GOA: FEBRUARY 12.
Fiona and Paul - is it sexist to put the woman's name ahead of the man's? Or the man's ahead of the woman's? Please excuse the digression. I have had only one cup of coffee this morning and my thoughts remain somewhat disorganised. The plains of Tamil Nadu in March are hot. Fortunately I am cooled by a strong sea breeze. I am writing on the roof terrace of the Sunrise Guest House in Mamallapuram. A grass park and a few trees separate the guest house from the sea. The sea is a pale greeny blue beneath a sky that is paler than pale. Surf breaks on the rock shore. Two small, narrow, high-bowed fishing boats rock at anchor. Four sister boats have chugged south down the coast. A junior teenage help is preparing fresh coffee. Ten minutes and my brain will be unscrambled.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Friday, March 05, 2010
FREN JOSHUA
GOA: FEBRUARY 9
Everybody at the Fren Joshua concert is a small crowd of maybe one hundred. The true sound of Goa is German. He sits in splendour on a raised dais on the stage and plays the sitar and a flute. To his right, a grey-haired Japanese with a frozen face plays base guitar next to a tabla player who might be Indian. A second German plays keyboard and fiddles with a lap-top. Fren Joshua is both serious and spiritual. He dedicates his songs to a series of Sufi saints and mystics. My untrained ear finds one song much like the next. Perhaps the Sufi mystics were equally similar. The concert is enlivened on occasion by all four musicians emitting a series of very loud harsh barks.
The Japanese base player runs out of battery.
I clap once at the wrong moment.
The prawn risotto is dry and without taste.
So where is the luck?
In meeting a young Dutch couple, Paul and Fiona, at the restaurant.
Everybody at the Fren Joshua concert is a small crowd of maybe one hundred. The true sound of Goa is German. He sits in splendour on a raised dais on the stage and plays the sitar and a flute. To his right, a grey-haired Japanese with a frozen face plays base guitar next to a tabla player who might be Indian. A second German plays keyboard and fiddles with a lap-top. Fren Joshua is both serious and spiritual. He dedicates his songs to a series of Sufi saints and mystics. My untrained ear finds one song much like the next. Perhaps the Sufi mystics were equally similar. The concert is enlivened on occasion by all four musicians emitting a series of very loud harsh barks.
The Japanese base player runs out of battery.
I clap once at the wrong moment.
The prawn risotto is dry and without taste.
So where is the luck?
In meeting a young Dutch couple, Paul and Fiona, at the restaurant.
SEARCHING FOR THE PAST
GOA: FEBRUARY 9
Calangute is the northern end of a thirty kilometer hodgepodge of high-rise apartment blocks, bed-bug dosshouses, luxury resorts, bars and restaurants that range in quality from brilliant to instant dysentery. My memories are of a small village. We were fifty foreigners at most. Fishermen mending nets were the only Indians. I trust to luck in searching for my past. The luck is an Italian with a shack restaurant amongst the trees a kilometer back from Vagator beach. He has long hair, an old bike and spent years up in Poona or Pune at the Shri Rajneesh ashram - wow! a real life sennayasin. How old? Mid-sixties and an old stager. He belongs...While I fall at the first hurdle. I've never heard of Fren Joshuah, never listened to his music, the true sound of Goa (so the Italian asures me).
Fren Joshua is in concert tonight on the beach north towards Arambol. Everybody's going. Return to the restaurant afterwards for prawn risotto.
Calangute is the northern end of a thirty kilometer hodgepodge of high-rise apartment blocks, bed-bug dosshouses, luxury resorts, bars and restaurants that range in quality from brilliant to instant dysentery. My memories are of a small village. We were fifty foreigners at most. Fishermen mending nets were the only Indians. I trust to luck in searching for my past. The luck is an Italian with a shack restaurant amongst the trees a kilometer back from Vagator beach. He has long hair, an old bike and spent years up in Poona or Pune at the Shri Rajneesh ashram - wow! a real life sennayasin. How old? Mid-sixties and an old stager. He belongs...While I fall at the first hurdle. I've never heard of Fren Joshuah, never listened to his music, the true sound of Goa (so the Italian asures me).
Fren Joshua is in concert tonight on the beach north towards Arambol. Everybody's going. Return to the restaurant afterwards for prawn risotto.
IMAGINATION ADDICTS
KODAIKANAL: MARCH 5
I sit in on a class of final year students discussing manipulation of thought through maps, photography and metaphor. Am I prejudiced in finding the girls intellectually more mature?
The class finishes and I stay on at a table with three students. Teenagers tend to be wary of revealing themselves. They find safety in number. A full class and I might be able to provoke a general discourse – even an argument. Three is too few – though I try with the question I posed throughout Hispanic America. Why do so few students intend entering Public Service?
These three answer me rather than speak to each other.
S1 (f): The pay is too low.
S2 (f): It's modern Indian society - everyone for themselves.
S3 (m) has no opinion. He wants to be a sports journalist.
Or Politics?
S1: It's impossible to stay clean.
End of subject.
Do they spend much time in their imagination?
S3 (m) imagines doing things – driving a fast car, scoring a goal.
S1 (f) fears that she day dreams too much, that it effects her grades.
I want to ask, not what she dreams, but why she dreams. Is she seeking shelter and from what?
From whom she thinks she is?
Or from what is expected of her?
Or from what she expects?
I don't have the right and S2 is talking now of a lonely childhood in which her only companions were imaginary - as they became my addiction both as a child and as a writer of fiction. So to Goa...
I sit in on a class of final year students discussing manipulation of thought through maps, photography and metaphor. Am I prejudiced in finding the girls intellectually more mature?
The class finishes and I stay on at a table with three students. Teenagers tend to be wary of revealing themselves. They find safety in number. A full class and I might be able to provoke a general discourse – even an argument. Three is too few – though I try with the question I posed throughout Hispanic America. Why do so few students intend entering Public Service?
These three answer me rather than speak to each other.
S1 (f): The pay is too low.
S2 (f): It's modern Indian society - everyone for themselves.
S3 (m) has no opinion. He wants to be a sports journalist.
Or Politics?
S1: It's impossible to stay clean.
End of subject.
Do they spend much time in their imagination?
S3 (m) imagines doing things – driving a fast car, scoring a goal.
S1 (f) fears that she day dreams too much, that it effects her grades.
I want to ask, not what she dreams, but why she dreams. Is she seeking shelter and from what?
From whom she thinks she is?
Or from what is expected of her?
Or from what she expects?
I don't have the right and S2 is talking now of a lonely childhood in which her only companions were imaginary - as they became my addiction both as a child and as a writer of fiction. So to Goa...
SCHOOL
KODAIKANAL: MARCH 5
The International School is coeducational. 60 % of the 571 students are Indian nationals, 121 are from other Asian countries, 58 North American, 41 from Europe, 7 African, a lone New Zealander and a lone Omani. The curriculum melds the US Public school syllabus with the International Baccalaureate. 100% progress to University, not a bad record...And the school has 14 music teachers. In earlier days Kodai produced diplomats, administrators and academics. The modern trend is towards entrepreneurs and CEOs. For further information check the Web.
My own opinion? A joyful and stimulating path to adulthood...
The International School is coeducational. 60 % of the 571 students are Indian nationals, 121 are from other Asian countries, 58 North American, 41 from Europe, 7 African, a lone New Zealander and a lone Omani. The curriculum melds the US Public school syllabus with the International Baccalaureate. 100% progress to University, not a bad record...And the school has 14 music teachers. In earlier days Kodai produced diplomats, administrators and academics. The modern trend is towards entrepreneurs and CEOs. For further information check the Web.
My own opinion? A joyful and stimulating path to adulthood...
KODAIKANAL INTERNATIONAL SCHOOL
school hiding in the trees
KODAIKANAL: MARCH 4
Kodai has three centers: the bazaar, the star-shaped 24 hectare lake and the International School. So far on this journey I have talked either with other foreigners or with the middle aged and older. I long for young voices. I am in Kodai for the school.
Put most of Asia in a cocktail shaker, add a smidgen of Irish and unlimited enthusiasm and you have the school's Vice Principal. I've omitted intellectual curiosity and intellectual discipline of which he has ample and my joy at discovering that he is an historian.
He is similar to President Obama in thinking before replying to a question - a habit that is politically disastrous according to the Professor of Sanskrit (ex of the University of Pennsylvania) whom I met on the road south. The US voter demands immediate replies. Pause for thought shows indecisiveness. It also leads to confusion as shown when a woman staff member telephones the Vice Principal with a query and preempts his answer - wrongly as it happens. Unraveling the confusion takes a while.
KODAIKANAL
TO KODAIKANAL: MARCH 3
Kodaikanal is 2300 meters above sea level. The settlement was founded in 1834 by US missionaries as a shelter from the fierce heat and diseases of the plain. Kodai remains healthy – almost no mosquitoes! A good road winds up the mountains through thick forest. Waters of Vaigai lake sparkle in the Kambam valley below amidst emerald paddy and darker palm and banana plantations with the Varushanad hills in the distant background. Signs warn drivers and riders to sound their horns. I obey. Two young men on a bike wave me down and point uphill into the forest. I sit on the stone parapet and watch bison graze amongst the trees. The undergrowth allows only brief glimpses of a calf. The calf is paler than the adults. What pleasure in breathing cool air forest-scented. And so upward, the late afternoon chill on my chest and I wonder whether to stop and drag out the sweater from my backpack.
SMALL SLICE OF CAKE
TO KODAIKANAL: MARCH 3
I wrote earlier that India does weird things to a traveler. It fills you with loathing only to lift you with its magic. Earlier today I was in loathing mode. The road to Kodaikanal transports me to heaven. The road approaches forested mountains across the Kambal valley, a flat fertile land of small paddy, coconut plantations and clean villages. I stop at a tiny cafe for tea and a small slice of cake. Four young men are my fellow customers. One of the men quizzes his companions for sufficient words with which to attempt communication beyond a smile. Hi, is all they manage. I can do Hi. To the reader, a single syllable must seem inadequate. Not to the traveler. The intention counts, the desire to learn something of each other.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
TEPPAM FESTIVAL
MADURAI: MARCH 3
India does weird things to a traveler. It fills you with loathing only to lift you with its magic. Madurai was magical on that last journey forty years ago. I was traveling with a young woman, Vanessa Jack. We drove into town the eve of Madurai's Teppam Festival when Shiva and his triple breasted consort are taken in procession from the temple to the Mariamman Teppakkulam tank. We met a young Brahman outside the temple. His father organised the festival. Thus we found ourselves on the float amongst the notables, two small white figures seated at the feet of the Gods, utterly unimportant, yet permitted to share in the sacred. I remember the glow of the full moon and the ropes connecting the float to thousands of faces glistening in candle-light on the bank, and I remember the music, the drumming of the old master and the young master playing in turn, not in competition but lifting each other to an ever higher plane and we were lifted, transported. All of us. Oh yes, magic...
And I learned my lesson in Goa. Treasure your memories, learn from them, but move on...
India does weird things to a traveler. It fills you with loathing only to lift you with its magic. Madurai was magical on that last journey forty years ago. I was traveling with a young woman, Vanessa Jack. We drove into town the eve of Madurai's Teppam Festival when Shiva and his triple breasted consort are taken in procession from the temple to the Mariamman Teppakkulam tank. We met a young Brahman outside the temple. His father organised the festival. Thus we found ourselves on the float amongst the notables, two small white figures seated at the feet of the Gods, utterly unimportant, yet permitted to share in the sacred. I remember the glow of the full moon and the ropes connecting the float to thousands of faces glistening in candle-light on the bank, and I remember the music, the drumming of the old master and the young master playing in turn, not in competition but lifting each other to an ever higher plane and we were lifted, transported. All of us. Oh yes, magic...
And I learned my lesson in Goa. Treasure your memories, learn from them, but move on...
CRASH OF THE DAY
TO KODAIKANAL: MARCH 3
I got hit by a bus yesterday. Not me personally, but the right-side wing mirror. I was riding through a small town on a typical Indian main street, buses, trucks, tractors dragging trailers, rickshaws, bikes and pedal bicyclists, loaded hand-carts, cows, a few goats, hundreds of pedestrians. The bus overtook me where there was no room. It shoved me off the road on to soft dirt. I was fortunate to miss a couple of pedestrians and a hand cart. I saw a bad smash a few Ks later out in the country. A rickshaw had pulled out in front of a speeding biker, a young guy, no helmet. The bike was on its side in the road. The biker lay on the grass verge. His head was all blood and he wasn't moving. A crowd had gathered, gawpers. Presumably they were waiting or hoping for an ambulance.
Today's worst smash was an overturned truck with another truck embedded in it. The driver was heading the wrong way down a dual carriageway. Exactly how the crash happened, I don't know. I'm an observer rather than a specialist. Photographing the mashed cabs would have been unfeeling.
And I have been forced off the road In the space of an hour this morning by two buses heading right at me as they overtook other vehicles. I've had enough. To Hell with this. I'm heading straight for the Himalayas. Maybe mountain people are more considerate. In the middle of this thought, I spot a sign to Kodaikanal. Kodaikanal is Tamil Nadu's most picturesque hill station. The sign strikes me as a message (not necessarily divine). I had already decided to bypass Madurai. Madurai was divine. But that's history.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
THE SUN ALSO RISES
KANYAKUMARI: MARCH 2
Tens of thousands of Hindu pilgrims visit Kanyakumari each year to celebrate the rising of the sun. 5 A.M. and I climb the stairs to the roof of the Hotel. No Hindu chant greets me but a sung mass broadcast from the Catholic church on the sea front. A woman sits on one of two plastic chairs and cradles a young girl on her lap. Her husband and another man clamber up a ladder to the hotel's water tower. I consider the ladder. The rungs are steel pipe. A large blister burst yesterday on the ball of my left foot. It hurts. I am wearing shoes, no socks. I haven't tied the laces (nor have I combed my hair and my teeth are in a mug in my bedroom). Which will be more painful: stooping to tie my laces or climbing the ladder on bare feet? Or not climb the ladder? Such are the quandaries of old men. The mother with the child points to the spare plastic chair. Does she judge me too old for the ladder? Me the Hells Angel of septuagenarians? I'll show her. Off come the shoes and up. The eastern sky is faintly tinged with orange. Behind us the moon hangs over a hotel. The hotel's roof is crowded with sunrise celebrants. So are all the roofs. Either my fellow guests at this Hotel are lazy or have taken the true believers route to the sea shore. The sun rises. It is low key rather than spectacular. I take photographs and return to my room. The night porter offers me coffee or tea. Black coffee, no sugar. What will he bring? Brown water. That's OK. Dawn is done. Pilgrim buses are pulling out of town. It's going to be a great day...
Monday, March 01, 2010
THE TIP
KANYAKUMARI: MARCH 1.
I sat this evening on the beach at India's most southern point and photographed the sun set in the ocean. I am way behind with the BLOG - or way ahead on the ride. Tomorrow I will head for Madurai, then up to Khodikanal to escape the heat and finally catch up with the writing. Then north fast for the Himalayas...
AH, WELL...
My Eicher road atlas is much admired by fellow travelers. Page 98 shows a small road south from Arboli to Ramghat, Bhedshi and Maneri where it joins a main road to Panjim, Goa's capital. The road starts well, single track but good tar, and runs across a rocky plateau through dense forest. The trees are small but the canopy is solid and a fresh deep green. The air is fresh and scented. After the disappointment of Arboli, heaven. I check with a passing bicyclist: “Ramghat?”
Negative. But what does he know.
Next, an elderly gentleman on a motorcycle: “Ramghat? Panjim? Goa?”
Negative.
Perhaps he is stupid.
Two pedestrian countrymen wave me down. No need for words. Their gestures suffice. The road ends. Oh...
Negative. But what does he know.
Next, an elderly gentleman on a motorcycle: “Ramghat? Panjim? Goa?”
Negative.
Perhaps he is stupid.
Two pedestrian countrymen wave me down. No need for words. Their gestures suffice. The road ends. Oh...
VISUAL DISASTER
Arboli isn't a town. It isn't even a village - certainly not an Indian village. Indian villages have a main street lined with kiosks. Arboli is a scattering of unplanned low-rise concrete construction, a few holiday homes but mostly featureless hotels in the twenty room bracket - not many of them but sufficient to make Arboli a visual disaster. Lonely Planet advises that tourists can visit bauxite mines. Maybe I'm picky but bauxite mines don't register as major attractions. Come on, old man, be courageous, take the memory lane to Goa. Confront your past.
ARBOLI
Arboli is 690 meters above sea level. The road zigzags up a thickly forested mountain side. It is a good road with stone parapets. Monkeys sit on the parapet. Children throw them half-eaten bananas. Drivers park below a waterfall and wash their trucks. Indian tourists photograph the view with mobile phones. The view would be clear in Hispanic America. In India a haze is standard – or standard in the bits of India through which I've travelled on this journey. This isn't a complaint, more a point of interest. I will head north to the Himalayas later. Will the views be clear?
IN COMPETITION WITH SPRATS
Victory! Or victory of a sort...
A waiter has taken my order for lime and soda and a fried pomfret (flat fish somewhat akin to a sole). He assures me that the fish is fresh. True – and delicious. Sadly the rice is preboiled and the bill for the fish is 50% higher than the price on the menu.
“It was a big fish,” says the waiter.
In competition with sprats.
Memories surface of State-run restaurants in Cuba. Four years of Cuba was sufficient. Arboli, here I come...
A waiter has taken my order for lime and soda and a fried pomfret (flat fish somewhat akin to a sole). He assures me that the fish is fresh. True – and delicious. Sadly the rice is preboiled and the bill for the fish is 50% higher than the price on the menu.
“It was a big fish,” says the waiter.
In competition with sprats.
Memories surface of State-run restaurants in Cuba. Four years of Cuba was sufficient. Arboli, here I come...
TARKALI PENINSULAR
The MTDC resort on the Tarkali Peninsular suffers from the dread hand of Government employees. A brick path leads up through casuarina pines to a scattering of simple cottages and an open-sided restaurant. Some of the bricks are missing and rubbish needs removing. An aircon unit protrudes from the rear of each cottage. Glance up and the cottages appear hunchbacked.
I sit at a table outside the restaurant. Three members of staff ignore me. No matter, the deserted beach is white sand licked by blue sea and stretches way into the distance - bliss for beach lovers. I drag off my boots, stick my socks in my pocket, roll up my pants and paddle. The sea is cool. The sand is too hot for bare feet and roasts my backside when I sit to pull my boots back on. The restaurant staff are in the same conversation. I wait patiently and wonder whether I really want to stay the night. Would Amboli be more welcoming?
I sit at a table outside the restaurant. Three members of staff ignore me. No matter, the deserted beach is white sand licked by blue sea and stretches way into the distance - bliss for beach lovers. I drag off my boots, stick my socks in my pocket, roll up my pants and paddle. The sea is cool. The sand is too hot for bare feet and roasts my backside when I sit to pull my boots back on. The restaurant staff are in the same conversation. I wait patiently and wonder whether I really want to stay the night. Would Amboli be more welcoming?
NO BARE BREASTS
Turn west off the NH 17 at Kasal and Malvan is twenty-six kilometers down a twisty lane across paddy and passed houses sheltered by mango, jack fruit and coconut. Bananas, guyavas, papaya grow in the yard. Spit out a seed and it sprouts. Malvan is one narrow crowded higgledipiggedy street blocked by a couple of busses and a builder's truck. Carry on a few Ks and you reach the Tarkali Peninsular promoted by the Maharashta Tourism Board as India's Tahiti. Gaugin would have been disapointed – no bare breasts. Houses grow larger closer to the beach and more numerous – holiday homes. A few boards advertise family home stay for respectable Indian families. The Maharashtra Tourist Development Corporation owns and runs the only hotel. It is easy to find. Governments excel at signboards. They are less good at service industries.
A BIKER'S DREAM
National Highway 17 is a biker's dream. I am repeating myself for the benefit of readers who have dropped in on this Site by chance. It is a climb-and-dip road with curves to lean into. Forest cloaks the hills. Neem trees shade the straight stretches. Coconut palms shade river banks. I stop awhile to watch a limited overs cricket match. Our village club has two county-standard grass fields, all-weather practice nets, bowling machine, pavilion with a bar. Twenty spectators on a Saturday afternoon and we are doing well. Here the field is dry rice paddy. No pads or gloves for batsmen, no helmets, and I am one of fifty spectators seated on the roadside. A further fifty or more are dotted round the boundaries. Fast bowlers at either end, drive the ball along the ground and a close-in paddy bank does the fielding. Batsman go for the airial route. My fellow spectators try communicating with me. The few words we share are cricket terminology: leg before, boundary, catch. Too glorious a morning to be depressed by the language barrier. We make do with smiles...
Saturday, February 27, 2010
FEARFUL OLD FOOL
Back home I cross the hills to Malvern most days and swim at the Malvern Spa. Today I head for Malvan where I intend spending the night. Malvan is on the coast. It is reputed to have a fine beach. It is a few kilometers north of the Goa state boundary. Tomorrow I will ride up into the mountains to sleep in the cool of a little visited hill resort, Albi, from where a side road circles down to Goa's capital. Forty years have passed since I rented a small house in Goa, on Calangute Beach. Goa is full of ancient memories. I delay my arrival for fear of what I will discover, not so much in Goa as in myself. I was callous then. Callous and a coward. I had broken out of jail, on the run from a life sentence. My jailers were a wife I loved and two small children whom I adored. Did I think of them? Yes, often, and with tears. So why run?
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
NO FOOL AS FOOLISH AS AN OLD FOOL
I am an idiot. I have broken one of the cardinal rules. No excuses. And it might have killed me. It nearly did. The country road from the Janjira ferry connects with the N17 highway to Goa. The N17 is a great road for a biker, hill sections with luscious curves to lean in to, straight stretches shaded by overhanging trees, bridges over dream-land rivers and a good surface, great places to stop for coffee and a bowl of soup. Ratnagari is the only large town. To quote Lonely Planet, That's all that can be said for it. The town is fifteen Ks off the highway. Late afternoon and I ride midway through the outskirts for an ATM and a top-up for my mobile. Hotels are modern and probably expensive. I noticed a hotel at the highway intersection so I turn back. The hotel is a real dump. Check out a room and hear an anticipatory rustle from the bed bugs. I know that I should ride back into town but What the hell, there's bound to be something better and I ride on into the twilight. The next place, 10Ks on, is worse and night's fallen. I've been riding all day; my vizor's dirty and I'm blinded by oncoming traffic. Hill country and two buses race at me neck and neck uphill on a tight curve. No white line as a a guide and I can't see a damn thing. The front wheel kicks over a stone as I go off the road. Brake and I'm done for. The buses thunder by and I fight the bike back onto the black top. Luck saved me from hitting a tree or a rock. I'm scared shitless (as they say in impolite circles) and I'm cursing myself. 20 Ks to a small town with two small hotels. The hotels are either full or Reception hates my looks. My hands tremble as I drink a coffee and wash the visor and my spectacles. Better...
A further 15 Ks and there is a brand new hotel off to the left. So new that they haven't finished surfacing the approach road. This is a flash joint that has to be 2000 rupees a night. I'd pay 10000 to get off the road. The owner wears six chunky gold rings and a welcoming smile. The room has a/c, hot water, brilliant mattress and flat screen satellite TV with CNN and BBC. Dinner is chicken masala with both bismati rice and chapatis. Breakfast is included in the 600 rupee room rate! I lie in bed and call Bernadette. I don't mention riding by night or coming off the road. One near death experience is sufficient...
A further 15 Ks and there is a brand new hotel off to the left. So new that they haven't finished surfacing the approach road. This is a flash joint that has to be 2000 rupees a night. I'd pay 10000 to get off the road. The owner wears six chunky gold rings and a welcoming smile. The room has a/c, hot water, brilliant mattress and flat screen satellite TV with CNN and BBC. Dinner is chicken masala with both bismati rice and chapatis. Breakfast is included in the 600 rupee room rate! I lie in bed and call Bernadette. I don't mention riding by night or coming off the road. One near death experience is sufficient...
Monday, February 22, 2010
IS IT OK TO HAVE FUN?
The country road from the Janjira ferry south twists through steep wooded hills and through river valleys – a glorious ride. I don't think of myself as a biker. I don't have the leathers or the decals. I've only changed a tyre once and I prefer to have a mechanic adjust the chain. It's not laziness nor incompetence, more that I enjoy watching a professional at his work and enjoy the usual crowd that frequent a bike mechanic's shop. I spent hours in Jaisalmer watching two Sikh brothers rebuild the motor on a 1960 Enfield. A few kicks and the motor started - splendid - and I ate dinner at their home a couple of times. The elder brother's wife speaks English and is studying business management at the University there.
This is beginning to read as an apology for enjoying myself. Not so. It's simply that I am surprised at the fun I get from biking (given that I don't think of myself as a biker), and given that most people on the road (foreign or Indian) think that my riding a bike round India is remarkable. Most are surprised that I've survived. True, I was in shock the first couple of weeks. India's traffic obeys neither laws nor logic, however it does have a rhythm – or that's what I feel. Get with the rhythm and you enjoy the ride. Or has the third fresh lime and soda gone to my head? Maybe I should stick with beer...
This is beginning to read as an apology for enjoying myself. Not so. It's simply that I am surprised at the fun I get from biking (given that I don't think of myself as a biker), and given that most people on the road (foreign or Indian) think that my riding a bike round India is remarkable. Most are surprised that I've survived. True, I was in shock the first couple of weeks. India's traffic obeys neither laws nor logic, however it does have a rhythm – or that's what I feel. Get with the rhythm and you enjoy the ride. Or has the third fresh lime and soda gone to my head? Maybe I should stick with beer...
FERRIES ARE ROMANTIC
I have a great affection for ferries. The smaller the ferry, the more romantic. The Janjira ferry is a decked launch. Passengers sit on benches or on the roof. Eight motorbikes is the maximum wheeled cargo. Steep steps lead down to the quay. a narrow pathway bisects the steps. The angle of descent exceeds 45 degrees. The specialist from the ferry takes the bike keys and rides the bike down. Scary? Yes!
Four men lift the bike into the launch. The engineer starts the diesel engine and we thrum out to sea past fishing boats tugging at anchors. Heat haze softens the great grey fortification and makes of Janjira Fort a mirage floating on the water. Definitely romantic...and, as always on a boat or ship, we passengers, thrown together, fall into conversation. From where do I come? To where am I travelling? What of my family? So ask dark smiling friendly men, while I ask how the road is...
Mundane? Yes. But warming for a lone traveler, a charging of batteries that will last a day in the saddle.
Four men lift the bike into the launch. The engineer starts the diesel engine and we thrum out to sea past fishing boats tugging at anchors. Heat haze softens the great grey fortification and makes of Janjira Fort a mirage floating on the water. Definitely romantic...and, as always on a boat or ship, we passengers, thrown together, fall into conversation. From where do I come? To where am I travelling? What of my family? So ask dark smiling friendly men, while I ask how the road is...
Mundane? Yes. But warming for a lone traveler, a charging of batteries that will last a day in the saddle.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
WHY ARE POLICE THE ENEMY?
MURUD: FEBRUARY 7
Riding a bike is a solitary occupation. I have time to think. Subjects of thought return again and again, become familiar companions and refuse to be abandoned until written down. So here is a thought on police of whom I ask directions in what ever country I travel. I come of a generation (and perhaps a class) that considers the police as one of the four solid foundation blocks of the community. The vicar or priest cared for our souls; the doctor cared for our health; the family lawyer shared with the bank manage a care for our finances; the policeman was our protector and the protector of our property and laws were passed for our benefit. Why then do my children's generations view the police as the enemy? And if the police are the enemy of youth, what youth joins the police? This last is a serious and disturbing question. And that is enough on the subject – though I will return to it. But now is the hour to daub my face and ankles with mosquito repellent and stroll down Murud's shore street, bid its citizens (other than the veiled) Good evening, sip a fresh lime and soda and decide in which restaurant to dine. Prawns? Probably...
Riding a bike is a solitary occupation. I have time to think. Subjects of thought return again and again, become familiar companions and refuse to be abandoned until written down. So here is a thought on police of whom I ask directions in what ever country I travel. I come of a generation (and perhaps a class) that considers the police as one of the four solid foundation blocks of the community. The vicar or priest cared for our souls; the doctor cared for our health; the family lawyer shared with the bank manage a care for our finances; the policeman was our protector and the protector of our property and laws were passed for our benefit. Why then do my children's generations view the police as the enemy? And if the police are the enemy of youth, what youth joins the police? This last is a serious and disturbing question. And that is enough on the subject – though I will return to it. But now is the hour to daub my face and ankles with mosquito repellent and stroll down Murud's shore street, bid its citizens (other than the veiled) Good evening, sip a fresh lime and soda and decide in which restaurant to dine. Prawns? Probably...
Friday, February 19, 2010
SOMALI PIRATES
MURUD: FEBRUARY 7
Heading south tomorrow, I must take a ferry from Janjira across an inlet. Janjira is separated from Murud by a creek and a steep treeless hill that rises directly from the shore. Janjira nestles in a cleft in the hill. Cross the bridge and ride up the hill and you look down on a nest of coconut palms sheltering tiled cottages and a mosque. Fishing boats lie off shore and the great walls of Janjira fort rise dark from the waters. Pirates from the Horn of Africa built the fort in the 11th century and it was never subdued. Were the builders Somali? Certainly Muslem, and Janjira remains a Muslem village. Veiled women in black peak at me from doorways...
DUST TO ANKLES
MURUD: FEBRUARY 7
Murud is a pleasant town for a stroll, small, compact, tranquil. Inhabitants are polite, streets narrow, buildings mostly low and old. Mango trees and coconut palms offer shade. The small covered market overflows with fruit and vegetables. Women carry baskets of sand to a building site. Fisherman mend nets. I sit at a waterfront cafe, order a fresh lime and soda (no sugar, no salt). For the past hour some forty men have been talking together on stone benches in the park next door. Most are elderly. I watch now as they walk down the beach. They hitch their pants a few inches and paddle a few feet out from the shore. Four young Bombayites at the next table tell me that the men are scattering a friend's ashes. For a friend they should have paddled further and made sure the tide was on the ebb. Or perhaps they planned having their friend's ashes stick to their ankles...
Murud is a pleasant town for a stroll, small, compact, tranquil. Inhabitants are polite, streets narrow, buildings mostly low and old. Mango trees and coconut palms offer shade. The small covered market overflows with fruit and vegetables. Women carry baskets of sand to a building site. Fisherman mend nets. I sit at a waterfront cafe, order a fresh lime and soda (no sugar, no salt). For the past hour some forty men have been talking together on stone benches in the park next door. Most are elderly. I watch now as they walk down the beach. They hitch their pants a few inches and paddle a few feet out from the shore. Four young Bombayites at the next table tell me that the men are scattering a friend's ashes. For a friend they should have paddled further and made sure the tide was on the ebb. Or perhaps they planned having their friend's ashes stick to their ankles...
DAUGHTERS
MURUD: FEBRUARY 7
The German family have departed. They were good people, well read and thoughtful, against the Iraq war, doubtful of involvement in Afghanistan, critical of Britain's subserviance to the United States. The mother photographed the bullock race. The father downloaded the pictures to my computer. Why did he download a picture of his daughter? Surely not a subconcious hope that she might find a husband through my Blog...
Thursday, February 18, 2010
A BIG HURRAH FOR BEN HUR AT THE REAR
MURUD: FEBRUARY 9
Dawn in the garden at the Seashore Resort. A cool breeze off the sea stirs the palm fronds overhead. Crows pick through the night's rubbish discarded on the beach. Bath water heats on an open fire. The Resort's henah haired jack of all trades brings coffee and chai. The tide is out and the German family and I watch bulloock carts race each other along the glistening sand. Drivers whip the beasts and yell – all but a young lad bringing up the rear. Of his two bullocks, one is big and grey and staid. The second is small and young and tries to trot whilst the elder plods. The driver leans right forward and whacks the young bullock. For trotting or for not trotting fast enough? The driver ignores the old bullock. The older bullock igores the driver.
NOSE-PICKING CHEF
MURUD: FEBRUARY 8
I carry three guide books for comparison. Two recommend the same restaurant, Patil Khanaval. The restaurant is listed as on the sea front. Murud must have expanded since the researchers visited. Now it is down an alley. The cook is dug out of bed. He runs through the menu whilst picking his nose: fish biriyani, mutton biriyani, prawns biriyani. He may be a great chef but the nose is a negative. Better a Muslim restaurant with tables in a large garden the shore side of the shore road. Fish soup and grilled prawns, delicious. And so to my bed of layered rocks...
I carry three guide books for comparison. Two recommend the same restaurant, Patil Khanaval. The restaurant is listed as on the sea front. Murud must have expanded since the researchers visited. Now it is down an alley. The cook is dug out of bed. He runs through the menu whilst picking his nose: fish biriyani, mutton biriyani, prawns biriyani. He may be a great chef but the nose is a negative. Better a Muslim restaurant with tables in a large garden the shore side of the shore road. Fish soup and grilled prawns, delicious. And so to my bed of layered rocks...
GOOD NEIGHBOURS
dusk from the garden
MURUD: FEBRUARY 8
Murud is more of a large village than a town. Fishing and tourism are the main pursuits. The off-shore fortress of Janjira is the main attraction - apart from fresh seafood. I am staying at the Seashore Resort, listed in Footprint as having three rooms, a pretty garden, and run by a friendly family – accurate, though one room is closed while they extend the main house. I didn't find the place through the guide book. The doorman at a posh hotel across the street recommended it. A German family occupy the second room. Mother is a retired teacher. Father, a mathematician, is about to be retired with a golden handshake by a software company; younger people are available at half the salary. In her mid twenties, the daughter is cogitating on a career in what might loosely be described as the Social Services (or good deeds). They are traveling by hire car with a driver. They laugh a lot, love each other and read books. Good neighbours...
HEROIN AND OTHER DRUGS
MURUD: FEBRUARY 6
My knowledge of heroin is academic, though extensive. Thus I know that taking a hit develops a hunger for more. Prawns are similar which explains why I am on the road early and racing south from Daman for the small seaside town of Murud. The highway is good. I cruise at 90 kph and cut inland to avoid Mumbai – why risk bronchitis?
I pull in beside a sextet of cops for directions on which road to take.
An officer asks my age.
“Seventy-six, seventy-seven next week,” and I show him my passport.
The cops yak and laugh amongst themselves. Are they going to hit me with a fine for something? No, they are giving me a birthday present: permission to ride up the Pune (or Poona) Expressway (illegal for bikes). A secondary road to the right leads to Pale and so to the coast and a room with three beds in Murud at 450 rupees. Pile all three mattresses on one bed and you have three layers of rock. Walk down the garden and you are on the beach. Beach is rocks ground small.
My knowledge of heroin is academic, though extensive. Thus I know that taking a hit develops a hunger for more. Prawns are similar which explains why I am on the road early and racing south from Daman for the small seaside town of Murud. The highway is good. I cruise at 90 kph and cut inland to avoid Mumbai – why risk bronchitis?
I pull in beside a sextet of cops for directions on which road to take.
An officer asks my age.
“Seventy-six, seventy-seven next week,” and I show him my passport.
The cops yak and laugh amongst themselves. Are they going to hit me with a fine for something? No, they are giving me a birthday present: permission to ride up the Pune (or Poona) Expressway (illegal for bikes). A secondary road to the right leads to Pale and so to the coast and a room with three beds in Murud at 450 rupees. Pile all three mattresses on one bed and you have three layers of rock. Walk down the garden and you are on the beach. Beach is rocks ground small.
RIDING'S A BITCH - SO WHY AM I ENJOYING IT?
Riding a bike in India is tiring. This is not a complaint. I am having a great time. However a day in the saddle leaves me with insufficient energy to mount an Internet connection hunt. Back in the UK we have an image of India as the burning tip of high tek Internet development. Not on any connection that I've used. Slow as a slug and often fails when uploading pictures. However I have reached Cochin safely and am waiting for Professor Doctor Betty de Swann to sashay off the plane on the 21st. So I have two days to get up to date with the BLOG - Oh, and there is the next piece for BA and a film Presentation for Veronica. I think that's all. Or do I owe MCN? Though to have any sort of work at my age and in the present economic climate is a miracle for which I am immensely grateful...
That's enough.
Get back to your room, Old Fool, and start writing.
That's enough.
Get back to your room, Old Fool, and start writing.
Monday, February 15, 2010
BACK TO THE ROAD
DAMAN: FEBRUARY 5
Daman is on the coast 250 Ks south of Baroda/Vadodaras. The territory was annexed by the Portuguese in 1531 and ceded to the Portuguese by the Sultan of Gujarat in 1539. Prime Minister Nehru ordered the invasion of all Portuguese territories in India on 19th of December, 1961. Thus ended 430 years of Portuguese rule. So much for history...
Modern Daman is in two halves divided by the Daman Ganga river. Nani Daman is a moderately chaotic mix of high rise and bazaar, hotels, restaurants and wine shops, all geared to sell cheap booze to Indian males on holiday from dry States.
Cross the bridge to Moti Daman and the Portuguese fort and enter a quieter more tranquil world. Indian forts are built to guard Maharajas and their palaces. Daman fort sheltered bureaucrats, traders and their families. No palaces here. Trees shade peaceful streets of modest buildings. Even the cathedral is little bigger than a parish church. I sit a while on a bench in the plane white nave. The Eucharist light flickers on the alter. A small elderly woman and her pre-teens granddaughter kneel and light votive candles. A plump grey-haired priest smiles welcome as he passes. I am at peace. This is my culture. I practice dying. Then back to Nani Daman and Nana's restaurant for a splendid fish soup followed by spicy prawns.
Where am I sleeping? First I tried the Hotel Marina where polished wood floors and high ceilings of an old-style Portuguese home promised romance. An arrogant young manager showed me three rooms that smelt stale and damp. The TVs were secured in wooden cages. (when did you last steal a hotel TV?) and he demanded a 1500 Rupee deposit for a 600 Rupee room. No, thanks. Better a clean room with a clean smell in a modern building at 350.
Daman is on the coast 250 Ks south of Baroda/Vadodaras. The territory was annexed by the Portuguese in 1531 and ceded to the Portuguese by the Sultan of Gujarat in 1539. Prime Minister Nehru ordered the invasion of all Portuguese territories in India on 19th of December, 1961. Thus ended 430 years of Portuguese rule. So much for history...
Modern Daman is in two halves divided by the Daman Ganga river. Nani Daman is a moderately chaotic mix of high rise and bazaar, hotels, restaurants and wine shops, all geared to sell cheap booze to Indian males on holiday from dry States.
Cross the bridge to Moti Daman and the Portuguese fort and enter a quieter more tranquil world. Indian forts are built to guard Maharajas and their palaces. Daman fort sheltered bureaucrats, traders and their families. No palaces here. Trees shade peaceful streets of modest buildings. Even the cathedral is little bigger than a parish church. I sit a while on a bench in the plane white nave. The Eucharist light flickers on the alter. A small elderly woman and her pre-teens granddaughter kneel and light votive candles. A plump grey-haired priest smiles welcome as he passes. I am at peace. This is my culture. I practice dying. Then back to Nani Daman and Nana's restaurant for a splendid fish soup followed by spicy prawns.
Where am I sleeping? First I tried the Hotel Marina where polished wood floors and high ceilings of an old-style Portuguese home promised romance. An arrogant young manager showed me three rooms that smelt stale and damp. The TVs were secured in wooden cages. (when did you last steal a hotel TV?) and he demanded a 1500 Rupee deposit for a 600 Rupee room. No, thanks. Better a clean room with a clean smell in a modern building at 350.
Friday, February 12, 2010
WICKED WOMEN WITH MEDIA CAREERS
GOA: FEBRUARY 11
First I am pampered by the Taj. Then I am pampered by two Dutch friends who take me to a Burmese restaurant, Bombas, for dinner followed by a party at the home of a wealthy Delhiite. The dinner is as fine as any I have eaten. Prawns? Naturally - raw tuna, tender beef, chicken salad, etc etc etc etc etc, plus a gently lethal but delicious drink, the Bombas special. The Delhiite's home is modern and built on a lagoon. Water reflects overhanging trees. An Italian male struts his stuff in golden shoes and platinum self-regard. Two young women, Brits from west London via Solihull, grandparents from the sub-continent, coo their admiration of Italian men. Italian men have such wonderful taste. The Italian preens while the wicked ones extend their admiration to cover every aspect of male peacock self-adulation. Perhaps an hour passes before doubt creeps beneath the Italian's carapace. Doubt turns to certainty. He flees. His persecutors prance in victory. The Dutch drop me back at the Taj. Wash, teeth in a glass, heart medication, read birthday Emails from my children then lie in bed and call Bernadette. I wish she were here.
But a good birthday?
Yes, one of the best.
First I am pampered by the Taj. Then I am pampered by two Dutch friends who take me to a Burmese restaurant, Bombas, for dinner followed by a party at the home of a wealthy Delhiite. The dinner is as fine as any I have eaten. Prawns? Naturally - raw tuna, tender beef, chicken salad, etc etc etc etc etc, plus a gently lethal but delicious drink, the Bombas special. The Delhiite's home is modern and built on a lagoon. Water reflects overhanging trees. An Italian male struts his stuff in golden shoes and platinum self-regard. Two young women, Brits from west London via Solihull, grandparents from the sub-continent, coo their admiration of Italian men. Italian men have such wonderful taste. The Italian preens while the wicked ones extend their admiration to cover every aspect of male peacock self-adulation. Perhaps an hour passes before doubt creeps beneath the Italian's carapace. Doubt turns to certainty. He flees. His persecutors prance in victory. The Dutch drop me back at the Taj. Wash, teeth in a glass, heart medication, read birthday Emails from my children then lie in bed and call Bernadette. I wish she were here.
But a good birthday?
Yes, one of the best.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
FAMILY FEELING
GOA: FEBRUARY 11
1) happy helmet
2) good place to work
Before leaving England, I wrote in a article for the London Times that I would beg, borrow or steal for a night at the Umaid Bhawan Palace in Jodphur. The Umaid Bhawan is Paradise for any lover of art deco. I spent two nights in blissful comfort. Yet more important were the days of exploration with one of the front desk managers and the discovery of so many extraordinary treasures of the period.
For Christmas I stayed in the Taj hotel at Gwalior, a palace built by the Maharaja as a guest cottage for King George V. I was suffering from bronchitis which antibiotics had failed to shift. The chef blended a herbal tea that worked a miracle.
I write of these visits today because I am being so totally spoiled and need to say thank you. Thank you not only for the comfort and the cosseting, but even more for the welcome. One of the managers, Derek, yesterday took me for a drive up to the old Portuguese fort. Rather than a courtesy car, we used the hotel work jeep. Because they didn't think of me as a guest, Derek explained, but as a member of the Taj family. Derek is Goan with University degrees in everything from ecology to law. I had lunch today at the restaurant above the sea - pan fried sea bream. Delicious! Derek arrived with a two-man Happy Birthday orchestra and presented me with a ribbon-tied coffee table book on Goa. So do I feel special? Yes. Is this part of the Taj experience? Perhaps. And yet there is something more and it for this that I wish to offer gratitude - not only of being made to feel part of a family but of a family of which I am immensely proud.
1) happy helmet
2) good place to work
Before leaving England, I wrote in a article for the London Times that I would beg, borrow or steal for a night at the Umaid Bhawan Palace in Jodphur. The Umaid Bhawan is Paradise for any lover of art deco. I spent two nights in blissful comfort. Yet more important were the days of exploration with one of the front desk managers and the discovery of so many extraordinary treasures of the period.
For Christmas I stayed in the Taj hotel at Gwalior, a palace built by the Maharaja as a guest cottage for King George V. I was suffering from bronchitis which antibiotics had failed to shift. The chef blended a herbal tea that worked a miracle.
I write of these visits today because I am being so totally spoiled and need to say thank you. Thank you not only for the comfort and the cosseting, but even more for the welcome. One of the managers, Derek, yesterday took me for a drive up to the old Portuguese fort. Rather than a courtesy car, we used the hotel work jeep. Because they didn't think of me as a guest, Derek explained, but as a member of the Taj family. Derek is Goan with University degrees in everything from ecology to law. I had lunch today at the restaurant above the sea - pan fried sea bream. Delicious! Derek arrived with a two-man Happy Birthday orchestra and presented me with a ribbon-tied coffee table book on Goa. So do I feel special? Yes. Is this part of the Taj experience? Perhaps. And yet there is something more and it for this that I wish to offer gratitude - not only of being made to feel part of a family but of a family of which I am immensely proud.
BIRTHDAY BOY
GOA: FEBRUARY 11
1)view's good,too
2) birthday cake unveiled
Today is my 77th birthday so please forgive me if I skip ahead to the present. I ride faster than I write - a disadvantage for a travel writer - and, though trying to catch up, have been unsuccessful. Daman is behind me. So is the charming small coastal town of Murud south of Mumbai/Bombay and Malvan a little north of the Goa border. And, yes, I have eaten many a prawn!
For my birthday I am staying as a guest of the Taj Hotel Group at their beach resort in Goa. I am housed in a small cottage, really a luxurious minny suite, though with a private garden rather than a terrace. I have been writing this morning at a table in the garden. A waiter has delivered a chocolate birthday cake with candles and a card from management. I feel treasured - a sentiment echoed this morning by a couple from the Cambridgeshire Fens.
1)view's good,too
2) birthday cake unveiled
Today is my 77th birthday so please forgive me if I skip ahead to the present. I ride faster than I write - a disadvantage for a travel writer - and, though trying to catch up, have been unsuccessful. Daman is behind me. So is the charming small coastal town of Murud south of Mumbai/Bombay and Malvan a little north of the Goa border. And, yes, I have eaten many a prawn!
For my birthday I am staying as a guest of the Taj Hotel Group at their beach resort in Goa. I am housed in a small cottage, really a luxurious minny suite, though with a private garden rather than a terrace. I have been writing this morning at a table in the garden. A waiter has delivered a chocolate birthday cake with candles and a card from management. I feel treasured - a sentiment echoed this morning by a couple from the Cambridgeshire Fens.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
CAMERONES, PRAWNS, WHATEVER
I have written often that Om never did it for me. Camerones is my key to a state of blissful oneness with the universe, the Spanish word for prawns - though Prawns doesn't carry the same mystical power. No need for the Lotus position. An upright chair at a table is fine and a waiter for Guru. “Camerones,” I pray, “Grilled with chillies and garlic...” or in a spicy Veracruz tomato sauce. Oh, the incense...
Rajasthan, being a desert, doesn't do prawns.
Now I am into Gujarat. Veradora is a one night way station. Ask for directions and I draw a blank while Baroda (the old name) achieves an immediate response (nor did any Indian I met at the Jaipur Literary Festival speak of Mumbai or Mollywood). I digress. My original intention was to explain why I am speeding down the main highway for the coastal town of Daman, once a Portuguese territory. Daman has good restaurants serving great sea food.
Rajasthan, being a desert, doesn't do prawns.
Now I am into Gujarat. Veradora is a one night way station. Ask for directions and I draw a blank while Baroda (the old name) achieves an immediate response (nor did any Indian I met at the Jaipur Literary Festival speak of Mumbai or Mollywood). I digress. My original intention was to explain why I am speeding down the main highway for the coastal town of Daman, once a Portuguese territory. Daman has good restaurants serving great sea food.
Monday, February 08, 2010
WOMEN ARE BEASTS OF BURDEN
Good-bye to the not-Maharaja and the good people of Dhariyawad. Off again on a narrow road through small villages and lush fields of wheat, borders shaded by trees, leaves stirring in a light morning breeze, scents of fresh cow dung and freshly irrigated soil. This is the India of my imagination, the India I came to visit. I am a country boy. Send me up to London for four days from my beloved Herefordshire and I am often back on the evening train. So remember, Old Man, don't get trapped again. Stop sight seeing. Start experiencing. Yet sight seeing is easy. A past of temples and fortresses and palaces protects you from reality. Read history rather than the newspaper. Don't notice, as I must, the trail of village women balancing on their heads loads of wood. The weight forces them to take small rapid steps. Beasts of burden, whether with child or cargo, such is their lot. And the men? Still gathered to discuss the implications of Sunday's election. Will this or that permit be more easily acquired? Or Is five years of obsequious attention to a minor elected official wasted? This is India's rural politics.
THE GIANT FLYING SQUIRREL HUNT
The hunt is on for giant brown flying squirrels. In fact they don't fly. They glide. And they are nocturnal. The not-Maharaja's majordomo is the expert. We depart at 1730 in the hotel's World War One jeep. So they didn't have jeeps in WW One. Nor have you ridden in the Dhariyawad jeep. It predates suspension. It probably predates God.
The squirrel sanctuary is 18 kilometers up the bad road on which I arrived yesterday. A painter of zero talent has painted squirrels on the tall stone walls surrounding the sanctuary. The majordomo parks on the roadside beside the well outside the gates. The squirrel warden brings a bucket. Well water transforms the jeep's radiator into a steam geyser.
Now for the squirrels. The majordomo connects a powerful flash lamp to the jeep's battery and points to the center tree of three, possibly mangoes, growing between the sanctuary wall and the road. The warden, also with a lamp, assures me that squirrels will materialise at 1845 hours. I sit on a stone bench beneath the trees and wait in company with a small cloud of mosquitoes. Fortunately the mosquitoes dislike Deet. Night descends. Warden and majordomo shine their lamps on the tree. I see a small black face with pointed nose and bright eyes, plump body, bushy tail - at a guess three times the size of the grey squirrels living in the cedar tree shading our garden.
The lamps discover two more.
The warden rushes me directly under the tree. The squirrels disappear. I saw them fly?
“Absolutely, wonderful...” or so I reassure the warden and tip him 100 rupees.
Back we bump to the Fort where I am served an excellent dinner on the terrace. So ends a blissful day. Thank you, Dhariyawad.
The squirrel sanctuary is 18 kilometers up the bad road on which I arrived yesterday. A painter of zero talent has painted squirrels on the tall stone walls surrounding the sanctuary. The majordomo parks on the roadside beside the well outside the gates. The squirrel warden brings a bucket. Well water transforms the jeep's radiator into a steam geyser.
Now for the squirrels. The majordomo connects a powerful flash lamp to the jeep's battery and points to the center tree of three, possibly mangoes, growing between the sanctuary wall and the road. The warden, also with a lamp, assures me that squirrels will materialise at 1845 hours. I sit on a stone bench beneath the trees and wait in company with a small cloud of mosquitoes. Fortunately the mosquitoes dislike Deet. Night descends. Warden and majordomo shine their lamps on the tree. I see a small black face with pointed nose and bright eyes, plump body, bushy tail - at a guess three times the size of the grey squirrels living in the cedar tree shading our garden.
The lamps discover two more.
The warden rushes me directly under the tree. The squirrels disappear. I saw them fly?
“Absolutely, wonderful...” or so I reassure the warden and tip him 100 rupees.
Back we bump to the Fort where I am served an excellent dinner on the terrace. So ends a blissful day. Thank you, Dhariyawad.
SNEER-FREE BANKERS!
Plastic is the magic wand enabling modern travel. Magic is unreliable. I expect the worst each time I insert my card in an ATM. Or to mix metaphors, the Sword of Damocles accompanies me. The thread snaps in Dhariyawad. I refuse to panic. Or I refuse to accept that I am panicking. I stroll back to the Fort, sit on the terrace and call Smile, the E-Bank. The Fraud Department has blocked my card. Someone has been trying to use it with the wrong Pin. Not me. My Pin is etched in my memory with emotional gore. The card is unblocked. I must now institute an unblocking procedure at the ATM. The procedure doesn't exist in India. I consult the staff at the Dhariyawad bank. They advise that the card will probably work in 24 hours, meanwhile why I don't I join them for tea and a leisurely chat...?
Friday, February 05, 2010
CLEAN SWEEP
fort terrace and gardenSunrise in Dhariyawad. The Congress Party has swept the board. The spoils must be divided - small groups of male activists gather on the lawn below the hotel terrace. I watch the not-Maharaja mingle, affable, contented. Seeking greater privacy, a couple drift away. The elder gives instructions. The younger nods. Victory music blares from loud speakers in the bazaar. Later starts the victory procession. The not-Maharaja leads in his jeep. Small hatchbacks follow, motorcyclists two abreast. A tight group of women in sari glad-rags smile respectful support from beyond the arches - so much for equality of the sexes. The procession moves away through the bazaar and market square. The music stops. I am in search of an ATM. The majordomo leads, murmuring greetings left and right - a semi-semi royal progress. I follow in his footsteps – traditionally the woman's place. The ATM won't pay. Bloody Hell... Back to the Fort and back to work.
Firecrackers and drum beat herald Congress foot-soldiers. The brave spill through the archway into the Fort's parking lot. A fresh fire-cracker volley and drum roll encourages the timid. They have come to pay homage only to find the not-Maharaja absent. More fire crackers, more rattle of drums, then off they troop, supporters of no importance now the vote is in.
WHY VISIT DHARIYAWAD?
There is no logical reason for visiting Dhariyawad. To get there you take National Highway 79 east from Udaipur and turn south after Bhatewar down a crumbling single track road for fifty Ks – not a comforting experience for the nervous. The road passes through a forest, mostly teak. Teak, when shedding its leaves, looks more dead than alive. The forest is a wild-life sanctuary. Langur monkeys are common – as they are elsewhere. The fortunate may spot four-horned antelope, niglai, possibly a jackal or hyena. The miraculously fortunate (or imaginative) may even spot a panther stalk the shadows – though I doubt that even the evening flight of giant flying squirrels warrants the drive. So let me offer a very different experience: a rest from sight-seeing, escape from the tourist route.
Dhariyawad is an Indian country market town at the confluence of the Jakham and Karmoi rivers. No havelis here tarted up as guest houses, no restaurants promising veg and non-veg, Chinese, Italian, Continental (all of which taste the same), no tiresome tourist touts. Drive through the market and through the bazaar. At the T-junction turn right through the pointed key-hole arches emblazoned with a radiant sun smiling over a Rajput moustache - the massive wooden doors should be open - and you enter a 16th century mini Paradise. This is the domain of the eldest living son of the eldest son of the last Maharaja of Dhariyawad. The sixteen spacious rooms and suites offer total peace, comfortable beds, comfortable easy chairs and always a desk. Bathrooms are huge, water hot, proper towels. Dine outdoors on the terrace or upstairs in the dinning room. I am here for full moon. What could be more romantic?
Only at breakfast do I realise why I feel so at home. The Fort has the feel of a small manor house in an English village or off a Cathedral Close, though too small to be a Bishop's palace. Arches are a different shape, servants more numerous, home-made marmalade marginally less chunky. But the feel is there, peaceful, unpretentious, timeless, embedded in the community. What joy to be able to stay a month, ride horse-back, bird watch, explore tribal villages, wander the bazaar without being nagged with buy buy buy. Yes, and tell tall tales later of the panther seen while following a forest guide...
THE NOT-MAHARAJA
bazaar on election dayThe owner of the Fort Dhariyawad hotel would be the Maharaja if such titles had not been abolished by India's post Independence dictator, Indira Ghandi. He is also President of the local branch of Congress, India's ruling and dominant political Party. This is election day for mayors and District assemblies - the village gatherings are explained. The not-Maharaja has been out marshaling his men (no women) to get the vote in. A moment to greet me, then back to oversee the count!
Thursday, February 04, 2010
ROAD TO PARADISE
Following eleven days of imprisonment in Jaipur, the ride to Bundi was a confidence builder. Today I follow a minor road south west through dark emerald wheat fields and small villages. The oncoming traffic is mostly bikers delivering milk to town – presumably to a dairy to be transformed into cheese and curd. Four churns is the standard load. A few men manage six. The churns are copper and bell bottomed.
Here, way off the highway, riding through villages demands extra caution. The tarmac is already sun-warmed and the street is extra living space. A cow dozes in the sun; a woman combs out her hair; men gather round a spectacled reader of a newspaper. Men and women are dressed in Sunday best. The only people working are the milk delivery men and bus drivers. Is today one more of India's innumerable holidays?
An egret pretends to be a heron on the borders of a shallow reed-rimmed lake. The road zigzags up and crosses a barren plateau cratered with stone quarries, then down to more wheat fields and finally meets the four-lane Highway 76.
The highway is almost deserted. The concrete surface is excellent and the Honda cruises happily at 90 KPH (yes, I'm a real speed freak). Then follows 100 Ks of dilatory meandering down mostly single track tar. Men have gathered in every village. Serious faced, they squat and talk quietly in the shade of flat topped thorn or mango trees, few women visible, and most shops closed as I ride through the narrow main street of the bazar in the small market town of Dhariyawad. I turn in through the key-hole entrance arches to the Fort and my day is done. I have ridden 368 kilometers ending with 40 Ks of tinder-dry forest. My butt is numb but what a totally joyous ride.
ARE MUSLIM GRANDFATHERS MORE RELIABLE
I go in search of breakfast at a cafe across the street. A male toddler in a yellow bed cap tied under the chin, no pants, points at me. I point back. He giggles coyly. His dad sweeps him up and tells him to shake my hand. He whimpers. His mum grabs him and ducks back through a low doorway.
The teenage help at the cafe says there's no fresh orange juice because there's no electricity.
However, not all men are useless. Proof is a bearded Muslim grandfather in a white skull cap, knee-length white shirt and loose white cotton trousers riding four children to infants school on a older model Honda 125 – three on the pillion, one straddling the gas tank. I follow in his wake. Farewell to Bundi.
The teenage help at the cafe says there's no fresh orange juice because there's no electricity.
However, not all men are useless. Proof is a bearded Muslim grandfather in a white skull cap, knee-length white shirt and loose white cotton trousers riding four children to infants school on a older model Honda 125 – three on the pillion, one straddling the gas tank. I follow in his wake. Farewell to Bundi.
CASTE PROBLEMS
Sunday: January 31.
I love this room. Out of bed at 7 am. The Buddhist nuclear engineer is meditating. Eyes closed, he sits facing the morning sun in the lotus position. A josh stick has replaced the herbal. I pack and hump my bag and backpack downstairs and load the bike then return to an upper courtyard in search of a bill. The owner is a small kindly man of my generation. The haveli was built by his great grandfather, Prime Minister of the State in the days of the Maharajas. He his helped in running the guest house by family members. There is so much that could be done to improve the place: fix the lavatory cistern in my room, freshen paintwork, tidy the lake-side garden - simple tasks that, were this our home, Bernadette and I would enjoy. The owners are the wrong cast. They don't do manual and they can't afford help...so the lovely building crumbles.
MONKEYS DON'T MEDITATE
The roof is a way station for monkeys on their evening trek home to the fort. One picks up a torn black T shirt from the parapet and shakes it aloft. The shirt envelops his head. Blinded, he chatters with fear and tears at the cotton. The shirt catches on a water pipe and drags loose. Off he scampers. I go in search of a shave and dinner.
DON''T PANIC - OR MAY BE YOU SHOULD
I share a stone bench on the terrace with the Austrian Buddhist and gaze with joy across the roof tops at the palace cascading down the hillside. Ancient walls glow in the misty evening sunlight – so does the herbal cigarette the Buddhist offers. I decline politely and wonder that a Buddhist smoker should earn his bread as a technical engineer at a Swiss nuclear power station. Easy there, don't panic but do remember to say your prayers.
220 K DODDLE
Jaipur south to Bundi is a 220K doddle through flat farmland on a good road. Indian Bundi is an industrial city. Tourist Bundi is a thin strip of 17th and 18th century havelis converted into hotels and guest houses with roof top restaurants. For tourists the attractions are the 13th century fort and decaying palace. Both Footprint and Lonely Planet recommend Lake View Paying Guest House. The lake is a square tank half full with green scum. A kindly Austrian Buddhist hikes my camel bag up three flights of steep stone stairs and across the flat roof to my 400 Rupee room. I follow slowly with backpack and helmet and collapse on a king-size bed. Survive the climb and the room is heaven, sofa, easy chair and upholstered lolling space beneath arched windows that filter sunlight through stained glass. Murals of painted flowers and garden greenery surround the windows. The ceiling border is gold and blue. A mural of a smiling young woman livens the wall beside the bathroom door. So the bathroom is basic. Big deal...
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
PANASONIC BRONCHITIS
I am invited to a Muslim household for dinner this evening. Mutton biryani and liver are on the menu. Yum! India is great - however pollution in the cities is a danger to old men with a chest problem. One day in Delhi gave me bronchitis. Jaipur has taken eight days. I take the bus to Delhi and back tomorrow, twelve hours, to retrieve my camera from the vile (though official) Panasonic Agency. Has it been repaired? Of course not! I head south the following day for Goa, fresh fish and that essential of any Paradise, prawns grilled with chili and garlic. Brrrmmmm Brrrmmmm...
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
JAIPUR LITERARY FESTIVAL
Others were present, speakers both serious and comic. Of the comic, wondrous were Brigid Keenan recounting a King and I style solo dance with the President of Kazakhstan and Geoff Dyer queueing at an ATM in Varanasi. Larry White (The Looming Tower)fascinated with his knowledge of Islamic terrorism. Wole Soyinka was both poetic and regal. Of course there were more, Tina Brown, Tony Wheeler (founder of Lonely Planet) and a hilarious debate on Scotland as the West's Belarus between Alexander McCall Smith, Andrew O'Hagan, Professor Neil Ferguson and William Dalrymple. William Dalrymple was everywhere, even reading at length from his latest book from the stage during an evening of startlingly varied and always brilliant music.
Monday, January 25, 2010
JAIPUR LITERARY FESTIVAL
I am back in Jaipur for the Literary Festival. I leave the guesthouse at 8 a.m and return around 10.30 p.m. I have been doing this for five days. How was the experience? Always interesting. Sometimes hilarious. And best of all, new friends and an invitation to Lagos for my 78th birthday (should I live so long). Two young Nigerian writers listened while a third interviewed me at length. Why me? God knows.
We talked (or I talked) of my African experiences and of turning my back on Africa. Time I returned, they said, rediscover my original love for the continent. They will put me up at a boutique hotel, have me ride a way with the local Biker Club, try myself out on the dance floor, experiment with a new drink or two, give a few readings, a few interviews, film a little. And they promise me a few days recuperation out on the beach. No politics. Strictly fun - which is something I think I can hack.
Best of all was their energy and humour and their warmth.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
THE 60s MOVED TO PUSHKAR
PUSHKAR, RAJASTHAN: January 20
I had thought that the 60s died. They simply moved to Pushkar...
THE SUBORDINATE FROM HELL
CONVERSATIONS: January 21
A small cheap restaurant. A tall man with fierce grey beard sits alone at the next table. He asks my nationality before introducing himself as a retired Lieutenant Colonel. He talks of honour – or the lack of honour in today's society. It is lack of honour that is destroying India. “Ninety percent of Indians are corrupt. More than ninety percent, ninety-eight percent” he assures me.
Of his two brothers, one is a full colonel and the other a General. “They are having big houses and cars with drivers,” he says. “Always they have been telling me only to be reasonable and I am saying that reasonable is not honour. I have acted honourably always,” he says. “This is why I am eating here and why I am living in a small room. It is the same everywhere,” he continues. “Look at you British. You were always known to be honourable and now see what is happening with you. This Blair with his lies. Your reputation is destroyed. It will be hundreds of years before people will be believing you.”
He has stomach pains (presumably an ulcer) and eats only dahl with curd. He leaves, very upright, very military in his bearing. An honourable man, he must have been the subordinate from Hell. I imagine his brothers pleading with him over the years to just once refrain from arguing, to drift just once within the official current, if not for his own good, for the good of the family.
A small cheap restaurant. A tall man with fierce grey beard sits alone at the next table. He asks my nationality before introducing himself as a retired Lieutenant Colonel. He talks of honour – or the lack of honour in today's society. It is lack of honour that is destroying India. “Ninety percent of Indians are corrupt. More than ninety percent, ninety-eight percent” he assures me.
Of his two brothers, one is a full colonel and the other a General. “They are having big houses and cars with drivers,” he says. “Always they have been telling me only to be reasonable and I am saying that reasonable is not honour. I have acted honourably always,” he says. “This is why I am eating here and why I am living in a small room. It is the same everywhere,” he continues. “Look at you British. You were always known to be honourable and now see what is happening with you. This Blair with his lies. Your reputation is destroyed. It will be hundreds of years before people will be believing you.”
He has stomach pains (presumably an ulcer) and eats only dahl with curd. He leaves, very upright, very military in his bearing. An honourable man, he must have been the subordinate from Hell. I imagine his brothers pleading with him over the years to just once refrain from arguing, to drift just once within the official current, if not for his own good, for the good of the family.
PLEASE GOD, NOT THIS...
JOHDPHUR: January 18
I imagine myself a foot soldier in an invading army. Mehrangarh Fortress is an island of rock soaring vertically out of the dust of our advance across the desert. Dust is in our throats and in our eyes and crusting our nostrils. Water is short. Food is almost non-existent. Already exhausted, we must storm fortification after fortification merely to reach the foot of the precipice above which soar the fortress walls. Please God, no, not this...
I imagine myself a foot soldier in an invading army. Mehrangarh Fortress is an island of rock soaring vertically out of the dust of our advance across the desert. Dust is in our throats and in our eyes and crusting our nostrils. Water is short. Food is almost non-existent. Already exhausted, we must storm fortification after fortification merely to reach the foot of the precipice above which soar the fortress walls. Please God, no, not this...
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
MATCHSTICK TOURISTS
JODPHUR: January 18
Matchstick tourists look down from the fortress balconies. They look out across the town and beyond the outer fortifications to a ravaged land of rock quarries. The sky on the horizon is sun-bleached.
Uphill views are always preferable. Near distance, middle distance and far distance add depth. Meanwhile three green parakeets have begun an argument in my tree – or perhaps discussion is more accurate; they don't sound cross. Doves have occupied every available hole on the rock face and in the fortress walls. They coo softly. Gliding off the fortress, their arched wings have the rigidity of plastic models.
Matchstick tourists look down from the fortress balconies. They look out across the town and beyond the outer fortifications to a ravaged land of rock quarries. The sky on the horizon is sun-bleached.
Uphill views are always preferable. Near distance, middle distance and far distance add depth. Meanwhile three green parakeets have begun an argument in my tree – or perhaps discussion is more accurate; they don't sound cross. Doves have occupied every available hole on the rock face and in the fortress walls. They coo softly. Gliding off the fortress, their arched wings have the rigidity of plastic models.
WHO NEEDS PSYCHEDELICS?
JODPHUR: January 18
Swim along a coral reef and all you'll see are the big fish and the big coral. Stay still, the more you notice. It is an unpeeling process. Detail by smaller detail emerges, fish small and bright as small jewels. Traveling is the same. I have been seated here on the parapet beneath this tree for close on two hours. Enough sun filters through the leaves to keep me pleasantly warm. Mostly I have been looking upward. Rather than separate, the fortress appears to be a continuation of the precipice from which it grows, rock on rock, up and up, the highest levels honeycombed with decorative caves and balconies and topped with a filigreed crown of carved marble. The sky beyond the fortress is a clear royal blue of extraordinary depth. Tilting my head to the left I can view the sky and the fortress though an old stone arch and over a newish building of golden sandstone. The contrast between golden sandstone, grey rock and sky is of a beauty to be enjoyed and enjoyed and be blown away by. Who needs psychedelics? And why move until the sun sets? Such blissful peace is hard to come by when traveling in company...
Swim along a coral reef and all you'll see are the big fish and the big coral. Stay still, the more you notice. It is an unpeeling process. Detail by smaller detail emerges, fish small and bright as small jewels. Traveling is the same. I have been seated here on the parapet beneath this tree for close on two hours. Enough sun filters through the leaves to keep me pleasantly warm. Mostly I have been looking upward. Rather than separate, the fortress appears to be a continuation of the precipice from which it grows, rock on rock, up and up, the highest levels honeycombed with decorative caves and balconies and topped with a filigreed crown of carved marble. The sky beyond the fortress is a clear royal blue of extraordinary depth. Tilting my head to the left I can view the sky and the fortress though an old stone arch and over a newish building of golden sandstone. The contrast between golden sandstone, grey rock and sky is of a beauty to be enjoyed and enjoyed and be blown away by. Who needs psychedelics? And why move until the sun sets? Such blissful peace is hard to come by when traveling in company...
ONE VERY SMART ASS
JODPHUR: January 18
To my right a bunch of donkeys carrying empty sacks stand placidly beside a pile of builder's sand. All the donkeys but one are small and grey. The exception is white, larger and older than the others. He keeps to the shade of a tree while a labourer loads the other mokes with sand. Last to be loaded, he intends to be unloaded first and heads immediately down a steep dirt path with the others following. One very smart ass...
To my right a bunch of donkeys carrying empty sacks stand placidly beside a pile of builder's sand. All the donkeys but one are small and grey. The exception is white, larger and older than the others. He keeps to the shade of a tree while a labourer loads the other mokes with sand. Last to be loaded, he intends to be unloaded first and heads immediately down a steep dirt path with the others following. One very smart ass...
MOVING HOUSE
JODPHUR: January 18
I have written of the art deco glories of the Umaid Bhawan Palace. The Maharajas of Jodphur moved house in the the 1940s from the Palace within Mehrangrah Fort. Founded in 1459, Mahrangrah is the finest fort in India, the best preserved, cleanest and best organised for the visitor with excellent audio guides for rent at the ticket office. OK, so that's enough of the tour guide spiel. A rickshaw driver asks for 100 rupees to run me up the hill. We settle for forty. The narrow twisting lane through town is surfaced with craters divided by drains and speed bumps. Why speed bumps when a Ducati under maximum acceleration might make 15 KPH before the next bend or the next hole in the road? That is without cows, rickshaws, motorbikes, bikes, pushcarts, absentminded pedestrians and kids playing tag. Sunday and a never ending river of visitors flows up from the ticket office. My fellow Oldies stumble upward. Watch their eyes as they measure how much further they must climb, questioning whether they can make it, understanding now the ambulance on stand-by below the first gate. All have guide books in hand, camera at the ready. The current weakens on the outside of a sharp hairpin above the second gate. I break clear, turn down hill towards the Chokelao Palace and find a comfortable parapet shaded by a small tree.
I have written of the art deco glories of the Umaid Bhawan Palace. The Maharajas of Jodphur moved house in the the 1940s from the Palace within Mehrangrah Fort. Founded in 1459, Mahrangrah is the finest fort in India, the best preserved, cleanest and best organised for the visitor with excellent audio guides for rent at the ticket office. OK, so that's enough of the tour guide spiel. A rickshaw driver asks for 100 rupees to run me up the hill. We settle for forty. The narrow twisting lane through town is surfaced with craters divided by drains and speed bumps. Why speed bumps when a Ducati under maximum acceleration might make 15 KPH before the next bend or the next hole in the road? That is without cows, rickshaws, motorbikes, bikes, pushcarts, absentminded pedestrians and kids playing tag. Sunday and a never ending river of visitors flows up from the ticket office. My fellow Oldies stumble upward. Watch their eyes as they measure how much further they must climb, questioning whether they can make it, understanding now the ambulance on stand-by below the first gate. All have guide books in hand, camera at the ready. The current weakens on the outside of a sharp hairpin above the second gate. I break clear, turn down hill towards the Chokelao Palace and find a comfortable parapet shaded by a small tree.
A SERIOUS BITCH
JAIPUR: January 20
I arrived in India to find the screen on my camera broken The camera has been with the Panasonic rep in Delhi since December 10. Repair was originally promised for four days, then ten, then not until today, January 20. The lying son of a bitch is a lying son of a bitch. He hasn't got the replacement screen. He has no idea when he will receive the replacement screen.
I arrived in India to find the screen on my camera broken The camera has been with the Panasonic rep in Delhi since December 10. Repair was originally promised for four days, then ten, then not until today, January 20. The lying son of a bitch is a lying son of a bitch. He hasn't got the replacement screen. He has no idea when he will receive the replacement screen.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
JAIPUR CRICKET ACADEMY
JAIPUR: January 21
I am back in Jaipur for the Literary Festival. They do things differently here in India. I have ridden pillion on a motorcycle across Jaipur this afternoon to a Youth cricket academy. The bike's rider plays for Rajasthan in the Under 14s! His father, a new friend, told me not to be nervous, that his boy was a very safe biker. True - also one hell of a batsman and an excellent fast bowler.
I am back in Jaipur for the Literary Festival. They do things differently here in India. I have ridden pillion on a motorcycle across Jaipur this afternoon to a Youth cricket academy. The bike's rider plays for Rajasthan in the Under 14s! His father, a new friend, told me not to be nervous, that his boy was a very safe biker. True - also one hell of a batsman and an excellent fast bowler.
Friday, January 15, 2010
OH WHAT A BEAUTIFUL MORNING...
FATEPHUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 29
0730 on the roof terrace at the Sunset Guesthouse, Sikri. In the valley below, a thin mist lies across pale green fields bordered by trees. The Nepalese owner of the guesthouse feeds birds each morning on a smaller terrace. Five green parakeets watch me from the parapet while six striped squirels scavenge for yesterday's seeds. Doves wheel above the trees. Shrill children's voices argue with mothers in the nearly village, a drum beats in town. Here, on the hill, the sun burns through the mist and warms my fingers as I type. Staff appear rubbing sleep from their eyes. “Breakfast, Uncle?”
Breakfast would be great, coffee, masala omelet, toast.
The lower end of the fortress is now a faint grey line of stone teeth and the mist gentles the ghastly tower monument to Crunch Crunch.
The owner spreads seed on the bird terrace. Sparrows are first to the feast followed by a gray necked crow, now twenty or more parakeets. The parakeets are argumentative and drown out the village voices. The staff have a fire burning outside the kitchen. Woodsmoke faintly scents the air. Breakfast arrives.The diffident French couple come to table, muffled and gentle voiced. Next the Argentinian tandem bicyclist to drape laundry on the rail. Francis briefly surfaces to report that he is only running ten minutes late for our proposed 9 0'clock departure for Jaipur.
On such a glorious morning, time tables are for the birds.
0730 on the roof terrace at the Sunset Guesthouse, Sikri. In the valley below, a thin mist lies across pale green fields bordered by trees. The Nepalese owner of the guesthouse feeds birds each morning on a smaller terrace. Five green parakeets watch me from the parapet while six striped squirels scavenge for yesterday's seeds. Doves wheel above the trees. Shrill children's voices argue with mothers in the nearly village, a drum beats in town. Here, on the hill, the sun burns through the mist and warms my fingers as I type. Staff appear rubbing sleep from their eyes. “Breakfast, Uncle?”
Breakfast would be great, coffee, masala omelet, toast.
The lower end of the fortress is now a faint grey line of stone teeth and the mist gentles the ghastly tower monument to Crunch Crunch.
The owner spreads seed on the bird terrace. Sparrows are first to the feast followed by a gray necked crow, now twenty or more parakeets. The parakeets are argumentative and drown out the village voices. The staff have a fire burning outside the kitchen. Woodsmoke faintly scents the air. Breakfast arrives.The diffident French couple come to table, muffled and gentle voiced. Next the Argentinian tandem bicyclist to drape laundry on the rail. Francis briefly surfaces to report that he is only running ten minutes late for our proposed 9 0'clock departure for Jaipur.
On such a glorious morning, time tables are for the birds.
NO, NO, NO...
FATEPHUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 28
While peacefully wandering the citadel, I am accosted by a small pugnacious Indian gentleman wearing a pale green suit and a felt elf hat.
“What do you think of this?” he demands without preamble or introduction. “Is it beautiful? Have you been in England? Have you visited Hampton Court. That is beauty. Built the same time as this. I know. I am history graduate.”
I attempt the smallest protest - surely we should imagine the citadel as it was: courtyards spread with carpet and cooled by fountains, every channel filled with water, great pots planted with lemon trees and pomegranates, sweet scented roses, beautiful maidens in embroidered silk...
“No, no, no – that is all only decoration with no importance. Hampton court is not needing imagination...”
We meet again later in the afternoon. He immediately launches a fresh attack on Akbar's citadel. He is accompanied by a tall well-built 30 something to whom I plead, “You have to listen to this?”
“Listen?” he says in one of those wondrously casual up-market Home Counties voices. “I've had to listen for three weeks. He's my Dad.”
While peacefully wandering the citadel, I am accosted by a small pugnacious Indian gentleman wearing a pale green suit and a felt elf hat.
“What do you think of this?” he demands without preamble or introduction. “Is it beautiful? Have you been in England? Have you visited Hampton Court. That is beauty. Built the same time as this. I know. I am history graduate.”
I attempt the smallest protest - surely we should imagine the citadel as it was: courtyards spread with carpet and cooled by fountains, every channel filled with water, great pots planted with lemon trees and pomegranates, sweet scented roses, beautiful maidens in embroidered silk...
“No, no, no – that is all only decoration with no importance. Hampton court is not needing imagination...”
We meet again later in the afternoon. He immediately launches a fresh attack on Akbar's citadel. He is accompanied by a tall well-built 30 something to whom I plead, “You have to listen to this?”
“Listen?” he says in one of those wondrously casual up-market Home Counties voices. “I've had to listen for three weeks. He's my Dad.”
CRUNCH CRUNCH, THE ELEPHANT
FATEPHUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 28
The researcher for Lonely Planet suggests that Akbar sentenced criminals (a loose term under all-powerful rulers, whether Emperors, Kings or Secretary Generals of the Communist Party) to be trampled to death by his favourite elephant. According to Lonely Planet, Akbar enjoyed watching. A stone tower decorated with hundreds of stone elephant tusks is said to be Akbar's memorial to Crunch Crunch. The FootPrint Handbook, though perhaps more prosaic, is more reliable in matters historical. Both have excellent description of the citadel while Eyewitness contains the best illustrations (this is a personal opinion). Yes, I travel with three guidebooks! And the brilliantly researched History of India by Keays...
LIBERAL?
FATEPHUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 28
For those who admire intricate stone carving, Fatehpur Sikri is superb. Building of the citadel commenced in the 1570s at the command of the Mughal Emperor Akbar. As Emperors go, Akbar was a liberal. Of his three favourite wives, one was Turkish Muslim, one a Hindu princess and the third a Christian from Goa. Of all the citadel, the Diwan-i-Khas (Hall of Private Audience) is most remarkable. Here Akbar sat on a throne raised high on a pillar and debated with philosophers of every faith. The philosophers sat in a circular gallery connected to the throne by four bridges. The pillar head is lotus shaped while the pillar is carved with motifs, Muslim, Hindu, Christian and Buddhist. Akbar is one of two protagonists in Suleman Rushdie's perceptive, gentle and witty novel, The Moor's Last Sigh. Read and enjoy...
WEIRD
FATEPHUR SIKRI: DECMBER 27
You probably need to be a little weird to seek a guest house the far side of a refuse tip though weird is a subjective judgement. I consider riding a tandem pedal bike from Barcelona weird. The riders are Argentinian. They probably think me weird, septuagenarian on a cafe racer. And Francis and Miyuki on a customised antique Enfield aren't exactly a standard couple - plus the very tall, skeletal French couple communicating in plaintive whispers. The man combines careers as an comercially unsucessful musician and reluctant sound engineer in the French movie industry. She does something artistic with puppets (not a biggy in the earning stakes) and no doubt spends hours cooking taste-free vegetarian meals (why am so bitchy?). They have been on a duty visit to his mother who escaped to a Bhudist monastery fifteen years back. This is his third trip to India and he loathes pretty much everything – particularly the food. His companion is a novice. Traveling by bus has thrown her into mental shock and chili has done for her belly.
You probably need to be a little weird to seek a guest house the far side of a refuse tip though weird is a subjective judgement. I consider riding a tandem pedal bike from Barcelona weird. The riders are Argentinian. They probably think me weird, septuagenarian on a cafe racer. And Francis and Miyuki on a customised antique Enfield aren't exactly a standard couple - plus the very tall, skeletal French couple communicating in plaintive whispers. The man combines careers as an comercially unsucessful musician and reluctant sound engineer in the French movie industry. She does something artistic with puppets (not a biggy in the earning stakes) and no doubt spends hours cooking taste-free vegetarian meals (why am so bitchy?). They have been on a duty visit to his mother who escaped to a Bhudist monastery fifteen years back. This is his third trip to India and he loathes pretty much everything – particularly the food. His companion is a novice. Traveling by bus has thrown her into mental shock and chili has done for her belly.
HEAVY TRAFFIC
DECEMBER 27
Last night Muharram at a Lonely Planet doss house in Agra, tonight a Tibetan owned guest house outside the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri discovered today by a few thousand holidayers. All standard accomodation is either full or trebled in price. A kindly local cop leads Francis down a dirt footpath beneath the fortress walls and across a stinking refuse tip into what has tried to grow into a village over the past hundred or so years. The Sunset Guest house is cheap (£1.50 for a single). The welcome is warm. Our fellow guests are a little weird.
ORCHA
ORCHA: DECEMBER 24
Joyful Christmas Eve. 7 a.m. and upright tufts of thin mist float down stream along the far bank of te Betwa river. The sun rises out of the jungle. A lone bird flies up stream, perhaps a cormorant. I must pack and load the bike. Taj Hotels have invited me to spend Christmas at the Usha Kiran Palace in Gwalior.
Joyful Christmas Eve. 7 a.m. and upright tufts of thin mist float down stream along the far bank of te Betwa river. The sun rises out of the jungle. A lone bird flies up stream, perhaps a cormorant. I must pack and load the bike. Taj Hotels have invited me to spend Christmas at the Usha Kiran Palace in Gwalior.
ORCHA
ORCHA: DECEMBER 23
Chaturbhuj Temple was built to contain an image of Rhama. The temple is cruciform to represent the four arms of Krishna. May be – yet stand within the towering space at the juncture of the arms and any European will recognise the familiar echoing majesty of a cathedral...
Chaturbhuj Temple was built to contain an image of Rhama. The temple is cruciform to represent the four arms of Krishna. May be – yet stand within the towering space at the juncture of the arms and any European will recognise the familiar echoing majesty of a cathedral...
ORCHA
ORCHA: DECEMBER 23
A glorious day of exploration accompanying Francis (the Hungarian raised in Germany, and Miyuki from Tokyo. Orcha was founded by the Rajput Rajas of Bundela in 1501. The two main palaces (11 in all) command a rock promontory within a bend of the Betwa river. Every room and every courtyard is designed to capture and channel the cooling breeze off the water. No need for energy-devouring air-conditioning here. What an example for modern architects...
ORCHA
Right, I have most entries transferred from my journal to disc.
Readers will be confused. So am I.ORCHA: DECEMBER 23
A glorious day of exploration accompanying Francis (the Hungarian raised in Germany, and Miyuki from Tokyo. Orcha was founded by the Rajput Rajas of Bundela in 1501. The two main palaces (11 in all) command a rock promontory within a bend of the Betwa river. Every room and every courtyard is designed to capture and channel the cooling breeze off the water. No need for energy-devouring air-conditioning here. What an example for modern architects...
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
OK, one more...
FATEHPUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 29
Last night Muharram, tonight a Tibetan owned guest house outside the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri today discovered by a few thousand holidayers. All standard accommodation is either full or trebled in price. A kindly local cop leads Francis down a dirt footpath beneath the fortress walls and across a refuse dump into what has tried to become a village over the past hundred or so years. The Sunset Guest house is cheap (£1.50 for a single). The welcome is warm. Our fellow guests are a little weird. You probably need to be a little weird to seek a guest house the far side of a refuse tip - though weird is a subjective judgment. I consider riding a tandem from Barcelona weird. The riders are Argentinian. They probably think me weird, septuagenarian on a cafe racer. And Francis and Miyuki on a customised antique Enfield aren't exactly a standard couple.
FATEHPUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 29
Last night Muharram, tonight a Tibetan owned guest house outside the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri today discovered by a few thousand holidayers. All standard accommodation is either full or trebled in price. A kindly local cop leads Francis down a dirt footpath beneath the fortress walls and across a refuse dump into what has tried to become a village over the past hundred or so years. The Sunset Guest house is cheap (£1.50 for a single). The welcome is warm. Our fellow guests are a little weird. You probably need to be a little weird to seek a guest house the far side of a refuse tip - though weird is a subjective judgment. I consider riding a tandem from Barcelona weird. The riders are Argentinian. They probably think me weird, septuagenarian on a cafe racer. And Francis and Miyuki on a customised antique Enfield aren't exactly a standard couple.
DECEMBER 26.
From Gwalior I rode to Agra to meet with Francis and Miyuki. We planned to ride together into Rajasthan. We hit Agra on the holiest day in the Sunni calender, Muharram, the day of mourning for the assassinated son-in-law of the Prophet. Drums beat at every corner from dusk till dawn while eight loud-speakers directly outside my bedroom blare the incessant chant: Hassan Hussein, Hassan Hussein. Sleep is impossible. I watch from my window a ballet of whirling stick fights and wonder that Islam's schism should have followed so closely on the Prophet's death.
From Gwalior I rode to Agra to meet with Francis and Miyuki. We planned to ride together into Rajasthan. We hit Agra on the holiest day in the Sunni calender, Muharram, the day of mourning for the assassinated son-in-law of the Prophet. Drums beat at every corner from dusk till dawn while eight loud-speakers directly outside my bedroom blare the incessant chant: Hassan Hussein, Hassan Hussein. Sleep is impossible. I watch from my window a ballet of whirling stick fights and wonder that Islam's schism should have followed so closely on the Prophet's death.
I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day as the guest of the Taj Hotel Group in their hotel, the Usdhan Ka Pallace in Gwalior. The Taj housed me in a small suite. Windows to the East caught the morning sun across a wide lawn. To the north French windows opened to my private garden courtyard where, were this summer, I would loll on a stone bench in the evening and perhaps imagine myself very grand. For now I made do with a bubble bath. Though bath is a misnomer. Granite and mosaic pool is better to which I climbed two marble steps. Back home in England my beloved Bernadette lay curled round a hot water bottle. Our eldest son, Joshua, was home from Leeds for Christmas. When I called yesterday they had a stuffed boned duck in the oven.
My brother and sister-in-law have given my grandson, Charlie, a large twigwam for Christmas. Charlies insisted on it being erected in the living room. I called and my son and daughter-out-of law were in the tent! Charlie, very excited, shrieked what might be a greeting at his Grandpa Oops.
Later in the evening I called my daughter, Anya, in Duchess County, NY - snow and a turkey.The mini suite was divinely comfortable. I, unfortunately, was sick as a pig, coughing, coughing, coughing. Why as a pig? Are pigs sick?
My brother and sister-in-law have given my grandson, Charlie, a large twigwam for Christmas. Charlies insisted on it being erected in the living room. I called and my son and daughter-out-of law were in the tent! Charlie, very excited, shrieked what might be a greeting at his Grandpa Oops.
Later in the evening I called my daughter, Anya, in Duchess County, NY - snow and a turkey.The mini suite was divinely comfortable. I, unfortunately, was sick as a pig, coughing, coughing, coughing. Why as a pig? Are pigs sick?
ORCHA, DECEMBER 22
The bathroom is clean. I am clean. I lie at peace in a vast bed. Black beams divide the ceiling overhead into four. Each segment is painted with a freeze of green leaves, a vase of flowers in each corner and a pattern of pointed arches down the center. Midnight here, six-thirty in England. I call Bernadette.
The bathroom is clean. I am clean. I lie at peace in a vast bed. Black beams divide the ceiling overhead into four. Each segment is painted with a freeze of green leaves, a vase of flowers in each corner and a pattern of pointed arches down the center. Midnight here, six-thirty in England. I call Bernadette.
ORCHA, DECEMBER 22
Miyuki from Tokyo has a head cold and goes to bed. Francis (the Hungarian German Egyptian dive instructor) drinks his Single Malt in my room and talks of his fears of an imminent heart attack. Pains in his chest began shortly after the death of his father, of course from a heart attack. The fear has been with him for more than a year, in the first month so severe that he was unable to leave the house. He suspects that his panics are psychosomatic – or wishes to believe that they are, yet, unconvinced, seeks medical advice – though, as a precaution, deliberately choses doctors whose diagnosis he can discount. At this point in his tale I have to bolt for the lavatory. I get my pants down with a millisecond to spare. The first spasm doubles me up and I fall off the seat in mid defecation. I shout to the dive instructor that he must leave and begin cleaning myself and the batheroom. The dive instructor laughed at himself – so can I.
Miyuki from Tokyo has a head cold and goes to bed. Francis (the Hungarian German Egyptian dive instructor) drinks his Single Malt in my room and talks of his fears of an imminent heart attack. Pains in his chest began shortly after the death of his father, of course from a heart attack. The fear has been with him for more than a year, in the first month so severe that he was unable to leave the house. He suspects that his panics are psychosomatic – or wishes to believe that they are, yet, unconvinced, seeks medical advice – though, as a precaution, deliberately choses doctors whose diagnosis he can discount. At this point in his tale I have to bolt for the lavatory. I get my pants down with a millisecond to spare. The first spasm doubles me up and I fall off the seat in mid defecation. I shout to the dive instructor that he must leave and begin cleaning myself and the batheroom. The dive instructor laughed at himself – so can I.
BACK IN ORCHA
betwa river, orchaBa December 22.
Dinner with a a young American NGO married to a yoga-teaching Ukranian. They live in Cambodia,he running the office of a Conservation Trust while she has founded a Nursery school. A daughter (five?) tells me that her dog died. The dog, so she says, was untrainable and pooped and weed in the house so was kept in the yard. The vet proscribed the dog the wrong medicine, so the daughter says. Given the dog's habits, possibly the right medicine?
Also at our table are an attractive but mostly silent Japanese woman (Miyuki from Tokyo) traveling with a Hungarian born German who has built himself a house outside Sharam Sheikh, Egypt, where he runs a PADI dive school.
Miyuki and Francis met at and decamped from an Ashram in Kerala. Francis owns an ancient Enfield Bullet, much modified and a fast emptying bottle of Single Malt whisky!
BACK IN ORCHA
BUNDLSKHAND RIVERSIDE HOTEL, ORCHA, DECEMBER 22
Guests meet before dinner in a circle of easy chairs arranged round an open fire. Musicians play and sing softly. The hotel manager introduces me to a captain in the Indian Army Air Corps and to a young couple (architects) with baby daughter from LA. His family is from Pakistan, Moslem. She is Hindu. The daughter will have interesting choices. A young relative of the Maharajah sits beside me. He is waiting to be told of the approaching train for Delhi. A keen biker (Enfield Bullet and new Yamaha 250), he accuses we tourists of being interested only in fringes of the subcontinent and ignoring India's heartland. He extols a ride through gloriously forested hills where streams tumble into crystal pools.The station master telephones to announce the approaching train - no time for me to write down the magic route.
Guests meet before dinner in a circle of easy chairs arranged round an open fire. Musicians play and sing softly. The hotel manager introduces me to a captain in the Indian Army Air Corps and to a young couple (architects) with baby daughter from LA. His family is from Pakistan, Moslem. She is Hindu. The daughter will have interesting choices. A young relative of the Maharajah sits beside me. He is waiting to be told of the approaching train for Delhi. A keen biker (Enfield Bullet and new Yamaha 250), he accuses we tourists of being interested only in fringes of the subcontinent and ignoring India's heartland. He extols a ride through gloriously forested hills where streams tumble into crystal pools.The station master telephones to announce the approaching train - no time for me to write down the magic route.
EXCUSES, EXCUSES, EXCUSES
I arrived in India on December 8. My first rickshaw ride across Delhi did for my lungs - three weeks of bronchitis plus various days of dysentery. Add that most every place that I have visited suffers frequent electricity cuts - usually when I am about to upload onto the Internet - and when there is electricity the Internet connection is often down - then readers may understand why this Blog is chaotic. So here follows a few entries from my diary that never reached the net
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
COLD SNAP IN A HOT CLIMATE
JANUARY 13
7 a.m. at the Simla Hotel in the Rajasthan desert town of Jaisalmer and the day is trying to get light which is fortunate as the electricity cut out some time back. I am huddled under three layers of thick wool blanket. For the past hour, I have been reading Hunter S Thompson by the light of a Leathermam flashlight. Toby Brocklehurst insisted I would need the flashlight – wise advice given that electricity cuts are common as cockroaches.
North India is suffering a cold snap and under the blankets is the only all-body warmth available after sunset in Jaisalmer. All good restaurants in Jaisalmer advertise magnificent views of the fort from the roof terrace - great for a warm evenings, miserable in a cold snap. Miyuki and Francis have developed an antipathy to Indian curry and we ate Korean last night in the company of some forty Korean juveniles dressed for an Everest expedition (I am packed for the beach). The stew and the soup required two hours preparation. Miyuki telephoned our order in mid afternoon – as if ordering ahead would speed the serving. The cold was a reminder of Bernadette's favorite shaggy dog story: a baby polar bear questions whether he really is a polar bear. If I'm a polar bear, how come I'm freezing my butt off?
Polar bear stories don't do it for Miyuki. Disaster is Japanese humour. We were joined at dinner by a Japanese man whose entire Indian trip has been one ghastly rip-off after another. Miyuki shrieked delight at every detail. Now she is up on the hotel roof giggling away with the disaster prone Japanese, bitterly cold, no electricity, no hot water, the sun not up, and Francis suffering a bout of dysentery. Hilarious...
I do have hot water. I shall uncurl in a little while, shower, take my medication, dress in five layers and stroll to the German bakery for a breakfast of freshly baked croissant and strong coffee – and a wifi connection once the electricty comes back on.
7 a.m. at the Simla Hotel in the Rajasthan desert town of Jaisalmer and the day is trying to get light which is fortunate as the electricity cut out some time back. I am huddled under three layers of thick wool blanket. For the past hour, I have been reading Hunter S Thompson by the light of a Leathermam flashlight. Toby Brocklehurst insisted I would need the flashlight – wise advice given that electricity cuts are common as cockroaches.
North India is suffering a cold snap and under the blankets is the only all-body warmth available after sunset in Jaisalmer. All good restaurants in Jaisalmer advertise magnificent views of the fort from the roof terrace - great for a warm evenings, miserable in a cold snap. Miyuki and Francis have developed an antipathy to Indian curry and we ate Korean last night in the company of some forty Korean juveniles dressed for an Everest expedition (I am packed for the beach). The stew and the soup required two hours preparation. Miyuki telephoned our order in mid afternoon – as if ordering ahead would speed the serving. The cold was a reminder of Bernadette's favorite shaggy dog story: a baby polar bear questions whether he really is a polar bear. If I'm a polar bear, how come I'm freezing my butt off?
Polar bear stories don't do it for Miyuki. Disaster is Japanese humour. We were joined at dinner by a Japanese man whose entire Indian trip has been one ghastly rip-off after another. Miyuki shrieked delight at every detail. Now she is up on the hotel roof giggling away with the disaster prone Japanese, bitterly cold, no electricity, no hot water, the sun not up, and Francis suffering a bout of dysentery. Hilarious...
I do have hot water. I shall uncurl in a little while, shower, take my medication, dress in five layers and stroll to the German bakery for a breakfast of freshly baked croissant and strong coffee – and a wifi connection once the electricty comes back on.
QUIRKY HOTEL
JANUARY 10
We are booked into the Simla hotel within the fortress. The Simla is a six-room 550-year-old haveli of golden sandstone. The conversion is imaginative. Rooms descend in cost and comfort from first-floor quirky opulence to ground-floor somber meditation cells. My room was once the first floor cloister overlooking a small marble-paved central courtyard. Carved sandstone pillars support the ceiling of polished wood. One corner is walled off as a bathroom with steaming hot shower, hand-basin set in a marble slab and a sit-down lavatory with an effective flush. Much of the rest is an L shaped platform covered with good foam mattresses and piled with bolsters and cushions and pillows of every hue. Arabian nights quirky – so where is the hubble-bubble?
We are booked into the Simla hotel within the fortress. The Simla is a six-room 550-year-old haveli of golden sandstone. The conversion is imaginative. Rooms descend in cost and comfort from first-floor quirky opulence to ground-floor somber meditation cells. My room was once the first floor cloister overlooking a small marble-paved central courtyard. Carved sandstone pillars support the ceiling of polished wood. One corner is walled off as a bathroom with steaming hot shower, hand-basin set in a marble slab and a sit-down lavatory with an effective flush. Much of the rest is an L shaped platform covered with good foam mattresses and piled with bolsters and cushions and pillows of every hue. Arabian nights quirky – so where is the hubble-bubble?
JAISALMER
JANUARY 10
Jaisalmer is romantic. The 17th century citadel on the hill dominating Jaisalmer is built of golden sandstone as are the temples and havelis and palaces within the walls - in India there are always palaces. Perhaps unique amongst India's citadels, Jaisalmer fortress remains home to some hundreds of families so beware children and cows and goats as you ride the narrow, stone-paved streets. And beware the touts selling desert crafts and desert trips and desert whatever. They would sell the sand if they could...
But, above all, Jaisalmer people are friendly – as Pushkar people are friendly. Hence the town is way up there as a hangout for backpacker kids in search of enlightenment (or a bhang lassie).
Jaisalmer is romantic. The 17th century citadel on the hill dominating Jaisalmer is built of golden sandstone as are the temples and havelis and palaces within the walls - in India there are always palaces. Perhaps unique amongst India's citadels, Jaisalmer fortress remains home to some hundreds of families so beware children and cows and goats as you ride the narrow, stone-paved streets. And beware the touts selling desert crafts and desert trips and desert whatever. They would sell the sand if they could...
But, above all, Jaisalmer people are friendly – as Pushkar people are friendly. Hence the town is way up there as a hangout for backpacker kids in search of enlightenment (or a bhang lassie).
SLALOM TEENAGER
JANUARY 10.
Jodhpur to Jaisalmer is a great ride of 300 kilometers on a good-surface two-lane highway across the desert. Traffic is minimal. The Enfield bumbles along at a steady 58 Ks while I play teenager on the cafe racer, slaloming the central road markings. Two slender gazelle watch me. A covey of sand grouse scurry through thin scrub. A peacock stands on a dry stone wall at the entrance to a village.
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