school friends, Ronnie to everyone else. He is tall, slim, grey haired, was educated (along with most every other male I meet in the North East States) by Irish Christian Brothers at St. Edmunds, Shillong, and speaks Tea Garden English. Tea Garden English is English Public School with a 1940s vocabulary and a slight Indian accent. Tea Garden society was hard work and the Club (tennis, billiards, dances, decorous flirtations). Terrorism did for the Club - Assamese Nationalists building personal fortunes from kidnapping. Noel opted out. He remains out. Way out – though with contacts world wide.
The camp lies a few Ks down a dirt track through forest. I don't see animals. I do pass elephant dung. The camp is a circle of large tents under thatch. Each tent has a bathroom at the rear. The bathrooms are tile and have geysers. The manager is Noel to his family and school friends, Ronnie to everyone else. He is tall, slim, grey haired, was educated (along with most every other male I meet in the North East States) by Irish Christian Brothers at St. Edmunds, Shillong, and speaks Tea Garden English. Tea Garden English is English Public School with a 1940s vocabulary and a slight Indian accent. Tea Garden society was hard work and the Club (tennis, billiards, dances, decorous flirtations). Terrorism did for the Club - Assamese Nationalists building personal fortunes from kidnapping. Noel opted out. He remains out. Way out – though with contacts world wide.
DUMB DOLT
MAY 11: GUWAHATI
I admit to Baby at breakfast that I am a dossa addict. So is Baby. A restaurant on the next street serves great dossas – though not for breakfast. We will lunch there on my return from Arunachal. Baby also promises pork with bamboo shoots and Naga chilies. Naga chilies are rated the hottest in the world. Yum...
I am traveling light, one back pack. The rest stays under the bed. Having a base makes life so much easier.
“Remember the turn at Balipara,” warns Baby of my route to the Eco Camp.
I miss it. Yes, I check with locals for Nameri. Locals have little interest in Game Sanctuaries. They do know of the Nameri Tea Plantation which is why I find myself 35 kilometers down the wrong road. Dumb? Yes, of course.
Worse is to return to Balipara and stop at the cross roads to consult the road atlas. “You are going to Eco Camp?” asks a young man – where he works and will report my stupidity. This, in turn, will reach Baby's ears. I imagine the conversation. “How you can be so silly? And after I was warning you.”
Ah, well...
I admit to Baby at breakfast that I am a dossa addict. So is Baby. A restaurant on the next street serves great dossas – though not for breakfast. We will lunch there on my return from Arunachal. Baby also promises pork with bamboo shoots and Naga chilies. Naga chilies are rated the hottest in the world. Yum...
I am traveling light, one back pack. The rest stays under the bed. Having a base makes life so much easier.
“Remember the turn at Balipara,” warns Baby of my route to the Eco Camp.
I miss it. Yes, I check with locals for Nameri. Locals have little interest in Game Sanctuaries. They do know of the Nameri Tea Plantation which is why I find myself 35 kilometers down the wrong road. Dumb? Yes, of course.
Worse is to return to Balipara and stop at the cross roads to consult the road atlas. “You are going to Eco Camp?” asks a young man – where he works and will report my stupidity. This, in turn, will reach Baby's ears. I imagine the conversation. “How you can be so silly? And after I was warning you.”
Ah, well...
DUMB DOLT
MAY 11: GUWAHATI
I admit to Baby at breakfast that I am a dossa addict. So is Baby. A restaurant on the next street serves great dossas – though not for breakfast. We will lunch there on my return from Arunachal. Baby also promises pork with bamboo shoots and Naga chilies. Naga chilies are rated the hottest in the world. Yum...
I am traveling light, one back pack. The rest stays under the bed. Having a base makes life so much easier.
“Remember the turn at Balipara,” warns Baby of my route to the Eco Camp.
I miss it. Yes, I check with locals for Nameri. Locals have little interest in Game Sanctuaries. They do know of the Nameri Tea Plantation which is why I find myself 35 kilometers down the wrong road. Dumb? Yes, of course.
Worse is to return to Balipara and stop at the cross roads to consult the road atlas. “You are going to Eco Camp?” asks a young man – where he works and will report my stupidity. This, in turn, will reach Baby's ears. I imagine the conversation. “How you can be so silly? And after I was warning you.”
Ah, well...
I admit to Baby at breakfast that I am a dossa addict. So is Baby. A restaurant on the next street serves great dossas – though not for breakfast. We will lunch there on my return from Arunachal. Baby also promises pork with bamboo shoots and Naga chilies. Naga chilies are rated the hottest in the world. Yum...
I am traveling light, one back pack. The rest stays under the bed. Having a base makes life so much easier.
“Remember the turn at Balipara,” warns Baby of my route to the Eco Camp.
I miss it. Yes, I check with locals for Nameri. Locals have little interest in Game Sanctuaries. They do know of the Nameri Tea Plantation which is why I find myself 35 kilometers down the wrong road. Dumb? Yes, of course.
Worse is to return to Balipara and stop at the cross roads to consult the road atlas. “You are going to Eco Camp?” asks a young man – where he works and will report my stupidity. This, in turn, will reach Baby's ears. I imagine the conversation. “How you can be so silly? And after I was warning you.”
Ah, well...
PERMITS, PERMITS, PERMITS
PERMITS, PERMITS, PERMITS
The Permit for Arunachal was promised for Monday. I get it mid-afternoon Tuesday, too late to leave. The Permit is for 21 days and lists where I may visit. Today is the 10th. I must return to Guwahati on the evening of the 17th. Six days. My aim is to climb the Sela Pass to Tawang as a last Hurah. Sella is 13,700 feet. The itinary:
11th. Eco Camp in the Nameri Game Sanctuary
12th. Dirang
13th. Sella Pass and Tawang
14th. Recover
15tth. Return over the pass to Bomdila
16th. Eco Camp
17th. Guwahati
The Permit for Arunachal was promised for Monday. I get it mid-afternoon Tuesday, too late to leave. The Permit is for 21 days and lists where I may visit. Today is the 10th. I must return to Guwahati on the evening of the 17th. Six days. My aim is to climb the Sela Pass to Tawang as a last Hurah. Sella is 13,700 feet. The itinary:
11th. Eco Camp in the Nameri Game Sanctuary
12th. Dirang
13th. Sella Pass and Tawang
14th. Recover
15tth. Return over the pass to Bomdila
16th. Eco Camp
17th. Guwahati
PERMITS, PERMITS, PERMITS
PERMITS, PERMITS, PERMITS
The Permit for Arunachal was promised for Monday. I get it mid-afternoon Tuesday, too late to leave. The Permit is for 21 days and lists where I may visit. Today is the 10th. I must return to Guwahati on the evening of the 17th. Six days. My aim is to climb the Sela Pass to Tawang as a last Hurah. Sella is 13,700 feet. The itinary:
11th. Eco Camp in the Nameri Game Sanctuary
12th. Dirang
13th. Sella Pass and Tawang
14th. Recover
15tth. Return over the pass to Bomdila
16th. Eco Camp
17th. Guwahati
The Permit for Arunachal was promised for Monday. I get it mid-afternoon Tuesday, too late to leave. The Permit is for 21 days and lists where I may visit. Today is the 10th. I must return to Guwahati on the evening of the 17th. Six days. My aim is to climb the Sela Pass to Tawang as a last Hurah. Sella is 13,700 feet. The itinary:
11th. Eco Camp in the Nameri Game Sanctuary
12th. Dirang
13th. Sella Pass and Tawang
14th. Recover
15tth. Return over the pass to Bomdila
16th. Eco Camp
17th. Guwahati
A LAST HURAH
TO ARUNACHAL PRADESH.
Baby Baruah is the Wild Grass owner's younger sister, hence being named Baby by her parents – a fun name when a child but embarassing for a school teacher in her fifties. Baby is widowed. Her home is a bungalow in the Baruah family compound in Guwahati. I stayed there between Wild Grass and Shillong and am back there for two nights while waiting for my permit to visit Arunachal Pradesh. Baby tutors primary school children after school. I fight India's Internet. The problems are standard. Either the server is down or, when it works, a power cut hits mid-way through up-loading. Sending pics for a piece to go in a MCN travel issue took two days of frustration. A piece I sent BA got lost in the ether. Add that cyber cafe cubicles are cramped and sweaty and a hunting ground for mosquitoes, yes...
When not in a cyber cafe, I watch BBC election news and, in the late evening, 20/20 cricket. In cricket England is performing brilliantly. I am a Liberal Democrat. My Party increased its vote. Baby spoils me. All in all, I am a fortunate old sod – apart from the Internet.
Baby Baruah is the Wild Grass owner's younger sister, hence being named Baby by her parents – a fun name when a child but embarassing for a school teacher in her fifties. Baby is widowed. Her home is a bungalow in the Baruah family compound in Guwahati. I stayed there between Wild Grass and Shillong and am back there for two nights while waiting for my permit to visit Arunachal Pradesh. Baby tutors primary school children after school. I fight India's Internet. The problems are standard. Either the server is down or, when it works, a power cut hits mid-way through up-loading. Sending pics for a piece to go in a MCN travel issue took two days of frustration. A piece I sent BA got lost in the ether. Add that cyber cafe cubicles are cramped and sweaty and a hunting ground for mosquitoes, yes...
When not in a cyber cafe, I watch BBC election news and, in the late evening, 20/20 cricket. In cricket England is performing brilliantly. I am a Liberal Democrat. My Party increased its vote. Baby spoils me. All in all, I am a fortunate old sod – apart from the Internet.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
SURVIVAL OF THE UNFIT
We did it. Not me, but Ashok, President of Shillong's Vintage Car Association. We drove out yesterday to a picnic spot in the hills above Shillong. We is Ashock, his wife Rula, and me in Ashok's classic WW 11 jeep accompanied by more than a dozen member's of Shillong's Royal Enfield Riders Club. A dozen Bullets produce an impressive rumble.
What did we do? What such people do in Iran or Texas or Argentina, Pakistan, France or Russia - or back home at the Horizons Unlimited June meet. We drank cold beer and whiskey (not mixed), ate what was easy to cook over an open fire, told tall tales of rides done and planned and sang to a guitar. The quality of the singing varies. Not much else!
Thanks guys for a great day.
And my thanks to Ashok and Rula for warm wonderful hospitality. A good many years have passed since I last danced with a billiard cue to Frank Sinatra and the Andrews Sisters.
I am back in Guwahati today and ride north tomorrow into the mountains. A final week in the saddle...
What did we do? What such people do in Iran or Texas or Argentina, Pakistan, France or Russia - or back home at the Horizons Unlimited June meet. We drank cold beer and whiskey (not mixed), ate what was easy to cook over an open fire, told tall tales of rides done and planned and sang to a guitar. The quality of the singing varies. Not much else!
Thanks guys for a great day.
And my thanks to Ashok and Rula for warm wonderful hospitality. A good many years have passed since I last danced with a billiard cue to Frank Sinatra and the Andrews Sisters.
I am back in Guwahati today and ride north tomorrow into the mountains. A final week in the saddle...
Thursday, May 06, 2010
WILD DAYS, WILD NIGHTS, WILD GRASS
THIS IS AN EXPLANATION.
The owner of Wild Grass at Kaziranga Wild Life Sanctuary refused to let me leave. He claimed that I looked exhausted and needed to keep off the bike for a week. This is not a complaint and I required little persuasion. Wild Grass is glorious. So are the animals - and great fellow guests. From Wild Grass I rode back to Guwahati and stayed with the owner's widowed sister for three days, dined with friends, partied with the young (in their sixties), struggled with the Internet (2 days to up load pics for the latest piece for MCN). Now I am in Shilling and being wickedly entertained by the President of the Vintage Car Club of the North East. He owns a WW 11 US army jeep, a 1930s Morris 8 open tourer, a 1950s Studebaker and is rebuilding a 1940s BSA 500 (bike, for the ignorant). Got to bed at 3 a.m. this morning and the Shillong Enfield riders are coming to the house this evening. Help! If they leave me in a state to move we will play a few holes of golf tomorrow early then ride (bikes not horses)-
The owner of Wild Grass at Kaziranga Wild Life Sanctuary refused to let me leave. He claimed that I looked exhausted and needed to keep off the bike for a week. This is not a complaint and I required little persuasion. Wild Grass is glorious. So are the animals - and great fellow guests. From Wild Grass I rode back to Guwahati and stayed with the owner's widowed sister for three days, dined with friends, partied with the young (in their sixties), struggled with the Internet (2 days to up load pics for the latest piece for MCN). Now I am in Shilling and being wickedly entertained by the President of the Vintage Car Club of the North East. He owns a WW 11 US army jeep, a 1930s Morris 8 open tourer, a 1950s Studebaker and is rebuilding a 1940s BSA 500 (bike, for the ignorant). Got to bed at 3 a.m. this morning and the Shillong Enfield riders are coming to the house this evening. Help! If they leave me in a state to move we will play a few holes of golf tomorrow early then ride (bikes not horses)-
Thursday, April 29, 2010
WHY HAVEN'T I?
KAZIRANGA WILD LIFE SANCTUARY: APRIL 3
Why haven't I uploaded stuff onto the Blog? I don't have a memory stick with me because I didn't expect the power to be on - or, if it was on, for the Web connection in the cubicle behind the Chemist shop to be operative.
I rode in from WILD GRASS to find quinine for night cramps. I have new medication proscribed by a heart specialist in Gangtok. The anti-cramps pills don't work. I have had cramps in my feet and legs the past three nights. Hurts like hell and I can't get to the bathroom safely. That explains the chemist...
Does he have quinine?
No.
I shall try a jungle Doctor (Tribal!). Surely Jungle docs proscribe quinine for malaria.
Why haven't I uploaded stuff onto the Blog? I don't have a memory stick with me because I didn't expect the power to be on - or, if it was on, for the Web connection in the cubicle behind the Chemist shop to be operative.
I rode in from WILD GRASS to find quinine for night cramps. I have new medication proscribed by a heart specialist in Gangtok. The anti-cramps pills don't work. I have had cramps in my feet and legs the past three nights. Hurts like hell and I can't get to the bathroom safely. That explains the chemist...
Does he have quinine?
No.
I shall try a jungle Doctor (Tribal!). Surely Jungle docs proscribe quinine for malaria.
TRIBALS
KAZIRANGA WILD LIFE SANCTUARY; APRIL 3
Define Tribals in order of National importance:
Tourist Attractions.
Country people considered inferior.
Country people for whom the Government hasn't built schools.
Or hospitals...
Add the following from talking with an Assamese University Professor.
Was he Tribal?
Certainly not. His people invaded Assam a few centuries ago. Originally they came from Thailand.
Thus we have a fourth definition of Tribal: Losers...
Define Tribals in order of National importance:
Tourist Attractions.
Country people considered inferior.
Country people for whom the Government hasn't built schools.
Or hospitals...
Add the following from talking with an Assamese University Professor.
Was he Tribal?
Certainly not. His people invaded Assam a few centuries ago. Originally they came from Thailand.
Thus we have a fourth definition of Tribal: Losers...
WILD GRASS
KAZIRANGA WILD LIFE SANCTUARY: MAY 2
Great day yesterday - except for the standard problems of Internet and power. Power cuts are called Load Shedding - great terminology! The load shedding last two, three or four hours at a time, occur at least once and usually twice and often three times daily. I am staying at WILD GRASS. Check it out on the Web.
Yesterday in the Sanctuary a rhino walked down a grass swathe by the river and up over the track immediately behind the jeep. All hell broke loose a few minutes later. The rhino was charging at us down the track - so the forest ranger said as he tried to load his rifle. He was still trying when two buffalo charged by through the forest in one of those male on male power struggles.
Also seen, Jungle fowl. So they are wild chickens - no. Chickens are domesticated Jungle Fowl.
Great day yesterday - except for the standard problems of Internet and power. Power cuts are called Load Shedding - great terminology! The load shedding last two, three or four hours at a time, occur at least once and usually twice and often three times daily. I am staying at WILD GRASS. Check it out on the Web.
Yesterday in the Sanctuary a rhino walked down a grass swathe by the river and up over the track immediately behind the jeep. All hell broke loose a few minutes later. The rhino was charging at us down the track - so the forest ranger said as he tried to load his rifle. He was still trying when two buffalo charged by through the forest in one of those male on male power struggles.
Also seen, Jungle fowl. So they are wild chickens - no. Chickens are domesticated Jungle Fowl.
TIGER HILL
DARJEELING: APRIL 3
I don't care for gloom – even Historic, as in castles and Tudor manor houses. The Mayfair Hotel, Darjeeling, is a rare beast amongst Heritage buildings: rooms are light. It is also a hotel where guests talk to each other. The library boasts six-seater sofas and opulently comfortable armchairs. Barefoot diplomats from the US Embassy in Kathmandu share a beer with a couple of Brits. All four were up before dawn to witness sun rise from the peak of Tiger Hill – in company with a few hundred Indian tourists. What did they see? Cloud. How was the cloud? Damp and depressing. Ah, well...
I don't care for gloom – even Historic, as in castles and Tudor manor houses. The Mayfair Hotel, Darjeeling, is a rare beast amongst Heritage buildings: rooms are light. It is also a hotel where guests talk to each other. The library boasts six-seater sofas and opulently comfortable armchairs. Barefoot diplomats from the US Embassy in Kathmandu share a beer with a couple of Brits. All four were up before dawn to witness sun rise from the peak of Tiger Hill – in company with a few hundred Indian tourists. What did they see? Cloud. How was the cloud? Damp and depressing. Ah, well...
BUBBLY BLISS
DARJEELING: APRIL 3
I have transported my miseries to the Mayfair Hotel. The Mayfair does luxury. The manager throws wide the curtains on a close-up of cloud. No cloud and the view would stretch for a few hundred miles. When did the cloud last lift? February? Or was it January? Or December? I don't give a damn. Keep the view. Get rid of the manager (politely). Gush steaming water into the bath. Add a full bottle of Molton Brown hoarded from the Umaid Bavhan Palace. Hang the DON'T DISTURB sign on the door. Shush now...Don't even breathe. Grandpa is meditating in bubbly bliss...
I have transported my miseries to the Mayfair Hotel. The Mayfair does luxury. The manager throws wide the curtains on a close-up of cloud. No cloud and the view would stretch for a few hundred miles. When did the cloud last lift? February? Or was it January? Or December? I don't give a damn. Keep the view. Get rid of the manager (politely). Gush steaming water into the bath. Add a full bottle of Molton Brown hoarded from the Umaid Bavhan Palace. Hang the DON'T DISTURB sign on the door. Shush now...Don't even breathe. Grandpa is meditating in bubbly bliss...
MEDICATION WON'T SUFFICE
DARJEELING: APRIL 2
Bollywood is shooting a movie at the Hotel Swiss. A tall, slim, very Gay Thirties wears a woollie hat with a bobble. I'm unsure as to his title but he's the man who makes things happen. My camera is beyond him. I traipse from camera shop to camera shop. Darjeeling scores an A+ for vertical streets, an X- for camera technicians. The film crew eat packed lunches and packed dinners leaving me as the only guest in the dinning room. My head hurts. My shoulder hurts. My back hurts. My right knee hurts. These pains are to be expected in an old fool who falls off a bike (even riding zero Ks an hour). Medication won't suffice. I need laughter and a smidgen of five star luxury. The Swiss is a small charming Heritage building and I am not registering a complaint. However, dispelling my misery requires more. For instance a bubble bath...
Bollywood is shooting a movie at the Hotel Swiss. A tall, slim, very Gay Thirties wears a woollie hat with a bobble. I'm unsure as to his title but he's the man who makes things happen. My camera is beyond him. I traipse from camera shop to camera shop. Darjeeling scores an A+ for vertical streets, an X- for camera technicians. The film crew eat packed lunches and packed dinners leaving me as the only guest in the dinning room. My head hurts. My shoulder hurts. My back hurts. My right knee hurts. These pains are to be expected in an old fool who falls off a bike (even riding zero Ks an hour). Medication won't suffice. I need laughter and a smidgen of five star luxury. The Swiss is a small charming Heritage building and I am not registering a complaint. However, dispelling my misery requires more. For instance a bubble bath...
WILD LIFE SANCTUARY
I saw at least thirty black rhino yesterday. Am now trying to upload Blog before the next electricity cut.
Monday, April 26, 2010
KAZIRANGA WILD LIFE SANCTUARY
OK, I am in Kaziranga, Assam. My telephone doesn't work in Assam. Heavy storms over the past days and electricity has joined internet in being haphazard. I shall ride an elephant tomorrow and see black rhino, deer, buffalo and wild boar - many birds - though unlikely to see tigers as grass is too long. Have been trying to upload Blogs from memory stick here at a computer back of the local chemist! No luck...
Maybe the chemist (also a journalist and filming as I write) can make a suggestion. Cheers to all. Yes, and I AM HAVING A GREAT TIME!
Maybe the chemist (also a journalist and filming as I write) can make a suggestion. Cheers to all. Yes, and I AM HAVING A GREAT TIME!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
HAPHAZARD WEB ACCESS
Web access in India is haphazard. I am on for the first time today at 10 p.m. and need to get to bed as I must be mobile by 6 a.m.
A bunch of Blogs are ready to upload that will bring me up to date here in Sikkim. I ride to Assam tomorrow, no Email for two or three days. Guaharti will be my first opportunity. Cheers...
A bunch of Blogs are ready to upload that will bring me up to date here in Sikkim. I ride to Assam tomorrow, no Email for two or three days. Guaharti will be my first opportunity. Cheers...
ONE MORE FALL
DARJEELING: APRIL 1
A Swiss baker built the Hotel Swiss in the 1920s as a family home and place of work.
Now Help Tourism have the lease and run the hotel as a training ground for local employees. I follow the pick-up down a steep narrow road. The turn to the hotel is on a sharp corner and at an angle of 300 degrees. The gradient is even more acute. Three tour jeeps parked on the corner bar the pick-up from making the turn. The driver waves me on. I creep in first gear. An Indian tourist seated in one of the jeeps opens the door in my face. I can't hold the bike upright against the slope. Down I go, head in the ditch. A couple of drivers drag me and the bike upright. The Indian tourist continues chatting on his mobile.
A Swiss baker built the Hotel Swiss in the 1920s as a family home and place of work.
Now Help Tourism have the lease and run the hotel as a training ground for local employees. I follow the pick-up down a steep narrow road. The turn to the hotel is on a sharp corner and at an angle of 300 degrees. The gradient is even more acute. Three tour jeeps parked on the corner bar the pick-up from making the turn. The driver waves me on. I creep in first gear. An Indian tourist seated in one of the jeeps opens the door in my face. I can't hold the bike upright against the slope. Down I go, head in the ditch. A couple of drivers drag me and the bike upright. The Indian tourist continues chatting on his mobile.
TOY TRAIN
TO DARJEELINMG: APRIL 1
The mountain town of Ghoom is an unplanned slum of concrete ugliness and garbage. A spur of Darjeeling's Toy Train runs down the main street. I came off in Colon, Panama, trying to cross the track at two acute an angle. Rails trapped the front wheel. Lesson learnt, I meet the tfrack now at near ninety degrees. Darjeeling sprawls along an even more precipitous ridge. The ridge was suitable as a site for a few small health spars, boarding schools and summer bungalows for the British Raj. The modern town is a disaster. Small concrete hotels of unremitting ugliness crowd one another and squueze into non-existence those few remnants of reasonable taste. A good shake would drop the whole mess down the mountain.
Where is the Planning Authority, the urban Administration? Are the Administrators ashamed of their creation? Or are the blind to the awfulness?
Perhaps they live elsewhere.
The mountain town of Ghoom is an unplanned slum of concrete ugliness and garbage. A spur of Darjeeling's Toy Train runs down the main street. I came off in Colon, Panama, trying to cross the track at two acute an angle. Rails trapped the front wheel. Lesson learnt, I meet the tfrack now at near ninety degrees. Darjeeling sprawls along an even more precipitous ridge. The ridge was suitable as a site for a few small health spars, boarding schools and summer bungalows for the British Raj. The modern town is a disaster. Small concrete hotels of unremitting ugliness crowd one another and squueze into non-existence those few remnants of reasonable taste. A good shake would drop the whole mess down the mountain.
Where is the Planning Authority, the urban Administration? Are the Administrators ashamed of their creation? Or are the blind to the awfulness?
Perhaps they live elsewhere.
UP AND DOWN THE MOUNTAINS
TO DARJEELING: APRIL 1
The road winds all the way down through broad leaf forest and all the way up to clipped tea gardens part hidden in layers of mist or low-lying cloud, hairpin turn after hairpin turn, harsh chill down to soggy sweat and back to chill. In Europe the road would be considered single track. Here jeeps squeeze by each other. No busses. Meet a truck and one or other driver pulls to the narrow verge. The drop is only a few hundred feet and is seldom sheer. Imagine rolling down through emerald tea bushes. Not fun but interesting - and probably not fatal. Tin-roof cottages are little bigger than a normal living-room back home. Village shops are smaller. Shiny packets of crisps hang above a tiny counter, open sacks of rice and millet, cigarettes, biscuits, a few bottles of soft drinks. The wind is less than yesterday. The nagging pain in my chest is the same as are the women carrying huge baskets supported on a head band. They respond to my Hi or Namaste with such open smiles, so un-Indian. Old men in wool hats salute with raised hands and flash pink gums. Old? I am probably older. It promises to be a good day...
The road winds all the way down through broad leaf forest and all the way up to clipped tea gardens part hidden in layers of mist or low-lying cloud, hairpin turn after hairpin turn, harsh chill down to soggy sweat and back to chill. In Europe the road would be considered single track. Here jeeps squeeze by each other. No busses. Meet a truck and one or other driver pulls to the narrow verge. The drop is only a few hundred feet and is seldom sheer. Imagine rolling down through emerald tea bushes. Not fun but interesting - and probably not fatal. Tin-roof cottages are little bigger than a normal living-room back home. Village shops are smaller. Shiny packets of crisps hang above a tiny counter, open sacks of rice and millet, cigarettes, biscuits, a few bottles of soft drinks. The wind is less than yesterday. The nagging pain in my chest is the same as are the women carrying huge baskets supported on a head band. They respond to my Hi or Namaste with such open smiles, so un-Indian. Old men in wool hats salute with raised hands and flash pink gums. Old? I am probably older. It promises to be a good day...
WIZENED ELF IN GOLDEN RUBBER BOOTS
NEORA VALLEY: APRIL 1
Goodbye to Uttam Paul and the wizened elf in golden rubber boots. Rain fell in the night. The track will be slippery. Having ridden it once, I have nothing to prove. Sensible to load the bike into the pick-up. Comfort is nil: bounce, bounce, bounce.
Walking would be pure pleasure.
We meet an Indian biker/film maker at the track's junction with the road. He films us unloading the bike and I talk to camera – the usual stuff. Why I ride a small Honda: reliability, fuel consumption, light-weight maneuverability. And that there is nothing remarkable in what I do. Millions of people ride a bike to work each morning. All I do is ride further.
Enough talk, get in the saddle: Brmmm, Brmmm...
Goodbye to Uttam Paul and the wizened elf in golden rubber boots. Rain fell in the night. The track will be slippery. Having ridden it once, I have nothing to prove. Sensible to load the bike into the pick-up. Comfort is nil: bounce, bounce, bounce.
Walking would be pure pleasure.
We meet an Indian biker/film maker at the track's junction with the road. He films us unloading the bike and I talk to camera – the usual stuff. Why I ride a small Honda: reliability, fuel consumption, light-weight maneuverability. And that there is nothing remarkable in what I do. Millions of people ride a bike to work each morning. All I do is ride further.
Enough talk, get in the saddle: Brmmm, Brmmm...
MELODRAMATIC OLD MAN
NEORA VALLEY: APRIL 1
Pale daylight seeps round the curtains as I pad to the bathroom for the fourth time in the night. Fresh out of bed my balance is never good. My spine and ankles and the knuckle on my right index-finger hurt. Back to bed and I cuddle under the duvets – a few minutes to 5 a.m. and not much hope of getting back to sleep. I face a long ride through the mountains to Darjeeling and wish that I wasn't so tired. This journey has been too much for me. Just this once I'm writing the truth: that I'm scared of failure and scared of suffering some sort of physical collapse. I am 77 years old and having to get up in the night is standard. So are the painful joints. They don't matter. The heart scares me. I intend to keep going of course. I'll enjoy the journey most of the time. It is a great experience. But the fear is there and this wretched exhaustion. Enough of this melodramatic self-indulgence. I'll be scaring my children – that's if they read this Blog. Open the curtains and watch the dawn mist smoke through the trees; hot shower, drag on a thick jumper and sit out on the porch. The Neora Valley is a Wild Life Sanctuary and birds are abundant – though I can't name any. Ignorant Old Man...
Pale daylight seeps round the curtains as I pad to the bathroom for the fourth time in the night. Fresh out of bed my balance is never good. My spine and ankles and the knuckle on my right index-finger hurt. Back to bed and I cuddle under the duvets – a few minutes to 5 a.m. and not much hope of getting back to sleep. I face a long ride through the mountains to Darjeeling and wish that I wasn't so tired. This journey has been too much for me. Just this once I'm writing the truth: that I'm scared of failure and scared of suffering some sort of physical collapse. I am 77 years old and having to get up in the night is standard. So are the painful joints. They don't matter. The heart scares me. I intend to keep going of course. I'll enjoy the journey most of the time. It is a great experience. But the fear is there and this wretched exhaustion. Enough of this melodramatic self-indulgence. I'll be scaring my children – that's if they read this Blog. Open the curtains and watch the dawn mist smoke through the trees; hot shower, drag on a thick jumper and sit out on the porch. The Neora Valley is a Wild Life Sanctuary and birds are abundant – though I can't name any. Ignorant Old Man...
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
SUBSERVIENT SPECIES
NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
The three couples from Kolkata represent a pleasant facet of India's economic success –anti TV, anti computer games, pro wild life, pro ecology. Sad that this attitude isn't more prevalent. Mid-age with young children, they explore, on holiday, the less known and less developed areas of India – mountains, nature reserves, wild life sanctuaries, temples and fortresses less visited and difficult to reach. Their advice is to explore the North East States. When I write of their advice I write of the three men. The women remain separate, care for the kids, talk amongst themselves, return to their cabins. A subservient species? What do I know? I am merely an observer.
The three couples from Kolkata represent a pleasant facet of India's economic success –anti TV, anti computer games, pro wild life, pro ecology. Sad that this attitude isn't more prevalent. Mid-age with young children, they explore, on holiday, the less known and less developed areas of India – mountains, nature reserves, wild life sanctuaries, temples and fortresses less visited and difficult to reach. Their advice is to explore the North East States. When I write of their advice I write of the three men. The women remain separate, care for the kids, talk amongst themselves, return to their cabins. A subservient species? What do I know? I am merely an observer.
QUALITIES SADLY MISTAKEN FOR WEAKNESS
NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
Stone steps bordered by ferns and bamboo lead to the dinning hall on a higher terrace. Orchids droop between the rocks of the retaining walls. Three further cabins are occupied by holidaying families from Kolkata. The cabins have mezzanines and sleep four. Uttam Paul designed the buildings and oversaw construction by local villagers. His father was a doctor on a tea estate. Uttam married locally and has a house in Lava. He is a neat trim man in his early fifties and speaks quietly and strikes me as both gentle and thoughtful – qualities sadly mistaken for weakness in our modern culture. Uttam is tough minded and a stubborn and dedicated fighter and worker for his community and ecology.
Stone steps bordered by ferns and bamboo lead to the dinning hall on a higher terrace. Orchids droop between the rocks of the retaining walls. Three further cabins are occupied by holidaying families from Kolkata. The cabins have mezzanines and sleep four. Uttam Paul designed the buildings and oversaw construction by local villagers. His father was a doctor on a tea estate. Uttam married locally and has a house in Lava. He is a neat trim man in his early fifties and speaks quietly and strikes me as both gentle and thoughtful – qualities sadly mistaken for weakness in our modern culture. Uttam is tough minded and a stubborn and dedicated fighter and worker for his community and ecology.
NOT BAD FOR A CAMP
NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
I write this on a bench on the log cabin's porch. The driver squats on the outer edge of the car park parapet (dead drop for ever), mobile phone to his ear – calling his wife of course. How is the baby? Villages the far side of the steep valley are a thin scattering of tin roofs on terraced patches of darker green amidst broad-leaf trees. Look beyond to snow caps tinted with gold by the evening sun. There lie the Natula and Gelepla Passes into Nepal and Tibet.
I write this on a bench on the log cabin's porch. The driver squats on the outer edge of the car park parapet (dead drop for ever), mobile phone to his ear – calling his wife of course. How is the baby? Villages the far side of the steep valley are a thin scattering of tin roofs on terraced patches of darker green amidst broad-leaf trees. Look beyond to snow caps tinted with gold by the evening sun. There lie the Natula and Gelepla Passes into Nepal and Tibet.
NEAR PERFECT MATTRESS
NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
Help Tourism's local director/partner, Uttam Paul, greets me with a silk saffron scarf and glass of locally brewed liquor that tastes of blackberries and is probably lethal. A flagstone footpath and stone steps lead to the comfortable porch of a one-bedroom log cabin. Within lies total luxury: polished wood floors, double bed with top sheet folded over blankets and duvet, near perfect mattress, small dressing-room, bathroom with steam-hot water, thick towels. My only comment, Wow!
Help Tourism's local director/partner, Uttam Paul, greets me with a silk saffron scarf and glass of locally brewed liquor that tastes of blackberries and is probably lethal. A flagstone footpath and stone steps lead to the comfortable porch of a one-bedroom log cabin. Within lies total luxury: polished wood floors, double bed with top sheet folded over blankets and duvet, near perfect mattress, small dressing-room, bathroom with steam-hot water, thick towels. My only comment, Wow!
WALKER'S BLISS
NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
That last, Not really, is untrue. Forget the road as dry boulder-strewn river bed. The straight stretches give magical glimpses of the valley between giant conifers. Ferns cascade from the uphill side of the track; rocks cocooned in moss, crystal clear rivulets; palest of pale-yellow butterflies chase each other, scent of leaf mold and pine tar – twelve kilometers of walker's bliss! Even the bad bits can't be that bad if a septuagenarian can handle them on a small bike. The turn to the camp is on the right under one of those square archways. The final ascent to the parking lot is near vertical mud. I don't do mud. Nor does the Honda. We get three quarters of the way up before beginning to slip backwards. Add two-villager power and we make it. A wizened elf shod in gold rubber boots grabs my bags out of the pick-up. What is a camp? What will I find? Presumably one or other end of cold-water basic...
That last, Not really, is untrue. Forget the road as dry boulder-strewn river bed. The straight stretches give magical glimpses of the valley between giant conifers. Ferns cascade from the uphill side of the track; rocks cocooned in moss, crystal clear rivulets; palest of pale-yellow butterflies chase each other, scent of leaf mold and pine tar – twelve kilometers of walker's bliss! Even the bad bits can't be that bad if a septuagenarian can handle them on a small bike. The turn to the camp is on the right under one of those square archways. The final ascent to the parking lot is near vertical mud. I don't do mud. Nor does the Honda. We get three quarters of the way up before beginning to slip backwards. Add two-villager power and we make it. A wizened elf shod in gold rubber boots grabs my bags out of the pick-up. What is a camp? What will I find? Presumably one or other end of cold-water basic...
Saturday, April 17, 2010
FUN? NOT REALLY...
NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
And upward...
The small mountain town of Lava is dominated by a modern monastery. The track to Help Tourism's camp is to the right on the final bend before the village. The manager assures me that the track is very bad, better take the bike in the pick-up. As if I can't cope...I'll show him.
The track runs along the side of the mountain through a magnificent pine forest. The first few hundred meters are compressed dirt, easy. Turn a bend and I face a climb over large smooth river stones, first gear, bumpity bump bump bump. The stones kick the front wheel. Stay loose is the secret. Let the bike pick its own way as you would with a horse. A smooth stretch follows then more stones and a steep decent with a sharp bend. Imagine a mountain stream without water. Down hill is always worst. Put both feet down, you lose the rear break and begin to slide. Grab the front break and you're on your butt. So, however scared, you have to keep going - which isn't easy when faced with a 160 degree bend. The camp is twelve kilometers down the track. Twelve kilometers of and ninety minutes - enough time to get accustomed to the conditions and gain faith in your ability and the bike's ability. Fun? Not really...
And upward...
The small mountain town of Lava is dominated by a modern monastery. The track to Help Tourism's camp is to the right on the final bend before the village. The manager assures me that the track is very bad, better take the bike in the pick-up. As if I can't cope...I'll show him.
The track runs along the side of the mountain through a magnificent pine forest. The first few hundred meters are compressed dirt, easy. Turn a bend and I face a climb over large smooth river stones, first gear, bumpity bump bump bump. The stones kick the front wheel. Stay loose is the secret. Let the bike pick its own way as you would with a horse. A smooth stretch follows then more stones and a steep decent with a sharp bend. Imagine a mountain stream without water. Down hill is always worst. Put both feet down, you lose the rear break and begin to slide. Grab the front break and you're on your butt. So, however scared, you have to keep going - which isn't easy when faced with a 160 degree bend. The camp is twelve kilometers down the track. Twelve kilometers of and ninety minutes - enough time to get accustomed to the conditions and gain faith in your ability and the bike's ability. Fun? Not really...
Friday, April 16, 2010
JEEP GEYSERS
NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
The underfed driver parks the pick-up at a road side shrine - not to pray but to lift the hood on a mini geyser. Brave, I peek down the mountainside. Four women pick tea on the near precipice. Do they never suffer from vertigo? At least they are sheltered from the wind that whips over the crest. Wind in mountains is always scary. The driver removes the radiator cap and rests the engine five minutes before adding water. I drag a thick jumper from my backpack. Onward and upward...
The underfed driver parks the pick-up at a road side shrine - not to pray but to lift the hood on a mini geyser. Brave, I peek down the mountainside. Four women pick tea on the near precipice. Do they never suffer from vertigo? At least they are sheltered from the wind that whips over the crest. Wind in mountains is always scary. The driver removes the radiator cap and rests the engine five minutes before adding water. I drag a thick jumper from my backpack. Onward and upward...
HEART ATTACKS, ALTITUDE AND FEAR
NOREYA VALLEY: MARCH 31
The road turns uphill – or up-mountain – once more into tea gardens. The ascent is steeper than any I encountered in the Americas. At one point the road tunnels under itself to begin a 360o turn. I was sweating in my wind-proofs by the river. The sweat is chill now and I must fight a stiff breeze on my shoulder or be thrust toward the road's outer edge. How steep is the drop? How far is the drop? Don't know. Don't dare look. And what of the pain on my left side high under the ribs? Heart, muscular or too vivid an imagination? Scared? Yes. Having suffered a couple of heart attacks does that to you. Calmness is essential. I breathe slowly and draw comfort from memories of the first pass I crossed in Mexico, a climb from 60 meters above sea level to 3200. The pain was the same as were the fears – though with one added. Would the Brazilian-built Honda 125 fail? I rode 65000 kilometers through the Americas. I have ridden 12500 kilometers through India. Believe me, Honda 125s never fail...Not so the four-wheel-drive pick-up.
The road turns uphill – or up-mountain – once more into tea gardens. The ascent is steeper than any I encountered in the Americas. At one point the road tunnels under itself to begin a 360o turn. I was sweating in my wind-proofs by the river. The sweat is chill now and I must fight a stiff breeze on my shoulder or be thrust toward the road's outer edge. How steep is the drop? How far is the drop? Don't know. Don't dare look. And what of the pain on my left side high under the ribs? Heart, muscular or too vivid an imagination? Scared? Yes. Having suffered a couple of heart attacks does that to you. Calmness is essential. I breathe slowly and draw comfort from memories of the first pass I crossed in Mexico, a climb from 60 meters above sea level to 3200. The pain was the same as were the fears – though with one added. Would the Brazilian-built Honda 125 fail? I rode 65000 kilometers through the Americas. I have ridden 12500 kilometers through India. Believe me, Honda 125s never fail...Not so the four-wheel-drive pick-up.
FAT QUACK AND WIFE
NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
A grossly fat couple enter the chai shop. He is a doctor and boastful that his weekly visits to these uplands are an act of charity. His wife waddles behind the counter and helps herself to a packet of biscuits. The chai-shop daughter serves them bowls of vegetables and dhal, plates heaped high with rice. The fat couple stuff their faces and leave without paying. As for us, down and down and down to a river gorge and a narrow village where tour agencies advertise white water rafting. We cross a bridge and back track along the river. White water foams through the gorge. Two inflatable boats rest on a gravel spit. Tourists exchange tales of valour. How do I know? Been there, done that – though in Ecuador.
A grossly fat couple enter the chai shop. He is a doctor and boastful that his weekly visits to these uplands are an act of charity. His wife waddles behind the counter and helps herself to a packet of biscuits. The chai-shop daughter serves them bowls of vegetables and dhal, plates heaped high with rice. The fat couple stuff their faces and leave without paying. As for us, down and down and down to a river gorge and a narrow village where tour agencies advertise white water rafting. We cross a bridge and back track along the river. White water foams through the gorge. Two inflatable boats rest on a gravel spit. Tourists exchange tales of valour. How do I know? Been there, done that – though in Ecuador.
FREE WOMEN AND MOMOS
NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
I have escaped the harsh heat of India's plains. Wisps of thin cloud or mist drift across the narrow road. Time to pull on waterproof over-trousers and a light wind-cheater. We stop at a tin and brick shack. A woman serves us sweet milk tea and momos (stuffed crescent-shaped dumplings) steamed by her mother on a wood fire. The women are of a different culture to those of the south. No humility here. These women own themselves, freedom apparent in every movement and in the openness of their smiles and chatter.
I urge the driver of our pick-up to eat more. He is thin, young, married a year, first child born. His wife teaches in a private primary school – monthly salary 1500 Rupees. The driver earns 3000 Rupees plus 100 daily for food when away from home. A monthly family income of 40 pounds Stirling, little wonder that he is under-weight.
I have escaped the harsh heat of India's plains. Wisps of thin cloud or mist drift across the narrow road. Time to pull on waterproof over-trousers and a light wind-cheater. We stop at a tin and brick shack. A woman serves us sweet milk tea and momos (stuffed crescent-shaped dumplings) steamed by her mother on a wood fire. The women are of a different culture to those of the south. No humility here. These women own themselves, freedom apparent in every movement and in the openness of their smiles and chatter.
I urge the driver of our pick-up to eat more. He is thin, young, married a year, first child born. His wife teaches in a private primary school – monthly salary 1500 Rupees. The driver earns 3000 Rupees plus 100 daily for food when away from home. A monthly family income of 40 pounds Stirling, little wonder that he is under-weight.
TWO ROADS TO DARJEELING
NEORA VALLEY: MARCH 31
Two roads lead from Siliguri to Darjeeling. The direct route passes through Kurseong. We take the westerly road that climbs close to the Nepalese border. The beginnings are a gentle climb through almost flat tea gardens. Women pickers wade waist-deep amongst the deep emerald bushes. Shade trees guard the lanes to tea factories and manager's bungalows. We cross and recross the narrow gauge railway that takes Darjeeling's toy train north from Siliguri. Then up and up and up...
Two roads lead from Siliguri to Darjeeling. The direct route passes through Kurseong. We take the westerly road that climbs close to the Nepalese border. The beginnings are a gentle climb through almost flat tea gardens. Women pickers wade waist-deep amongst the deep emerald bushes. Shade trees guard the lanes to tea factories and manager's bungalows. We cross and recross the narrow gauge railway that takes Darjeeling's toy train north from Siliguri. Then up and up and up...
INTO THE HILLS
SILIGURI: MARCH 31
Help Tourism develops tourism within the community. They have built a camp in the Noreya Valley. The Siliguri office manager comes to the Cindrella Hotel in a four-wheel drive pick-up truck at 9 a.m. He has been instructed to transport me and the bike in the truck. I prefer to ride.
“The road to the camp is not possible.”
“So I will ride while the road is possible”
Help Tourism develops tourism within the community. They have built a camp in the Noreya Valley. The Siliguri office manager comes to the Cindrella Hotel in a four-wheel drive pick-up truck at 9 a.m. He has been instructed to transport me and the bike in the truck. I prefer to ride.
“The road to the camp is not possible.”
“So I will ride while the road is possible”
YE OF LITTLE FAITH
SILIGURI: MARCH 30
I lay the laptop and charger on the workbench. The non-newspaper reader regards it with deep suspicion. “It won't charge,” I say.
He pokes the charger with one finger. Nothing happens. I say, “It's not a bomb.”
Relieved, he opens the laptop.
I tell him that it has a Linux operating system.
Possibly he understands.
He plugs the charger into a wall socket. The charger falls out. He strips the ends from two lengths of copper wire, wraps the prongs of the charger with wires, no insulation tape, and prods the other ends into the socket with a couple of skinny ballpoints. Inserting a diagnostic probe into the cable end that connects to the computer produces zero. “It isn't charging.”
“Right,” I say.
“Do you wish me to mend it?”
“You can?”
“It is possible,” he says.
If only he sounded more confident.
Prying at the charger with a jeweler's screwdriver achieves nothing. A short discussion with my guide and the newspaper reader ensues before he takes a rusty kitchen carving knife from a drawer.
To me, “You wish me to open it?”
“You're the surgeon.”
Fifteen minutes with a soldering iron and the charger works. 300 Rupees. Old Man of little Faith...
I lay the laptop and charger on the workbench. The non-newspaper reader regards it with deep suspicion. “It won't charge,” I say.
He pokes the charger with one finger. Nothing happens. I say, “It's not a bomb.”
Relieved, he opens the laptop.
I tell him that it has a Linux operating system.
Possibly he understands.
He plugs the charger into a wall socket. The charger falls out. He strips the ends from two lengths of copper wire, wraps the prongs of the charger with wires, no insulation tape, and prods the other ends into the socket with a couple of skinny ballpoints. Inserting a diagnostic probe into the cable end that connects to the computer produces zero. “It isn't charging.”
“Right,” I say.
“Do you wish me to mend it?”
“You can?”
“It is possible,” he says.
If only he sounded more confident.
Prying at the charger with a jeweler's screwdriver achieves nothing. A short discussion with my guide and the newspaper reader ensues before he takes a rusty kitchen carving knife from a drawer.
To me, “You wish me to open it?”
“You're the surgeon.”
Fifteen minutes with a soldering iron and the charger works. 300 Rupees. Old Man of little Faith...
WE SET OUT TO HAVE AN ADVENTURE
SILIGURI: MARCH 30
Oh God, why hast thou forsaken me? Last night the camera disaster. This morning the laptop won't charge. An underweight young man sits on a plastic chair in side-street shop that advertises lap-top accessories. The shop is the size of a small shoe-box. No accessories. Does he know of a computer mechanic? Yes, indeed. He pulls down the steel shutter on his empty shop and mounts the pillion - a right, a left, another right, a further left, each street marginally narrower than the last. I park in the courtyard of a three-story concrete building the builders of which had never met an architect. A side door opens to a squash court sized workshop, low ceilinged, no windows. Two apparently indolent male thirty-somethings are drinking tea. One of them has tilted a spotlight to illuminate a newspaper. I suspect that the bits of computer and computer shells have found a permanent home on two work benches at right angles to each other. At such moments I remember the mantra with which my companion of Hispanic American travels, Ming, met all dangers and difficulties: “Simon, we set out to have an adventure...”
Oh God, why hast thou forsaken me? Last night the camera disaster. This morning the laptop won't charge. An underweight young man sits on a plastic chair in side-street shop that advertises lap-top accessories. The shop is the size of a small shoe-box. No accessories. Does he know of a computer mechanic? Yes, indeed. He pulls down the steel shutter on his empty shop and mounts the pillion - a right, a left, another right, a further left, each street marginally narrower than the last. I park in the courtyard of a three-story concrete building the builders of which had never met an architect. A side door opens to a squash court sized workshop, low ceilinged, no windows. Two apparently indolent male thirty-somethings are drinking tea. One of them has tilted a spotlight to illuminate a newspaper. I suspect that the bits of computer and computer shells have found a permanent home on two work benches at right angles to each other. At such moments I remember the mantra with which my companion of Hispanic American travels, Ming, met all dangers and difficulties: “Simon, we set out to have an adventure...”
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
SUE FOR MENTAL ANGUISH
SILIGURI: MARCH 29
My camera lens is dirty. I buy a cleaning kit at a camera shop, unpack the kit in my hotel bedroom and squeeze a drop of cleaning liquid onto the lens. The top shoots off the bottle. The entire contents flood the camera. Not only the lens but also the interior. Liquid bubbles float on the inside of the screen. Turn the camera on and the sole response from the computer is a request for the date. Were this the US I would hire a smart lawyer and sue the product manufacturer for a new camera plus an extra million for mental anguish - settle for one hundred grand. This is India. I weep.
My camera lens is dirty. I buy a cleaning kit at a camera shop, unpack the kit in my hotel bedroom and squeeze a drop of cleaning liquid onto the lens. The top shoots off the bottle. The entire contents flood the camera. Not only the lens but also the interior. Liquid bubbles float on the inside of the screen. Turn the camera on and the sole response from the computer is a request for the date. Were this the US I would hire a smart lawyer and sue the product manufacturer for a new camera plus an extra million for mental anguish - settle for one hundred grand. This is India. I weep.
BACK-ALLEY TAILOR
SILIGURI: MARCH 29
Three hours at a back-alley tailor designing a head band that will hold my camera.
The purpose? To shoot video as I ride. The shop is ten feet by eight, two sewing machines, two tailors. The younger, in his twenties, works on the camera headband. The older gives advice. The one-man chai shop opposite provides tea and further counsel. An elderly English speaker with a puncture repair shop (only for bicycles) translates. Add two or three onlookers and you have a street party. Why is Siliguri different? The people speak quietly, they don't jostle, they respect personal space. The only argument is financial. The tailor charges 50 Rupees. I tell him, Nonsense, and pay double.
Three hours at a back-alley tailor designing a head band that will hold my camera.
The purpose? To shoot video as I ride. The shop is ten feet by eight, two sewing machines, two tailors. The younger, in his twenties, works on the camera headband. The older gives advice. The one-man chai shop opposite provides tea and further counsel. An elderly English speaker with a puncture repair shop (only for bicycles) translates. Add two or three onlookers and you have a street party. Why is Siliguri different? The people speak quietly, they don't jostle, they respect personal space. The only argument is financial. The tailor charges 50 Rupees. I tell him, Nonsense, and pay double.
TRAIN IS OK
SILIGURI: MARCH 29
Unloading the bike at Siliguri is a doddle. An employee of the Cindrella Hotel has brought a bottle of petrol. I lunch with the hotel's owner, Rajendra Baid. He founded, when only twenty, Siliguri's newspaper. The paper continues in profit despite electronic competition.
Lonely Planet describes the Cindrella Hotel as Siliguri's best, bedrooms with polished floor boards. Best, yes, but the floors are marble. Siliguri is cleaner than cities further south. The people seem different. In what way? I'm unsure. Give me a few days...
Unloading the bike at Siliguri is a doddle. An employee of the Cindrella Hotel has brought a bottle of petrol. I lunch with the hotel's owner, Rajendra Baid. He founded, when only twenty, Siliguri's newspaper. The paper continues in profit despite electronic competition.
Lonely Planet describes the Cindrella Hotel as Siliguri's best, bedrooms with polished floor boards. Best, yes, but the floors are marble. Siliguri is cleaner than cities further south. The people seem different. In what way? I'm unsure. Give me a few days...
RAJEN BALI
What did I do in Kolkata other than watch cricket on TV, drink beer and over-eat? Talk with Rajen Bali - two septuagenarian chums sharing experiences and opinions and teasing each other. The teasing grows from affection and trust in a relationship. Rajen is a fine man, honourable, generous, determined in his principles. highly literate, widely read, widely traveled...and skillful in the kitchen.
DISGUST WITH LABOUR
KOLKATA: MARCH 28
Cooked by the Colonel, delicious prawns for dinner and one more sad good-bye.
The Kolkata edition of The Telegraph ran a flattering piece on me this morning. I am stopped twice by bikers on the road to the station.
Loading the bike is easy, the sleeper comfortable. I chat with an English woman, a child psychologist, member of a tour group off to trek in the foothills of the Himalayas. Where did trek originate? Is walk inadequate? Less sexy? Less commercial?
She has been a Labour supporter since childhood and a Labour Councilor. The present Labour hierarchy disgusts her. She will either vote Liberal Democrat or abstain.
Cooked by the Colonel, delicious prawns for dinner and one more sad good-bye.
The Kolkata edition of The Telegraph ran a flattering piece on me this morning. I am stopped twice by bikers on the road to the station.
Loading the bike is easy, the sleeper comfortable. I chat with an English woman, a child psychologist, member of a tour group off to trek in the foothills of the Himalayas. Where did trek originate? Is walk inadequate? Less sexy? Less commercial?
She has been a Labour supporter since childhood and a Labour Councilor. The present Labour hierarchy disgusts her. She will either vote Liberal Democrat or abstain.
FAREWELL TO KOLKATA
KOLKATA: MARCH 28
My last day in Kolkata and Rajen Bali promises me a treat. Off we march for breakfast, the Colonel leading, three swings of his arms, three claps. Come on, chaps. First the South India Restaurant, then to buy prawns for my farewell supper.
Crows and a few dogs pick at a heap of stinking refuse outside the market. Why isn't it cleared away? Ask the Municipal Government.
Rajen has shopped at this market for the thirty years. He barks witticisms at the stall holders, pokes at strange (to me) vegetables and fruit, explains their culinary usage – such is shopping with a two-legged encyclopedia of the subcontinent's food.
A small skinny fish merchant scoops prawns from a basket for the Colonel's inspection. The Colonel approves. Fish gleam on a slab, no ice. Trussed chickens lie silent. Two black goats wait the knife. A fresh carcass hanging from an iron hook drips blood into an open drain; a teenage butcher drags the skin from a second.
The Colonel selects limes, a red onion.
We are pulled home by a bare-foot rickshaw wallah.
Easy to salve your conscience and take a tuk-tuk.
Rajen Bali, ever practical, has pushed up the rickshaw wallahs' wages.
How?
By hiring them and paying 15% above the standard fare. Do this frequently and the raise becomes the norm.
My last day in Kolkata and Rajen Bali promises me a treat. Off we march for breakfast, the Colonel leading, three swings of his arms, three claps. Come on, chaps. First the South India Restaurant, then to buy prawns for my farewell supper.
Crows and a few dogs pick at a heap of stinking refuse outside the market. Why isn't it cleared away? Ask the Municipal Government.
Rajen has shopped at this market for the thirty years. He barks witticisms at the stall holders, pokes at strange (to me) vegetables and fruit, explains their culinary usage – such is shopping with a two-legged encyclopedia of the subcontinent's food.
A small skinny fish merchant scoops prawns from a basket for the Colonel's inspection. The Colonel approves. Fish gleam on a slab, no ice. Trussed chickens lie silent. Two black goats wait the knife. A fresh carcass hanging from an iron hook drips blood into an open drain; a teenage butcher drags the skin from a second.
The Colonel selects limes, a red onion.
We are pulled home by a bare-foot rickshaw wallah.
Easy to salve your conscience and take a tuk-tuk.
Rajen Bali, ever practical, has pushed up the rickshaw wallahs' wages.
How?
By hiring them and paying 15% above the standard fare. Do this frequently and the raise becomes the norm.
MOI AMORE
KOLKATA: MARCH 27
The Colonel and I are invited to lunch at a new restaurant opened by Kolkata's prophet of fusion cooking, Pradip Rozario. Padrip trained with the Oberoi Group both in India and in Europe. The Kurry Klub at 176, Sarat Bose Road was his initial gamble. The first two years were tough. Next came K K's Fusion. Now Moi Amore on the top floor of a plush new shopping mall and cinema complex. The décor is light, smart and friendly. The food is delicious – giant tiger prawns lightly grilled.
The Colonel and I are invited to lunch at a new restaurant opened by Kolkata's prophet of fusion cooking, Pradip Rozario. Padrip trained with the Oberoi Group both in India and in Europe. The Kurry Klub at 176, Sarat Bose Road was his initial gamble. The first two years were tough. Next came K K's Fusion. Now Moi Amore on the top floor of a plush new shopping mall and cinema complex. The décor is light, smart and friendly. The food is delicious – giant tiger prawns lightly grilled.
BRIT BRITS ARE CRAP AT 20/20
Indian Premier League 20/20 competition is in full swing. Sadly no matches at Kolkata's Eden Gardens before April 1. Rajen and I make do with television. Sachin Tendulkar is God. Collingwood is the only Brit with Brit grandparents. The two other Brits have parents or grandparents from the subcontinent. Thank God for Asian immigration.
IS HOGARTHIAN TRITE?
KOLKATA: MARCH 26
I love Kolkata. Communist State Governments, unfriendly to business, have curtailed investment. One result: the city suffers from less industrial pollution than Delhi or Mumbai. A second plus: no arguments with cab drivers. Cabs have meters, drivers switch them on. Shopping in the markets is a pleasure. Stall keepers are friendly. The language is musical. More English is spoken. I can communicate.
I explore the city while Rajen organises the final stages of my journey into Sikkim and the North East States. Few relics of the Mughals survive. Those of the British Raj have done better. The Writers Building (1780), headquarters of the East India Company, now houses the Government Secretariat. Built to impress the natives, the palatial Government House in immense pleasure gardens is home to the Governor of West Bengal. The Governor is a political appointee. I haven't written of the slums, that vile Hogarthian world glimpsed down alleys. Nor did I photograph them. The denizens deserve more of us than serve as illustrations for a Blog.
I love Kolkata. Communist State Governments, unfriendly to business, have curtailed investment. One result: the city suffers from less industrial pollution than Delhi or Mumbai. A second plus: no arguments with cab drivers. Cabs have meters, drivers switch them on. Shopping in the markets is a pleasure. Stall keepers are friendly. The language is musical. More English is spoken. I can communicate.
I explore the city while Rajen organises the final stages of my journey into Sikkim and the North East States. Few relics of the Mughals survive. Those of the British Raj have done better. The Writers Building (1780), headquarters of the East India Company, now houses the Government Secretariat. Built to impress the natives, the palatial Government House in immense pleasure gardens is home to the Governor of West Bengal. The Governor is a political appointee. I haven't written of the slums, that vile Hogarthian world glimpsed down alleys. Nor did I photograph them. The denizens deserve more of us than serve as illustrations for a Blog.
CHINESE STREET MARKET
KOLKATA: MARCH 26
Street breakfast at the Chinese street market: a ten liter aluminum pot of chicken soup simmers over coals on the sidewalk. The squatting stall holder rinses bowls in a bucket – sufficiently clean for the Colonel and I. One of our party, a woman, has brought her own cup. Her husband talks on his mobile while Rajen discusses chicken stock with the cook. Rajen remembers her mother. Beyond the stalls, women chop piles of salvaged timber into kindling. One feeds a baby at the breast. A family have roofed a crack between two shacks. The mother washes two toddlers in the gutter. Our next stop, stuffed dumplings...
Street breakfast at the Chinese street market: a ten liter aluminum pot of chicken soup simmers over coals on the sidewalk. The squatting stall holder rinses bowls in a bucket – sufficiently clean for the Colonel and I. One of our party, a woman, has brought her own cup. Her husband talks on his mobile while Rajen discusses chicken stock with the cook. Rajen remembers her mother. Beyond the stalls, women chop piles of salvaged timber into kindling. One feeds a baby at the breast. A family have roofed a crack between two shacks. The mother washes two toddlers in the gutter. Our next stop, stuffed dumplings...
WOW!
First day with internet in over a week. Where am I? Just returned from North Sikkim to the capitol, Gantok. Neither phones nor Internet in the North. Here in Gantok heavy storms every day wiped out Internet connection. Now, finally, brilliant sunshine and clear skies. Sat on my balcony at the hotel at 4.45 this morning to admire the snow peaks - fabulous. And the Internet working. Wow!
Sunday, April 04, 2010
KRAZY KEBABS
KOLKATA: MARCH 25
Krazy Kebab is newly opened and designer modern - somewhere to take a business client. The food is superb and Westerners will find ordering easier than at Kasturi. The kebabs are good. Try the lamb chops, Adrak ke panje. They melt in your mouth. Or the chef's own invention: Ghost Aftab. And there is an excellent value lunch-time buffet. The chef in his whites and tall hat sits with us. He was an executive chef with the Taj Hotel Group. He left to build his own small Empire. Good fortune to him.
Krazy Kebab is newly opened and designer modern - somewhere to take a business client. The food is superb and Westerners will find ordering easier than at Kasturi. The kebabs are good. Try the lamb chops, Adrak ke panje. They melt in your mouth. Or the chef's own invention: Ghost Aftab. And there is an excellent value lunch-time buffet. The chef in his whites and tall hat sits with us. He was an executive chef with the Taj Hotel Group. He left to build his own small Empire. Good fortune to him.
KASTURI
KOLKATA: MARCH 24
Kasturi at 7/A Mustaque Ahmed Street is the oldest Bengali restaurant in Kolkata. Climb stairs to a narrow room. Sit at a plastic topped table, no table linen, no menu, and eat fresh sea food. A waiter offers a dozen different dishes. I would be bewildered, nervous. Rajen selects. All are delicious. Salt water prawn in a sauce is extraordinary.
We sit in the proprietor's office after lunch. Rajen and the proprietor talk of cooking. Why no menu? Because dishes and prices change each day. The proprietor does the buying at the fish market. Quality and knowledge of what his customers can afford govern his choice.
Kasturi at 7/A Mustaque Ahmed Street is the oldest Bengali restaurant in Kolkata. Climb stairs to a narrow room. Sit at a plastic topped table, no table linen, no menu, and eat fresh sea food. A waiter offers a dozen different dishes. I would be bewildered, nervous. Rajen selects. All are delicious. Salt water prawn in a sauce is extraordinary.
We sit in the proprietor's office after lunch. Rajen and the proprietor talk of cooking. Why no menu? Because dishes and prices change each day. The proprietor does the buying at the fish market. Quality and knowledge of what his customers can afford govern his choice.
OLD MEN ENTRAPPED IN MEMORIES
KOLKATA: MARCH 24
Travelers eat mediocre food much of the time. Ignorant of where to eat we consult guide books or trust to chance. Writers of guide books are equally ignorant and chance is seldom the path to glory.
Encyclopedic knowledge of Kolkata makes Rajen Bali a brilliant pilot through the city's culinary highways and byways. First a cold beer at a bar. One bottle is sufficient. We sit quietly, content in each other's company, and tell tales of what made us who we are.
"Boring," my younger sons would say. Or, "Heard that..."
True, perhaps, but what would they prefer? Silence?
As for food, Rajen's tastes are eclectic. Plush or plastic table is immaterial. Only the food counts.
Travelers eat mediocre food much of the time. Ignorant of where to eat we consult guide books or trust to chance. Writers of guide books are equally ignorant and chance is seldom the path to glory.
Encyclopedic knowledge of Kolkata makes Rajen Bali a brilliant pilot through the city's culinary highways and byways. First a cold beer at a bar. One bottle is sufficient. We sit quietly, content in each other's company, and tell tales of what made us who we are.
"Boring," my younger sons would say. Or, "Heard that..."
True, perhaps, but what would they prefer? Silence?
As for food, Rajen's tastes are eclectic. Plush or plastic table is immaterial. Only the food counts.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
THROWN OUT OF THE CLUB
KOLKTA: MARCH 23
Rajen Bali and I are invited to dinner at Kolkata's Tollygunge Country Club. Rajen believes that the dress code is casual. I don't do casual. I have scruff or smart. Smart is bespoke trousers tailored in dark blue cotton at an attic sweat shop in Cochin's Jew Town. My navy shirt is hand-woven cotton (support the artisan) from the Rajastahn State Kadi Emporium in Jaisalmer. Add polished black brogues and a touch of hair gel and I look the works. Our host's wife and teen daughter are equally smart. So is Rajen. Only our host is scruff in a curly-collared short-sleeve sports shirt with a logo and boat shoes. So who gets us banned from the club restaurant and bars? Me. My shirt is Indian. It doesn't have a collar. Collars are obligatory. We eat in a no-doors shed with the mosquitoes.
DRINKING WITH COLONEL
KOLKATA: MARCH 21
We visit a bar that has been in the same family for four generations. The bar is a large, low-ceilinged rectangular room with some fifty marble-top tables and upright chairs. It is a utilitarian room. No decoration. The entrance off a side street is unobtrusive, no name on the door. Look for it and you wouldn't find it. The owner wishes it to remain so. Publicity is anathema. Bring out a camera and you'd be ejected. The clientele range from judges to market traders, pensioners to youthful whippersnappers. They have in common a comfortable thirst and a liking for calm conversation. Drunks and loud-mouths are banned. Only beer is served, cold beer by the bottle paid for in advance. Snack salesman circle the tables - delicious fish fingers – and the A/C works.
We visit a bar that has been in the same family for four generations. The bar is a large, low-ceilinged rectangular room with some fifty marble-top tables and upright chairs. It is a utilitarian room. No decoration. The entrance off a side street is unobtrusive, no name on the door. Look for it and you wouldn't find it. The owner wishes it to remain so. Publicity is anathema. Bring out a camera and you'd be ejected. The clientele range from judges to market traders, pensioners to youthful whippersnappers. They have in common a comfortable thirst and a liking for calm conversation. Drunks and loud-mouths are banned. Only beer is served, cold beer by the bottle paid for in advance. Snack salesman circle the tables - delicious fish fingers – and the A/C works.
READY TO PARTY
KOLKATA: MARCH 21
Two Old Blimps are ready to party. Down the stairs we hobble and out onto the sidewalk. Rajen Bali swings both arms forward in time with his first few steps, swing and clap, swing and clap. It is a gesture common to school games masters and army instructors. “Come on chaps, let's go.”
I am the only chap and I'm ready - though not speedy.
Neither is Rajen Bali. An ankle smashed by three trucks slows me down. A freak wave did for the Colonel's knee.
We don't give a damn.
We make a great pair.
Two Old Blimps are ready to party. Down the stairs we hobble and out onto the sidewalk. Rajen Bali swings both arms forward in time with his first few steps, swing and clap, swing and clap. It is a gesture common to school games masters and army instructors. “Come on chaps, let's go.”
I am the only chap and I'm ready - though not speedy.
Neither is Rajen Bali. An ankle smashed by three trucks slows me down. A freak wave did for the Colonel's knee.
We don't give a damn.
We make a great pair.
A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS
KOLKATA: MARCH 21
The Balis are a Hindu warrior Clan from the North West Frontier region of what is now Pakistan. Partition exiled them to India. Rajen was raised in Lucknow and served in the Army through much of the border States and with the United Nations in the Congo. On retirement, he moved to Kolkata primarily because he was unknown and wished to begin a new life. In doing so, he deliberately abandoned both his possessions and the privileges of rank – a clean sweep. Natives of Kolkata are restricted by habit. Rajen is an explorer. I benefit from his exploration.
The Balis are a Hindu warrior Clan from the North West Frontier region of what is now Pakistan. Partition exiled them to India. Rajen was raised in Lucknow and served in the Army through much of the border States and with the United Nations in the Congo. On retirement, he moved to Kolkata primarily because he was unknown and wished to begin a new life. In doing so, he deliberately abandoned both his possessions and the privileges of rank – a clean sweep. Natives of Kolkata are restricted by habit. Rajen is an explorer. I benefit from his exploration.
Friday, April 02, 2010
STAYING WITH THE COLONEL
KOLKATA: MARCH 20
Rajen Bali is married. His wife is away in Delhi visiting their only son. I am to occupy their spare room for the remains of my stay in Kolkata. How do we pass our time? Talk endlessly of the past and of places visited and, disapprovingly, of the state of the world. Where has honour gone?
Elderly gentlemen, we quickly establish habits. Writing first, then breakfast, followed by more writing for which cold beer is the reward. Then lunch. But what a lunch...
Rajen Bali is married. His wife is away in Delhi visiting their only son. I am to occupy their spare room for the remains of my stay in Kolkata. How do we pass our time? Talk endlessly of the past and of places visited and, disapprovingly, of the state of the world. Where has honour gone?
Elderly gentlemen, we quickly establish habits. Writing first, then breakfast, followed by more writing for which cold beer is the reward. Then lunch. But what a lunch...
MEETING THE COLONEL
KOLKATA: MARCH 19
Rajen Bali is introduced to me by Modhurima Sinha of the Taj. We sit together in the lobby of the Taj Bengal. Rajen Bali is the shorter by three inches and the younger by four years. He boasts a hawk's nose. Mine is snubbed. We are both overweight and bearded and we both served in the army, I as a lowly lieutenant, Rajen as a Lieutenant-Colonel. Rajen has put his retirement to good use both as a successful painter and one of India's foremost travel writers and writers on food. Modhurima Sinha probably sees us as grumpy old men and made for each other. So it proves...
Rajen Bali is introduced to me by Modhurima Sinha of the Taj. We sit together in the lobby of the Taj Bengal. Rajen Bali is the shorter by three inches and the younger by four years. He boasts a hawk's nose. Mine is snubbed. We are both overweight and bearded and we both served in the army, I as a lowly lieutenant, Rajen as a Lieutenant-Colonel. Rajen has put his retirement to good use both as a successful painter and one of India's foremost travel writers and writers on food. Modhurima Sinha probably sees us as grumpy old men and made for each other. So it proves...
LAW IS NEGOTIABLE
KOLKATA: MARCH 18
An immensely rich Kolkata businessman tells me of reneging on the purchase of a London Hotel. His London lawyer, a man with Indian antecedents, warned him of disadvantages in doing business in England. Miss-declare trading figures for United Kingdom Value Added Tax and you pay a fine. Do so a second time and you go to jail. India is different. Law is negotiable.
An immensely rich Kolkata businessman tells me of reneging on the purchase of a London Hotel. His London lawyer, a man with Indian antecedents, warned him of disadvantages in doing business in England. Miss-declare trading figures for United Kingdom Value Added Tax and you pay a fine. Do so a second time and you go to jail. India is different. Law is negotiable.
TORTOISE PROGRESS
KOLKATA: MARCH 18
A guest swims lengths of the pool as I breakfast at a window table at the Taj Bengal. I must face the laptop keyboard. The latest BA High Life piece needs final editing. The Guardian requires 600 words. I am late with 1500 words for MCN and this Blog is way behind. I occupy the same window table for a lunch-time meeting with the hotel's Director of PR, Mrs Modhurima Sinha. Six tourists lounge on sunbeds the far side of the pool. I head for my room. Dinner is Room Service Biriani and 30 minutes of IPL cricket live on TV. I call Bernadette at midnight and collapse into bed.
Have I finished? Of course not.
Why do I write so slowly?
A guest swims lengths of the pool as I breakfast at a window table at the Taj Bengal. I must face the laptop keyboard. The latest BA High Life piece needs final editing. The Guardian requires 600 words. I am late with 1500 words for MCN and this Blog is way behind. I occupy the same window table for a lunch-time meeting with the hotel's Director of PR, Mrs Modhurima Sinha. Six tourists lounge on sunbeds the far side of the pool. I head for my room. Dinner is Room Service Biriani and 30 minutes of IPL cricket live on TV. I call Bernadette at midnight and collapse into bed.
Have I finished? Of course not.
Why do I write so slowly?
Thursday, April 01, 2010
A LADY WITH VERY SPECIAL TASTES
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
I sit on a sofa in an outer office on the top floor of a commercial building in central Kolkata.
The invitation was for 7 pm to 7:30. It is now 8:30. I have read the Times of India, The Telegraph and The Statesman. Sensible would have been to leave an hour ago. On the other hand the woman I expected to meet is my only contact here in Kolkata. I am told that she is rich, that she is interesting, that she does interesting things with her money. I am a writer. Interesting people are the grist for my writer's mill. The lady arrives at 8:45. She is short, plump, middle-aged and has steel chains woven into her hair. The chains reach midway down her thighs. Her desk is piled with pink purses encased in glass-bead spaniels. The curved doggy tail is the handle. Wow!
I sit on a sofa in an outer office on the top floor of a commercial building in central Kolkata.
The invitation was for 7 pm to 7:30. It is now 8:30. I have read the Times of India, The Telegraph and The Statesman. Sensible would have been to leave an hour ago. On the other hand the woman I expected to meet is my only contact here in Kolkata. I am told that she is rich, that she is interesting, that she does interesting things with her money. I am a writer. Interesting people are the grist for my writer's mill. The lady arrives at 8:45. She is short, plump, middle-aged and has steel chains woven into her hair. The chains reach midway down her thighs. Her desk is piled with pink purses encased in glass-bead spaniels. The curved doggy tail is the handle. Wow!
A SOAK FOR THE SOAK
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
How ever great the number of rooms, the best hotels make each guest feel unique and treasured. Is it years of training or brilliant selection of staff? Probably an amalgam of both.
Taj staff are brilliant.
First goal? Soak in a hot bath...And soak and soak. Then sprawl on a perfect mattress and check my address book. Then connect the laptop to the WiFi for mail.
Is Bernadette OK?
Has my suicidal Last Born survived a further week of snow boarding?
What news of my other children and my grandchildren?
What work am I late delivering?
And what funds remain in the bank? This last is always a major anxiety on a long journey.
How ever great the number of rooms, the best hotels make each guest feel unique and treasured. Is it years of training or brilliant selection of staff? Probably an amalgam of both.
Taj staff are brilliant.
First goal? Soak in a hot bath...And soak and soak. Then sprawl on a perfect mattress and check my address book. Then connect the laptop to the WiFi for mail.
Is Bernadette OK?
Has my suicidal Last Born survived a further week of snow boarding?
What news of my other children and my grandchildren?
What work am I late delivering?
And what funds remain in the bank? This last is always a major anxiety on a long journey.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
TAJ WELCOME FOR AN ANCIENT SCRUFF
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
Six guards protect the gates into the Taj hotel, Kolkata. No entry for an Old Blimp on a Honda 125. Bikes are for servants. I park with the social pariahs and walk. Security at the lobby entrance is airport style. Place keys, small change, mobile phones etc. in a wicker tray for Xray scan. Pass through the detector gates. My braces/suspenders set off the alarm. Take them off and I have to hold up my pants. Hardly a glorious entrance to five star luxury...
I giggle. So do the security guards.
A suave gentleman in a frock coat betrays neither surprise nor dismay at spotting an aged tramp on wealth-hallowed ground. “Mister Gandolfi?”
“Yes,” say I. Are they expecting another ancient scruff??
Six guards protect the gates into the Taj hotel, Kolkata. No entry for an Old Blimp on a Honda 125. Bikes are for servants. I park with the social pariahs and walk. Security at the lobby entrance is airport style. Place keys, small change, mobile phones etc. in a wicker tray for Xray scan. Pass through the detector gates. My braces/suspenders set off the alarm. Take them off and I have to hold up my pants. Hardly a glorious entrance to five star luxury...
I giggle. So do the security guards.
A suave gentleman in a frock coat betrays neither surprise nor dismay at spotting an aged tramp on wealth-hallowed ground. “Mister Gandolfi?”
“Yes,” say I. Are they expecting another ancient scruff??
SECURITY BLANKET
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
Pointless to ask direction to a one star hotel unless you are close. Not so with the Taj Bengal (not so with any Taj hotel). I stay at the Taj for two reasons. Firstly, the Taj group invite me. Secondly, the Taj in Bombay was my security blanket forty years ago. Entering the great dining room overlooking the sea was an instant antidote to depression or fatigue. I took personally the storming of the Taj by terrorists. They attacked treasured memories. Fear them and they are victorious. This ride is both my response and my inadequate memorial to the killed and to a dear and respected friend, sadly departed, Darab Tata.
Pointless to ask direction to a one star hotel unless you are close. Not so with the Taj Bengal (not so with any Taj hotel). I stay at the Taj for two reasons. Firstly, the Taj group invite me. Secondly, the Taj in Bombay was my security blanket forty years ago. Entering the great dining room overlooking the sea was an instant antidote to depression or fatigue. I took personally the storming of the Taj by terrorists. They attacked treasured memories. Fear them and they are victorious. This ride is both my response and my inadequate memorial to the killed and to a dear and respected friend, sadly departed, Darab Tata.
Monday, March 29, 2010
PUNCTURED PRIDE FOR A DOUBTING THOMAS
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
I suffer from the sin of pride. Not always, but on occasion. You know? Hey, I'm nearly eighty and look at me, Brrrm Brrrm on a cafe racer round India. Wow! Some guy. Fearless...
Kneeling on the gas station forecourt is an act of humility.
The pump attendants and a few drivers and bike riders watch as I waggle the eight inch nail out of the tire. The tire is unpunctured. Not so my pride...
Such is the punishment for my momentary lack of faith.
Remember, Old Man, Honda 125s never never never break down.
I suffer from the sin of pride. Not always, but on occasion. You know? Hey, I'm nearly eighty and look at me, Brrrm Brrrm on a cafe racer round India. Wow! Some guy. Fearless...
Kneeling on the gas station forecourt is an act of humility.
The pump attendants and a few drivers and bike riders watch as I waggle the eight inch nail out of the tire. The tire is unpunctured. Not so my pride...
Such is the punishment for my momentary lack of faith.
Remember, Old Man, Honda 125s never never never break down.
HELL AND DAMNATION
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
Tacka tacka tacka fires the machine gun as I creep into a gas station. Hell and Damnation...
I come to a halt and rev the engine. No machine gun, so the engine is OK. It must be the gear box. I dismount and heave the bike onto its stand. I look at the gear box. My knowledge of gear boxes could be written on the point of a very very thin needle and looking doesn't help. I touch the gear box tentatively with a finger tip. Touching tells me nothing. I look at the two gas pump attendants. Surely one of them can wave a wand?
The smaller of the two grins and points at my rear wheel. An eight inch nail sticks out of the tread. I put the bike into gear. The rear wheel spins. The nail strikes the rear mudguard: tacka tacka tacka...
Tacka tacka tacka fires the machine gun as I creep into a gas station. Hell and Damnation...
I come to a halt and rev the engine. No machine gun, so the engine is OK. It must be the gear box. I dismount and heave the bike onto its stand. I look at the gear box. My knowledge of gear boxes could be written on the point of a very very thin needle and looking doesn't help. I touch the gear box tentatively with a finger tip. Touching tells me nothing. I look at the two gas pump attendants. Surely one of them can wave a wand?
The smaller of the two grins and points at my rear wheel. An eight inch nail sticks out of the tread. I put the bike into gear. The rear wheel spins. The nail strikes the rear mudguard: tacka tacka tacka...
TACKA TACKA TACKA
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
A rattle of heavy machine gun fire erupts directly under my butt.
HELP!
I slow and the rate of fire slows.
I speed up, the rate of fire increases.
I pull in to the curb and the firing stops.
I am riding a Honda 125.
Honda 125s never break down.
This article of faith supported me on my exploration of the Americas - sixty-six thousand kilometers.
It has supported me on this journey through India - eleven thousand kilometers.
Fear hits.
Real fear.
Or belly emptying anxiety (which is fear, surely?).
A rattle of heavy machine gun fire erupts directly under my butt.
HELP!
I slow and the rate of fire slows.
I speed up, the rate of fire increases.
I pull in to the curb and the firing stops.
I am riding a Honda 125.
Honda 125s never break down.
This article of faith supported me on my exploration of the Americas - sixty-six thousand kilometers.
It has supported me on this journey through India - eleven thousand kilometers.
Fear hits.
Real fear.
Or belly emptying anxiety (which is fear, surely?).
UNDER MACHINE GUN FIRE
KOLKATA: MARCH 17
I complained once to a dive companion that he didn't understand how frightened I am when a dive becomes difficult, or even threatens to begin to become difficult. I'm a coward, I insisted.
He argued that I merely had an unusually strong survival drive.
He was wrong.
I am a coward, particularly if threatened with an emotional confrontation.
Or when an unsilenced machine gun fires a burst directly under my butt: Tacka tacka tacka.
HELP!
I complained once to a dive companion that he didn't understand how frightened I am when a dive becomes difficult, or even threatens to begin to become difficult. I'm a coward, I insisted.
He argued that I merely had an unusually strong survival drive.
He was wrong.
I am a coward, particularly if threatened with an emotional confrontation.
Or when an unsilenced machine gun fires a burst directly under my butt: Tacka tacka tacka.
HELP!
ENRAGED DRIVERS
Chandipur to Kolkata on the map looks an easy ride. Difficulties arise on entering any big city. Sign posts either abandon you midway through the suburbs or, worse, point in a direction which doesn't correspond with the six exits from an intersection.
OK, so it's a left- but which left? The first? Or the second?
Hesitate a millisecond and three hundred enraged drivers hit their klaxons.
OK, so it's a left- but which left? The first? Or the second?
Hesitate a millisecond and three hundred enraged drivers hit their klaxons.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
TOO MANY BREAKFASTS
Mrs S M Crawford, Hampshire, England
I am criticised often for being too political in my writing and having an anti American agenda. These critics mean the USA rather than America in general. Now I have a new critic, the husband of Mrs S M Crawford of Hampshire, England. Mrs. S M Crawford has posted on Amazon the following criticism of Old Man On A Bike.
I bought this for my husband at his request. He was fired with enthusiasm from an article he read in The Telegraph. He is totally disappointed in this book and literally had to struggle through it. He sums it up as a description of breakfast in many places. It is therefore not recommended.
So for those readers who don't care for breakfast, be warned...
I am criticised often for being too political in my writing and having an anti American agenda. These critics mean the USA rather than America in general. Now I have a new critic, the husband of Mrs S M Crawford of Hampshire, England. Mrs. S M Crawford has posted on Amazon the following criticism of Old Man On A Bike.
I bought this for my husband at his request. He was fired with enthusiasm from an article he read in The Telegraph. He is totally disappointed in this book and literally had to struggle through it. He sums it up as a description of breakfast in many places. It is therefore not recommended.
So for those readers who don't care for breakfast, be warned...
GREAT CRAB AND A FIVE K TIDE
CHANDIPUR: MARCH 16
The ride north was tough, not simply the distance and the traffic, but the heat. Perhaps I aimed for too long a daily distance. Or age is overtaking my ambitions. What ever, I remain tired despite the day's break at Puri. Puri to Kolkata is a further 500 Ks. I break the distance midway with a night at a small fishing village, Chandipur. A clean a/c room with a reasonable mattress is 650 Rupees at the Hotel Shubhan. I planned a swim before dinner. The tide is out. Out at Chandipur is 5 Ks! I return to the hotel, apply a coating of Deet, sit out on the terrace and enjoy the evening breeze. Deet is miraculous. In four months of travel I've been bitten at most half a dozen times. I should write. I prefer meditating on the fresh crab the hotel manager has promised for dinner. Chandipur is famous for crab – and , of course, that five kilometer tide. The power cuts when I am on the stairs to the restaurant. No problem. Obligatory evening wear for India includes a Leatherman flashlight.
The ride north was tough, not simply the distance and the traffic, but the heat. Perhaps I aimed for too long a daily distance. Or age is overtaking my ambitions. What ever, I remain tired despite the day's break at Puri. Puri to Kolkata is a further 500 Ks. I break the distance midway with a night at a small fishing village, Chandipur. A clean a/c room with a reasonable mattress is 650 Rupees at the Hotel Shubhan. I planned a swim before dinner. The tide is out. Out at Chandipur is 5 Ks! I return to the hotel, apply a coating of Deet, sit out on the terrace and enjoy the evening breeze. Deet is miraculous. In four months of travel I've been bitten at most half a dozen times. I should write. I prefer meditating on the fresh crab the hotel manager has promised for dinner. Chandipur is famous for crab – and , of course, that five kilometer tide. The power cuts when I am on the stairs to the restaurant. No problem. Obligatory evening wear for India includes a Leatherman flashlight.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
ADIEU TO PURI
PURI: MARCH 15
I have walked the beach, struggled through a few thousand pilgrims to admire the temple, eaten curd and fruit salad with my Chinese lady friend (she leaves for Darjeeling tomorrow)and avoided further discussions of belts and diamonds. Tomorrow I head north towards Kolkata.
I have walked the beach, struggled through a few thousand pilgrims to admire the temple, eaten curd and fruit salad with my Chinese lady friend (she leaves for Darjeeling tomorrow)and avoided further discussions of belts and diamonds. Tomorrow I head north towards Kolkata.
BELTS OR DIAMONDS?
PURI: MARCH 15
The elderly overweight Canadian remains undecided as to beach diamonds. He has a further concern. Leather belts are a tenth the price of belts back home in Canada. Should he buy belts with the standard buckle or in the modern flip-over style? I gave up wearing belts on my fiftieth birthday. I wear what we Brits call braces and the Americans call suspenders. I wear them outside my shirt. The Canadian is clearly asking advice of the wrong person. This doesn't stop him.
The elderly overweight Canadian remains undecided as to beach diamonds. He has a further concern. Leather belts are a tenth the price of belts back home in Canada. Should he buy belts with the standard buckle or in the modern flip-over style? I gave up wearing belts on my fiftieth birthday. I wear what we Brits call braces and the Americans call suspenders. I wear them outside my shirt. The Canadian is clearly asking advice of the wrong person. This doesn't stop him.
BREAKFAST AT THE Z HOTEL
PURI: MARCH 15
A portly Canadian in his sixties and looking older wonders whether he shoud buy a diamond from a peddler on the beach. The unanimous opinion offered by his fellow guests at the Z Hotel is an instant negative. He, however, is determined that he has found a bargain. He bought a stone in Rajastahn some years back for US$1000. The gem dealer assured him that it had a value of US$2000. Back home a jeweler confirmed the value at $2000. This, of course, was the price a jeweler would set for a punter rather than the price at which a jeweler would buy the stone. The Canadian eventually sold the stone for US$600 yet believes that he made a profit.
Perhaps he should try baskets...
A portly Canadian in his sixties and looking older wonders whether he shoud buy a diamond from a peddler on the beach. The unanimous opinion offered by his fellow guests at the Z Hotel is an instant negative. He, however, is determined that he has found a bargain. He bought a stone in Rajastahn some years back for US$1000. The gem dealer assured him that it had a value of US$2000. Back home a jeweler confirmed the value at $2000. This, of course, was the price a jeweler would set for a punter rather than the price at which a jeweler would buy the stone. The Canadian eventually sold the stone for US$600 yet believes that he made a profit.
Perhaps he should try baskets...
VSO CYNICISM
PURI: MARCH 14
Eight guests for dinner are thinly spread at the Z Hotel 's single dinning table. The table seats forty. Perhaps it is a remnant of the Maharajah's long-gone splendour. A young couple from Pen State are in management with a VSO program further south. The previous volunteer left six months prior to their arrival. No trace remains of the previous volunteer's work – work that these two are now duplicating. Little wonder that they are increasingly cynical. They will be in India for two years. They came with hopes of achieving something for the poor. Their cynicism worries them. They admire Obama and fear that he will be a one term President. They talk of his race speech during the Primaries as a turning point in the Election. He talks of feeling proud as he listened to the speech, proud to bare witness to the good side of America.
Eight guests for dinner are thinly spread at the Z Hotel 's single dinning table. The table seats forty. Perhaps it is a remnant of the Maharajah's long-gone splendour. A young couple from Pen State are in management with a VSO program further south. The previous volunteer left six months prior to their arrival. No trace remains of the previous volunteer's work – work that these two are now duplicating. Little wonder that they are increasingly cynical. They will be in India for two years. They came with hopes of achieving something for the poor. Their cynicism worries them. They admire Obama and fear that he will be a one term President. They talk of his race speech during the Primaries as a turning point in the Election. He talks of feeling proud as he listened to the speech, proud to bare witness to the good side of America.
THE LSE IS ANOTHER BRAND NAME
PURI: MARCH 14
I share a bowl of fruit salad and curd with a placidly beautiful Chinese woman whose age I underestimate by ten years. She is trying to find herself. More fruit salad and she corrects herself. She has a low boredom threshold and is searching either for an occupation that will hold her interest or for the discipline to resist moving on at the first yawn.
In part, her problem is a fast well-trained mind (my opinion). She is a graduate of the London School of Economics.
I suggest Day Trading as an Adrenalin rush. She did that for ten years. She says that it became obsessive, one more computer game.
Writing appeals to her – though she doubts her staying power.
I suggest a fake autobiography: Chinese high flier drops a million in the morning and makes her dinner date suffer. Have you done that?
Yes, maybe...
Which is a definite Yes in any language.
And she doubts whether she could satisfy the US/UK Chic Lit market. Chinese women have a perception of romance more subtle that the Western sob and groan version, so she claims. The perfect husband is perfectly manipulable...
We will meet again tomorrow for more fruit salad. Aged forty, she is a year or two younger than my friend, Ming, with whom I traveled through Ecuador and Peru. They share a splendid Chinese elitism.
Four thousand years of bad ceramics was Ming's critique of pre-Colombian art.
My present companion dismisses the LSE as one more brand name along with Gucci, Prada and Louis Vuiton.
I share a bowl of fruit salad and curd with a placidly beautiful Chinese woman whose age I underestimate by ten years. She is trying to find herself. More fruit salad and she corrects herself. She has a low boredom threshold and is searching either for an occupation that will hold her interest or for the discipline to resist moving on at the first yawn.
In part, her problem is a fast well-trained mind (my opinion). She is a graduate of the London School of Economics.
I suggest Day Trading as an Adrenalin rush. She did that for ten years. She says that it became obsessive, one more computer game.
Writing appeals to her – though she doubts her staying power.
I suggest a fake autobiography: Chinese high flier drops a million in the morning and makes her dinner date suffer. Have you done that?
Yes, maybe...
Which is a definite Yes in any language.
And she doubts whether she could satisfy the US/UK Chic Lit market. Chinese women have a perception of romance more subtle that the Western sob and groan version, so she claims. The perfect husband is perfectly manipulable...
We will meet again tomorrow for more fruit salad. Aged forty, she is a year or two younger than my friend, Ming, with whom I traveled through Ecuador and Peru. They share a splendid Chinese elitism.
Four thousand years of bad ceramics was Ming's critique of pre-Colombian art.
My present companion dismisses the LSE as one more brand name along with Gucci, Prada and Louis Vuiton.
Z HOTEL, PURI
PURI: MARCH 14
In a previous life the Z Hotel at Puri was a Maharajah's beach house. The manager is vague as to which Maharajah. My room is marginally smaller than a squash court. The cloud island in the middle is a four poster bed with mosquito net. A fan turns slowly above the net. Open all the windows and the net billows in the breeze. For furniture there is a desk, one easy chair, two upright chairs, a wardrobe and a wooden clothes rack. Crossing the bathroom is a major expedition – pack sandwiches. All this for 750 Rupees. Not such a tough life...
In a previous life the Z Hotel at Puri was a Maharajah's beach house. The manager is vague as to which Maharajah. My room is marginally smaller than a squash court. The cloud island in the middle is a four poster bed with mosquito net. A fan turns slowly above the net. Open all the windows and the net billows in the breeze. For furniture there is a desk, one easy chair, two upright chairs, a wardrobe and a wooden clothes rack. Crossing the bathroom is a major expedition – pack sandwiches. All this for 750 Rupees. Not such a tough life...
CONSTABLE
PURI: MARCH 14
The painter, Constable, marketed a fine line of rural romantic poverty. I've been taking photographs...
The painter, Constable, marketed a fine line of rural romantic poverty. I've been taking photographs...
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
BAD ROAD, GREAT COUNTRYSIDE
PURI: MARCH 14
Most visitors travel to Puiri via the State Capital. I take a short cut down a single-tack country road from the south west. The first five kilometers are good tar. For the next fifteen I creep between elephant traps and dirt moguls. But what a glorious countryside of straw-cottage villages, temple ponds shaded by giant pepul trees and baobabs, emerald paddy studded with coconut palms. I bump and bounce past a truck. A bridge crosses a creek sheeted with water Hyacinth and water lily. Buffalo bask with only their noses above the surface. I stop to photograph a basket market, pull in at a tin-shack canteen for a cold soda. The owner has been playing cricket.
Most visitors travel to Puiri via the State Capital. I take a short cut down a single-tack country road from the south west. The first five kilometers are good tar. For the next fifteen I creep between elephant traps and dirt moguls. But what a glorious countryside of straw-cottage villages, temple ponds shaded by giant pepul trees and baobabs, emerald paddy studded with coconut palms. I bump and bounce past a truck. A bridge crosses a creek sheeted with water Hyacinth and water lily. Buffalo bask with only their noses above the surface. I stop to photograph a basket market, pull in at a tin-shack canteen for a cold soda. The owner has been playing cricket.
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