Viva Las Vegas

November 14, 2009

Gambling, theatre, street parties, live shows Las Vegas is one big stage where all kinds of fantasies play themselves out We gambled in Las Vegas and hit the jackpot without even placing a bet on its casino tables or feeding a cent to the thousands of hungry slot machines that seemed to be everywhere, the airport lounge included. And we knew we were winners on the very first night as we watched O Cirque du Soleil at the Bellagio. After a full day of hectic activity, including an early morning three-hour flight, we wondered as we claimed our seats if we would be able to keep our eyes open. But the moment the curtains parted, sleep was the last thing on our minds as we were wowed by a jaw-dropping performance! For, here was a circus, but not just any circus. It was a beautifully choreographed waterthemed spectacle in which each act was an incredible gem. We sat through the show like punch-drunk boxers, for, before we could recover from the awe of one performance, the following one would blow us away. Clowns, strong men, fire eaters, contortionists, trapeze artists flying through the air with a pool of water as their safety net, high divers, synchronised swimmers O had it all and more. And the more' was a stage of water and the oh-soevocative backdrops. When the contortionists were on, we found ourselves looking not so much at the artists doing their thing on a little platform in the middle of the water but at what was going on around them: a ghoul sitting in rapt admiration on the head of an enormous crocodile, synchronised swimmers dancing like mermaids around the platform, a zebra girl prancing in a fountain and a cloud burst of thunder, lighting and pelting rain to close the act. Serious competition So you thought the best shows were on Broadway, New York and the West End, London? Add The Strip, Las Vegas, to the list. Admittedly, you will not find serious' theatre, but at any given time there are around 75 live shows here from popular musicals and plays to magic shows and comedy skits. This was where the Rat Pack Gang of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr. along with Peter Lawford and Joey Bishop performed at the Sands (which, sadly, no longer exists). It was here that Elvis made his spectacular comeback to live performances in 1968. The city is like a magnetic lure to big stars who come here to perform on a regular basis. During our visit we saw advertisements for the legendry and iconic Cher and Donny and Marie Osmond. Faced with a dilemma and with so much to choose from, we opted for something light Nathan Burton Comedy Magic at the Flamingo, the first casino hotel on the Strip. It proved to be right on the button with a lot of audience participation, amazing tricks and skits that had us rocking with laughter. The show also provided girls, from a California school, a stage to show off their dancing skills their first whiff of a career as showgirls or maybe even a stage that would launch them into the orbit of mega stardom. Sadly, the musical Phantom of the Opera was sold out so we took in the Blue Men Group, a lively percussion music performance garnished with big helpings of laughter, at Hotel Venetian the following day. On the final night of our stay in Las Vegas we were once
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more faced with the dark possibility of dozing off in our seats, thanks to the string of late night street parties that we just could not drag ourselves away from each day. But once again, the spectacular, Disney's The Lion King at Mandalay Bay wowed us with its music, dance and brilliant stage craft and made sure that we stayed wide awake right through the performance. Shows aside, the city of Las Vegas is itself a grand stage. It's big, bad, brazen, beautiful Everything it does, be it gambling, fun, entertainment, music, theatre, street partying is a larger-than-life act. Indeed, in Las Vegas, we did not have to go anywhere to see the world; the world came to us. Strolling down the Strip was like setting off on a tour of the famous sights around the globe: the Eiffel Tower and Arch de Triomphe in Paris, the Statue of Liberty looking down at the New York skyline, encircled by a twisting roller coaster, Pyramids and the Sphinx, Monte Carlo, Venice, Camelot Inside the casino resorts that line this celebrated avenue, we were swept into a world of pure fantasy. Crystal flower beds blossom on ceilings; gondoliers serenade couples as they punted down Venetian canals; full-grown lions play with their handlers in glass-walled enclosures; ornate chandeliers droop from gilded domes; scantily-clad girls pole dance next to gambling tables Spectacular sight Back on the Strip we joined the all-night street party to which anyone who visited Las Vegas, regardless of age, sex, creed and race was invited. And to spice up the revelry, the city threw in spectacular shows for free. Like the famous Bellagio Dancing Fountains swaying in dramatic fashion to Elvis' Viva Las Vegas , a fiery volcano erupting outside The Mirage and the sinking of a pirate ship in front of Treasure Island. Multi-hued neon lights blinked and flashed and music poured out from everywhere as show girls danced with temptress intent at the entrances of bars and restaurants. One night we decided to join the street party Fremont Street Experience in Las Vegas's downtown area, some four km from the Strip. It was a rip-roaring affair; a riotous celebration of life in the fast lane with live bands, musicians and street artists adding spice to the party. Every so often, the awning that ran across the entire length of the street would be splashed in brilliant colours and music flowed out from every corner. We gazed up at the kaleidoscope of laser images above us in open-mouthed awe. And when it was over, the street party kicked in as though it had not been interrupted. Yes, the Fremont Street Experience was the icing on our It's show time in Las Vegas adventure.

Elementary, my dear Doyle

A look at Doyle's real-life inspirations, on the occasion of his 150th birth anniversary. O utside the stately-looking Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh is a notice that no fan of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle can afford to miss. Conan Doyle and Joseph Bell: The Real Sherlock Holmes, it says. Who, after all, will pass up an opportunity to learn more about perhaps the greatest detective in fiction and his immensely talented creator?
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The famous medical school is a solemn-looking building making someone like me, who has as little connection to medicine as an artist to a scalpel, feel like an interloper on entering the premises. But I think of The Hound of the Baskervilles, The Speckled Band and the rest of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, take courage and mount the stairs. I offer the entrance fee to the friendly lady at the ticket counter and walk in. The exhibition occupies just a portion of the Surgeons' Hall Museum. But, as I emerge hours later at closing time, I know it is a small space packed with information. Inspiring surgeon Who was Joseph Bell? Dr. Joseph Bell was a brilliant surgeon and outstanding teacher. He was Doyle's professor and mentor when he was a student of medicine in this college. And it was to Bell that Doyle owed the idea of detection by logic. Doyle was appointed by Bell as outpatient clerk at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh in 1878.Viewers are offered fascinating glimpses of the surgeon's powers of observation and analyses at the exhibition. As soon as a patient entered, Bell would gather a lot about him even before he spoke a word while his students stood agape with wonder and admiration: Well, my man, I see you've served in the army... not long discharged a Highland regiment a non-commissioned officer stationed at Barbados. He would later explain to his astonished students how he came by the deduction: You see gentlemen, the patient is a respectful man but did not remove his hat they do not do this in the army. He would have learned this civilian habit had he been long discharged. He has an air of authority and is obviously Scottish. As to Barbados, his complaint is elephantiasis which could be West Indian but not European The display in the exhibition begins with a poem by Doyle about exams at the college followed by a manuscript of his novel untitled and unpublished now in the collection of the British Library. A copy of his clinical notes in a neat hand gives us a picture of him as a student. This is followed by a list of the places associated with Doyle in Edinburgh the place he was born, the school he went to, and the various addresses where he resided. A selection of his works is put up. We learn how all his life Doyle stored away memories of events, people, places , names... to be unpacked later for his writing. It mentions his eye for detail, and how his experiences from boyhood and early manhood in Edinburgh provided the creative cargo he used. There are beautiful photographs and visuals at the exhibition: Conan Doyle aged six with his father Charles Altamont Doyle, an artist and draughtsman who was addicted to drink; young Doyle with his grandfather, a well-known Irish political satirist; the portrait of his Irish mother Mary Foley who passed on her love of history to her son; Doyle at Stonyhurst College with his schoolmates; depicting his love of sports, especially cricket, his graduation. Brought up in a tradition of storytelling, Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories appeared in the Strand Magazine (the copy is displayed here). Later, he wrote to Bell, acknowledging, It's most certainly to you that I owe Sherlock Holmes. The exhibition also provides corresponding photographs of Dr. Bell, and details of his family and career. Bell had sharp features and wore a deerstalker hat and a cloak during his birdwatching trips. The viewer's attention is drawn to how Holmes is very much like him.

One also learns that Prof .Challenger, who first appeared in The Lost World, had features of Doyle's Edinburgh lecturers such as Prof. William Rutherford. And the character of Prof. Summerlee in the Challenger stories was based on Dr. James Spence, Prof. of Surgery, who was President of Royal College of Surgeons from 1867 to 69. Remarkable recording A remarkable item at the exhibition is the only known audio recording of Doyle. The film is by Fox Movietone News, 1929. In this the writer speaks of his old teacher Bell, his inspiration for Holmes. The character of Holmes became so real for the reading public that the writer mentions letters from fans asking for the detective's autograph and from women wanting to be Holmes' housekeeper! The character of the detective's friend Dr. Watson was based on that of a leading surgeon from the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh. He was Patrick Heron (Dr.) Watson, who was born in Edinburgh and was house surgeon to James Spence. An MD from the University of Edinburgh, he went to Crimea as assistant surgeon with the Royal Artillery. As I leave the exhibition, a distinguished-looking man smiles and remarks about the notes I'm jotting down. When I introduce myself, he does the same I'm a volunteer at this exhibition and a retired surgeon of this institution. His name? Dr. Watson. Seeing my jaw drop, he smiles, I'm a descendant of Dr. Watson who inspired the character in the Sherlock Holmes stories. I walk out in a daze, promising to send him a copy of the article when published.

On high voltage
SHOBHA GUPTA GALLAGHER

November, 22, 2009

Arnivals in Trinidad are a vortex of swirling colours, sounds and rhythms, revealing a nations electric soul... Some call it a national obsession; others, a fixation. But whatever the label, the persona of Trinidad has been synonymous with its spectacular Carnival celebrations. Dubbed as the world's greatest street festival the whole machinery behind its multi-million dollar preparation begins to roll mid-year onwards. Situated about six miles off the coast of Venezuela, Trinidad, surrounded by the Caribbean Sea to the north, the Gulf of Paria to the west, the Atlantic Ocean to the east and the Columbus Channel to the south, was once known as the Land of the Hummingbirds. Columbus on his voyage of discovery named it Trinidad in 1498 to represent the trinity of mountains he saw on the island.

I arrived in the capital city, Port of Spain, smack at the pre-Lenten Carnival time in midFebruary. It was a free fall into a vortex of swirling colours and a headlong dive into its electric soul. The festivity began in the pre-dawn light a parade of ghouls stoked from the netherworld. During the dusk-to-dawn J'ouvert(French for opening day) people covered with mud, black grease oil, chocolate or thick paint, chipped (a short dance step) through the main streets of Port of Spain. They pranced to the rhythms created out of anything spoons struck against a bottle or pans, utensils and kitchen graters. Dramatic personae This is the time for the traditional Carnival personas to emerge such as the jab jabdevils painted in blue or red, some with monster masks, bedraggled hair or hair sleek with paint, wet mud or oil. Symbolically, it is believed to imply purging the flesh and society of all that is demonic. In direct contrast to this slime-and-grime retinue was the main parade of the Carnival bands that exploded on the streets the next day with thousands of participants donning flamboyant headgears, tall, gaily-painted feathers, skimpy or near-nudity outfits, their bodies and face glistening with glitter and speckled with rhinestones. The sequins and multiple beads of the barely-there clothing swayed to the shimmy of their dance. Those gifted with a snake oil waist rippled their belly and derriere with fluid ease. Many either chipped or were wining (a very suggestive sexual dance where two or more gyrate together back-to-back or front-toback swiveling and grinding their hips). The beat of the steelpan or soca band playing on flatbed trucks reverberated from gigantic amplifiers and pounded up from the earth beneath our feet. The popular songs of the year instigated the participants to jump up, jump up; wave their hands chip or wine. It was a heady river of high voltage celebration where the whole nation was melded in a mesmeric, almost orgasmic unity. Some chipped with their heads thrown back in a luminous cloud of ecstatic oblivion. Behind this sparkle face of Trinidad's Carnival is a history of slavery, colonialism, emancipation. The widely held belief is that the Carnival dates back to the days of French Catholic planters in 1789. The upper class celebrated the Carnival with fancy masks and elegant costumes prior to the abstinence of Lent. Debarred from participating in these festivities, the slaves and indentured labourers held their own separate dances and masquerades in their ramshackle yards and barracks. With the abolition of slavery in 1834 and after Emancipation in 1838, the celebrations unleashed itself in full blast with wild dances, grease paint and grotesque masks out on the streets accompanied by loud drumbeats. The British government tried to curtail and abolish by force what was considered in those times as shockingly licentious and obnoxious. It was a time when African dance and music completely changed the face of the Carnival and began to aggressively replace the hoity-toity masquerade balls of the French. In fact, it revealed the obscure origin of the festival that dated back to Africa and had no connection to
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Lent at all. For, it was customary in African tradition to wear masks and parade in circles through villages as a ritual to bring good luck. Snubbed as the jamette carnival (below the diameter of respectability), the French joined forces with the English authorities to ban the loud beating of drums. But the ex-slaves resorted to beating tall bamboo sticks, the tamboo-bamboo, on the ground to create the rebellious thud of their rhythms. They crafted biscuit tins and dustbins into musical instruments making these the first pans. Today steelpan music originates from empty oil drums that are carved and tempered over fire. During the Panorama competition of Carnival time, hundreds play their music on a large podium stoking a heady blend of acoustical magic. Trinidad is not just Carnival and revelry. It is reported to have the wealthiest economy in the Caribbean that is based on its huge oil and natural gas reserves. The recently established five-star, high-rise Hyatt Regency Trinidad is a major part of the waterfront project. With its fabulous view of the Gulf of Paria, it caters mainly to the business and convention travellers and investors. Quiet retreat Trinidad's little sister island, Tobago, is about a 20-minute flight away or a two-and-a-half hour ferry ride. In direct contrast to Trinidad, Tobago is a quiet retreat locale where you can unwind and dissolve into the surrounding peace. With its ring of South Atlantic coral reefs, the magic of an underwater world teeming with iridescent marine life, beaches, sun, sea and sand, about 210 species of migratory birds and a rich rainforest, Tobago is fast becoming an ideal tourist spot and being mapped into the itinerary of cruise tours. The Republic of Trinidad and Tobago, in defiance of its small size, is aiming to perch itself on giant shoulders and become the next gateway to the Americas. Quick facts Getting there: The best way to travel to Trinidad is by air. There are several airlines that have direct flights from the U.S., Canada, the U.K. and other islands in the Caribbean. When to go: The high tourist season is between January and March that peaks in February due to the Carnival time. Getting around: For shorter distances it is more convenient to take maxi-taxis or route taxis. Tourist taxis are also available at both airports. Accommodation: Available in plenty, especially for the business traveller. The well-known hotels being the Hyatt Regency, Hilton Trinidad, Crowne Plaza and Courtyard by Marriott, the Carlton Savannah, Cascadia Hotel, The Chancellor, Holiday Inn Express in Trincity, Coblentz Inn, the Hilton Tobago, the Cara Suites Piarco Hotel and Star Hotel. Climate: The average day temperature hovers around 32 degrees Centigrade.

Romancing the waves

November 30, 2009

Blue lagoons, coral reefs, pristine beaches, The Maldives offers an unforgettable experience of beauty and adventure Back as a child, the book The Coral Island spun a fascinating story of an isolated island of coral reef on which three young boys learned to survive. Last week, I visited similar coral islands whose beauty is hard to describe, and a sheer delight to experience. The Maldives is an island-country nestled in the Indian Ocean, about 600 km southwest of Sri Lanka. The country comprises 1,190 islands arranged in 26 atolls. Each atoll is an island of coral that encircles a lagoon partially or completely. Out of the 1190, 201 are native inhabited islands and about 80 have been turned into island resorts. When seen from up above, the islands appear to be many raised, white-and-green pearl drops surrounded by surf and light blue waters set in an backdrop of a deep blue ocean. Pictures taken even higher from outer space have been described as representations of one of the most beautiful atolls on the planet. Perfect setting The Maldivian archipelago of low-lying coral islands sports perfect tropical weather all year round. The waters are the palest blue in the cove of the island and turn into a deep blue further ashore. The sands are a virgin white, the waters are totally transparent looking down you can see all the way down to coral reef ocean floor. This is a haven for marine life you never know what school of fish you might get treated to at any given time. Looking down into the clear-as-glass waters, your eyes can feast on blue and yellow surgeonfish (remember Dori from Finding Nemo?), butterfly fish, angelfish and silvery translucent fish always swimming together in large groups. No need to go snorkeling; the fish swim to you from everywhere, tame as they come. Sometimes you see huge plankton-eating manta rays and at other times baby reef sharks swim below the jetty bridge. Far out into the sea, families of dolphins call this their home. They entertain boats of travellers, swimming alongside the boat and then under it. The more energetic ones rise high above the waters and twirl in the air before nose-diving down again back into the waters. Owing to the many beautiful diving grounds of the numerous atolls, this country is known as a prime destination for scuba divers world wide. Many accurate and detailed guides and maps of the best diving spots are easily available. Divers have sighted tiger sharks and hammer head sharks and a vast variety of rays and turtles. And notably, in the 24 years of the scuba diving school on my resort, there were no reported incidents of shark attacks. The water sports in every resort are numerous and for all skill levels. Jet skiing, surfing, scuba diving, para-sailing, wind sailing, canoeing and snorkelling. From the expert to the novice, from the brave to the fainthearted, from seniors to tiny tots, there's something for everybody.

Deep into the ocean where the waves are bigger and higher, lone surfers can be seen riding the waves. There's fishing by day or by night. At night, red and white snappers, barracuda or groupers bite your bait and in the day expert fisherman spool tuna from the deep seas. We went night fishing at the stroke of dusk. Our boat sped along the waters in the dim twilight and the shadows of other companion boats got longer and longer. When we reached our destination out at sea, the fishermen threw out the anchor and gave each of us a string with a hook and bait. With this rudimentary fishing equipment (no rod), we set out to fish. Our boat was the lucky one that night and we caught two white snappers which we took back to the island and handed over to the Italian restaurant chef to cook. Dinner that night was barbequed white snappers eaten on the patio of the Italian restaurant overlooking a calm sea. Our resort offered an hour long submarine ride 100 ft deep into the ocean. The submarine took seconds to make the plunge and we docked at the depth of the ocean floor where we saw a coral reef of many colours which was the breeding ground of all kinds of marine life. Our resort had beach villas and water bungalows. The beach villas have back doors opening out into a private beach area. The water bungalows stand in shallow water and one can climb down from them directly into the ocean. The water is always warm and inviting for wading or swimming. In a world where the beaches are over-used, crowded and commercialised, the purity, serenity and calm of Maldives beaches still give the impression of untouched natural pristine beauty. Eight million tourists come here every year, and this tiny island country handles them without ostentatious crowding or littering or pollution. This is best summarised by the famous 13th century Moroccan world traveller Ibn Battuta who described Maldives as One of the Wonders of the World. Lurking threat Maldives is one of the world's smallest as well as the least-populated countries. It is also the lowest point in the world 1.5 meters above sea level. Which is why there is a growing concern among the people of Maldives that if the sea levels continue to rise as they have, the country will soon be submerged under the ocean. Maldives' recently-elected Prime Minister has been working hard these past few weeks trying to get the world to take notice and address climate change. On our last day on the islands, the Maldivian cabinet had a historic underwater cabinet meeting to underscore the need for global action to combat climate change. So let this be a shout-out to everyone out there Let's be environmentally conscientious and save our planet! Let's make these coral islands a lasting Utopia for divers, beach lovers and young kids with a taste for adventure.

In the presence of the sacred

SAVITHRI KRISHNAN The yatra to kailash- manasarover can test your endurance limits but at the end of it awaits spiritual fulfillment. The placid blue waters of Manasarovar proved to be a mesmerising visual treat. In a hundred ages of the Gods, I could not tell thee, the glories of (the Himalaya)... For,
there is no mountain like (the Himalaya), for in it are Kailash and Manasarovar.

The Ramayana Since time immemorial, it has been the fervent desire of every devout Shaivite Hindu to undertake the ultimate of all pilgrimages, a visit to Kailash, the abode of Lord Shiva. In its vicinity is the sacred lake Manasarovar, hailed as the lake of Consciousness-andEnlightenment', said to be conceived by Lord Brahma. The Celestials are believed to descend to this lake even to this day, at pre-dawn hours for their ablutions. Having the unique distinction of being revered profoundly by Hindus, Buddhists, Jains and Bonpo-Tibetans alike, the snow-clad mountain, amidst a picturesque landscape, stands majestically in all its grandeur and unsurpassing beauty, soaring to a height of 22,000 feet in the remote corner of Western Tibet. Circumambulation of this Holy Mountain, known as Kora' in local parlance, is believed to bestow one with Enlightenment. Arduous The inhospitable climatic conditions, rough and treacherous terrain of the mountain range, gruelling overland journey make the travel very arduous and demanding. Both the Indian Government and private tour-operators conduct tours from June till September every year. The registration process followed by the former is quite cumbersome and stringent, and the itinerary being lengthy, I opted for the latter though a bit expensive. The 16-day trip typically starts with a sightseeing tour of Kathmandu on the first day, covering some of the important temples like the Pashupathinath, Swayambunath et al. The yatra begins the next morning amid fervent chanting of Jai-Bholenath, invoking Lord Shiva's grace for a safe, hassle-free travel. We head towards Kodari, through the lush-green Nepalese countryside. On completing the immigration and customs formalities, we board Landcruisers in groups of four at a place called Zhangmu. Vital acclimatisation After 150 km enjoying the beauty of nature, with waterfalls dotting the hills, we reach Nyalam, a small hamlet at a height of 12,000 ft, for the first overnight stay in the Himalayas. The next day is reserved for acclimatisation. One has to start accepting the abysmal sanitation facilities and poor hygienic conditions as daily routine. The availability of hot showers on a rental basis comes as a saving grace though! For the pretentious urban class that we were, these conditions were only introductory indications of what it takes to reach the most revered peak of the Hindus. The marathon drive continues for the next two days, with overnight halts at Saga (14,700 ft) and Paryang (15,000 ft). The much-awaited D-day finally arrives. Past noon, we reach Manasarovar, where one catches the first glimpse of the sacred and captivating Mount Kailash, which truly is aweinspiring. It is a moment of overwhelming, unbridled joy. Words possibly can't adequately describe this hair-raising experience. Not to be outdone, the serene, extremely cold and placid blue waters of Manasarovar too proved to be a mesmerising visual treat. We camped on the banks of the calm and graceful lake and savoured the fleeting moments the rest of the day. The night was numbing cold as we slipped into our sleeping bags inside the cozy tent. After the ritual bath and prayers the next morning, we start Manas-Parikrama by jeep, covering nearly 3/4th of the 88 km peregrination before reaching the base camp at Darchen.
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En route we come across the eye-catching Raksash-Taal Lake (strikingly similar to Manasarovar), created by the legendary Ravan. Kailash circumambulation generally takes three days, although a few tough and hardy locals can accomplish the feat in a single day! The total distance is 54 km, part of which is covered by jeep. The remaining 45 km could either be covered on foot or on a pony, encamping for two nights en route. Fascinating view Traditionally, one first visits Yama-dwaarat Tarboche. A slight detour leads to Astapad (held sacred by Jains). Nandi-parvat can be viewed from close quarters here. The first day's trek is 12 km long. Numerous brooks and streams alongside with pristine cold water not only quench the thirst but also soothes one from the tiring walk. The overnight halt is at Dirapuk. The Seshnag view of Kailash here is fascinating. The second day's trek is the toughest, with a steep six km ascent, followed by a four km descent and a 11 km trek on a fairly plain surface, covering a total of 21 km, before halting at Zhutulpuk. The spectacular early morning golden rays of the Sun makes the mountain appear golden hued for a change, which otherwise is hailed as a silver mountain. One is advised to cross the pugnacious Dolma-La Pass, which is the highest point of 19,500 ft well before noon due to lowering level of oxygen as day passes, and the region being infamous for its rarefied atmosphere with sudden bouts of blizzards. Descending is an equally tough task. Trudging through the glaciers, or gentle marshy slopes with no well-defined trail, or over a mass of loose tumbling stones with water gurgling beneath, without losing one's balance or getting the socks wet is indeed a Herculean task! Slightly off-route is Goddess Uma's ablution spot, Gauri-Kund, an emerald-green, oval-shaped frozen lake. Easy finish After the rigours of the first two days, the third day's trek is a mere child's play. It was completed in no time with the yatris celebrating the successful accomplishment of the pulsating Parikrama which many people dream of, but only a few realise! We then complete the remaining 1/4th portion of Manasarovar-Parikrama, and finally return home carrying loads of everlasting memories, and the Holy Manasarovar water along with Rudraksha beads to be shared with family and friends. Touted as the world's toughest pilgrimage, the yatra cannot be successfully completed without the grace of Shiva, the time-tested hospitality of the affable Sherpas and the tour captain, and the highly efficient Chinese Landcruiser drivers in one of the most inhospitable terrains of the Planet.

In the footsteps of the Romans

JANARDHAN ROYE

December 13, 2009

The cotswolds countryside is everything one imagined it to be: Atmospheric cottages, quaint meadows, villages and towns dripping with history... The intrepid Romans and their legions, in all likelihood, had stomped on this same pathway.

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Some 10,000 years ago, the ice covering England began to thaw and recede and a new landscape emerged. As the climate grew warmer, forests and wet and boggy valleys formed, prompting the early inhabitants to take the higher levels for commutes. But both the bumps and hollows, in time, became pathways and streets. Like the modern M4, M40 and M5. The Beemer car cruised on this route one bright October morning. The intrepid Romans and their legions, creaking wagons, horses and cattle, in all likelihood, had stomped on this very same pathway. We had left behind bustling London and were now in the welcome embrace of the serene English countryside. Hurtling past us were endless meadows and greenery, little streams with Weeping Willows, ultra refreshing waves of air scented with fresh-cut grass and heady lavender. Outside, stray buildings swept by cottages and manor houses, churches and traditional pubs, barns and chapels, and tiny, deserted villages beyond the meadows met up with the blue sky. Golden sheen Old houses had the growth of gold and silver lichen, and fascinating high-pitched roofs, designs, no doubt, to throw off rain and the snow. But it was the building material that caught our attention: The walls, roofs and structure seemed to be built of the same honey-coloured stone. Curious, we stopped at a yellow-gold wall of stacked-stone. This was the famous Cotswold Stone', an oolitic' limestone that dates back to the time when dinosaurs roamed the earth' and Britain was located beneath a shallow tropical sea'. The Romans first used this building material. Rain, snow, harsh winds and time turn the yellow to a fascinating golden light brown or honey colour. The material, in slab and slate forms, goes back in history to the Stone Age, and has been used extensively in the area for burial chambers, manor houses, cottages, field walls and for famous buildings such as the Oxford colleges and St. Paul's Cathedral. As we were quietly examining the vibrant colourways, texture and shape, beyond the low, stone wall a Cotswold Lion' was making its silent way towards us. But there was nothing to fear. That's what the local sheep are called here. The inquisitive, funny-looking sheep lazily walking towards us, flapping its short tail, was hornless, plump bodied, with long white fleece, and had a woolly fringe on its forehead. Behind it was more of the family mothers with frolicking lambkins all enjoying the sun. Why these friendly animals are called Lions beats me! The Romans yes, again set up such sheep farms in this hilly region. As the soil was thin and difficult to plough, the ancient settlers started to rear sheep both for meat and fur. Both were in great demand in the bitterly cold region. As an upshot, right over the years, farmers, traders and processors of wool, and the whole of Cotswold benefited handsomely. The wool and stone money was diligently applied to develop farms and cottages, market towns, villages and infrastructure roadways, houses, churches, gardens, parks and such. And thereby, the unexciting moniker Cotswolds' the sheep's stony enclosures or cots' and the hills or wolds'. Some historians attribute the name to a 12th century gentleman, Codwald who owned the forest property. Whatever the origin of the name, this getaway was just what the doctor ordered for harried townspeople: a break from the asphalt jungle and its pressures.
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The Cotswolds range of hills lie mostly in Gloucestershire, bound by Stratford-upon-Avon in the north, Oxford in the east, Cheltenham in the west, and Bath in the south. The range is just about 40 km across and 145 km long, with average hill only 180 meter high but the scenery is drop-dead gorgeous. Romantic circuit We began our Cotswolds motor tour walking and cycling is great, if you have the time from Cheltenham. This popular spa resort from the late 18th century for high society, with its Pittsville Pump Room, is well-known for its music and literature festivals. Our tour of the Cotswolds was essentially guided by The Romantic Road' tours of the Cotswolds'. With that in our navigator's hand, we merrily and confidently drove around a circuit that had quaint Anglo Saxon names: Stanway, Stanton, Broadway, Chipping Campden, Upper and Lower Slaughters. Each little place was rich in history and natural beauty reflecting the romance of its history and literary heritage'. We saw beech woods, churches with tall steeples in quiet backwaters, archaeological sites, age-old little villages with stone cottages and thatched roofs and multicoloured flowers fluttering in the garden. From an open white-framed window between the afternoon birdsong came a summery blast of Mr Acker Bilk's A Taste of Honey. To round off the English countryside visit, we stopped for a spot of tiffin' in a delightful little place in Broadway. It was the high spot of the afternoon traditional English tea at a tiny eatery where a lady owner and her school-marmish daughters smiled, giggled and served us. There were sandwiches and a range of cakes. We brown sahibsand memstidily polished off plain scones with jam and clotted cream, shortbread, apricot crumble and many cups of hot Earl Grey from a pot! It was a fairytale ending to a fairytale day!

Splendour in stone

October 24, 2009

Gangaikondacholapuram resonates with the tales of a legendary father and son The sculpture calls out to me. Carved in stone is the story of a devout cowherd called Chandesa who worships an icon of Shiva on sand and anoints it with milk. His father angrily strikes him, and Chandesa retaliates. His staff turns into an axe, chopping off his fathers legs, just when Shiva lands on the scene and accepts him into his fold. When the guide finishes his narration, it seems just another tale from Indian mythology; but it does not end there. See the sculpture carefully; the cowherd is a prince, and the prince is the great Rajendra Chola 1, he says, explaining that this could be an allegory. Engraved in stone is the coronation ceremony of Rajendra Chola 1, graced by Shiva and Parvati as the prince dedicates all his laurels to them. The sculpture that depicts this celebrated moment is the famous Chandesanugraha murthi panel from the Brihadeshwara temple. I am in Gangaikondacholapuram, the long-lost Capital

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of Rajendra Chola 1, which has mysteriously disappeared leaving behind this mammoth temple. King of the world This was the town that once ruled all of India up to the Gangetic plain, and also Sri Lanka, the Maldives, Malaysia and Indonesia. When Rajendra Chola 1 conquered the Gangetic plain, he built a lookalike of the Brihadeshwara temple (built by his father, Raja Raja Chola I) in his new-found capital, Gangaikondacholapuram. However, he did not complete the temple. The towering 180-feet-tall Vimana seems to touch the sky. A majestic Nandi obstructs our gaze. A few gardeners tend to the lawn, while we soak in the ambience. Various forms of Shiva captured in different moods stand out in the artistic mosaic. A giant lion-shaped sculpture, called Simhakinar, in the form of the Chola emblem stares at you. This is the way the defeated kings used to go down, and pour the water they brought from the Ganga, says the guide. I peer down, and see a flight of steps leading through a tunnel into a huge well filled with murky water. Huge reservoir Rajendra built another huge reservoir, which was about 22 km long, and the armies used elephants to bring water from the river. He had brought back more than 1,000 pots of holy Ganga water, and performed the Kumbabhishekam, adds my guide. We move on looking for the palace, and reach a small mound close by called Malligai medu, near a small village called Ulkottai. A spectacle of sand and rocks greet us. Recent excavations Recent excavations have unearthed some priceless treasures, which are now sheltered in a small hut near the temple complex where the State ASIs museum is. A Buddha stands on the stony pavement along with some banana vendors as we enter the hut. Smiling silently at me is the King himself from a painting against the wall. The image stays with me as we drive down the highway.

Sounds of silence

February 27, 2010

Spend a quiet retreat in the hills of Wayanad, listening to nature conduct its rich symphony The woods are dark and deep; the roads smooth and steep. A narrow, long-winding path up the hills takes you to Wayanad, the land which once was an expanse of paddy fields. Home to coffee and tea planters, the wealth of this place on the Western Ghats at an altitude of about 2,000 metres above mean sea level is nature at its unadulterated best. Many waterfalls, peaks, valleys, caves, a wildlife sanctuary and a museum dot this spice destination in Kerala, which is still to see commercialism gain roots at a greedy pace. Homestays, however, are here to stay. From just about 10 five years ago, there are over 50 homestays now; the trend is in.

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It takes two-and-a-half hours by road from Kozhikode to reach Glenora, a Mahindra homestay. Three German Shepherds guard the five-star rated abode from an enclosure at a safe distance. The still of a misty morning forecasts good things to come; the first is a warm welcome by the host, Mr. Rajagopal. The next is tea, which is pronounced with such sweetness and offered with such reverence that you receive it like a celestial potion under the clouds. With every sip of tea, tuned-in ears can hear the birdsong from the balcony overlooking the mountains and towering trees. The accommodation is a neat cottage built on stone stilts. Food is strictly not served in the room as creepy crawlies could invade the squeaky-clean confines. Instruction is pasted on the glass door to never leave it open in the evenings when the light is on inside. A violation of this could invite shockingly huge bugs, which would find you better company than their contemporaries of the familiar wild. Jungle nights As night falls, the birds go to sleep. It is time for animals to live up to their names. Bears, leopards, elephants roam the distant jungle; you could hear their sounds, even better, imagine being surrounded by them. The heart skips a beat every so often, right through if you choose to stay awake. The noises of the night, even the silence, are strange. Touching upon the basics, the foremost is food. Mrs. Jayarani Rajagopal manages the kitchen, which is compartmentalised into three sections, for vegetarian and non-vegetarian purposes. She is a perfect host who believes that appetising food effectively communicates. To assist her in the kitchen is Anil, also a skilled driver. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are by the clock. So different is the homestay from a hotel that its ambience exudes a sense of ease. Getting personal is spontaneous and food is enjoyed at length over unrelated conversations. When the table is set, one can expect to see a mlange of colourful dishes, each with its own distinct aroma, taste and style. How is time tackled at a homestay? Time does wait if you intend not to do much. Close to Glenora is Sunrise Valley. Sunset is also beautiful when, from the summit, you see the Chaliyar meandering through the deepest part of the valley against the backdrop of a golden sky. Dark boulders on the water way below look like elephants crossing the river. Far across the mountains ahead is Udhagamandalam. Jeep rides with Mr. Rajagopal are an experience. Speeding past lush-green tea gardens makes you wonder if global warming is a matter of the past. Tea dust in one kg packets costs Rs. 90 at the roadside outlets adjoining the estates. The same in a glossy wrapper elsewhere in Wayanad is Rs. 130! Enlightening experience Trekking is enlightening with a host whose local knowledge is immense. When he shows you pepper, betel, cinnamon, clove and lemon grass growing one beside the other, you sense the scent in the oxygenated air is therapeutic. Deep breathing comes naturally. A relaxed walk to the 40-acre coffee plantation owned by the host teaches one to appreciate life for what it is. The mesmerising cup of coffee in our hands on a routine day has come a long way. Ripe burgundy berries that transform into hard brown beans to produce the classic aroma of coffee when roasted is a story by itself. Interesting hours go by discussing the grading of beans for in-country and export markets.
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Glenora's flower garden is a lover's delight. There is a flower of every colour, and roses the size of lotus. Even poinsettias adorn a leafless tree. Fruit trees in the surroundings are mostly organic, maintained by Mr. Rajagopal and his wife. The coffee drying yard in front of their house is so vast, it could well serve as a helipad. Wayanad's flora, fauna and heritage can heartily be explored in one visit. Distances could be covered easily if the accent is on sight-seeing. Peace and quiet are always near. When man and nature co-exist in harmony, the ordinary appears like a fantasy. In Wayanad, you could wish for the wind to play music and the waters to flow without a murmur, and watch it happen. Time waits. Places to see Neelimala Viewpoint 7 km; Kanthanpara falls 8 km; Meenmutty falls 10 km; Phantom Rock 13 km; Chembra Peak 17 km; Edakkal Caves 18 km; Karapuzha Dam 18 km; Sentinel Rock falls 20 km; Pookote Lake 28 km; Wayanad Wildlife Sanctuary 38 km For reservations: See www.mahindrahomestays.com or contact Mr. Rajagopal at +919447145448. Call toll free number of Mahindra Homestays: 1800-425-2737

Splendour in stone
RANJINI MANIAN

February 28, 2010

The temples and statues of Angkor Wat and Angkor Thom still weave a mysterious spell across the centuries What to do over a three-day weekend? Angkor Wat's the answer! Just a hop across from Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur or Singapore. As you come in to land at Siem Reap (pronounced Si-em-Ri-ep), views of Khmer houses on spindly legs, built to handle the summer monsoon, set amidst endless greenery, is your first aerial sight. Angkor means city of temples, Wat means monastery said our guide, as we drove out of the luxurious Raffles Grand Angkor Hotel. Siem Reap, Cambodia's once-sleepy town, has become a huge tourist attraction as it is home to what is arguably the eighth wonder of the world. Wikipedia says Angkor comes from the word nokor', which has its origin in the Sanskrit nagara' or capital. Embellished by time I had heard of leCambodgeas a student in Paris, three decades ago, as Angkor was a French discovery'; it has been fashionable for the French to visit always. But Indians have only recently realised our reflected glory in the bas-relief carvings of the Mahabharata and the Ramayana on the walls of the amazing Angkor Wat temple, which has stood, nay, been embellished by, the passage of time.

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And what an immense chunk of time that is. It was as long ago as the 12th Century when the Hindu influence reached this far. The Vishnu in the Parikrama holds a conch and discus in his hands, yet his face (or is it the hairstyle?) resembles the Buddha more than the other avatars we know. Here a Saraswati, there a Lakshmi, now Hanuman, then Brahma, and, of course, the ubiquitous Ganesh they are all present in intricate detail on the walls within this grand structure whose dome represents Mount Meru. The reflection of these towers in the lily-filled water body in front is breathtaking and we marvel at the steep steps leading to the top which we negotiate in the spirit of cautious adventure. Angkor Thom is the old big city (Thom means big in Khmer) close by and the gateway to it has a row of majestic Gods and Demons 54 lined up on each side of the road, representing the legend of the Milky Ocean churned with Kalinga, the serpent, as a rope to bring forth the pot of Amrita or nectar of Immortality. We are awestruck by the gargantuan statues, many decapitated, some with modern cement heads in lieu of the lost ones, others left enigmatically headless. A revelation Next comes the Bayon temple inside Angkor Thom, built by Jayavarman VII, the Mahayana Buddhist king. Angkor Wat looked impressive as a structure right away when we drove in from Siem Reap airport, but Bayon looks like piles of stones until you climb in and upwards, when it reveals its true beauty. What is the secret beauty that comes alive when we see 216 faces of Lord Avalokiteshwara? It is the smile, despite the rocky countenance, that weaves a spell, and at least one seems to be directed at you! Scrambling over the rocks, Tomb Raider style (the film was shot in these Khmer temples), we pose in front of one of the faces where a funny photo session ensues with our guide, our profiles seem to meet that of a face, Eskimo-style in this trick photo opportunity area. Surprising familiarity Cambodians seem to know more of Hindu mythology than we Indians do though they are 96 per cent Buddhist. The Tuk-tuk driver speaks of saving and exiling fathers, Vasudeva and Dasharatha, while talking of the lives of Krishna and Rama, with the ease of discussing current affairs. His English is tinted with an American accent and his small talk is dotted with these Hindu stories. How many auto drivers or city dwellers would know as many details or think it cool' enough to speak of them, we wonder? For all tourists, Tuk-tuks are a must-travel, the Old Market is a must-browse, Cambodian silk a must-buy and spa massages a must-have while you drink in the splendour of Angkor. For us Indians especially, Indian Renaissance 2.0 is the need of the hour, along with our Web 2.0 capability,and a trip to Angkor inspires this deep driving desire. The writer is Founder- CEO of www.globaladjustments.com

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Khusrau: The shadow of power

Power, then as now, brings its own price. Neither life nor death was kind to this unfortunate son of Jehangir. Aroon Raman recounts one of the most tragic yet inspiring stories to come out of Mughal India... At 18, Khusrau was everything his father was not: personable, brave, and a talented battlefield commander. The Great Fort, Agra, August 28 1605. Inside the gilded chambers of the Royal Quarters a man lay on his bed, dying. Select queens of the zenanaand senior courtiers were gathered around, as was a younger man of royal countenance in his mid-thirties. It was upon him that the gaze of the sinking man finally rested. He was not to know, even if he was in any position to reflect on it, that the prince had been smuggled into the room in the nick of time. He raised his head painfully and nodded, beckoning the prince forward. With a servant supporting him reverently, the sick man placed the robes and turban of kingship in the younger man's hands in a formal yet curiously tender gesture. Then he fell back on the cushions; his eyes roved around the room one last time before glazing forever. The wails of the women from the anteroom began, marking the end of one of the defining reigns in the annals of Hindustan. For almost half a century, Jalaluddin Mohammed Akbar had been master of the largest empire since Asoka. He was the greatest of the Mughals, an empire-builder of genius, whose name shines undimmed through the passage of centuries not just for what he achieved by force of arms, but for the brilliant administrative edifice through which he governed, and for the religious syncretism and tolerance that he brought to polity. Akbar was a man far in advance of his time. So potent was his persona that only those most gifted and possessed of a strong sense of self-worth could stand up to him. It was a trait that was to have fateful consequences for his heirs. Akbar had three sons: Salim, Murad and Daniyal, born to him in 1569, 1570 and 1572 respectively. Yet, by 1605 only Salim still lived; the other two had self-destructed through addiction to opium and alcohol. At the time of his father's death, Salim too had become over-fond of stimulants and subject to the most capricious mood swings when in the grip of arrack and opium. Between 1600 and 1605 he also led a series of revolts against Akbar, and war between father and son was averted only through the intervention of Akbar's senior begums, and by Salim's own realisation that he was militarily no match for his father. In despair over the succession, Akbar's mind turned to one who, by widespread consent, had all the requisite qualities to succeed him: Salim's eldest son Khusrau. Khusrau was born in October 1587 to Salim and Man Bai, a Rajput princess from Amber. She was reportedly highly strung, but no trace of this showed in her son in the early years. Khusrau soon grew up to be a court favourite. Edward Terry, a clergyman at the Mughal court writes of him: He had a pleasing presence and excellent carriage, was exceedingly beloved of the common people, their love and delight. At 18, Khusrau was everything his father was not: personable, brave, and a talented battlefield commander.

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Struggle for power Inevitably, in the years just prior to Akbar's death his court was a political cauldron, a snakepit of intrigue between the rival camps of Salim and Khusrau. So distressed was Man Bai at the vicious infighting that she committed suicide by an overdose of opium in May 1605. By October, the succession was poised on a knife-edge. Salim was backed by Akbar's senior wives who wielded considerable power behind the scenes; Khusrau by the duo of Man Singh, the Raja of Amber, and Aziz Khan Koka (Khusrau's uncle and father-in-law respectively). These two were amongst the most influential nobles in the Mughal durbarand Khusrau's star seemed clearly in the ascendant. Khusrau himself was convinced that he was destined to be the next ruler of Hindustan, addressing his own father in terms of equality as Bhai' or brother rather than as a father. No sooner was Akbar laid to rest than events began to move at breakneck speed. At a meeting of the senior umracalled to decide the succession, Akbar's handing of the robes of kingship to Salim tipped the scales in favour of the Salim faction, which carried the day. On November 2, 1605, Salim ascended the Mughal throne as Nuruddin Mohammed Jahangir Padshah Ghazi. One of the first acts of the new Emperor was to have Prince Khusrau confined to his quarters in the fort, with only his wife to keep him company. Chroniclers at Jehangir's court record dismissively Khusrau's descent into melancholy at this time, even attributing it to deficiencies in character inherited from his mother's side. But this was a young man who had been offered a giddy vision of power afforded to very few, encouraged by many, including his illustrious grandfather, to believe in his manifest destiny only to have it crushed in the space of just hours. Whatever be the reason, Khusrau's character now underwent a shift as the disappointment ate into him like a cancer. Goaded on by a wide network of informants and sympathisers, he made his move on April 15, 1606. During a visit to the tomb of his grandfather Akbar at Sikandra near Delhi, he slipped past his guards and, with a small band of soldiers faithful to him, struck out northwest towards Lahore. The rebellion The news of Khusrau's flight sped through the country like wildfire. Malcontents of every kind disaffected Chugtai and Rajput clans and several frontier tribes flocked to his banner as did some senior Akbar loyalists. However, Khusrau did not foresee the swiftness of the Mughal response. For once, Jahangir acted with speed and decision. The newly appointed governor, Dilawar Khan, raced from Agra to Lahore in just 11 days and strengthened and sealed the defences before Khusrau's army could reach the city. Simultaneously, a punitive force of over 50,000 was assembled at Agra and launched towards the enemy. Unable to break Lahore's defences, Khusrau had no option but to turn and fight. The armies met on the north bank of the Ravi on April 27, 1606. Fighting in heavy rain, which turned the battlefield into a mud soup, the rebels were routed and Khusrau captured and brought before his father in chains. Jahangir's retribution was ruthless. The rebel soldiers

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and their commanders were impaled alive on stakes by the hundreds, and Khusrau forced to ride between the screaming men to witness their agony up close. A more fateful outcome was the summary execution of the Sikh Guru, Arjan Dev, whose only fault was to bless Khusrau on his way to Lahore; an act dictated purely by the canons of hospitality, and which in no way could be construed as supportive of the rebellion. The result was a scarring of the Sikh psyche that would reverberate for centuries. Khusrau's life was spared, but he was condemned to a fate almost as terrible. Either immediately after the rebellion or a year later, holding him complicit in a further plot against him, Jahangir ordered Khusrau blinded. In a measure of the popular feeling that Khusrau could still arouse, several voices at court, including those of Jahangir loyalists, pleaded for him to be spared. But the Emperor was adamant and in one contemporary account, the act was done by wire inserted into his eyes, causing a pain beyond all expression. He was then thrown into a dungeon. Through it all, the victim bore himself stoically, uttering not a word of remonstrance. Thus was a much-loved prince of Hindustan cauterised from the circles of power and condemned to live out the remainder of his life in darkness and obscurity. But the saga of Khusrau was not ended. Its highest moments were yet to come, and would stand testament to the extraordinary transcendence of the human spirit. Soon after the blinding of Khusrau, Jahangir possibly in a fit of remorse ordered his physicians to see if they could restore his son's vision. With their efforts, Khusrau was spared the horror of total blindness; a thin haze of light penetrated his eyes so that he lived in a shadow world where people moved as ghost images across a screen. Jehangir then even began to allow Khusrau into court, but to little effect. As the monarch observed, He showed no elevation of spirit and was always downcast and sad, so then I forbade him to see me any further Still, Khusrau was far from being reduced to a non-entity. Significantly, whenever the Mughal Emperor travelled out of Agra, the royal convoy would more often than not have Khusrau in its wake, shuffling along in leg chains. Once when Jahangir embarked on a long hunting trip, he had Khusrau walled up in a tower. This was a prince whom the ruling elite still feared for his hold on the popular imagination. Admiration for the prince had even grown since his blinding, his stoicism then and after widely commented on by observers at the time. Khusrau had another priceless asset: his wife, the daughter of Aziz Khan Koka. In the years that followed, through all their trials and tribulations, husband and wife remained passionately devoted to each other. Though Jahangir had made it clear that she was free to do as she pleased, she refused to leave Khusrau, instead tending to him lovingly, and remaining by his side even when he was walled up in the tower. The Khusrau affair And so the years passed. Then, in 1616, there occurred a series of events that came to be known as the Khusrau affair'. Jahangir had been now on the throne for 11 years. Apart from Khusrau, he had sired three sons, two of whom, Pervez and Shahriyar, were effete. The last, Khurram, was a brilliant general with exceptional military and administrative gifts. In 1615,
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he had covered himself with glory by subjugating Mewar, which had been a thorn in Mughal flesh for decades, and his claim to succeed an ageing Jahangir seemed complete. However, by this time the Emperor was only a figurehead. Real authority had long since passed, with his consent, to the woman who ruled in all but his name the Empress Nur-Jahan. And in the rise of Prince Khurram she saw a threat to her dominance. Nur-Jahan was a consummate player in the game of power. In a bid to neutralise Khurram, she approached Khusrau for the hand of Ladli Begum, her daughter by her first husband. The adventurer Pietro Della Valle has left a fascinating account of what followed. First Nur-Jahan informed Khusrau of that which he knew already: that Khurram had demanded the custody of Khusrau from Jahangir. Khurram claimed that he feared another plot against Jahangir by his half-brother. This fooled no one, for by now it was patently clear that Khusrau was incapable of mounting anything like a conspiracy. Khurram was simply taking steps to remove all rivals in his path. But Khusrau still commanded many loyalties. The same begumswho had supported Jahangir against Khusrau earlier now worked hard for his safety, and, as a compromise measure, Khusrau's custody had been given to Nur-Jahan's brother, Asaf Khan. Now if only Khusrau would consent to marry her daughter, Nur-Jahan promised him not only his freedom but also that she would throw her weight behind him in the succession. It was a master stroke by a master strategist, except that Khusrau refused. His reason for doing so stunned Nur-Jahan and her clique: love. His wife was his beacon, the one person who had stood by his side through all the years and he would have nothing whatever to do with another woman. Remember this was an age when large harems and polygamy were the undisputed norm. And the Prince's options were very likely laid out starkly before him: the throne, or at the very least freedom and luxury versus certain death. Then perhaps we can get a glimmer of the incredulity that Khusrau's answer must have evoked. His wife, according to Della Valle, begged him on bended knee to accede to Nur-Jahan's plan and save himself, but Khusrau could never be prevailed with. Throughout 161617, Nur-Jahan and Asaf Khan worked on Khusrau, but he remained steadfast in his refusal to contemplate another woman. Finally they gave up and turned instead to the pliable Shahriyar. Khusrau's usefulness to the Empress was at an end, and now she made no further effort to stall his transfer to Khurram's custody. Khusrau had effectively signed his own death warrant. In 1617, he was given over to Khurram (known now by the honorific Shah Jahan) who had him quickly moved to Burhanpur in the Deccan. Khusrau was now a man on borrowed time. The end came in January 1622. The most widely accepted account is that a slave of Shah Jahan's named Raza Bahadur sought to enter Khusrau's chambers in the middle of the night. When Khusrau refused him entry, Raza Bahadur broke open the door and rushed in with some accomplices and fell upon Khusrau. Khusrau shouted out to wake his servants and, despite his partial blindness, defended himself bravely but to no avail. He was strangled and then re-arranged on his bed to make it appear as if his death was natural. The aftermath Early next day, his wife was the first to discover him. Her shrieks soon wakened the palace. On January 29, Jahangir received word from Shah Jahan that Khusrau had died of qalanj,
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colic pains. But, as word of Khusrau's death swept across the empire, there was a public outpouring of grief as had not been seen for a long time. The popular verdict was overwhelming: murder. As far west as Gujarat, people were heard to cry for vengeance against those who had shed the blood of an innocent. Jahangir himself seems to have not been unduly distressed at the news; his ire was reserved for Shah Jahan for seeking to conceal the truth of Khusrau's death from him. On the Emperor's orders, Khusrau's body was exhumed from his makeshift grave, sent to Allahabad and consigned in a mausoleum next to his mother's in a garden, now called Khusrau Bagh. A movement soon came into being that proclaimed Khusrau a martyred saint and shrines sprang up wherever his body had rested on its way to Allahabad. So popular were these shrines that a contemporary Dutch observer wrote that both Hindus and Moslems went there in vast numbers in procession each Thursday to his worship. Until, that is, Jahangir ordered them destroyed and the worshippers driven away. Despite this attempt at canonisation, it seems fair to say that, as with life, death has not been kind to this unfortunate prince. In one of history's great ironies, the man who most likely killed him Shah Jahan is universally celebrated for leaving us with that sublime monument to man's love for a woman: the Taj Mahal. Devoted though he was to his wife Mumtaz Mahal, Shah Jahan had liaisons with many women after her death. Rather, it is in the unfolding of his brother's life, in Khusrau's searing affirmation of the centrality of one love, that we see its most enduring monument. The author is a research and innovation entrepreneur.

A leaf out of Skanzen history

21, January 2012

At the open-air museum in Skanzen, entire villages have been rebuilt the rural Hungarian homes with their exquisite furniture and architecture intact, down to the minutest detail. It is Budapest! And the morning excursion is a visit to the fascinating open air museum of Skanzen, a huge park in which villages from different regions of Hungary have been built. Devoured by curiosity we step out to discover rural Hungary and learn about the civilization of the people who had lived in the villages and market towns of Hungary during the last two hundred years. A merciless sun shone from a canopy of spangled blue and dispelling anticipation of rain and the need for a jacket, we board the antique train and head for the rich verdant country which covers 60 hectares with 274 buildings. The buildings represent the rural architecture of Hungary from the 11th to the 15th Century and further give an insight into the lifestyle of the people in the years gone by, as also expose the practical elements of traditional knowledge, the customs, crafts, and values of past communities. Harmonious mix The inhabitants of the villages here were a curious mixture of diverse race and religion: The majority of the Roman Catholics along with Protestants and Lutherans lived harmoniously together; communal living marked the lifestyle of these simple village folk, which probably accounts for the fact that the population, of which 20 per cent were craftsmen, was not dense.
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All the houses are far apart from each other and made of quarry stones or bricks with shingled roofs, or red tiles and also roofs made of broomsticks. Obviously these belong to the poor peasants. An open space in the centre with an official looking building at the side forms the market place. Market towns were important for political meetings and to celebrate events. It was the mediating culture between the rural peasants and the nobles and civilians of the free royal town. Some hundred yards further we enter a large white washed house with a red tiled roof. We step on to the verandah laid with pots of pink geraniums and in the doorway of the living room prominent is the console table with a marble surface and a mirror above. A stylish painted glass decanter with matching glasses stands on the table. Sometimes a wealthy widow occupied the main house and lived in luxury, while the less fortunate boot-maker lived with his family at the back of the house. In many such houses the quantity and variety of valuable furniture, glassware and pottery show a different way of life from that of the neighbouring villages. A two-storied building which is a rarity in Hungarian folk architecture stands in a small square in a market town, the door under the landing leads to the cellar and to the tavern. The interiors Viniculture was popular and led to vineyards; wine was stored in barrels in cellars and sold, and even measured in barrels. Next to the parlour is the dining room, and we gaze in admiration at the finery on the table laid out for a wedding feast. The tables are covered with embroidered white damask and laid with matching white crockery. The chairs and the bridal seat are of wood. The beds cabinet, the cupboard with drawers on both sides are among the most dignified pieces of civilian furniture. Affluent Jews lived in stone houses with tiled roofs and we marvel at their rich tapestry upholstered furniture and white lace counterpanes. The beds are short and narrow and stand wide apart from each other! Outside a circular well stands beside the fence from which water is drawn in the old fashioned way. The open front yard situated in the centre of the settlement represents the way of life of a peasant family from the 1880s. The thatched house has an open porch-room-kitchen-pantry layout. All rooms open from the front porch. The room is heated by a hearth and furnished like the other rooms of the unit with beds along the two opposite walls and a bench or a long chest with a table between them. Three generations lived together in the room from Spring to autumn! Besides the beds they could also sleep on the long chest under the window or on straw spread on the floor. In summer men slept in the stables. The whole interior is characterised by puritan simplicity, consisting of carved objects and homespun linen. The kitchen has a separate entrance and contains a cauldron stand with a copper cauldron used for making plum jam. Ash was collected along the back wall of the room to make lye for washing linen. Almost every house has a barn, which is used for private celebrations; now we see an antique cart which was once used for carting wine to neighbouring villages! A memorial to cholera epidemic victims, a small votive chapel stands in a prominent place in the village. We enter it and are charmed with its simple baroque interiors with its gilded stars, colourful reticular ribs and rosettes, harmonizes with the rest of the interior furnishings.

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The entire museum is spread out among wild pastures, with apple and pear trees growing in abundance. We watch enviously the rosy cheeked girls plucking succulent pears and dropping them into baskets below, and recall our hunger pangs and it's time for the promised lunch at the bakery. We get our first taste of leavened bread, fresh from the oven, eaten smothered with garlic paste and home preserves, and washed down with apple cider. Replete, we make our way to the flour mill which dates back to 1885 and was used to grind animal fodder and later converted into a house. The millers quarters and that of the flour collectors can be found on the ground floor of the four-storied building. There is a kind of monastic austerity about the place, relieved by the dense growth of tomatoes and the chilli red paprika in almost all the gardens of the houses visited. No flowers grew for the beauty alone but the beds of rosemary and thyme and the smell of paprika render the air spicy and with the late afternoon sun casting a roseate glow on the village, it seems a fantastic gateway to a fairytale herb garden picturised on some faded medieval page.

Fractured fragments of time

In Kabul, your lens can never quite capture enough.

21, January 2012

In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless history. These are my confessions, if in them I say nothing, its because I have nothing to say. Book of Disquiet, Pessoa. The Beginning I discovered Pessoa for the first time in Kabul. An unlikely place to discover the extraordinary, and yet Kabul was just that for me. It was not about the war or countless other things now synonymous with the city. I went there to live in a fractured fragment of time, all of my own, an exercise in solipsism. Why Afghanistan, I get asked. It is an extraction of an idea. Perhaps by dreaming of Kabul, I have created a space that is real in some other reality. Perhaps it is there that my narrative belongs. Like Pessoa, I narrate my factless biography. Unlike him, though, I have much to say, perhaps too many words to say too little. The ground I stand on Is the landscape just a state of emotion? In a place like Kabul, simple acts become laden with a certain complexity of choice. A trick of the mind, where everything is as it is and as it must be. Then something happens, a blast, an attack and act of aggression, and the minute fibre of belief crumbles. Apprehension eventually gives way to a negotiated inner peace. All that is left to do then is to marvel at the citys elasticity the greatest contortionist of all time. It is this negotiated sphere that makes every act of existence a subversive one. To walk the streets of Kabul unescorted and unprotected is also an act of subversion. Every single image produced on those walks is thus
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endowed with a certain irreducible historicity of oneself of myself. Every act is then an act of revolution. The landscape becomes a state of emotion. My emotion. Settlements on the hill I stand on top of Kohe Asmai in Central Kabul as the city bakes in the glow of warm yellow light and lays itself open before me. Kabul often reminds me of a watery grave where something sinks, other things float. Everything is marked, scarred, touched, sometimes just a vestige of something left behind. I jump into a cab and the driver takes me through the settlements on the hill. I urge him to stop and he warns that it is nearing dusk and stopping might be a problem. We negotiate a compromise. He would slow down and I would shoot from inside the cab. What I get are a series of images constrained by the outline of a cab window. But then, a photographer has very little choice in the finality of her image; the final relationship between objects and their images is always a result of chance, mediated by my receptivity to them. A decent happiness I step out into the receding rain, and remember lines from Creeleys Rain: of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-lust of intentional indifference. Be wet with a decent happiness. I find myself wet with a decent happiness, composing my incomplete symphonies in monochrome, and find myself turning into a reclusive clich. Despite the early noon showers, the central Kabul skyline remains vivid and active with kites. As I get closer to the Mausoleum of Nadir Shah, I see hordes of boys and men flying kites, jumping to the spontaneity of Buzkashi with sandbags. How many photographers have photographed this scene over the years? A quick internet search reveals multiple stories of the revival of kite-flying in Kabul after the fall of the Taliban. They all state in tones of forced sombreness that the Taliban had banned kite-flying and narrate this revival as a metaphor for the resurgence and renewal of something, anything and everything. These reports follow a preset pattern; some liberally borrow from on another, as if various writers came together to write and rewrite the same story over and over again. The more I see the unravelling spectacle, the more I am convinced of the fiction inherent in everything, of the false importance exhibited by all realities. These images are vernacular at best. They are not meant to stand witness to a historic time, nor meant to record the complex and the prosaic. These images are not political. Can a work of art ever be good if it has grown out of necessity? To borrow from Rilke, Surely all art is the result of ones having been in danger, of having gone through an experience all the way to the end, where no one can go any further. The present before me is a function of symmetry and asymmetry that will dictate the finality of my image. To dictate that finality, it matters that I look. Most people dont look, they identify, and very few seek meaning.

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Outsider, at home

March 13, 2010

Eminent vocalist VIDYA SHAH, recently invited to perform in Lahore as part of the Faiz Ahmed Faiz birth centenary, discovers that classical music is still tied to questions of cultural identity The instructions on the board said:  Do not throw litter, use dustbin  Do not walk on grass, use cemented surface  Photography is allowed Not an amusement park, or a museum or a botanical garden. This was at the Wagah border, instructions for everyone, including passengers on foot coming into or going out of India to Pakistan. Seems really innocuous after all the papers, permissions, waiting, angst and agony this kind of going across as opposed to taking a flight or the bus could really entail. On that I scored, given the general love that all kinds of people share for music and poetry in both countries. Really, culture needs to be taken more seriously, it cannot be just another Track on some Indo-Pak peace agenda. Invited recently to perform by the Faiz Ghar as part of events for the launch of the centenary celebrations of the phenomenal poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz, my trip to Lahore was a mix of exciting, pleasant, emotional and strange experiences. Faiz Ghar itself is an eclectic space set up in memory of Faiz to celebrate and express the culture of the country through dance, music, plastic arts, theatre and, of course, poetry. Tracing the journey of music My engagement with North Indian music genres generally has me interested in the travels of musicians at least in the last century and the transference of music across these countries. So this opportunity to perform in Lahore was indeed an honour I was happy to accept. Pakistan has also had a rich history of classical music and in fact it was in Lahore in the early 20th century that some of the best musicians of South Asia performed to very interested listeners. Partition, and with it the need to establish a separate identity, affected culture severely. So much so that it is said legendary Kirana exponent Roshanara Begum, who migrated to Pakistan, announced that she will give up her Riaz since it seemed like no one was interested in listening to her in the country and Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan decided to return to India. Also, with Partition, several Gharanedaar Muslim musicians moved to India and so did their future Hindu and Sikh patrons. Except for Radio Pakistan, music was hardly ever heard. The setting up of the All Pakistan Music Conference (APMC) way back in 1959 came in response to this situation and made it possible for yearning audiences to listen to greats like Nazakat Ali Khan, Salamat Ali Khan, Amanat Ali Khan, Fateh Ali Khan and Barkat Ali Khan. These were some serious efforts to rejuvenate the seemingly lost but rich heritage of classical music in Pakistan. These concerts and seminars are held even now. Flourishing industry A senior Professor at the beautiful red brick campus of the National College of Arts (NCA) tells me there is a lot of music in Pakistan now, particularly several emerging pop groups as
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well as Qawwali, Ghazal, but not so much of classical music which seems to be most hit by the loss of patronage and more so with State interference. Interesting this, since the NCA, which looks so much like the North campus of Delhi University, runs a course in Ethnomusicology and not in music, one discipline that we do not get to see so much in India. Of course, Qawwali and Ghazal have been very important contributions from the country, their popularity and acceptance perhaps due to their Islamic and language affiliations. I also walked down the narrow labyrinthine alleys of Heera Mandi. Until a few years back, Heera Mandi in the walled city of Lahore acclaimed for its musical heritage, now shows up on search engines as Pakistan's Sex industry. It boasted a rich tradition of classical music and indeed many famous singers, Tawaifs, were groomed and trained in its chambers. The place, despite the squalor, the dirt and the smells, is charged with an atmosphere pulsating and electric. It now comes alive with dancing to item songs from Hindi movies. Like tunnels through mountains, the paths are dark and musty but some of the old houses still remain, taking you briefly into another period of time in history. To add to this old world feeling are the several shops of Tabla and Ghungroo makers in practically every gali. But a lot has changed (just as is the case in North India) and most women have now moved to the modern areas of Lahore like Defense and Gulberg. Contradictory trend It is a curious situation where classical music has not quite come out of questions of cultural identity, its discordance with Islam, and is still to regain its form and splendour while pop music is becoming very visible and is thriving. All of these questions, particularly of identity, become very confusing and complex in my interaction with people in Lahore; I go to the Dera Saheb Gurudwara, situated opposite Lahore Fort near Badshahi Mosque. I am told I cannot enter since Muslims are not allowed here. How did they know I am one, when I am not one! At the CD shops, most of which sell pirated CDs, when I ask for Mansoor Niazi's Qawwali, they haven't heard of him and instead show me CDs of Qawwalis from old Hindi films. And at Salim's in Liberty Market, the salesman suggests that I look at cloth-materials while my Shauhar (very perplexed at this suggestion), can do the Jumme-ki-Namaaz and come back. My gracious host requests me to begin with a Khayal, as she says people would love to but do not get to hear it live so much. And of course also sing some of Begum Akhtar, of whom she has fond memories of listening to live in her childhood. A beautiful city, overwhelming warmth and hospitality. But I was confused. Should I feel like a stranger or should I feel at home? As Faiz sahib so eloquently says: hum ke thairey ajnabi itni madaraatoon ke baadphir banain gain aashnaa kitni mulaqatoon ke baad After those many encounters, that easy intimacy, we are strangers now, After how many meetings will we be that close again? (Translation: Agha Shahid Ali).

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In cardamom country
ROHINI RAMAKRISHNAN
Treat yourself to traditional Kerala cuisine and discover hidden destinations in Munnar from the comfort and luxury of Ranger Woods The journey to Munnar started when Ernakulam was left far behind. Greeted with the sight of pepper, mats of it drying in the sun, groves of banana and fields of tapioca, interspersed with rubber estates, the climb to Munnar began after a fortifying breakfast of appam and nei meenkozhambu (seer fish curry) washed down by cups of ginger tea. The beauty of this part of Kerala lay in the lush waterways and in the unbroken canopy of trees. At narrow bridges we had to wait our turn as vehicles could only go in a single line. And then there was a dramatic change in the scenery. Sheer drops, valley upon valley and mountain ranges glittering under the morning sun, the twists and turns bordered with forests, a monkey leaping across the road and as the air became colder I realised I had almost reached the Mahindra Homestay's Rangers Wood, Munnar. Just before Munnar town, the road branched out, to cross a little dam and we wound our way to a little bungalow red roofed and grey stoned hidden in a cardamom estate, with a spread of tea bushes below. My home-stay host Sunil and his mother welcomed with a tall glass of fresh orange juice and I was shown to my room roomy and comfortable with solid wooden furniture, lavenderscented linen and a bowl of fruits. Traditional fare A ramp, convenient for wheel chair users, was a thoughtful gesture and glory be, there was hot water 24 hours to combat the cold. Lunch was a traditional Kerala meal served on a banana leaf Sadya served and explained by Rajesh, the cook. Meals had to be ordered early and there was a selected menu. But it was the homely puttu, appam and iddiyappam with the simple combination of banana and milk and a little sugar that won the day. Soups, more like wholesome broths, were comforting as the cold crept in with the dusk, and the hot food that came from the kitchen below was eagerly awaited as the cold does kindle hunger. Mealtimes were made special by conversations about anything and everything lifestyle, food, recipes Copious amount of ginger tea was a favourite that made you smile with contentment as you sat in the balcony, listening to birdsong and the wind rustling through the trees, the book you brought to read lying forgotten in your lap. There was plump dusky Vellathai to pamper you by bringing trays of tea and snacks and Kumar who obligingly got rid of huge beetles that screeched like banshees. (The sound was produced when they rubbed their wings against their bodies and eventually exploded due to that very action.) Dreamy heights The trip to the Kollukumalai tea estate was nothing short of a dream, despite the boneshaking bumpy ride that could be done only by tough jeeps and drivers who had to be given a prize for manoeuvring the vehicle through sharp hair-pin bends that overlooked steep
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precipices. But the silken spread of tea that carpeted the slopes of mountains and the high ranges stood like guardians over the valley and the sharp jagged peaks that tore into the blue of the sky here was raw beauty unleashed. Before reaching the tea factory, Misapuli Malai, the second highest peak in South India, had dizzying views of Kerala on one side and Bodinayakanur on the other. Two crosses were spotted on the peak and the locals described the pilgrimage to it on Good Friday. The tea factory that was established in the 1930s produced the world's highest grown orthodox tea. A guided tour around the tea factory, cups of tea and purchase of the black gold' that cannot be got in this part of the world followed before we got ready for the ride back. The day ended with a massage and a medicated steam bath at the Swatic Ayur Care Centre that kneaded out all the knots and tense points of the body. Getting back to the cocoon of Ranger's Wood, and giving in to the sheer luxury of stretching oneself on the cosy chairs and watching the milk delivered in jeeps and the fish man doing his business on his motorbike, the wafting fragrance of spice, you could only sigh blissfully and say Ah! This is life indeed. Quick facts Location: Idukki District, Kerala Nearest airport:: Kochi International Airport -116 km Nearest railway station: Aluva (115) km Must-buys: Strawberry jam; Strawberry juice (just check that it's not coloured tomato juice) Tea: there are special varieties that are not available in the common market Travel tips The best time to visit is after the monsoons (the waterfalls will be full then). Drink lots of water as the high altitude may make you dehydrated. Take light woollen sweaters, mufflers and scarves. Contact: Toll free number: 1800 425 2737 -- www.mahindrahomestays.com

Beyond the erotic

GUSTASPJEROO IRANI

March 20, 2010

Sometimes destinations lose themselves in the legends created around them. There's much more to Khajuraho than the erotic sculptures we normally associate with it. We were in the devil's own backyard misshapen basalt and granite rocks shimmered in eerie shades of grey, green, pink and red under a wan sun and a soft mist that rose like a song. As we trekked deeper, the full scale of things dawned on us the Raneh Falls, 19 km from Khajuraho, were dry but we were gazing at one of the most incredible expanses of water erosion on the planet.
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Our original mission was to attend the Shiv Vivah on Maha Shivratri in Khajuraho, an eyeengorging re-creation of the divine duo's nuptials but we had been persuaded to undertake the trip to the Raneh Falls which, we were told, resembled a mini Grand Canyon. As we gaped at the ultimate wide open space, we derived a kind of spiritual nourishment from the sight. We walked up to the protective railing, and below us, un-ravelled a five-km gorge, 100 ft deep of pure crystalline granite, in shades of red, pink and grey which our forest guide told us was created by a volcanic eruption millions of years ago. Jade-green waters shone in the depths of the gorge which might well have been inhabited by mythical fire-breathing dragons eons ago, we mused. The still waters reflected the cliffs that soared above and we revelled in the whisper of the wind and the song of flitting birds. Our forest guide told us that some years ago, a family who had trekked down close to the gorge had been swept away when the waters of a dam on the Ken river had been released. Since then it has been mandatory for a forest guide to accompany tourists. One initially drives through the 45 sq km Ken Gharial Sanctuary carved out of Panna National Park, adjacent to the falls. If you are lucky, you may spot a burly neelgai, spotted deer and langurand the occasional gharialsun-bathing in the river. You can then carry on to the falls. Magical transformation Formed by the Ken river gushing over the oldest rocks in the world the Vindhya basalt Raneh Falls in the monsoons become innumerable misty curtains of water, casting a diamond-spangled spray for miles around. One hears the roar before coming upon the masterstroke of nature which is breathtaking in its foam-flecked, elemental power with multiple arms outstretched like an avenging angel. When we were there in February, the falls were a mere trickle but we felt dwarfed by the sight of the gorge and the rocks that polka-dot the land, imparting the feel of an untamed wilderness. Walking was an irresistible exercise, soaking up the landscape, gazing at the jade-green snaking river, for, the scene scrolling past us was largely arid and sometimes luxuriant. It prompted an outburst of clean-edged adjectives such as remote, austere, pure and verdant. We were clearly in nature's domain amidst a death-defying gorge and cruel precipices created by the seemingly endless surge of the falls in the monsoons. Occasionally, a startlingly blue bird would loop in a sky, the colour of faded denim. We left behind nature's flamboyant canvas rather reluctantly, for, time was short. We had to skip a visit to the Pandav Falls (32 km from Khajuraho) where the Pandavas, legend has it, spent one-and-a-half months in their last year in exile. But the point had been driven home there's more to Khajuraho than its erotic sculptures which have held the collective imagination of tourists (especially foreign tourists) in thrall for the last few decades. Shifting focus Yes, sometimes, a destination is overtaken by its own legend. However, local authorities like the Nagar Panchayat, Khajuraho and enlightened hoteliers like Jyotsna Suri, chairperson and managing director of the Lalit Suri Hospitality Group, are trying to move the focus away from erotica and promote a more holistic view of the destination. The recent Shiv Vivah celebrations held on Maha Shivaratri in the temple town (See box) served to highlight the fact that the celestial temples of Khajuraho were built to commemorate the divine union of Lord
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Shiva and Parvati and that there is more to this World Heritage Site than its voluptuous sculptures. The entire town was invited and the spotlight was trained not on the cavorting couples on the temple walls but the colourful baraatand the evocative wedding. Whatever the arguments for visiting the many alluring attractions around Khajuraho like the Raneh Falls and Panna National Park and Tiger Reserve, the cluster of temples nestling amidst stately trees in Khajuraho cannot be missed. They inspire emotions of awe and wonder, for, this is the pinnacle of Hindu art and sculpture, throbbing with the celebration of life. On the facades of the temples (only 22 remain of the original 85), sinuous, twisting, voluptuous forms, human and divine, hunt, feast, dance and love, unashamedly and without false modesty. The temples are monumental and were built with rudimentary tools, sculpted and ornamented on every surface. Yet the amorous erotica forms just five percent of the sculptures and various theories have been advanced to explain their existence. The idea, scholars say, was to show the emptiness of human desire; that the robust Chandelas who built and carved the temples in a spurt of creativity between 950 AD and 1050 AD were Tantrics. Or that having reached the peak of their power, the Chandelas raised the temples to venerate their gods with all the fervour of a virile people. But the Chandela kingdom was snuffed out like a candle in the year 1100AD. By 1200 AD, the Sultans of Delhi were ruling over the kingdom where the Chandelas had lived, loved, fought and triumphed and built their extravagances in stone. Why were the temples built, why the profusion and what impelled those long-ago kings to create such beauty in stone? The stones jealously guard their secret. They refuse to speak. Fact File Khajuraho is connected by air with Delhi and Varanasi. Jhansi (175km) is a far more convenient railhead for those travelling from Delhi and Chennai. Passengers travelling on the Mumbai-Kolkata line via Allahabad should disembark at Satna (117km). State transport and private buses as well as private taxis ply between Khajuraho and Jhansi/ Satna. Luxury hotels can provide cars to visit local attractions. There are a few five-star hotels in Khajuraho. However, most of the events of the Shiv Vivah are held at the luxury 47-room Lalit Temple View (Tel: +91 11 4444 7777, Web: http://www.thelalit.com) which organises the show in conjunction with the Nagar Panchayat, Khajuraho.

A dreamy Dutch day-out

APARNA KARTHIKEYAN Over 5,000 acres full of woodlands, grasslands, lakes, a museum and enough cycles to take you wherever you want to go: The Hoge Veluwe in The Netherlands makes an ideal getaway... What do you do when you're in a remarkably stunning location, surrounded by scenery so dramatic that it would easily make poets and painters out of the common man? I don't know about you perhaps you would whip out your PDA and quickly compose an ode but I generally find a nice, stout rock, sit down and sob. Beauty, you see, moves me immensely.
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Usually, it's just very, very embarrassing, particularly for the people I'm with; but on three separate occasions all of them at the Hoge Veluwe, Netherlands' magnificent National Park it cost me quite dearly. The Hoge Veluwe (very tricky to pronounce, plus the Dutch laugh anyway), bang in the middle of the tiny country, is as a good majority of the locals insist its loveliest bit. Acres and acres of woodlands, picture-perfect lakes, a world-class museum, lots of lovely grassland, and, as if that weren't enough, the largest drifting sands in all of Europe make-up the 5,500 hectare Park. And this being Holland, it's got (naturally!) heaps of bicycles. Except, you don't just ride any old thing here the Veluwe is famous for its 1,700 witte fietsen (white bicycles), up for grabs free of cost, all around the park. Apparently, a professional cyclist, Jack van der Slikke, was involved in designing these recreational bicycles, and the simple, sturdy design is brilliant, except for one titchy problem all of them are fitted with leg brakes. And that, trust me, is vastly annoying, especially if you're: (1) rubbish at riding cycles with leg-brakes; (2) blinded by tears whenever it gets overwhelmingly beautiful (which at the Veluwe is just about always). A thing of beauty Given its diverse landscapes, colours and textures, the Veluwe is fascinating any time of the year. We timed our first visit to catch the riotous autumn foliage fade into an ascetically stark winter, in a marvellous flurry of leaves. The next time, we were lucky to witness early spring flowers and lusty bird-songs announcing the end of a raw, nasty winter; and our last visit coincided with the soft-spring colours blossoming into a gloriously lush summer. Arriving at the park nice and early, we would grab a cycle each, and spend the whole day on the saddle. At least, that's what the others did. I would get terribly distracted by the sunlight dancing on the coppery-gold forest floor; I would pause to sniff the pungent, gaudily coloured mushrooms and the gloriously scented heaths; and my eyes would well-up at the sight of the gorgeous lake, its still waters reflecting the handsome Hunting Lodge. For weeks afterwards, the family would teasingly recall how I was behind them one minute, furiously pedalling away, and the next, they would find me by the tracks, a loudly moaning humtydumpty, startling wildlife for miles around Fact File Just over an hour's drive from Amsterdam, the Veluwe - with its exceptionally lovely walking and cycling paths - is also wellconnected by public transport (take a train to Apeldoorn, hop on to bus 108 to Hoenderloo, switch to bus 106, which takes you to the park). The park is open round the year. The entry price (adults ? 7.50, children ? 3.75) includes a visit to the museum at the visitor's centre. (For details, please refer www.hogeveluwe.nl) Surreal landscape Given my penchant for tumbling down, I was, not surprisingly, strictly forbidden from carrying the camera and I still regret not clicking a picture of that inexplicably twisted tree, patiently sculpted over the years by howling winds, a lone, misshapen monument in the middle of that great, sandy desert. Or for that matter, that narrow, winding cycle-path in the woods, where the tall, leafy branches came together to form an orange-brown dome, the
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showy autumn colours sharply contrasting the spongy moss-green ground. Could you really blame the husband for asking, in an awe-stricken whisper, pinch me somebody, or am I in a dream-land?' It did feel like a dream, a dream originally conceived by Helene Mller and Anton Krller, who, before their death in the late 1930s, bequeathed the land all 5,000+ hectares, and the museum with its priceless Van Gogh collection to the country. Thanks to their magnanimity, visitors now enjoy the rare masterpieces in surreal surroundings and if lucky, catch a glimpse or two of the park's red deer and wild boar. But we never saw themI suppose it's fair to assume that they run far away from cyclists who fall over noisily and cry because it's so incredibly beautiful

A city like no other

ZERIN ANKLESARIA

March 20, 2010

A fitting tribute to Allahabad where civilisational streams have merged to create a composite culture. More than any other Indian city Allahabad, through its long and varied history, has meant different things to different people. As the ancient Prayag at the confluence of the sacred rivers, it was central to Hinduism; while its strategic location gave it special importance from the viewpoint of conquest and governance. Buddhism was dominant periodically during the pre-Christian era and coins found at the site indicate Greek and Hun invasions. In the Mughal period, it acquired a strong Islamic character when Akbar changed its name to Ilahabas and built the great Fort overlooking the Sangam. These and other avatars of the city as an administrative hub during the Raj, a focal point of the Freedom Struggle, and a centre of literary creativity in Hindi, Persian and Urdu are covered in a series of well-informed essays that transcend mere scholarship, for they include embedded narratives, crypto-histories, legends as the Editor puts it, flotsam stories cast upon its riverine banks by the advancing and receding waters of time. The approach is imaginative, often irreverent, a welcome change from the general run of books on Indian cities which tend to be pompous, even hagiographic. Kumbh Mela To the common mind Allahabad has always been identified with the Kumbh Mela, the largest gathering of worshippers to be found anywhere, a stupendous spectacle attracting visitors from all over the world. Megasthenes, the Greek ambassador to the court of Chandragupta Maurya, visited it in the 4th century BCE and, millennia later, Mark Twain marvelled at the faith that could impel the old, the frail, the disabled, to journey such distances seeking salvation. The Mahatma had his own unique perspective. Arriving at the Mela was a great moment for me. I have never tried to seek holiness or divinity as a pilgrim, but 17 lakhs of people cannot be hypocrites. Nowadays it is seen as the first experimental nexus between dot-com technology and centuries-old collective ritual. Though the Sadhus carry cell phones and laptops, the piety and fervour remain undiminished.
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Akbar realised Allahabad's strategic value in keeping the eastern provinces of his empire under control and stayed on frequently. Later Prince Salim set up a rival court here in defiance of his father and ordered the execution of the latter's closest confidant Abul Fazl. The wars of succession among the sons of Shah Jahan were fought in the environs of the city, and they conceded victory to Aurangzeb when he captured the Fort. Since architecture is essentially a power statement it evolved in consonance with political changes. Akbar laid the foundation of the magnificent Fort-palace and personally supervised the construction of many of its buildings. 20,000 workers were employed, and the project is said to have taken 45 years to complete. Today only the Rani Mahal remains. Four structures commissioned by Prince Salim stand outside the Fort in Khusrau Bagh, named after the most ill-starred of Mughal princes. Blinded and imprisoned by his father Jahangir and murdered by Shah Jahan's flunkies, he lies entombed here in peace. With the coming of the British the city grew in importance, becoming the capital of the United Provinces in 1858. As it turned into a garrison town and an administrative centre its Islamic palaces and mosques were put to more practical uses, and churches, bungalows, clubs and marble monuments, the potent emblems of Imperialism, dotted the city. Fanny Parkes, arriving here earlier, found the Civil Station pretty and well-ordered and the roads the best in India. The numerous servants were a welcome luxury (some memsahibs employed more than 30) and in the bracing winter she went sketching, galloped round the racecourse and came home to tea before a comforting fire. Summer, however, was a dreaded time of suffocating heat, illness, particularly cholera, and death. The 1857 Mutiny This seemingly stable lifestyle was swept away in 1857 when Allahabad became one of the great centres of the nascent move towards Independence. The fine chapter titled Vande Bharatam captures the surge and excitement of this and later events leading up to 1947. There was the curious case of the maulvi who set up his sultanate here during the Mutiny and claimed to be the representative of the Mughal Emperor, and from 1905 onwards huge rallies were addressed by Tilak, Lajpat Rai, Gokhale and others. And how did the common man react to such upheavals? With Gandhian idealism and the secularism exemplified by Allahabad's first family, the Nehrus. These values were also nurtured at the University, a distinguished training ground for India's future bureaucrats and professionals. Many are the stories told with eloquence and humour about its eccentrics, its legendary figures and vibrant intellectual life. There was the pseud who carried a copy of Dostoevsky's The Idiot into the Coffee House on three consecutive days and was caustically advised not to display his autobiography so conspicuously. Another student, uncertain about the usage of the', stopped a professor to ask, Please Sir, what is time?' and was treated to a two-hour lecture on Time, Space and other profundities. The book is unique in achieving a fine balance. Though it does full justice to the historic past and to the greatness of the Nehrus or Tej Bahadhur Sapru it is about ordinary people too, and the approach is never cloyingly sentimental or worshipful. The Editor's prose, lyrically evocative, is a pleasure to read, and other contributors share her stylistic felicity and passion
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for the subject. Allahabad is a fitting tribute to a great city where civilisational streams have converged like the waters of its holy rivers. I must visit it some day! Allahabad: Where the Rivers Meet; Edited by Neelam Saran Gour, photographs by Rajesh Vora, Marg Publications, Rs. 2500.

Memories of colonial Madras

RADHA PADMANABHAN
Madras of the 1930s and 1940s was a different city. Looking back on a time of silent films, convent schools and the first whiff of the freedom movement. I have only memories. No photographs going back to the early 1930s when I was a child. Memories of white men with cropped hair, in dust-coloured khaki, riding chocolate-brown horses, up and down, patrolling the Government Estate on Mount Road. This scene is vividly etched in my mind as we lived on Ellis Road, off Mount Road, opposite Elphinstone Theatre. The English name is still in use and has not been traded to please today's narcissistic politicians. Elphinstone Theatre. Silent films where music was played during the interval by an orchestra composed of Anglo-Indian boys. At the end, we stood up obediently to the strains of God Save the King. I studied at St. William's European Middle School on Peter's Road near the Royapettah Hospital. My father took me to meet the headmistress Mother Margaret, an Irish nun. He dressed up in a full suit with a waistcoat and a pocket watch tucked in it. He took his hat off and greeted her. Name changes She looked at him and smiled and said, I am going to call your daughter, Peggy. It is the short form of my own name Margaret. And so Peggy I was till I joined college. My siblings' names were also changed. My eldest sister Indira was Hilda, Hemalata became Annie, my elder brother Niranjan James and my younger brother, Siddharth, was Sid. All Hindus had their names changed. My classmate Chandra was Sandra and Palaniswamy was Teddy. Our names were difficult to remember and impossible to pronounce. Royapettah was more or less an Anglo-Indian locality. Peter's Road had a number of small bungalows where the more well-to-do Anglo Indians lived. Andy's Street, which still retains its name, had small houses that opened onto the street. How unselfconsciously I admired the little houses with their flowered curtains and dining rooms, tables laid with English crockery, spoons and forks and sparkling glass tumblers! At home we sat on wooden planks on the floor and ate with our hands off banana leaves. We were never allowed to even sip from tumblers. In 1939, we moved to Lloyd's Road. I was admitted to the St. Columban's European High School, one of the earliest convent schools in Madras. By this time, the winds of freedom had begun to waft towards us and we realised that we were not a free nation.
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So at School Assembly two songs were sung, the words of which some of us changed. God save the King became God shave the king. The other claimed that Britain's right to rule over other nations was God's charter: For Britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves. We delighted in singing for Britons ever, ever, shall be slaves before the unsuspecting nuns. St. Columban's was in George Town. I used to go by tram, which was fairly empty except for a bunch of Anglo-Indian girls. The trams rolled so smoothly that some of us would finish our written homework before reaching school. We knew the tram conductors well and some of them would allow the more adventurous girls to drive the tram for a short distance. On a recent visit to St. Columban's, I found my school, which was built more than 100 years ago, still looking as good as new. Only I seem to have grown old. Was it because the building was built of stone, I wonder? In the 1940s, we shifted to a house on Ramakrishna Mutt Road, then known as Brodies Road in Robertsonpet. Brodies Castle and all the houses on Greenways Road were the residences of the British. Although we often took walks down Greenways Road, we never saw a single white person. The houses were set so deep inside that one could not even catch a glimpse of them. It was as if they never existed. But I did meet an English girl accidentally on the Marina. Before sunset, cars would arrive and ayahswith their little British charges would get down and walk on the sands. The toddlers would play with buckets and shovels while they gossiped: black ayahsin spotless white saris, fair bonnie toddlers with golden hair, the blue sea and sky and the golden sands. A girl of about my age (I was then seven) stood nearby bored. The English usually sent older children back to England or to a boarding school in the hills. Strange meeting It was strange to see a girl of my age there. Suddenly the girl came up to me and held out her hand as if to give me something. I stretched out my palm to receive it. All hell broke loose. The ayahs jumped up and shooed me away. I opened my palm and saw what she had given me. It was a sea shell. Was it given in friendship? Or was it a symbol of the only worthwhile British legacy perhaps, the gift of the English language? And then suddenly and swiftly Madras was evacuated. The threat of an attack by Japanese in 1942 loomed large. The city became an empty, lonely, dangerous place to live in especially with the mandatory blackouts. Most people left the city to seek shelter with relatives. Air raid wardens patrolled the roads in jeeps to check whether any light shone from any window and to see that the blackout was observed properly And just as suddenly Madras was back to normal. World War 2 was over .A wave of excitement and anticipation of freedom gripped all of us as we took part in the Quit India movement, by not attending classes, learnt to weave khadi and wore it. And on the evening of August 1947, bright lights shone all over Madras. The trams ran free and were over loaded with joyous people who had come to have a glimpse of a brilliantly lit city. The Madras of the 1930s and 1940s was a different city altogether. It does not exist anymore. It has changed and appropriately its name has also been changed. It lives only in memories
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Heady cocktail
VAASANTHI

March 27, 2010

South Africa is all set to host the FIFA Soccer World Cup in June. With the added attraction of a temperate climate, the beaches, mountains and the vineyards, it makes an ideal getaway this summer South Africans love folk tales and Cape Town is full of them you have dime a dozen for every occasion, every mood of even the weather. You can never be sure of the weather whatever may be the season. You could have, in fact, all the four seasons in a day, says Ella, our guide. That is because of the play of the devil. A Dutchman went out to smoke his pipe. A devil came and they started playing poker. They played and played and smoked and darkened the sky. When there is a cloud, people say that the devil's poker game is on. When you see the pearly white beaches and the brilliant aquamarine blue of the seas fringed with frothing, snow-white water bubbles, the awe-inspiring Table Mountain as a backdrop, the chilling winds wafting from the Atlantic, and the low-roofed, spotless, grey-coloured Dutch houses that are more than a hundred years old, it does seem you are in a bygone secluded world that is pure and pristine, uncomplicated and idyllic, that makes any tale of yore seem plausible. Yet, this is the land that was witness to a turbulent 350 years of recorded history, its pages taking a dramatic turn with the entry of the seafaring Europeans, the resultant conflicts, greed, terror, aggression, settlements pushing away the natives to the interiors, colonial rule of apartheid brutal racism at its worst, that lasted till 1994 the rise of mass revolt under the iconic Nelson Mandela and the declaration of Independence and the present state of near chaos. Tales from different yarns must have got entangled, like the language that emerged Afrikaans, a cocktail of Zulu, Dutch, German, Portuguese and the Huguenots, and even Malaysian. Delve deeper, the place is schizophrenic European but not European, African but not African a volatile mixture of the third and first worlds. There is a sense of history everywhere, scars hidden in its quaint architecture, in its cafs, parks and gardens, markets and road-side restaurants in remote villages. There is something more temperate climate all the year round, mountains, magnificent surf beaches and outstanding vineyards. Excellent roads that connect every remote village that is well preserved, with friendly restaurants that serve delightful Dutch cuisine Reasons why it is the recipient of the 2008 Best Destination in Africa award. Cape Town is now busy preparing to host the 2010 FIFA Soccer World Cup and a superb stadium is at present under construction. You see it screaming everywhere in billboards, posters and fluttering flags from poles along the roads. The early morning sun through the hotel window gives a breathtaking view of the Table Mountain and the bright blue sea beyond. The Table Mountain that one has seen on the television screen during the telecast of cricket matches in South Africa stands live in front of me. A flag of FIFA world cup flutters in full view beyond the hotel entrance. Memorable experience A drive along the Atlantic Ocean's beach with the view of the 12 apostles of the Table Mountain following you as a soothing companion is a daunting experience. The beach is
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special because of the exquisite beauty of the colour of the sea, the cold wind from the Atlantic Ocean that gets cut by the summer easterly wind from the Indian Ocean. The houses facing the beach come for a price anywhere from five to 15 million Rands. You have to pay for the view says Ella. Madonna and Michael Jackson have houses here. We are all geared up for the trip in the cable car up the Table Mountain and down. But Ella warns us to keep our fingers crossed; the winds are unpredictable and if the winds were dangerously strong the cableway service would be unceremoniously cancelled. She hastens to add that ever since the cable way was opened in 1929 there has not been a single accident. She also frightens us to full measure narrating stories of how the strong winds can drive one insane the reason said to be the cause of many suicides that have occurred here. We are lucky after all, the devils didn't play their tricks, and the winds are behaving and off we go in the cableway. It is hard to explain the experience. The view from the top is phenomenal. The grand mountains above that come nearer, the mist that circles the peaks and wafts like white smoke, the green-and-blue sea below and the vegetation around are a scenic beauty the like of which I have not seen anywhere in the world. It is exhilarating. Ella tells us that the mountain is home to over 1400 species of flowering plants. We drive to Hout Bay the next morning for a launch trip. By now we are convinced that the Atlantic coast of the Cape Peninsula is the most spectacular coastal scenery in the world. The combination of mountains and beaches is irresistible. Hout Bay opens up behind the almost vertical Sentinel, and the steep slopes of Chapman's Peak. We cross the satellite town that still has a village atmosphere and notice the Dutch names of the streets and restaurants. The sea is rough and the launch wobbles and we remain seated inside the glassed cabins for a while watching helplessly at the waves lashing at the windowpanes. When the winds appear toned down we venture out to the deck to take a few pictures of the roaring sea and the seals that have come to sun themselves on some rocklike elevated surface. Fellow traveller Periaswamy is busy video-graphing when a burst of wave rises and alights ferociously on his side, almost toppling him and down goes Periaswamy's video camera into the Atlantic slipping away from his arm. We are shocked and sad but console him that he should thank his stars [or the devils] thathe didn't get drowned after all. Tryst with history We head towards Cape of Good Hope. I am quite excited, being familiar with its historical and geographical importance from school days. Francis Drake's chronicler described the Cape of Good Hope as The most stately thing and the fairest cape we saw in the whole circumference of the earth.' The whole journey to the Cape is a visual feast to the eyes, dotted with lily-white blooms known as everlasting flowers' because they remain fresh for days. You find groups of small Jackass penguins walking elegantly in some of the beaches. Ella gives a lot of information about their mating time; how they lose all their feathers; how they deliver babies at the same time laying only two eggs per year; how the babies are fed all the time; During mating time, however, the parents do not go fishing and so the young ones are left to fend for themselves. Adults are distinctly coloured in black and white, while the young are brown and white. They love oily fish and the white portion of their body reflects the fish underneath to help them spot the catch. Ella says each penguin has distinct identities like black freckles and the babies recognise the parents by it. They all look alike to me. Before we reach the Cape, there is a welcome break at the Blauuklippen vineyard which is more than 300 years old. We get a free taste of the most exotic wines the Cabernet
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Sauvignon, Shiraz, Merlot and the cellar master's favourite, the highly sought after Zinfandel .The master describes its taste in sensuous detail: This wine entices with dark chocolate and stoved pear aromas against a slightly peppery backdrop. The palate delivers a medley of intense dried fruit flavours for which it is well known.' We are busier tasting it than understanding his ambiguous description. The costliest and a winner is of course Barouch 1.5L which is a full bodied well structured and well integrated wine.' I ask Ella if a house is available there for sale. You cannot find that kind of money in your lifetime darling, she says. Cape of Good Hope is literally a blast. It is exciting to see the board with the name written in bold letters. But when you set your foot on the ground you are actually blown away by the incredibly strong winds. Dutch influence The point where, in 1487, Bartholomew Dias of Portugal, who came in search of a sea route to India, rounded the Cape, set his foot and named it the Cape of Good Hope, hoping that it would be a gateway to the exotic Indies. Neither the Portuguese, nor the Dutch and the English who came in the 16th century wanted to colonise the Cape. It was a stop-over for the crew of shipping companies that slowly crystallised the value of permanent settlement. The Dutch gradually built a fort and in the next 100 years the white population became overwhelmingly Dutch. Though the British took control of the Cape and the colony was ceded to the crown in 1814, the Dutch influence is too strong to be wiped away. The drive ends with a lovely lunch at Swellenden where I taste the best apple pie I have ever had in my life. Ms. Tilla Hon, the chef who baked it, is overjoyed when I express my appreciation and happily poses for a snap shot. The wine, the divine apple pie, the sea, the wind and the mountains all in a day a heady mix that can keep you intoxicated for a lifetime.

Discovering cultures
SELINE AUGUSTINE Beyond visiting places, travel becomes discovery when you get to know the local cultures and customs. Welcome to Kotagiri and the world of Badagas... It was a balmy February morning when we arrived in Kotagiri. The half an hour drive uphill from Mettupalayam had been invigorating. It was a feast to the senses to be greeted with jacaranda trees in blossom, dew-pearled grass, neat rows of cabbage, passion fruit vine entwining trees, the ubiquitous green and gleaming tea, the priceless quiet and the heady, scented mountain air. Leaving the frenetic pace of city life behind, and giving in to the solemn stillness and slight chill in the air makes you instinctively draw in deep breaths of clean air. The devoted Wodehouse fan that I am, I was inclined to recall Browning's lines in Pippa Passes, God's in His heaven, All's right with the world. Different world So close to Coonoor and Ooty and yet a world of a difference, in that Kotagiri sports a jauntily fresh look and is mercifully not marred by mass tourist arrivals as yet. I was here as
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the guest of Black Swan, the Pune-based travel outfit that believes in connecting the traveller with the local communities. Blessed with a pleasant weather round the year, the town is the oldest and third largest hill station in the Nilgiris. Kotagiri, hill of the Kota tribes, is the first place here to which road was laid from Sirumugai, way back in 1819. Kotas are a reclusive tribe and are fast dwindling. Pointing to the camelia in bloom in the front, Mr. Nandakumar and his wife Babitha, the hosts at Peak View cottage, said the bush has been there since pre-Independence days. Revelling in the beauty of the place, the lovely English-time bungalow framed by anthuriams, fruit trees and with tea slopes, I was taken aback when the couple showed the dug-up plants and soil in the garden, the handiwork of wild boar. The other day some 14 Indian gaur came calling on us, marauding the flower beds, they said matter-of-factly. New look The Pethakal bungalow of John Sullivan wore a refurbished look, thanks to the efforts of the former Collector of Nilgiris, Supriya Sahu. It now proudly flaunts the Interpretation Centre of the Nilgiris Biosphere Reserve besides housing a museum a veritable treasure chest of valuable information. The name Pethakal comes from Hette, the goddess of the Badagas, and Hette Kal, meaning sacred stone, was perhaps, over time, misspelt as Pethakal. Going past scenic vales and brooks of gurgling water for nearly 20 km, we get off at the eastern most ridge of the Blue Mountains. This is Kodanad Viewpoint, also called Terminus Country. Training the binoculars on the steep slope down, we spied two elephants lazing about with enviable nonchalance. Needle Point peak soars high on the right in splendid isolation. Thengumarahadda, a 50-acre farming co-op, stretched out in front down below, hedged in by the snaking Moyar river which joins Bhavani. You need prior permission to enter the hamlet and the five-hour trek down from Kodanad Viewpoint can be tortuous for the novice. But the experience is as good as an African safari, remarked someone who has done both. A trek through Banagudi shola (Bana + gudi = forest temple) provided memorable moments, mainly because the bird watcher guide, Shivlingam, would unerringly predict every now and then the bird species we'll next get to see as he'd hear them, but not us, the city-bred and notso-discerning of ear. And that is putting it mildly, colleagues would have you believe! The red whiskered bulbul, Nilgiri canary flycatcher, white cheeked barbet, pied bushchat, black eagle, grey tit and the bushy-tailed giant Malabar squirrel. Shiv showed us panther marks on a tree trunk, and we moved on hastily. Sacred sites Right in the centre of the thickly wooded forest we came upon the dolmen, which are ancient burial sites, made of stones piled up in a formation. Declared a protected area, the Badagas now use it as the venue for their three day fest, Devo Hebba, in June every year. Towards one end of the shola was the Badaga temple where, for one thing, women are not allowed in, informs Radhika Gopal, the trained All-India guide who accompanies Renjana of Black Swan and me. The temple is fenced in by a raised stonewall all around. Gokul is a young, self-taught artist who had an exhibition in Ooty recently. A visit to his gallery, Chiaroscuro, which was opened in December in Kotagiri opens out fresh vistas of the
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mind as you hear him explaining the wood carvings, paintings, sculpture and interacting with his students. Shishir Nikam, of Black Swan, believes in leaving behind familiar ground and exploring new territory. Keen on development and conservation-oriented travel, his company helps the visitor connect with local communities and their history and way of life and culture. One of the highpoints of the stay in Kotagiri was meeting the Badaga couple, Vaidhegi, who has done her masters in Social Work, and husband Dr. Ramakrishnan. During a dinner at their house we heard about the annual seven-day festival during year-end when everyone comes wearing white, their dress codes, rites of passage and food habits. The hospitality of the community is like the icing on the cake. Had a go at pothit (wheat dosamade with sugar and ghee) and erigittu which is a ragi ball taken with chutney using tree tomato. The doctor's concern for the hill and his people is evident with his earnest plea: we will be glad with eco-tourism; planned development is fine, but not commercial mass tourist arrivals, please. It is thanks to him and others in the watchdog committee of the Longwood shola that the latter is still maintained in its almost pristine glory. Peak View Cottage is 3 km from Johnstone Square For more info, contact: Black Swan - Shishir Nikam: 9822132092 Renjana: 9900285305 Web: www.black-swan.

Surfing the sand dunes

GUSTASPJEROO IRANI

May 8, 2010

Tighten your seat belts and get ready for a heady ride in the Thar Desert. Dune-bashing is here, at the Sam Dunes near Jaisalmer Zip, roar, lurch, slide, rock our world tilted crazily; straightened and got skewed again. It was like riding a berserk camel that was high on steroids. The soft sand rose in spirals and the dunes seemed to move as the wind whistled over them, ruffling them like fingers running through a woman's thick tresses. All was illusion as we sat in our 4x4 vehicles imagining a line of caparisoned camels swaying past in the distance, the hot sun shimmering on the heaving sea of sand. Mirages are the easiest things to come by in the desert, inspiring wannabe painters and poets to give vent to their emotions on canvas or in words. We were enjoying a spell of dune bashing, Dubai-style, on the Sam sand dunes, 30 km from Jaisalmer in the midst of the Thar desert. Three kilometers long and one kilometer wide, these dunes were the site of the first ever international-style desert safari introduced recently by the Dubai-based Lama Tours.

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Rock and roll Initially, the tyres of the Toyota Fortuners (luxury SUVs replete with cutting-edge technology) were deflated to increase traction and then half a dozen 4x4s gunned into the desert and started to careen over the soft dunes, zig-zagged across the sandy wasteland like drunks who had one too many, slithered down the dunes sideways, spun around and often got stuck. For us, the world shrank and got reduced to the immeasurable sandy ocean around us We could think of little else barring holding on to our seats, as our vehicle swung and swivelled like a beast in torment, and our seat belt grazed and cut into our necks. Yet, we had the time of our lives, knowing that at the wheel was a seasoned Filipino driver from Dubai who barrelled down the half-a-kilometer-high dunes with consummate skill. From time to time, the soft sand churned up by the spinning wheels would spray the windshield and make it resemble a Rorschach test. After that rush of adrenaline, we stopped to admire the desert around us, absorbing the palpable serenity, feeling overwhelmed by the echoing vastness of the blue sky streaked with the myriad colours of the setting sun. We swilled huge gulps of water to soothe parched throats and headed back to the Lama Heritage Village located close by in a dreamy setting. Here, like oriental potentates, we puffed on hookahs, listened to melodious Rajasthani music, rode a camel and were briefly distressed when our cameleer broke the spell by taking out his cell phone and started on a text messaging spree. Quad bikes and buggy rides were on offer too but we chose to savour a buffet dinner against the backdrop of a landscape drenched in post-sunset colours. Indeed, dune bashing and other desert safari frills are new reasons to visit the former princely bastion of Jaisalmer. However, the next morning, we were unlocking the historic mysteries of this golden fort, the oldest inhabited citadel in the world, at a leisurely pace on foot. The fort rose before us in all its honey-gold glory while a couple of Jaisalmer's much-loved cows blocked our way into it. We used the time to take some photographs till the bovines thought it appropriate to move. The Arabian-nights style vision of towers, turrets and battlements that we had seen from afar turned out to be a labyrinth of narrow streets over which havelis and palaces rose in all their finely carved glory, seemingly etched from lace rather than honey-coloured sandstone. Here, highly made up and bedecked local women in colourful swirling skirts sold delicate silver jewellery in a multiplicity of tongues to foreign tourists. Buy my jewellery. I have a small business, they appealed in dulcet tones, their kohl-lined eyes flashing, briefly resembling the princesses of yore who might have looked down at the busy streets of the fort from behind fretted screens. Even for the male vendors, sporting hotpink, turmeric-yellow and blinding white turbans, the 12th century fort was their stage and they were but actors playing bit roles. Wall hangings, patchwork quilts, brocades, paintings, mirror-work skirts and rugs were strung against the walls and blazed with colour even as tourists stopped to gaze and sometimes caressed the fabric in wonderment. Men with bristling moustaches and multi-hued turbans played the ravanhatta, a local instrument, and asked us to buy their CDs, claiming in the same breath that they were famous musicians. A wizened old man with a bunch of
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peacock feathers approached us even as a cow (at times, there seem to be as many cows as people living in the fort) began to chase us for no apparent reason. Studded with cafes, restaurants, hotels and exquisitely carved havelis, Jaisalmer fort is in jeopardy from leaking drains that are weakening its foundations, related our garrulous guide. Yet at one time, the four-gate fort was almost impregnable and was taken but once. A late starter in the tourism stakes, it is yet swathed in an aura of medieval charm and has the tantalising feel of a place where time has not only stood still but perhaps moved backwards, harking back to the era when Jaisalmer was a transit point on the Spice Route. Filled with brilliant light and unfathomable shadows throwing the Jaisalmer stone carver's art into obvious relief, the havelisin the fort are an eye-engorging sight. They were built by rich merchants in the 18th century and in these stately homes, a sense of space evoked by yawning courtyards is balanced by the delicate carvings on the facades. Fit for a king Situated on the main Dussehra square is the palace of the Maharawal, the ruler, a fine example of the stone carver's art with a zenana quarter with exquisite fretted screens from which women watched life go by unseen and protected from the gaze of lascivious males. (There is even a cluster of three Jain temples which resemble one soaring mass of carved spires). We clambered up to the terrace of the palace from where we saw the desert spread out like a dusty skirt all around vast, trackless and unknowable. Our adrenaline-pumping dune-bashing excursion of the previous day felt as dreamlike as Sonar Kila or Jaisalmer fort itself, with its solid ramparts and towers, which rises in surreal fashion from a semi-desert landscape. Fact File The nearest airport is at Jodhpur though Kingfisher Airlines is likely to start a daily air service to Jaisalmer from Aurangabad via Jodhpur and Udaipur. Jaisalmer is well connected by road with the rest of the country and is a rail junction too. By way of accommodation, there are a number of options including old havelis converted into modern hotels, state tourism lodges, small hotels within the fort and tented camps near the dunes outside the city. For information on dune-bashing safaris contact Dubai-based Lama Tours which recently introduced this exciting sport in Jaisalmer. Tel: 02992253007 Email: booking@lamaindia.comWeb: www.dunesafari.comOr Rajasthan Tourism at: www.rajasthantourism.gov.in

In a land of legends
SOFIA GHORI SALEEM

May 8, 2010

Some of the best beaches in Malaysia, scuba diving, snorkelling and a wealth of fascinating folklore when you want a break from it all Langkawi has all that and more
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Malaysia's Langkawi is a land of a myriad legends. This beautiful Malaysian archipelago of 99 islands lies in the Andaman Sea, some 30 km off the mainland coast of northwestern Malaysia. Situated just minutes from the Thai border, Langkawi is well endowed in some of nature's best known landforms as well as steeped in old folklore. The legends of Langkawi stretch on detailing curses, battles, fairies and vampires. The brown eagle from which Langkawi gets its name stands as a tall proud statue guarding its capital town of Kuah. Langkawi is particularly known for its beaches which are among the best in Malaysia. The beaches are picturesque with seemingly unending stretches of fine white sand. Some beaches are fringed by rocky outcrops and others with a backdrop of limestone mountains they offer a wonderful combination of forest and sea. We checked into log cabins which were set in a jungle habitat right close to the beach, so we could get the best of beach and forest. All night long we could hear the tapping of critters and unique jungle sounds of humming, buzzing, scratching and whistling. The cicadas in particular were very vocal, calling to their mates with shrill high pitched sounds of over 120 decibels. A visit to the crocodile farm was a matter of intense interest and curiosity for my kids. The crocodile trainers entered the lair of a family of visibly aggressive and uncooperative crocodiles the 1,000-kilo male crocodile was initially swishing his tail and snapping his jaws in a most belligerent manner. The trainer gradually built trust, staring in its eyes and stroking him on the forehead until the croc had mellowed down enough to allow him to ride his back and brush his teeth. The final curtain call act was when the trainer successfully inserted his hand inside the croc's open jaws. View from the top Langkawi is so close to the Thai border that on a clear day you can see parts of Thailand from certain places in Langkawi. Another way to get a great aerial view is by riding the cable car. The Langkawi cable car offers a panoramic view of the entire sea/forest landscape beneath a must for avid photographers. It takes you up to the very peak of the Gunung Mat Chinchang mountain. It is also a great spot for a bit of scuba diving and snorkelling. The Pulau Payar Marine Park is tailormade for these sport. Marine life is prolific in Langkawi waters and so are corals of various kinds. For people who love to shop, this island is Duty Free and cheaper than the rest of Malaysia. The Night Market is a vibrant bazaar that comes to life every evening in certain parts of town. Here vendors bring in their wares and sell home-grown goods in a self-spun cottage industry that is noisy, clamouring and bustling with activity. In 2007, Langkawi was given a World Geopark status by UNESCO. Even though the island of Langkawi is pretty small, having barely an area of 470 sq km, it is home to an interesting array of scenery, including tropical jungle, waterfalls, rainforest, unspoilt beaches and exotic Mangrove. A trip worth taking is the Mangrove cruise down the Kilim river. Our boat was laden with a mix of Japanese, Chinese and Australian tourists and a naturalist who pointed out the lush evergreen mangroves and dense deciduous forestation on the volcanic limestone mountains. The river meandered through large dense growths of mangrove, providing home to mudfish. These are ancient prehistoric fish which use their fins to walk up the banks. Along the banks were families of long tailed macaque monkeys who swam up to our boat
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looking for scraps to eat. We stopped as the arch of the river got broader and brown Brahminy kites and gigantic sea eagles swooped down to catch fish from the surface of the waters. You can feed eagles at this spot they eagerly grab chicken skins that visitors drop in the waters. Rare fish farm Lunch was at the Hole on the Wall fish farm which is the only floating fish farm on the river. The farm offers a fantastic opportunity to see the marine life found in these waters and enjoy a good meal of freshly cooked sea food. Around the fish farm are many moorings which are docking points used by yacht owners around the world. These boats which can stay tied for up to a year have stayed safe and even made it through the tsunami of 2004. There are many caves to visit in the Kilim Geoforest and plenty of legend attached to many of them. Most caves are accessible by boat and the elaborate stalactite and stalagmite limestone formations add to the aura of mystery. We sailed back to shore after that long view of history a first-hand look at a land that took hundreds of million years to form. What we have in Langkawi today is a land that took years of weathering ever since it was brought to the surface around 500 million years ago. The limestone mountains that tower above us all around the Kilim river are from the PreJurassic period before dinosaurs came along. And that is truly legendary. Getting there By Boat: Langkawi is an hour and a half by boat from Southern Thailand. By Air: There are quite a few options of national airlines and local carriers. Langkawi is an hour's flight from Kuala Lumpur. Places to stay There are luxury hotels by the beach as well as budget hotels and bed and breakfast places. Cenang is a busy central area and has quite a few accommodations to meet a spectrum of requirements. Kuah is the capital town of Langkawi and is quite close to some good beaches. Things to see/ do Mangrove river cruise/ eagle feeding/ bat caves; Langkawi Cable car; Helicopter ride; Snorkelling and scuba diving in Pulao Payar; Cenang Night Market; Crocodile farm and underwater world

Seductive Serendip
SELINE AUGUSTINE

22, May 2010

The charms of the island where time moves to the beat of an unhurried rhythm are irresistible

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Colombo in water? Has there been a tidal wave or tsunami in the vicinity? Oh no, and God forbid, it is just the meaning of Negombo in Tamil. Neer Kolumbu, reads the signposts on the road and on buses. A small coastal village near the Bandaranaike International Airport, the serene town used to be an important spice port long before the Portuguese set foot on the Emerald island. The 100-km long Dutch canal meanders lazily through the breadth of the town and is still used, but alas, whither the catamarans carrying cinnamon? As part of a 10-member media team from India and on an invitation from the Sri Lankan Airlines, we spent five days in Negombo and Colombo. Dotted with British colonial style buildings, the fishing village is fondly called Little Rome because of its pre-dominant Catholic populace. As we went into the old Dutch fort built in 1672, Tishaan, our guide from Jetwings, said the place has now been converted into a prison. On the beach were rows of sardine and big tuna fish drying in the sun. Barnard, an old fisherman, volunteers information that the sardine, sufficiently dry, is ready to be sent to Kandy. The Tamil from Tirunelveli strikes a chord, and he expresses a wish: I want to visit Tamil Nadu before I die. After going round Angurukkaramulla, a Buddhist temple, the eyes are drawn to the sight of a mother and daughter standing on the roadside under a colourful umbrella, and selling lunch packets Chicken rice Rs. 100, Mutton Rs. 100. Back at the Taj Airport Garden Hotel, one was gladdened to spot the Chennai city edition of The Hindu as the only foreign paper in the lobby rack. The business hotel is inside a 38-acre green stretch, with a coconut palm grove adjacent to the Negombo lagoon. Following the half-a-km nature walk trail inside the precincts while being treated to a concerto by a chorus of birds early the next morn was a memorable way to begin the day. At the end of the walk begins the Adventure trail which leads to the lagoon. There were at least two occasions when I was mistaken for a Sinhalese by the friendly staff of the airlines and I hastily said, No, but I do have relatives in Colombo and Kandy. The beachside barbecue on the Negombo beach and a day's stay at the Ayurvedic Pavilion where you get pampered silly are ones for the memory bank. Fabled stories Checking into the Mount Lavinia Hotel in Colombo, you are struck by the aesthetically pleasing heritage building and the extensive beach front. When you look out of the room, you feel you are inside the Indian Ocean and the waves are lapping at your feet. To add to the beauty of the place is the love story of Lavinia and Governor Sir Thomas Maitland, a bachelor. The Scottish nobleman fell in love with Lovina Aponsua, a dancer of PortugueseSinhala parentage. He built a house for her and today it is the Mount Lavinia hotel. It was sheer romance to be shown the secret underground passage in the hotel through which 200 years ago Lovina used to come during the nights for the midnight rendezvous with the Governor. The love story ended in 1811 when Sir Thomas left Ceylon after gifting Lovina a large piece of land. The name Lovina metamorphosed into Lavinia the Governor's house was referred to as Lavinia House and gradually even the headland itself came to be called Mt. Lavinia. By the end of the century the story had become the stuff of legend. Slow Food movement In the imposing Matiland state room , Chef Leo made us try our hand at a quickie salad which included small pieces of fish as well and had us eat it too! The chef from Cuba has made a mark with Slow Food which is founded on the concept of eco-gastronomy and endorses the strong link between the plate and the planet. The initiative, also known as farm
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to table, offers the freshest dishes prepared from local ingredients found within the destination. Slow Food is a non-profit, member-supported organisation founded 20 years ago to counteract fast food and fast life. A tour of Colombo town had us at the gate of the Town Hall which is the headquarters of the municipal council and office of the mayor. The all-white structure is a replica of the prestigious look-alike in Washington. Victoria Park in the heart of the city has been renamed with a vengeance: Vihara Mahadevi Park! The Independence Memorial Hall and the Bandaranaike Memorial International Conference Hall gifted to the Sri Lankans by the Chinese are the other edifices of note. On a Saturday afternoon if you step into House of Fashion on Duplication Street (!), as we did, you cannot be faulted for imagining that the entire city had decided to put in an appearance there! Odel was a shade better and team members were able to pick up souvenir tees and other stuff. Since the Indian rupee fetches double and more, it is difficult not to splurge. Serendip beckons once again the traveller and is lavish with her offerings. New inflight menu The Sri Lankan Airlines flight kitchen has had a makeover. The brand new $25-million kitchen sprawls over five acres outside the international airport and is touted as among the best in Asia. And we could see why at the end of a five-hour conducted tour of the place. S.K. Pande, an Indian, is the production manager, and he informs that the in-flight menu is new. Anthony, from Australia, is the executive chef and the easy camaraderie he shares with the other chefs was conspicuous. The kitchen easily makes 16,000 meals a day. We got to see pol roti and wattalapam being made, as good as an art, and the delicacies found place at our luncheon with the CEO, Mr. Sarath Fernando. He said, earlier food used to be not an issue while flying, but now people are asking they be given diet food, veg or Jain food. This at a time when airlines are cutting cost, but we believe in giving excellent food in Economy class too. The chilli chocolate is one of the newly introduced items in the flight menu. And then came the memory of relishing on flight the lowly brinjal transformed into a delicacy.

Forbidden no more
Lalit Mohan

December 17, 2011

Palace Museum, Ming tombs and the Great Wall bring the history of Beijing alive in dramatic ways. The place looked familiar. I asked Cindy, our guide, Was the Last Emperor shot here? No, she answered. Actually, it was; he was not. We were talking about different things; I about the film, she about Pu Yi the last Qing (pronounced Ching), king of China, who was deposed in 1912, but lived for many years thereafter. Like many Chinese do while dealing with expats, Cindy had adopted a western name. She is a student and also does some tourist-guiding on the side. If you are not in a group tour, there are three ways to do Beijing's historic sites. One, take a book and a map of the monument and read the citation on the plaques as you go around. Two,
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get an audio guide, which describes the locales as you visit them. And, third, hire a guide in person. On our visit to the Summer Palace we had taken the audio apparatus, but found that often the commentary over-shot the locale described. So, at the Forbidden City Former Palace to the Chinese we got a guide. She, too, rattled off what she had learnt by rote, but had one advantage. With us was our one-year-old grandson, Jai, in his stroller. This place has too many steps up and down. Cindy was a great help in carrying the carriage over them, somewhat like how the last emperor would have been transported through the royal quarters. This palace was built between 1406 and 1436. Fourteen Ming and ten Qing rulers lived here. Spread over 178 acres, with 980 structures, it is one of the world's largest surviving palace complexes. It has an eight-metre-high wall and a 52-metre-wide moat around it. The Palace Museum is among the must-see places within. The exit in the south takes you right into the vast Tiananmen Square. But the star attraction on a visit to Beijing is the Great Wall. Once, everyone has to do it. There are five different points close to Beijing where one can access it. We did it at Mutianyu, about an hour from the capital. At the base station there is a bazaar selling tourist mementos including T-shirts that say: I climbed the Great Wall. Also on sale are those that display a portrait of Mao Zedong in the uniform of the revolutionary army and, next to it, in the same outfit, one of Barack Obama with the legend underneath saying: For the people Mao Zedong. At the end of the market is the cable-car station. We took this to reach the Wall, 640 metres higher. The ride was fine, but there is another option which I will try if I go there again go up by the open ropeway and come down tobogganing. Wall of fame The Wall, of course, is one of the most talked about of the world's wonders. It was built over several millennia, starting in 210 BC and carrying on, and off, till the 17th century AD. It snakes 6,259 kms over mountain ridges and valleys. The ancient Chinese believed that demons travel in a straight line and would get lost in a formation that has curves. Repeatedly over the years, sections were vandalised and people took parts of the masonry away to construct their own houses. It also suffered damage during the Cultural Revolution in the 1960s, but has now been fully restored, ramparts and towers included. But, to set the record straight, the Wall is not visible to the naked eye from outer space. At nine metres at its widest, it cannot be. Within the city, the Summer Palace has the biggest spread over 742 acres. The landscape is what makes it so attractive. On one side is the Kunmin Lake and on the other, the Longevity Hill and its towering halls and colourful pavilions with quaint monikers that describe mood and ambience, like Hall of the Great Buddha of the Temple of Immense Gratitude. Along the lake runs one of the longest corridors anywhere, and on its right the Tower of Buddhist Incense with over 100 steps and still counting, when I stopped for breath to the top.

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Only after huffing and puffing all the way did I realise that there was an easier way to do it. There was a sloping path on the other side that would have been much easier on the knees. A human guide would have told me, which is why we took one at the Forbidden City. Beijing abounds with historical structures and the Temple of Heaven is another must-see. Here the emperors prayed during the Ming and Qing dynasties for good harvests and even has a what looks like a bar-b-q pit, for animal sacrifices. The approach is through grounds forested with 500-year-old junipers, and over a 360-metre raised walk, the Red Step Bridge. There is a side entrance to the main temple known as The 70-year door. It was installed for one of the kings who, on reaching 70, found that the long walk was beyond him and had a special opening made. But to ensure that his progeny did not misuse it, decreed that only after they crossed this age could the rulers use it. Hence, the name. The Ming tombs dating to the 14th century lie about 50 km outside the city, at the foot of the Tianshou Mountains. Like most Chinese monuments, there is rich vegetation in the grounds around them because they believed that trees honour the dead. There are 13 tombs of the 16 Ming rulers (1368-1644), of which three have been opened to visitors so far. The one at Dingling was built in 1584 and excavated in 1957. It lies about 110 steps below the ground level and has the graves and marble thrones of Emperor Zhu Yi Jun and two of his queens. In the museum next to the tomb a plaque explains, Because some of the emperors were born to concubines or some of the wives of princes died before they were princed (sic), some imperial concubines and princesses were buried together with the emperors. The gold crown of Empress Xiao Duan with nine dragons and nine phoenixes is a major attraction here. Over 3,000 pieces of relics were retrieved from this tomb alone. National Museum After having seen some of the famous monuments of Beijing, it is a good idea to visit the National Museum close to Tiananmen Square, to get everything into a good time-perspective. Since entry is free, the admission queue here is very long. The basement is where the history of the region, from pre-historic times about 1.7 million years ago to the 1912 Revolution is on display. There is more history and also much to see of modern China in Beijing. Because of language constraints, it is advisable to take conducted tours. But if one ventures out on one's own, be sure to carry the name and address of your place of residence, written in Chinese, with you. Proper names as we perceive them in English sound very different in the local language. Because, when transliterating, they break up each moniker into syllables, find the matching sound, and then reconstruct it. So, McDonald's will sound like Mai Dang Lao' and Hilton to a Chinese is Shi Er Dun.' It is easier to get back if your driver knows the local name.

Dubai's other side

KRISHNARAJ IYENGAR Beyond the glitz and glamour lies an endearing legacy of tradition, classicism and culture. Krishnaraj Iyengar on the road less travelled in Dubai.

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Hayy ala-l-falaah! A heartrending call to believers to come to salvation from atop a minaret with a distinctly sharp, airy h'. Just then, other Mu'azzin make their Azan (call to prayer) from nearby mosques, each perfectly in tune with the other forming a perfect scale in the world's fastest growing megapolis. A couple of swank BMWs and Hummers pull up at the corner as bearded billionaires leave the dazzle of their glass and steel edifices for the calm of old exquisitely designed masjids for an evening of prayer. Glittering like a million solitaires when seen from a passing airliner, Dubai is a city leaping into the next century with trend-defying lifestyle concepts, futuristic megamalls and some of the world's most iconic architectural megaliths like the Burj Al Arab, the world's only superluxurious seven-star hotel, and Burj Khalifa, the world's tallest tower. But beyond the legendary Midas touch of what was once a tiny fishing harbour lies a fascinating world of Arab traditions, heartwarming hospitality, classicism and spirituality. Wholesome experience As a student of the Arabic language and culture, my stay was a wholesome kaleidoscope of authentic Arabic experiences, a symphony of sounds, flavours, forms and fragrances. At Dubai's traditional Bedouin Heritage Village, I was overwhelmed by the legendary Arabic hospitality, classical poetry, music and the warmth of its affable folk. Wa yatlubu inda-n-naasi ma inda nafsihi, wa zalika ma la taddai'hi-d-daraaghimu (he beckoned from others what he possessed within himself; something even lions wouldn't dare to claim), says Abdar Rahman, a septuagenarian Bedouin, with childlike glee. His gruff baritone seemed to glorify these famous lines of Abu Tayyib Al Mutanabbi, the legendary poet of the Arab world. People just do not realise that they already have within themselves what they spend their entire lives searching for! We all have a treasure house within ourselves, he smiled philosophically as we shared a cup of strong Arabic Qahwah coffee and dates. Playing a traditional Bedouin melody on his single-stringed bowed Rabab with a beautiful painting of an oasis on its goatskin belly, he sang as he explained the nuances of the Arabic Maqaam scales. Haza huwa Maqaam al Huzaam, he gushed in his rustic dialect, often switching over to the more classical one that I spoke! Strolling through the village, I unraveled the old world charm of the mud houses, Bedouin tents with thatched roofs and old lanterns, Barjeels or wind towers built in the olden days to direct cool wind to the home during scorching summers and a diving village that tells you about the city's pearl diving legacy. The Dubai Museum built over the historic Al Fahidi Fort, Dubai's oldest existing building, unraveled the city's fascinating history. Two formidable cannons next to an old Dhow were a fine welcome to the museum, which hosts around 1800-plus guests a day! Inside, life-like recreations of early Arab life, Bedouin craftsmen, pearl divers and traders, jewellery and handicrafts, the old port and the history of trade with India and Africa, a creekside Souq (market), a traditional summer house Arish woven from palm fronds with a Barjeel wind tower and a central courtyard with traditional boats and realistic videos of craftsmen at work with sound and visual effects made several eras come alive.
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Desert dunes Rocking over the dunes through the coppery-mauve expanse of the desert in a speeding Landrover, I arrive at a typical Bedouin camp where a soiree of Arabic Dance and cuisine organised by cultural service operator Lama Tours awaited. Belly dancing has been an Arab tradition right since the pre-Islamic Jahiliyyah era and a sensuous belly dancer performing to Darbooka drum rhythms like Baladi and Ayyub and a colorfully draped Egyptian whirling Dervish mesmerised the audience. Another of traditional Dubai's icons are the old Dhows that still continue to cruise from the old harbour front of Deira unfolding a panorama of the old and the new on both sides of the Khor Dubai ( Dubai Creek). Dubai being a multicultural city known for its religious and cultural tolerance, the Sheikh Mohammed Centre for Cultural Understanding is an initiative by Dubai's ruler Sheikh Mohammed Bin Rashid Al Maktoum to promote cultural understanding. People gather to learn about Arabic culture and Islam at the sprawling Jumeirah Mosque. Two British ladies greet you with As-salaamu alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakaatuh (May peace be upon you and the mercy of God and His bounties), and explain the nuances of the Holy Qur'an and its teachings of pluralism, universal brotherhood and peace, the five pillars of Islam and a demonstration of Salaah or prayer. As deep shadows lengthen over the dunes and the sun takes a bow, this urban wonderland is illuminated by a million lights. Somewhere from a lone tent in the vast expanse of the desert, a Bedouin maiden's Mawwal casts a spell as she sings; the call of the city's soul that never dies.

Magical White Christmas nights!

Janardhan Roye The Wiehnachts Markt beside the Cologne Cathedral on Roncalliplatz is a fairy-tale setting. Smell the burning fir food and the zesty aroma wafting from food courts, and feel totally lost in love. On a recent December day we were driving on a thick-snow jacketed no-speed limit autobahn, towards Cologne. Around us the late afternoon was surprisingly dreary and a monotonous. Everywhere was white landscape. Fields, fences, pine and leaf-less trees, farm houses, buildings everything was covered in snow. As the short day ended, we saw snowcovered canyons with steepled churches, yellow-lighted homes on hills, and twinkling stars in an ink-blue sky. The scenery was right out of the movies, picture post cards. It was our very first experience of the northern hemisphere going into a White Christmas. On reaching the city, one of the first sights to catch the eye was a brightly lit Wiehnachts Markt or Winter Market by the side of the famous Cologne Cathedral on Roncalliplatz. The scene hurled us back to early school days so fairy-tale was the setting. The iconic gothic architecture with its remains of the Three Magi from the Christmas story make the cathedral a

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major pilgrimage destination. This evening the imposing Dom Kolner was hosting a series of enchanting old world festivities in a village-like setting. Blazing lights Thousands of LEDs transformed the whole square into an unbelievably warm and cosy marketplace. The tranquil splendour of a grand fir tree decorated with strings of red and gold globes stood at the centre of the action, blazing with lights, gilt, and tinsel reaching out to the heavens. Around the square were similar but sumptuously decorated smaller trees. There were scores of open-air stalls all with toppings in red. There was the nativity scene, gabled wooden houses and half-timbered kiosks. Pewter pourers, wreath binders, glassblowers, blacksmiths and other artisans many dressed as elves, were at work on quaint ceramic mugs, wood carvings, glass items, toys, and such. Stalls sold warm clothing, books, exotic Xmas tree decorations and ornaments, household trinkets and other traditional arts and crafts. Food stalls had chocolates, marzipans, candied and toasted almonds and other candies, soup, freshly baked savouries and a host of mouth-watering culinary delights. The smell of burning fir wood added to the zesty aromas of cinnamon, baked apples, roasted almonds and chestnuts. At the food courts another kind of aroma took over of Schwein steaks, wurst or sausages and other grilled regional specialties. The laughter and excited buzz, and chatter intensified as more people joined in the celebration. And somewhere despite the heavy snow, the bell ringer had made it to the Dom and was now ringing the great bells announcing the evening mass. While some people headed into the cathedral, the others remained only to raise their voice to be heard, creating an unforgettable festive White Christmas ambiance! To enrich the unique experience we, mostly non-carnivores, fell on the grilled food on a wooden skewer and sipped from a tasty mug of the popular gluehwein, hot mulled wine, served with brandy to stave off the cold. There were other choices mostly egg-based warm alcoholic drinks and any number of soups. Even though we were dressed in thermal under things, long woolen coat, beanies and mufflers, the outside temperature was biting, chilling to the bone. Spirited children The sub-zero temperature didn't deter the youngsters from moving around chomping on pretzels coated with chocolate, cinnamon and almonds or carting beer cans. Everywhere spirited children were enjoying the carnival-like atmosphere taking in the toy-stands, magic acts, jugglery and medieval musicians. Little kids stood wide-eyed at the stalls putting out tales from the Grimm Brothers. At the puppet theatre the old and young stayed glued to the entertainment. Music and song was in the air. In the centre, a youth choir belted out old Christmas carol favourites again whisking us back to early school days and stout AngloIndian music teachers at pianos. The cheerful mood was infectious. We wandered around the Wiehnachts Markt and stopped at booths laden with everything needed for Christmas from decorations for the tree to candles, crib figures to gingerbread, baked specially for the season. As per tradition, the locals buy gifts to exchange with families and friends.
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Many such sparkling night markets spring up in late November and go on till just before Christmas all over Cologne. Most are within easy walking distance or just a short toy train journey away. Around Germany, and neighbouring countries where German is spoken, there are many White Night Markets. Generally the excitement starts on the day of the visit of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children. Located near Cologne's main shopping district and the Basilica of the Holy Apostles, is the oldest Wiehnachts Markt, the Neumarkt or the Market of Angels. Here pretty girls dressed in angelic outfits complete with halos move around mixing with the children. On trees hang sparkling multi-pointed stars. Pony rides, a carousel and kiosks shaped like little chalets are the other highlights of this market. Chocolate museum An unusual night market is the one on the river Rhine. Here there are some 40 stalls with a beautiful ice rink in the centre of a large riverboat! Nearby is the popular Chocolate Museum and Nutcracker house. How did these white night markets that attract millions of visitors start? The beginnings go back to the medieval times. The early markets such as those in Vienna, Bautzen and Dresden came up between the late 1200s and mid 1400s. In those times of short days and long nights, long before electricity, large bon fires offered comfort and security and brought the community closer. Instead of getting the dreary conditions affecting mood, elders enthused citizens to be joyful and solemn, to be pious and yet playful. At the same time, the fire and light were maintained to lure back the sun! Right from those times, Wiehnachts Markts have been celebrating winter with bright local color and good cheer. This tradition has evolved and mutated, said our host, into hi-tech Christmas. Today with LEDs and fancy illuminations and other gadgetry, the message is still the same, It is dutiful to be cheerful even in the worst of winters!'

Under the Empire's gaze

R. UMA MAHESHWARI As a part of Tagores 150th birth anniversary celebrations, an exhibitions by the West Bengal Archives Department throws light on the colonial surveillance of the poet. Being in Kolkata at the time of Rabindranath Tagore's 150 {+t} {+h} birth centenary celebrations is interesting. Tagore is being revisited and re-imagined through different lens by a cross section of people: intellectuals, artistes, theatre professionals and admirers of the poetphilosopher whose birth anniversary was on May 7. But one historically significant exhibition has uncovered relatively unknown aspects of Tagore: a Tagore being scrutinised by the British government's watchful Intelligence Branch based on their suspicion that Tagore was close to the Communists and that the institution

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he founded, Santiniketan, could be a terrorist organisation and tainted with Communism. Fascinating also is to find my home state, Hyderabad's, connection to Tagore's Santiniketan! The Directorate of State Archives of West Bengal celebrated the Archives Week (April 6-12) with an exhibition; The Evolution of State Archives (1910-2010) and Rabindranath Tagore in Government Records. The exhibition was put together from sources such as the confidential files of the Intelligence Branch, which includes informers' reports, intercepted letters of the dwellers of Santiniketan and Sriniketan (the rural development centre near Santiniketan) and rare photographs. The Report on the Native Papers in Bengal, Report on the Political Situation and Labour Unrest in Bengal (IB, CID), District Gazetteers were also consulted. Exhibition The Hyderabad connection to Tagore's Santiniketan was remarkably new for me; the Nizam of Hyderabad was the largest donor of all to Santiniketan, having given Rs. 100,000. The letter from Tagore seeking support and revealing the donations given and more needed, is displayed: IB 285 / 1925. The Intelligence files reveal a British administration highly suspicious of Tagore's anticolonial network and keeping close watch on all the activities at Santiniketan. The Extract from the report of an IB officer dated Chandernagore, February 11 1931 for instance, reads: There are two Japanese teachers at present there. One of them is Mr. Takagaki about whom I have already reported. He is the Ju-Jutsu teacher and lives in Santi Niketan with his wife Mrs. Takagaki. The name of the other Japanese teacher is Mr. Konosan. He teaches carpentry but he also himself manufactures and sells furniture. He lives at Surul (Sri Niketan) with family (wife). This has a handwritten note: Inform SP he is supposed to report movements of foreigners. Sd. F. James, dated 12.2.31Another typed letter (from a local informer) addressed To the Chief Secretary, Government of India reads: Dear Sir, Santiniketan Visvabharati is an organ of terrorist movement of India greatly supporter of Subhash Chandra Bose Party (sic). All inmates of this ashram are pro-Japanese. They create panic all over the world to support terrorist movement of India. (I.B 285/1925) Yet another interesting file is a Secret Report (IB 285/1925) Extract from the inspection remarks made by Deputy Inspector General of Police, Burdwan Range on the D.I.B office, Suri, in February 1934: There is apparently considerable Communist activity existent amongst the teachers at Santiniketan. It is the practice there to admit students to the school and college without any reference being made to their antecedents and any enquiry by Police is much resented. It seems therefore, possible for dangerous organisation to develop in this atmosphere and it should be arranged, if possible, to introduce a lady student and also a boy student to furnish information regarding what is going on. Will SP please see this can be arranged with the help of the I.B? (Office memo No .1086 / dated 16.3.34) Prof. Atis Dasgupta, Director, Directorate of State Archives, West Bengal, said, The goal was to look for records on Tagore in the context of his 150 {+t} {+h} birth anniversary to pay homage to him. It turned out that the IB files were the most exhaustive. The IB files show us that to them (the colonial government) Tagore gave a sort of moral challenge. On the one hand he was a literary personality and at the same time they had to carry surveillance. His being the President of the Civil Liberties Union (IB 382 / 1937; IB 382 / 1937 Part II) is also an important point that has come out.
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Room for doubt It was difficult for the colonial administration to decipher Tagore, in a sense, or his views. His Santiniketan, which was founded with donations and his own money and its openness to the world (in terms of visitors, teachers, students, and people in general), was seen as some kind of den where conspiracies could be hatched against the colonial regime. It did not help that some of his friends and teachers did indeed have Left leanings. Aradhana Ghosh, Deputy Director of the Archives, on the work that was put into the Exhibition said, We searched all the records exhaustively from 1910 onwards and some from 1815. Our period of exhibits is from 1910 but we needed the background information hence we went back to 1815 records as well. Our colleague Madhurima Sen has been working since last eight to nine months on the Tagore exhibition searching through all records in the Archives as well as in Santiniketan. All officials were engaged in this. Records are scattered across three wings. Another person associated with the exhibition was an award winning photographer based in Kolkata, Mr. Swapan Mukherjee who photographed the records that are on display. The Archives Week also saw the release of an important volume, titled Select Documents on Calcutta: 1800 1900, published by the Directorate of State Archives, West Bengal.

Indulge - Oceans of fantasy

Aruna Chandaraju

November 19, 2011

Spa Le Touessrok in Mauritius, from one of the world's leading fashion brands, is luxury loaded and still makes one feel at home. Aruna Chandaraju gets pampered. Like every self-respecting luxury-resort, Le Touessrok in Mauritius offers its guests a selection of elegant restaurants with great food to choose from, a world-class spa, and an exciting range of outdoor activities. Only, the superbly designed rooms and the breathtakingly beautiful views they offer make it difficult to step out to indulge in the food at the restaurants or activities. The temptation to lounge in the room all day specifying roomservice-only and take in the spectacular sights from the bay windows and balconies almost overrules the desire for anything else. But we overcame temptation, with great effort of will, and set out first to the Givenchy Spa. And it turned out to be a great reward for our willpower. Stylish interiors, top-grade spa accessories, and expert therapists ensured that our massage left us deeply relaxed and drowsy with relief after the long journey to get here. This spa, from one of the world's leading fashion brands, is a big draw for guests including the many Indians who check in. Golf course Another attraction at the Le Touessrok, in fact its great pride is the 18-hole, par-72 championship golf course. One of Mauritius' finest courses, it is also worth a visit for nongolfers given its stunning views natural features like freshwater and seawater ponds, tiny ravines, and lush-green vegetation. The coastline has little bays, promontories and inlets. This
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very picturesque course has been rated by many golfers and golf magazines as among the finest in the world. On the way back, we had a glimpse of the very aesthetically designed and lavishly appointed Royal Suites and Villa. The entire resort exudes a quiet elegance. And there are many charming local touches like fans made of rattan and thatched roofs in public areas which use dried sugarcane leaves. Everywhere, the windows and sit-outs offer sweeping views of the ocean. The resort beach draws guests all day and night sun-worshippers and swimmers. Actually, it is the ethereal beauty of Mauritius' white-sand beaches and divinely blue waters as also the various watersports offered here, that draw tourists from around the world to this Paradise Island as this country is often known as. Besides the long stretch of beach at its property, the very chic Le Touessrok resort has two private islands next door Ilot Mangenie for exclusive use by guests and Ile aux Cerfs for the golf course. At the former, you can sunbathe and swim or sign up for snorkelling, parasailing, water-skiing, kayaking, etc. Another must-do (we did): Take a glass-bottomed boat out to the shallow sea for wonderful views of a myriad coral reefs this region is famed for, and fish of all hues and shapes that glide past magically as you hold your breath and watch in awe. A little distance away from here is the undersea walk or submarine safari, for those who want closer encounters with the underwater world. The very multicultural island of Mauritius has a large population of immigrants from India. So, while French and English are spoken widely, so is Hindi. The waiters and housekeeping staff would be addressing guests in crisp English and/or smooth French and then immediately switch with ease to Hindi when they saw us. Talk of making the guest feel at home! Multi-cuisine restaurant The food at the multi-cuisine 398 (never got around to finding out the why of this unusual name), Barlen's, Safran, Crusoe's Restaurant, and Sega Bar was uniformly good. The Le Touessrok chefs had made an effort to please every palate with an impressive range of delicacies. Of course, you can't please them all. There were a couple of guests (Indians) who went up to the pancakes and crepes counter during breakfast buffet which offered a spread of nearly 90 items wanting to know if they could have aloo-parathas and dosas! The chef didn't even blink he only smiled graciously and asked if they could wait for the time he estimated it would take for their preparation. All good things have to come to an end and so we reluctantly packed our bags and checked out. We told ourselves that there is always another time. And that time it will be only roomservice and ocean-gazing, we promised ourselves.

Timeout - Shrines of the Khmer

Archana Subramanian Every sculpted piece of stone in Angkor has a story to tell. Archana Subramanian visits the small circuit temples of Siem Reap.

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A trip to Angkor is probably one of the best examples of a dream coming true. Having wanting to see Angkor Wat and witnessing the world's best sunrise and sunset since I was an adolescent, it was reliving my history class all over again, only this time in person. With Silk Air introducing flights from Kolkata to Siem Reap it has in fact opened up the doors to Angkor. Cost effective, viable, and with good connectivity, Angkor can be reached from any of the major cities in India. Though little has been known about this place besides the temple it was indeed an experience of a kind visiting the killing fields during the Pol Pot Regime, the helium balloon ride, getting to the see the Siem Reap skyline, the visit to the silk farm, connecting with the locals during the visit to the floating village or my favourite the visit to the small circuit temples. Steeped in history the city of Siem Reap is a tourist's dream destination. Topping everyone's itinerary will be the magnificent Angkor Wat temple known for its strong mythological connections. Each side of the temple depicts a story. The churning of the sea takes up one of the sides, while Ramayana and Mahabharatatake up the other two sides. Inscriptions and carvings on the walls retell the stories from the great epics as you walk through the temple. And it's only once you are out that you realise how much more Angkor really has to offer. With over 40 odd temples one can fairly do about three to four temples a day. The small circuit temples Ta Phrom, Banteay Kdei and Srah Srang are the finest examples to understand the Golden age of the Khmer Empire. Ta Prohm The first thing one sees is a huge gate with four faces. Look closely and you will actually see the face of Brahma, later changed to resemble Buddha. This quiet, sprawling monastery is partially cleared of overgrowth. Left unrestored, massive fig and cotton trees grow from the towers and corridors making it a picturesque tree-in-temple sight. Dark corridors and blocked off gates made this temple the right choice to be one of the prime locations for the movie Tomb Raider. One tree seems to have taken over the entire temple. The temple which was falling apart, looks like having been held together by Nature. However, varied sources have also predicted the trees to be the destroyer of the temple, thereby proving ancient myths true. Rajavihara or the royal temple Ta Prohm was built by Jayavarman VII in 1186 in the Bayon style. On a journey that included construction and public works to improve the empire, Jayavarman built this temple to honour his mother. Ta Prohm then became the Royal Monastery and school. Students from all over China, Burma, Vietnam and Singapore came here to study. Being a part of the largest empire it thrived till the Dynasty fell. Once the capital shifted to Phnom Phen no one took care of this monastery and today it's left almost untouched except for partial reconstruction by the NDA. Thanks to the filming of Tomb Raider the temple is now frequented by tourists who flock in hundreds to see one of the most imposing structures. Bantey Kdei Built not very far from its famous neighbouring temple, Ta Prohm, this is the 12th Bayon style monastic complex. Bantey Kdei means a citadel of chambers mainly used by monks.

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A smaller structure, it was used as an additional monastery to accommodate the hundreds who came here to study. Resting on a single level it's built within two successive enclosure walls and has two concentric galleries from which emerge towers, preceded to the east by a cloister. The temple was built over the remains of an older temple, and was considerably altered over time. Like many temples built by Jayavarman VII which were originally Buddhist, the Buddha images were altered by Hindu kings later. This temple also faced the wrath of nature as it stands dilapidated. Don't miss the rectangular courtyard to the east known as the Hall of the Dancing Girls, which is named after the carved dancing girls on its exterior. Srah Srong It's a bit of a climb before you can see this vast expanse of the Royal bathing pool. This manmade reservoir is the extreme west end of Bantey Kdei. Built in the tenth century, it's a popular site for viewing the sunrise; this structure is guided by the naga balustrades culminating with a snake head on a garuda. The steps that lead down to the water are flanked by two guardian lions. According to popular myth, it's the king who still comes down to the royal bathing pool for his bath during the festivals and blesses the city. Today Srah Srong stands as an example of a water bed that provides water to the surrounding areas. A city soaked in history, it's almost true that each temple attracts someone. The murals, motifs, inscriptions, writings and carvings speak more than words could. Built at a time when infrastructure had hardly developed, every corner stands as a living example of the reign that uplifted the economy and culture for the future. Today Siem Reap thrives on its tourists who flock in millions to see these artistic wonders. This trip was facilitated by Silk Air on their inaugural flight to Siem Reap.

The new desi globetrotter

RESHMA S. KULKARNI SHALINI SHAH. Illustrations by KESHAV

November 26, 2011

No place too far, no price too high. Indians are globe-trotting for leisure like never before and they are demanding the best the world has to offer. Suddenly, they're everywhere. Marvelling at the crumbling and faded grandeur of the Ta Phrom temple in Siem Reap, where nature and architecture are locked in an ancient enigmatic embrace. Watching glaciers crumble and whales fluking up before they dive into the icy and pristine waters off the Alaskan coast. Walking through the stunning medieval citadel and palace of Alhambra in Granada, nestled at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Indians are globetrotting the world like never before. The Indian outbound travel market, a mere 3.7 million in 1997, is estimated to touch between 11 and 13 million this year. In percentage terms, it is now the fastest growing outbound market in the world; in terms of
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numbers, the second fastest after China. Declares Romit Theophilus, Director, Sales and Marketing of the German National Tourist Office: Indians are now travelling abroad with a vengeance! Extraordinary growth The predictions for the future are even more mindboggling. The United Nations World Tourism Organisation estimates that India will account for 50 million outbound tourists by the year 2020; by that year, according to the Kuoni Travel Report India 2007, the total outbound spending will touch a staggering $ 28 billion. At the heart of such growth is the sharp spurt in leisure travel a lot of these in recent years. Consider this: * In 2009, Jordan received 29,000 Indians, which grew by 71.4 per cent to 53,000 in 2010. According to Ashish Sharma, the Head of Marketing (India) for Jordan Tourism, there has been a 30 per cent increase over the same period in the first three quarters of 2011. * Among the top five ranked markets for Malaysia, the number of Indians visiting the country grew from 1,32,127 in 2000 to 5,89,383 in 2009, an annual decadal growth rate of 25 per cent. In 2010, the number touched 6.90 lakhs. * New York city saw 1,85,000 visitors in 2010, up by 26 per cent from the previous year. * With 65, 000 visitors from India, New South Wales in Australia recorded an increase of 18.4 per cent in 2010 over the previous year as reported by Siew Hoon Tan, Regional Director for Destination New South Wales. * South African tourism has witnessed an exceptional increase in Indian tourist arrivals in 2010 with a jump of close to 17.3 per cent. In fact, as per their latest reports for the period January-July 2011, a total of 52,588 Indians have so far visited SA; nearly 40 per cent up compared to last year's corresponding period. * London continues to be hugely popular with Indians. In 2010, the city had almost 250,000 visitors (up 31 per centfrom 2009) with an average stay of 17 nights. We anticipate that the visitor market from India will continue to grow in the coming years, says Gordon Innes, CEO, London & Partners. Driven by the middleclass The numbers for many other countries record similar increases. The reasons for the growth are manifold. The burgeoning number of the middleclass with disposable incomes is the primary reason. But travel agents also point towards the marked increase in the number of multiple holidayers' those who travel abroad more than once a year. Says Madhav Pai, COO-Leisure Travel of Thomas Cook (India) Pvt. Ltd.: The single annual trip concept has given way to multiple holidays. Adds Heena J.A., COO of TravelPort Holidays India Pvt. Ltd.: Among Double Income families with No Kids (DINKs), the frequency of foreign holidays sometimes increases to four or five times a year. Two foreign trips have become very common.

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Increased media exposure on foreign travel has provided a huge fillip to the market. Says Karan Anand, Head, Relationships and Supplier Management of Cox and Kings Ltd.: Indians are looking for newer, more exotic destinations. A major reason for this is theinfluence of the media in terms of movies, TV programmes, and travel stories in the print media. Added to this are a number of economic factors such as the advent of cheap airlines, attractive package tours and easy loans for foreign travel. Countries such as Malaysia, Thailand and Singapore remain the most preferred destinations the growth in traffic to such places fuelled by their popularity with first-time travellers abroad. Factors such as proximity, cheaper costs, increased connectivity and shorter visaprocessing times all contribute to the increasing South-East Asia bound traffic, says Jaishanker of the Chennai-based boutique travel company 365 Tours. But the pattern of travel is rapidly changing, says Kashmira Commissariat, COO, Outbound Division, Kuoni India, with more and more Indians looking for newer and less familiar destinations. Adds Radhika Shastry, MD of RCI India: Travellers are increasingly willing to go that extra mile or pay slightly more for experiential holidays. Countries that were not very popular till recently such as Spain, Turkey, Bali, New Zealand and South Africa are gaining popularity now. Says Sabina Chopra, Co-founder of Yatra.com: With high disposable incomes, global aspirations and the willingness to pay the price to fulfil this, the zest among Indians to travel and explore new places is increasing rapidly. Growing popularity Another interesting trend is the increasing demand for cruise holidays. Apart from taking them to fascinating parts of the world, families on cruises like the fact that there are a plethora of activities such as swimming, sports, indoor games, movies and live entertainment. Taking note of the boom, many countries including Ireland, Spain, South Korea, Abu Dhabi, Indonesia, Macau and Poland have recently opened tourist offices in India. Many others offer packages and run campaigns specifically directed at the Indian tourist. Some offer or are in the process of offering special incentives for the Indian traveller. For instance, Ireland has come up with a short stay visa waiver for valid United Kingdom visa holders effective from July 1, 2011. The country's tourism board expects an increase of up to 15 per cent visitors from India over the next year. Recently, the United States Travel Association conducted its biggest road show for the Indian market in Delhi and Mumbai, which saw the participation of 28 delegates from the country as well as a few state tourism promotion agencies. According to the country's Office of Travel and Tourism Industry (OTTI), the U.S. received 6, 51,000 Indians in 2010, an increase of 18 per cent over 2009. A myth that has unravelled over the last few years is that of the low spending Indian tourist. Yes, they may still pack their dhoklas and curry powders in their suitcases, but the desi traveller is anything but stingy when abroad. With the urge to explore more has come the desire to spend more. According to the Hotel Price Index by Hotels.com, Indians have emerged as the sixth biggest spenders on hotels globally, paying an average of nearly Rs. 7,000 per night. In other words, they spend more than tourists from countries such as the United Kingdom, Germany, France and Singapore. According Manoharan Periasamy from Tourism Malaysia, Indians spend an average of $ 800 per trip, which is about $ 200 more than tourists from other countries. As long as seven years ago, Indians emerged as the highest spenders among visitors in Singapore which, like
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Malaysia, is another favourite shopping destination for the desi traveller. The Kuoni Holiday Report 2011, a survey of Indians on their holiday behaviour, suggests that consumer trends will shift towards private luxury trips, cruises, castle and villa stays and self-drive vacations. When the Indian holidaymakers surveyed were asked what they think will be important when holidaying ten years from now, as many as 37 per cent answered pure luxury.' Along with emerging economies such as China and Brazil, India is poised to play a much more important role in the world tourism industry in the future. The potential is huge given that the outbound tourism market in relation to the country's GDP is still very much lower than that of most developed economies. As things stand, the graph for this market points clearly in one direction up, up, and away. The new globetrotting Indian is a person who seems here to stay.

Destinations - Bali in a new light

RAKHSHANDA JALIL Rakshanda Jalil discovers that there is more to Indonesia than Bali and more to Bali than sun-kissed beaches and a roaring night life. When it comes to travel, popular imagination can sometimes be as misleading as tourism over-drive. Nothing can be truer than the case of the archipelago of Indonesia which many view as a one-stop destination. In an attempt to dispel the stereotype, the Indonesian Tourism Board invited some of us to explore the idea that there is more to Indonesia than Bali and that, indeed, there is more to Bali than sun-bleached beaches and a hectic night life. Perhaps, it is taking a cue from Thailand the Big Daddy of tourism in South Asia which keeps unleashing newer and newer tourist destinations upon an insatiable world. Beach-combers and back-packers flock to lesser-known travel hot-spots in this part of the world along with high-end tourists seeking nirvana in exclusive spas and resorts and rambunctious families on a jolly good outing. Increasingly, the focus of the travel industry is shifting towards inclusiveness rather than exclusiveness, towards affordable luxury rather than en masse shoestring budget travellers. The idea, everywhere, seems to be to promote a place where a good time can be had by people of different age groups and diverse interests. There being no direct flights from India, we travel via Kuala Lumpur. From Jakarta we head to Bandung, Indonesia's third largest city and capital of the province of West Java. Situated atop volcanic mountains, Bandung caught the eye of the Dutch colonialists for its temperate weather. Tea was brought from China and when that failed to take root, the Assam variety was introduced. Soon it proved to be so profitable and prolific that the city of Bandung was developed' as a resort city for the plantation owners and dubbed the Paris of the East'. The European influence lingers in the art deco architecture, the elongated spires of the Dutch-style cathedral, the canals and the wind-mills atop a popular bakery chain. An entire street devoted to jeans and rows upon rows of factory outlets' make this a shopping haven for those looking for near-similar clones of popular high-end brands at bargain prices. However, of greater interest to me is the Afro-Asia Avenue, named after the first Afro-Asian Conference held here in 1955 which brought together leaders from 29 countries including the noted Urdu writers Faiz Ahmad Faiz and Sajjad Zaheer.

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Heady highs A visit to Bandung includes a short detour to a volcano that last erupted in 1954, Mount Tangkuban Perahu, takes you along winding mountain roads past tea, rubber, banana and coffee plantations to a crater that spews boiling mud and clouds of steam. A vantage point on a small bridge allows you to take pictures of the plume of smoke that hangs low over the crater and sniff the acrid smell of sulphur. At the nearby hot spring, Sari Ater, you can sit in a pool of warm sulphur water along with rambunctious locals enjoying a family outing or a weekend getaway from Jakarta. Roadside shacks sell a concoction of dried fern roots that cure everything from arthritis to cancer to diabetes and a local delicacy made from the rabbits that breed in great abundance on these wooded slopes. We return to Jakarta for a quick tour of the chief attractions of this bustling capital city prone to the most mind-numbing traffic jams, before flying off to Bali. Home to the majority of Indonesia's Hindu population, the island is synonymous with sun, sand and tourists, especially the Australians who are everywhere, given the strong Australian dollar and the geographical proximity. Once accustomed to the booming Aussie drawl, ubiquitous kangaroos and blue-white-and red buntings set out to woo these visitors from down-under, you will find plenty in Bali to entice you. While the sea-facing night-spot Ku De Ta (possibly a Balinese spelling of coup d'tat!) and the Hanging Rock Caf are popular hangouts at night, the beaches, especially the ones at Kuta and Nusa Dua draw all the crowds. The first-floor lounge of the Anantara at Seminyak is a great place to watch the sun go down as are the extensive grounds of the golf course at the Pan Pacific Nirvana Resort at Tanah Lot. In fact, you might do well to time your arrival at Tanah Lot so that you arrive at the Pan Pacific and take the short cut to the temple carved onto a rocky outcrop before settling for a sun downer. This fantastic sea temple, among the holiest sites for the island's Hindu population, was built in the 16th century and is dedicated to protecting the island from the wrath of the sea. One of seven sea temples that encircle the coast of Bali like a protective girdle, its guardians are the mythical sea snakes said to inhabit the caves below. The sea pounding at the rocky shore below, the wind tearing at your clothes and jostling crowds posing precipitously close to the cliff's edge make a visit to Tanah Lot a truly hair-raising' experience. Heart of Bali While the area near the temples offers a variety of Balinese mementoes, the serious shoppers head for Ubud. A far cry from the boisterous beaches, the town of Ubud in the middle of the island offers a glimpse into the heart of Bali. The road from Kuta takes you past orchards groaning with fruit and fields glimmering with the emerald of paddy. We stop at the village of Celuk to watch master craftsmen at work, chiselling objects of incredible beauty from all kinds of wood the sturdy mahogany and the flimsy driftwood that washes up on the island's shores. Everywhere, there are signs of painstaking labour and creativity. All along the road, we see samples of the industry and ingenuity of the local people who have festooned their shop fronts and homes with temples, altars and decorations fashioned from flowers, leaves, bamboo and bits of cloth. Girls carrying baskets of flowers walk to village temples and the streets wear a festive look; every day in Bali, we gather, is a special day to worship the gods and the rituals of prayer are celebrated, not merely observed. Indian tourists are known to visit Ubud to buy container-loads of home decorations, objects d'art and wooden furniture, though few bother to explore this quaint town. The main thoroughfare has cafes, museums, art galleries, gemstone and jewellery boutiques and a
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warren of shacks selling batik, metal ware and wood bric-a-brac including side tables designed like jungle drums to Buddha figurines and ritual masks. Lunch at any one of the scenic cafes overlooking the dramatic valleys gouged out by the Wos river can be interspersed with a browse through the many interesting nooks and crannies at the Temple of Bubbling Waters (Tirta Empul) and the royal palace followed by high tea at the scenic Ali La, a boutique resort situated in the midst of terraced rice fields. At Tirta Empul, remember to borrow a sash from a desk piled high with scraps of coloured fabric, to tie around the waist as a symbol of respect before venturing near the sacred springs that still bubble near the central courtyard. Quite apart from shopping for a range of imaginative handicrafts for which Bali is justly renowned, there is the island's cultural life waiting to be explored. The Barong dance, the most popular of Bali's many dance forms, is a spectacular fight between good and evil with many moments of light relief thrown in. Language ceases to be barrier in the episode involving Ketaki and Sahdeva as colour and movement crowd the open-air stage. You sit on stone steps padded with rush matting with a live orchestra occupying one side of the tiny stage, and watch engrossed. Swaying coconut palms provide a fitting backdrop for this vignette culled from the Ramayana. When Barong, the king of the spirits, vanquishes the forces of evil, you rejoice not merely because order and harmony have been restored but because of the seamless manner in which religion and drama have come together. Rakhshanda Jalil writes on culture, literature www.hindustaniawaaz-rakhshanda.blogspot.com. and society. She blogs at

Freedom's way
Rajni Bakshi The Gateway of India is a motif of our times. On December 2 this year, the Gateway of India commemorated 100 years of the first British sovereign setting foot on Indian soil. In many revolutions and struggles for freedom, in other parts of the world, it is common for statues and monuments of the erstwhile rulers to be demolished. Why didn't this happen in India? What might this tell us about India's role in the world today? In a saga of conquest, rebellion and freedom, the Gateway is a rather neatly tied up sub-plot. It was built to celebrate a King's triumphant survey of a colony. Thirty-six years later, free Indians watched the last of the departing British troops march ceremonially through the Gateway's lofty portal. An Arc of Triumph became the site of an empire's retreat. Although the foundation stone of the Gateway was laid within a few months of the King's visit, it took another 13 years for the structure to be designed and built. Though it was a project of the Government of India, almost half the Rs. 21 lakh fund was donated by the Sassoon family. The founder of this globally influential Jewish business family, David Sassoon, had migrated to Bombay from Baghdad in the mid-19th century. By the time the Gateway was actually inaugurated on December 4, 1924, the grandeur and power associated with the Imperial Durbar at Delhi in 1911 was rapidly fraying. The
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martyrdom of Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims in the massacre at Jallianwala Bagh, in 1919, added both pathos and passion to the non-cooperation movement led by Mahatma Gandhi. It also boosted a generation of revolutionaries, like Bhagat Singh, who did not share the Mahatma's faith in non-violence. Later, the hanging of Singh and his comrades, in 1931, became another definitive event that sealed the fate of the empire. Our own monuments Why then did we embrace the Gateway and India Gate in Delhi as our own after the British left? It was not just that Indians, like many other peoples, have cultivated the habit of living amid, and building upon, the ruins and remains of successive rulers. Over five millennia of this experience also combined with a multiplicity of spiritual traditions which simultaneously fostered a sophisticated aesthetic and a detachment from material trappings. Gandhi was drawing on a long legacy when he saw all material power as ephemeral and imperial power as particularly fragile even when its rise and fall is measured in centuries rather than decades. Above all, the satyagraha movement led by Gandhi enabled us to separate imperial oppression from the people who imposed it or from the structures they built. We could burn British cloth as a form of protest and yet not foster hatred towards the British people. Therefore, when the British were finally ousted it was natural to sanitise and defang symbols of imperial rule. India Gate was dedicated to an eternal hero the unknown soldier who dies to protect his people. The adjacent chatri was emptied of the King's statue, which was moved to an obscure park in Delhi along with statues of other imperial figures. Symbols stay In Mumbai, a black statue of the King riding a horse was relocated to a Museum though that area is still known as Kala Ghoda. More recently a giant statue of Chattrapati Shivaji, 17th Century Maratha leader, was installed as the centre-piece of a little garden adjoining the Gateway of India. Perhaps all of this was smoothly possible because the freedom struggle was forward looking. And, Gandhi's focus was on raising a more fundamental challenge. The dominant symbol of India's freedom struggle the charkha was not just a revolt against how colonial rule had destroyed production systems in India. It was an affirmation of what is needed a decentralised industrialisation that would empower local communities and foster sustained well-being for every last Indian. Instead of harking back to the past, the charkha inspired us to work for a new paradigm in which there would be no concentrations of power either by feudal lords, industrial barons or even elected governments. Those who still have faith in the old model of power might now be tempted to see the Gateway of India as a motif of India's outward movement to acquire and exert power in the world. Having nuclear weapon capability and a growing number of Indian multi-nationals might foster a feeling that it's our turn to rule. But those who are closely tuned-in to the mood of the 21st century are more likely to see the Gateway as a reminder of the fragility of concentrated power built on the exploitation of others. This is as true of 20th century colonial empires as large corporations and big government today. From Tahrir Square to Occupy Wall Street, and many more sites of struggle that go unreported, there is a longing for precisely the kind of social and economic empowerment that Gandhi visualized but free India has not yet fully experienced.
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If at all the Gateway is a motif for our times it is as metaphorical portal for exploring how India and Indians might help to foster new paradigms of power at home and abroad. Rajni Bakshi is an author, currently a fellow at Gateway House: Indian Council on Global Relations.

Experience - Rendezvous with polar bears

Preeti Verma Lal Chattering teeth, frozen ears and feet chilled to the bone didn't stop Preeti Verma Lal from walking on dangerous ground to meet the polar bears in Churchill. What would you say of a squat, sleepy town which has no roads in and out? A primitive squiggle on the map? How would you define a town with a barely 700 headcount? Sparse? Smug near the tiny airport is a jail. No, not for outlaws, but for bears. Here, burly guards walk around with muskets and cracker guns. Here, you'd need to bundle up in Arctic gear, or you might lose a toe or two to the icy winds that cut into your bones at -30 degrees. What would you say of this town that seems geographically addled? A forgettable doodle? Nature's largesse Think before you dismiss this squat, sleepy town which is tucked by the Hudson Bay in Manitoba, Canada. Wise travellers would exhort you to ignore the 700 headcount and the noroad spiel. Churchill defies all clichs about size and downtown glitz. Some towns do not need the oompah beats of modernism some towns are loaded with Nature's largesse. Like Churchill. When the maple leaves shed their green and slip into burnished oranges, polar bears walk along the shore. You can hop on a Frontiers North Tundra Buggy and watch the bears spar on ice. Churchill is the polar bear capital of the world. When Spring arrives, the auroras light the sky in enchanting sparkles. Plop yourself on a couch inside a buggy, fill your glass with champagne and wait all night for the northern lights. Churchill is the best place to see nature's lightshow. When summer comes and the landscape wears the purple of heather, the white Beluga whales romp in the bay, their belly up, the warm water reverberating with their highpitched twitter. Churchill is the Beluga whale capital of the world. I took cue from the wise travellers, ignored the no-road jibe, buckled up on a 90-minute chartered flight from Winnipeg into Churchill. But before polar bears, came history. Not too long ago, Churchill was at the heart of North American fur trade. It all began in 1619 when a Danish expedition led by Jens Munk wintered where Churchill stands now. Of the 64 explorers, only three survived the sub-arctic conditions, but that moment the farflung land which was home to the Arctic nomads found its raison d'tre. Churchill was born, so did the legends around fur trade by Hudson Bay Company and York Factory. And of course, the polar bears who move from inland towards the shore in the autumn yearning for the bay to freeze and the seals their favourite meal to pop their heads out of the breathing holes in ice.

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Since time immemorial, the shores of Hudson Bay had been home to polar bears. But it remained inaccessible until a World Bank honcho called Merv Gunter rustled up an incredible plan to get up, close with the colossal bears. The dream began when Gunter moved to Churchill on a World Bank tenure and lost his heart to the white bears with translucent skin. He, along with wife Lynda, founded Frontiers North Adventures (www.frontiersnorth.com) to get tourists to watch the bears so closely. Churchill certainly is not the only home of polar bears in the world, but nowhere else can one get so close in their natural habitat. The year: 1987. Almost 25 years later, Gunter's dream brings 8,000 tourists annually into the squat sleepy town. I was one of the 8,000 that trudged into Churchill between mid-October and November for a rendezvous with the polar bears. First came the warnings. Bundle up. Hop into the Tundra Buggy. The terrain is rough, so hold on to your nerves, Trevor Lescard, the tour leader, in a striped skull cap and colossal mittens drilled fear as I wriggled into arctic jacket with fur trimmings and heavy snow boots. Remember, this is polar bear habitat. You cannot step out for a walk; the cell phones will not work. Do not dangle out of the Buggy. Do not be noisy, Lescard continued as I iced up at the thought of three days of chattering teeth, frozen ears, feet chilled to the bone. Sub Arctic conditions can be treacherous. I wanted to get back home alive. Would I? What if? My heart pounded. Reluctantly, I pinned my hope on the monstrous tyres of the Tundra Buggy. And the soft-spoken, bearded Lescard. Together, I hoped, they would bring me back alive from the polar bear point. So, I beseeched the Lord. Up-close Three days my teeth chattered, my ears remained frozen, my feet chilled to the bone, but for three days I watched the polar bears spar, roll in snow, rub their nose against the Buggy; I heard them grunt, moan; I watched them saunter, meander, plod; I stood mesmerised as they lay on a bed of kelp, their eyes aching for the frozen bay and the seals. For three days, my phone remained dead. I was so far away from the world that I would not have known if it crumbled. But at the Polar Bear Point, everything is irrelevant. Except, the polar bears. And the ecstasy of an unforgettable experience!

Gateway to heaven
SUDHA MADHAVAN

May 31, 2010

Perched in the heady heights of the Himalayas, Sikkim offers a blend of breathtaking scenery and a unique cultural landscape Sitting cosily ensconced between the erstwhile kingdom of Nepal and the Bhutanese monarchy is the state of Sikkim. An erstwhile monarchy ruled by the Chogyals; due to security and administrative problems it was granted statehood, on May 16, 1975, becoming the 22nd state of the Indian Democracy. It is an absolute tourist paradise, with all places of interest just involving not-too-long' jeep rides and just- that-little' climb-ups, to place you deftly in the middle of the most amazing monasteries, lakes and the grandeur of the second tallest peak, the Khangchendzonga.

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The approach to the historic Nathu La Pass is from Gangtok, situated at an altitude1700 metres, approximately 5,570 feet above sea level. The climate is moderately cool, ranging between 20 and 25 degrees in summers (touching around 6 degrees in winters) an enchanting hill station and the capital of Sikkim. And it affords an easy approach to the Soungo Lake, the Rabendtse ruins of the ancient capital of Sikkim, the Rumtek monastery, the Pemayangtse monastery, the Institute of Tibetology, the Guru Dongmar lake, Do drul Chortem, and the famous Nathu La pass. And of course, the enchanting Pelling, with its breathtaking view of Khanchengdzonga (Kanchenjunga)! Thrilling experience Nathu la was also a part of the ancient Silk route' and trade between Tibet and India. Fiftysix km from Gangtok, it is approachable by jeep, the climb up the mountain roads where you gain thousands of feet in a matter of a few hours is thrilling and an unforgettable experience. The pass is situated at the Indo-Chinese border, at a height of 14,200 feet and stays covered with snow most of the year. The Chang is the local Sikkimese variety of home-made toddy, using millet. Being rich in calcium and iron, it is considered health giving and energising and seen as a good substitute for mother's milk for infants. In Sikkim, this millet is winnowed, cleaned, and then boiled. The swollen grains are then drained, gently beaten with a wooden pestle, mixed with yeast and then left to ferment for three to four days. In this period it gains a wonderful flavour. This is then used to make warm energy filled drinks. It is perfectly delicious, warm and wonderfully relaxing! Not to say, quite as heady as wine! One can keep adding warm water as long as the flavour is not diluted. The carpets of Sikkim derive their designs from the auspicious symbols of Denzong, and the hundreds of variety of orchids, flora and fauna. Thick, rich and quite heavy, these are handwoven from wool sourced from Punjab. Each stitch is pressed into place with bamboo strips, kept for this purpose. It is hard labour that needs nifty fingers and sharp focus. Hand woven fabrics by the Lepchas, in the form of cushion covers, long strapped shoulder bags and belts, wraps, purses and tote bags, uniformly have the traditional designs of arrow heads, hills etc. which are considered holy. The beautiful river Teesta, which means three streams', flows right through Sikkim and is a source of succour. It is also a great venue for river rafting and water sports. A gentler river, the less adventurous ones can step in without apprehension to indulge in. Rangit, the playful, turbulent tributary of the Teesta, is for the lion hearted to exact the thrill and adventure of the more dare-devil variety and exhilaration! Hard choices Several hydel power projects are in the offing to harness the energy resources available. Of these six were targeted in North Sikkim which is home to the original inhabitants, the ancient tribe of Lepchas. They have been actively agitating against the construction of dams on their land, going on a relay hunger strike that lasted more than 500 days. They have been partly successful in forcing the government to take a look at their grievances. Four of the six projects have been shelved.

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The Lepchas, the ancient inhabitants of Sikkim are a protected tribe having dwindled to a mere 6,000 or so. The Bhutias, who came later formed a blood brotherhood deal with them to live in amity and peace. But there is an obvious undercurrent of disenchantment in the air now. The Lepchas, the Bhutias and the Nepalese together form the populace of this beautiful hill state.The Nepalese come in search of work and livelihood. They have no ownership rights. They cannot purchase land or own a house here. Sikkim belongs therefore to the Bhutias and the Lepchas. West Sikkim is the proud owner of the ancient and highest monastery The Pemayangtse Monastery. This monastery is a treasure trove of ancient Thangka paintings and Buddhist sacred books and the home of Buddhist culture. The huge prayer wheel is awe-inspiring as are the Thangka' paintings. The topmost floor has an awe-inspiring pagoda-like wooden structure, the view of heaven, called the Zangdoplari', which shows the cycle of after life, the various stages that the soul passes through in its life after death! Air of peace The Rumtek monastery, The largest monastery of Sikkim, provides facilities for study of Buddhism and philosophy with a comparative delving into the Vedic philosophy and the Hindu theology as well. Situated 24 km from Gangtok, it has an air of immense peace and the ideal atmosphere for learning. We had a pleasurable and informative tte--tte with two young Lamas, Rishi and Ringzhip, who are studying to become Acharyas'. The first level being that of the Shastri'. Together the course covers a period of 11 years. The code of conduct for one aspiring to be a Rimpoche' is a strict one and involves the formal severance of ties with family and relatives, as well as going into a retreat for a period of time. The hierarchy of the teacher and taught is followed meticulously, except at meal times when everyone is equal. The Rabendtse ruins of the ancient capital of Sikkim stand about a kilometre away from the Pemayangtse Monastery. You walk down an enchanting pathway until you reach the perfectly maintained ruins. The view is absolutely thrilling! The sky is a stunning blue and the air crisp. Tensung Namgyal, son of Phuntshog Namgyal, shifted the capital of Sikkim from Yuksom to Rabendtse in the late 17th century. The ruins of the ancient capital are scattered over a conspicuous spur, in a thickly forested valley, surrounded by a fortification of rubble. Beyond the fortification must have been the settlement for the common people. There is a lake over which is a connecting bridge. How indeed does one fill up the senses with the sounds and sights of a place like Sikkim? There was the monastery at Tashiding of the Nyingmapa order, the rhodendron froests of Barshay and the hot springs of Reshi, yet to be done! OhYes! We shall come again! Magnificent Kanchenjunga reigns royally over Sikkim, now appearing and now disappearing mysteriously from view as one walks along the twists and turns of the winding lanes of Gangtok. We walked around in a daze with our eyes on the tantalising view of the mountains, tripping over things that came in the way! And feeling absolutely envious of the Sikkimese, living veritably under its magnificent presence! The thrill of seeing the sun rise on the peak and turn it golden is out of this world. We got up in the freezing cold and went up to the terrace at 5 a.m. to watch the sun touch the tip and set it afire. An unforgettable experience, indeed!

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As a fort comes alive

MAYA JAYAPAL

13, june, 2010

Chitradurga fort, like most other forts in the country, has its own treasury of legends and stories. And if you happen to have an imaginative guide, it's magic to see them take narrative shape Unlike many of the better maintained forts in North India, with their palaces, this one is in ruins. I like engaging guides at historical places. Although their facts may not bear close scrutiny, their legends are interesting. And part of a monument's charm to me lies more in the evocation than in the facts which are available everywhere. Our guide at Chitradurga, which lies 200 km from Bangalore, was as intrepid in his story telling as the architects of the famous fort were in their strategic methods to repel enemies. The fort was the symbol of the power of the Nayak Palegars, feudatories of the Vijayanagara kings. It took eight centuries to complete before it was taken by Hyder Ali's soldiers and his son Tipu after which the British briefly occupied it. It commands a magnificent position on a hilltop, and the Nayaks used this vantage well. It was strategy at every turn: in the zigzag of the pathways which prevented the attacker from easy access, in the embrasures for weapons aiming exactly at eyes or heads and in the seven gates each with its own defence mechanism from the clanging bell to poisoned swords which fell upon the enemy. Stretching for eight km, it has seven circumambulations which gave it its Kannada name of Yelu suttina kotte, 19 gateways, four secret entrances and 50 warehouses. Boulders all around present a formidable sight dramatic, impregnable and harsh. Temple tales Inside the fortress are about 122 temples including forms of Siddeswara such as balekka(plantain) Siddeswara, nellikai(gooseberry) Siddeswara, sampige( chempaka) Siddeswara etc. Many are cave temples, tunnelled through the boulders to emerge from behind. Some stand on rocky outcrops like the Hidembeswara temple and therein lies a tale. The Pandavas did battle here with Hidemba, an asura. However, the dying Hidemba asked a boon of his destroyer Bhima that he would marry his sister Hidembi. Their son Ghatotkacha was supposed to have been born here. That temple, dedicated to Hidemba, stands silhouetted, dramatic against the sun. My arthritic knees protested, but the guide literally enticed me step by step. He knew I would be spellbound. In front of another temple is a swing which the king would use during Dussehra and light lamps placed on another structure called deepada kamba. Halfway up the hill to one side is a pavilion dedicated to animals such as the horse, the bull and the elephant which had served the rulers with such commitment. This is called the bombe mantapa.

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The architects provided wells, one of which, the akka thangiyaru hondais in memory of the two sisters who plunged to their deaths after the king, their husband, died. There is also a lovely, small, stepped tank used for storing coloured water for the ladies to play with during the vasant utsav, called okale(coloured) honda. Such immense constructions were completed in an age when there was no cutting edge technology. We saw huge rocks with serrated edges having holes close to each other; when pegs were tapped into them they broke up. Sometimes water at pressure also helped split them. Inside the mint was a temple-like structure with a diamond-shaped slab to cover a hole in which jewellery was stored with an idol on top to give the impression of worship being conducted here to deter foes. The mint had mud walls made of dough so strong that part of the walls still stood even after 400 years. Legendary courage No account of the fort can be complete without the saga of the heroine of the fort: Onake Obbava. The woman who used the pestle with telling effect. She was the wife of a guard. When she went to the thanniru kolato fill her pot with water from the cool spring, she noticed Haider Ali's troops surreptitiously entering through a small opening in a cave. Undeterred by the fact that she was alone, she stood guard over the opening with an onake(a large wooden pestle) and bludgeoned the soldiers one by one as they tried to enter. The crevice is called Obbava Kindi in her memory. Chandrasekhar, our guide, even had the acclaimed song about Obbava from the movie Naagarahaavu with the famed Kannada actor, the late Vishnuvardhan in it and he played it for us from his cell phone where he had it stored! Unlike many of the better maintained forts in North India, with their palaces, this one is in ruins. Only the solid walls remain. Grass grows between the ruins and squirrels, sparrows and monkeys scamper across the ramparts, where soldiers once stood guard, protecting their birthright from sworn enemies from both within and without. As we entered the fort early in the morning, we saw men and women enjoying the sublime peace of the hour: their only company was the lone hoopoe on the walls. It was a peace which the Nayaks probably never enjoyed for too long, having had to endure battles and raids throughout their fateful history. The fort stands, a tribute to their strategy, their intrepidity and their courage.

Designed to please
RANJITA BISWAS Declared World Design Capital for 2012, architecture, covering a wide range from neoclassical to functionalist to art nouveau buildings, is an important aspect of the experience of Helsinki

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When I heard that the Temppeliaukio Church is made from one granite slab it was hard to believe. Seeing is believing. Arriving on a winter day at the Vantaa airport in Helsinki, capital of Finland, the cold hit me though it was brightly sunny outside. Well, March can still be very chilly for us though the Gulf Stream on the Baltic Sea keeps the place quite warm by Scandinavian standards. I hopped into a bus to go to the city centre. The travel card sold by the transport department here is pretty convenient. With it you can travel in all modes of transport and is valid for 48 hours from the time it's first used. The hotel gave a front view of the central railway station (Rautatieasema). It is a grand building and its tall clock tower can be spotted from afar. The huge faade with two pairs of statues holding the spherical lamps somehow remind me of Soviet-era buildings though the designer was Finnish. Finland was under Russian rule for a long time. In 12th century, it became a part of Sweden. Historians say that the Swedish royalty created Helsinki in the 16th century to compete with Tallinn, the Estonian capital which was a flourishing port at that time and was under Danish rule. In 1809, Sweden lost Finland to Russia in a war that had continued for many years and it remained so until the Russian revolution in 1917. A variety of styles Helsinki is famous for its architectural beauty. Its central area is beautifully situated on a peninsula surrounded by the sea. On the evening of our arrival we had an introduction to this as we set out to have dinner at the Kappeli restaurant on the Esplanade. Lights from inside blinked through the stained glass walls. The main building has continued its tradition of hospitality from 1864. All around were imposing buildings whose beauty I discovered only the next day in the morning light. Dinner at Kappeli was substantial: reindeer roast with Hapan Korppu cracker and rye bread. The dessert was yummy, a speciality of the region, Sea Buckthorn berry pudding. Driving around near Kauppatori (the Market Square and Market Hall) I saw a beautiful fountain with a woman's figure. Helsinki is often called the daughter of the Baltic and this fountain is the city's symbol. The main square of Helsinki, called Senate Square, is vast and located near the waterfront. Built in the fashion of St. Petersburg Square and designed by Carl Ludvig Engel, a gifted Russian architect of German descent, in summer it holds musical concerts etc. At the centre of the Square is a monument to Emperor Alexander II created by the famous Finnish sculptor Walter Runeberg. The statue is surrounded by four allegoric sculptures Law, Peace, Light and Labour. The University Library next to the University on one side was built in 1844 and is considered one of the most beautiful of Engel's buildings. For me, however, the building that immediately drew attention was the white Empire style 19th century Lutheran church to the north of the Senate Square, another of Engel's creations. Its facade is held up by Corinthian columns. The building was completed only after his death and was consecrated in 1852.
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The other church I remember, in a completely different style, was the ornate Russian Orthodox Church the Uspenski Cathedral (1868) in the Katajanokka district, which is an island actually. Locals often refer to it as the Onion Church due to the shape of the golden domes. Built in Byzantine style and made of red-brick. It is the largest functioning Russian Orthodox cathedral in Western Europe. The interior is richly decorated and full of valuable icons. It was a Sunday when I visited it and the service was on. The service is, however, held in Finnish language. It was a moving experience to watch the rituals and the faithful dipping their fingers in a bowl of water kept at the entrance before going forward to light a candle or pray. Indeed, Helsinki has some of the most interesting churches. How about a Rock Church, a more contemporary addition? When I heard that church is made from one granite slab it was hard to believe. Seeing is believing. So I trooped into this 1969 construction at Tl. It was actually built as a result of competition which was won by two architect brothers Timo and Tuomo Suomalainen. They wanted to do something unusual and unusual it is. People first thought it was sheer madness, but they did it. Striking structure In local lingo it is Temppeliaukio Church, but Stone Church or Rock Church is the popular name. The unique architecture, the entrance is almost underground, lends the church great acoustics and it is a popular venue for concerts. In fact, a rehearsal was going on when I visited the church and it was the most unusual concert hall I had ever experienced in a church ensconced in a rock enclave with a roof like a copper dome which spans 70 feet. Music and Finnish identity Recently Helsinki was declared as the European Capital of Culture'. Music, art, and architecture are woven deeply into Finish culture. Visiting the Sibelius monument convinced me of that. It had snowed the previous night and the ground at the park was pristine white and a little slippery. In this background, edged by woods and rugged rocks, a very unusual construction shone in the sunlight. It is in memory of Finnish composer Sibelius whose music played a significant role in the formation of the Finnish identity. This projection is a visual expression of the way Sibelius' music depicts nature. A competition was organised by the Sibelius society (they love architectural competitions, don't they?) and it generated tremendous interest and there was even a debate between supporters of abstract and figurative art. The present work seems a happy combination of both. The memorial resembles organ pipes and welded together from 600 pipes and weighs over 24 metric tons. A viewer can even enter inside and the echoes and sounds generated by the structure are really something. Kiasma, the contemporary art museum, is another interesting, if controversial, building. In Helsinki, the other landmark building, of course, belongs to Nokia, the ubiquitous handset. Any Finn will show it off proudly. It is a lifeline in these hard times of recession and ensures employment for a large section of the people.
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On the way back from the outskirts of the city, I saw a few men sitting patiently on a frozen sea. Meditating? No, they were ice-fishing, a favourite winter sport. Finns are fish-lovers and crayfish, pickled herring and roe salmon are some of their gourmet choices. Back in the hotel, the most welcome thought after the day out was relaxing in a Finnish sauna, famous all over the world. On that relaxing note I drowsily said goodbye to Helsinki.

Ramble down La Rambla

15 aug 2010

If Barcelona is an amazing city, La Rambla is without doubt its heartbeat SHEILA KUMAR It is hard to be in Barcelona and not be slack-jawed. There is so much life, living, and vibrant splendour all around. In ways small and large, Spain's vital port city stands as a tribute to beauty. The blood-red geraniums that spill over ceramic containers from tiny balconies; the plazas with their statues and cafes; Antonio Gaudi's dream/nightmare, La Sagrada Familia, soaring high over the construction equipment that surrounds it; the Gothic Quarter with its stone walls and quaint shops; the Picasso Museum housing the Master's early works; and, in the distance, Montserrat, the jagged mountain looking down like some sort of benediction. It's the La Rambla, however, that is the beating heart of Barcelona. And what an exciting heartbeat! The long, wide, tree-lined avenue is quite easily the most exhilarating one I have seen; Piccadilly, St Mark's Square and the Champs Elysees notwithstanding. Hedged by plane trees, the mile-long road is packed with people, day and nighteven during siesta! Within minutes of arriving, I felt at home, sort of. In search of a battery for my Nikon, I wandered into Nath's, just off the avenue. Old Mr. Nath was explaining something in perfect Spanish (or maybe Catalan, for all I know) to a local, so his son tried to solve my camera problem. Soon the young man ditched his English for Hindi. Go to the head of La Rambla, he advised me, naming a well-known departmental store. Thrumming with energy Which was how I came to the Placa de Cataluya, only to forget about batteries, cameras and suchlike; I stopped to stare, instead. The square with its fountains spilling over with water, statues of divinely proportioned demigods and damsels, people walking to and fro or sitting under striped awnings enjoying a caf con leche is such a lovely place. Bus, trains and Metro routes converge here; protests and demonstrations concentrate themselves here; big departmental stores like El Corte Ingles, Marks and Spencer's and El Triangle hem the square in. In medieval times, this area was Barcelona's western border, walled and lined with fortresslike buildings. The statues of half-clothed women were deemed immoral when they were first unveiled in the 1920s. Today, almost all of Barcelona passes them with nary a glance. Soaked in history, La Rambla once a river bed has been called a metaphor for life'; the great Spanish poet Lorca said it was the only street in the world which I wish would never

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end. What's more, the locals have taken full ownership of the boulevard. They have a word for it in Spanish: ramblejar, as in strolling down the La Rambla. On this promenade, the stroller reigns supreme. La Rambla is for pedestrians. Over a kilometre long, it is split into five distinct sections. The seaward end with the monument to Columbus is a good place to start your walk, passing the Rambla de Santa Monica, formerly a convent, now an Arts Centre. Then move past the portrait painters where even the most jaded palate just has to stop and grin at the quick but creative impressions of celebs, politicians and ordinary plebs. After which, the same jaded palate may just cough up a few Euros for a quick charcoal sketch of him/herself. I will admit I did, my palate being far from jaded! Next up is the grand frontage of the Teatre Principal, then the mosaic-fronted Ramblas Hotel where Papa Hemingway, Lorca and other greats have stayed. Hardly does one pause to admire these pieces of the past when one is assailed by the next bit of excitement the boulevard had to offer: the magicians, buskers and Barcelona's famed living statues. The last lot are performance artistes who are spray-painted and make living but preternaturally still statues of Dracula, Roman gladiators, headless ghosts, and the like. Next is the Caf de la Opera, which is almost always crowded with people eating, drinking and arguing. Up next is La Boqueria, Barcelona's main market, housed in a steel-girder cage, a must-see: fruit and vegetable stalls jostle with seafood, cheese, olives, wild mushrooms all of it an epicurean's delight. The market is near the Rambla de les Flors; on this stretch, flower stalls line the promenade, giving off a heady fragrance. Next to them are the newspaper vendors; here you will find vintage porn, too, like the bouquinistes of Paris. So be prepared to quickly don impassive expressions when you pick up what you think is a copy of Neruda and find it is actually turn-of-the-last-century pornography.. Along with lyrical descriptions and paeans of praise about La Rambla come dire warnings, too. This is supposed to be Pickpocket Central, the place of old veterans and older ruses, like ink sprayed onto the unsuspecting stroller`'s clothes to distract him or her while the pickpocket does his job. One is told not to lock eyes with suspicious characters, not to give out the time or answer questions from seedy individuals but then one also hears of perfectly executed con jobs by well-dressed and well-spoken ladies and gentlemen! Ah well, c'est la vie. Slice of life What no one tells you till you are actually at La Rambla is about the nude gentlemen. These are a couple of mavericks who take off all their clothes and go strolling down the avenue, with a smile on their face and nary a care in the world! Tourists jostle to take their pictures but they don't blink. These men don't follow any particular timetable but I spotted them midmorning one day and late at night the next. Most of the stalls on La Rambla sell your average touristy souvenirs and football shirts. La Bouqueria, though, is the place to go for local pastries and cakes, as well as a formidable collection of cheeses. Behind the trees, for those who care to look, stand stately buildings like the Palau de la Virreina, an exhibition centre now, the Betlem church, the Rambla dels Estudis. And in front,

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the last stretch of the Rambla holds pet stalls teeming with interested onlookers and would-be buyers looking at fish, turtles, small birds and guinea pigs. And, finally, one comes to the small fountain at the Rambla de Canaletes with its metal chairs; this is where football fans and fiends gather to indulge in passionate and endless discussions of the game. The legend goes that whoever drinks from this fountain is sure to return to Barcelona. Needless to say, I and just about everyone walking along La Rambla that day, drank from the fountain. Y viva La Rambla! But oh, I never did find a replacement battery for my camera. The walk down La Rambla drove all thoughts of it from my mind.

Power centre of the Raj

KAVITA KANAN CHANDRA

The decision to partition India was taken at Shimla's Viceregal Lodge, an edifice that reflects the splendour of its colonial past. I was standing in front of the most imposing edifice of Shimla. Once a power to reckon with, it is today a scholar's retreat: the Viceregal Lodge, the former residence of the British Viceroy, Lord Dufferin; and presently the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies. It is a magnificent, sprawling grey stone structure occupying an entire hill and is considered a fine example of British colonial architecture inspired by the Renaissance in England. As we waited at the appointed hour in the afternoon taking in the views of the surrounding valleys and the verdant manicured lawns, our guide ushered us in. She was a pretty young lady with utmost patience; the visitors' queries seemed unending but she replied to all. The historical significance of the place is such that everyone was charged up. Centre of power Built in 1888, there was a time when the lodge was a centre of power from where one-fifth of humankind was ruled. It's a legacy of British imperialism; the top-brass of colonial rulers wielded power from Rangoon to Aden from this remote haven that was not even conveniently accessible in those days. It was the venue of the Shimla conference in 1945 and in 1947; the decision to partition India taken here changed the fate of the sub-continent forever. We all seemed to be in awe of the stately building for it exudes the same regal splendour, pride and quaintness as in the days of yore. As our guide first led us to the seminar hall the erstwhile conference room we were rather intrigued. This was the room where the momentous decision to partition India was taken. However the little round table on which this deed was accomplished now stands in another room, which has some rare photographs from pre-partition days. We saw the photograph in which Lord Mountbatten, Nehru and Jinnah along with members of the Congress and Muslim League sat around for the historical transfer of power.

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Tasteful interiors What really struck us were the aesthetics and the efficient construction of the building. The tasteful interiors with elegant teak panelling, exquisite furnishings and intricate woodwork were charming. Our guide, pointing to the fabric that plastered the seminar room, informed us that it had withstood the passage of many years. It was furnished by Maples, the smartest outfitters of London. The most appealing was the walnut ceiling in a room with the electrical wiring and switches still functioning (this is also the first building in Shimla to have electricity) and the rainwater harvesting system below the expansive lawns. We felt like saluting the foresight of its architects, the chief being Henry Irvine. As we explored the place, taking in the sights and sounds, imagining the lavish parties of the British elite, we realised the edifice donned different roles: a hub of political decision, a President's summer retreat and now a scholars den. The edifice donned all the different roles with equal aplomb.

Fascinating Flanders
KRISHNARAJ IYENGARFlanders is Belgium's fairytale land, rich in culture, history and scenic beauty. Snoozing off can virtually shorten an otherwise boring eight hour air journey from India to Europe. My miraculous doze of dreamless sleep was not the only blessing. On waking up, I happened to stumble upon a soul-stirring rendition of the early morning Raga Ahir Bhairav by legendary Pandit Bhimsen Joshi in the in-flight entertainment system and the melody seemed to tune the cloudless stratosphere to the sweet rays of dawn as my Jet Airways flight made its way through foggy Belgian airspace, into the vibrant capital, Brussels. A short drive from Brussels brings you to a fascinating world of its own, Antwerp, with loads of classical art, culture and history packed into its tiny framework. Walking or cycling are the most preferred ways to discovering Antwerp through its winding cobbled lanes with quaint old-style buildings, historic sites and cathedrals juxtaposed with itsultra-mod haute couture boutiques, malls, cafes, bars and perfumeries. Stepping into the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Our Lady is instant meditation, as the profound silence prepares your mind to be mesmerized by some of the most outstanding works of classical art by legendary Peter Paul Rubens on its walls, depicting the life of Christ and other Biblical events. Each stroke of Ruben's brush has a story to tell and the incredibly vivid and realistic expressions of each of the characters invariably move admirers to tears. The Raising of the Cross, Assumption of the Virgin Mary, The Descent from the Cross are some of Ruben's all-time masterpieces. A visit to Ruben's sprawling classical Italian style villa known as Rubenshuis' in Flemish, leaves you spell bound, with a magnificent courtyard, a picturesque garden, his personal studio, exquisitely designed interiors with many of his revered works that include Adam and Eve and a self-portrait, all of which speak volumes about him. Unlike a few other classical European artists, Rubens was wealthy, and spent most of his lifetime in this palatial villa.

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Another of Antwerp's attractions is the Central Station regarded as one of the world's most impressive railway stations ( dubbed as Railway Cathedral'). A huge dome above the waiting area, an antique clock, the inscriptions Antwerpen and an ornate entrance lead you to the trains plying to different European destinations. There is this magnetism about Central Station, a surge of positive energy that makes you want to stay on, endlessly staring at the trains! Fragrances are manna for the mood and niche perfume boutiques like the world renowned In Fine in Antwerp offer tourists an insight into their own personalities through their selection of fragrances. Separate varieties of fragrances with number tags are laid out for men and women and a combination is prepared based on the ones selected. The parfumeur then outlines your personality based on your preference of fragrances with flawless accuracy, mellowing down the negative qualities with customary French panache! Antwerp is also famous for its diamond industry and one can often hear the familiar aai aai bhaila! (come, come brother!) from Ahmedabadi and Palanpuri Gujaratis of the trade! Next stop, Bruges. Known as the Venice of the north', this charming little Flemish town offers solace for tourists with its innumerable tranquil canals, relaxing boat cruises , flee markets and the rhythmic trotting of handsome steeds pulling old-style carriages ridden by expert guides draped in traditional grabs taking international tourists through the charming balustrades of Bruges. A fairytale town, Bruges reminded me of the famous lines of Kalapi, the great poet of Gujarat Jyaan jyaan nazar maari tharey, yaadi bhari tyaan aapni ( wherever I glance, its you Oh divine beloved, that I am reminded of). Belgium is famous for beer, with an outrageous 450 varieties to its credit! Tourists flock to the De Halve Maan brewery in Bruges for a guided tour through the various steps involved in making the country's most sought after drink. Quaint bridges and long winding canals are Bruges's leitmotif with guided boat cruises in both French and English being the principle attraction. One would also find highly talented street musicians playing soulfully on unique instruments, adding to the tranquillity of the place. Always awake A short drive away, Ghent is yet another city of myriad colours. Effervescing with youth round the year , this university town never sleeps. You literally look forward to loosing your way in Ghent, for one can get around the pretty city on foot, with any number of friendly Flemish, Tunisians, Turks, Moroccans and Gujaratis to guide you with utmost prowess! Ghent is known as the gourmand's paradise and Flemish fine dining restaurants like the swank Belga Queen rated Ghent's finest, pamper your palate with sumptuous sea food preparations, while vegetarians never run out of options. Besides cute souvenir shops, one can find eateries and cafes selling Waffles, the famous Flemish dessert, lines of carts selling fresh bread varieties and a pink triangular sweet delicacy of the region know as nose', a hard crust with jelly on the inside! Boat rides, caf dining, cycling, walking tours, high-end boutiques and cosmetic shops are Ghent's USP, while spending hours listening to Flemish classics, West African Fiddling or a very young Asha Bhosle at the famous music store Fnac, are every music lover's high! Known to have practically no crime, stray policemen are often seen moving on bicycles! I
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have never felt unsafe in Ghent, not even at odd hours smiles Freya, a young Flemish brunette. Moving on to the Belgian capital Brussels makes you realise the stark transition from the distinctly Flemish towns of Antwerp, Bruges and Ghent to the chique and vibrant, predominantly French speaking city. A tour of what is called Mini Europe, a theme park with the landscape and architecture of all the countries of the European Union recreated with very realistic models, is a joy for both children and adults! A mix of history and modernism, Brussels, also the capital of the EU, offers you a kaleidoscope of experiences. The grand old Jewish Synagogue, the old musical conservatory, the musical instrument museum that houses more than 3000 instruments from around the world, The House of Justice and the palace of the Belgian king, the Grand Place ( the central square of Brussels and its most important landmark ) surrounded by the town hall, the Maison du roi ( kings house) and the guildhalls, each reminiscent of classical architecture, along with plush five stars like the Sofitel Louis and The Hilton, exotic fine dining restaurants, sprawling shopping malls and suited sahibs in S class Mercedes zooming past the city centre. In Brussels, music is always in the air and one can listen to hours of the works of the classical Flemish masters known for their intensity and profound depth, at renowned classical stores like La Boite a Musique. Chocolate is another jewel in the Belgian crown and the exhilarating flavours send your senses soaring above the clouds! La Maison des Maitres Chocolatiers at the Grand Place is undoubtedly the city's most famous chocolatier conducting chocolate making workshops for tourists. Eclectic varieties in dark, light and white chocolate like Caramel with orange, Brazilian Champagne ( white chocolate), Poire William Marzipan, bitter chocolate ganache flavoured with Ceylon tea along with many having Persian and African ingredients are alltime Belgian favorites. A unique concept at La Maison des Maitres Chocolatiers is chocolate dinners where guests can gorge on these delicacies, defying their fitness regimes for pure bliss! Indian food is big in Brussels and one can enjoy mouth-watering Bhajiyas, Samosas, Biryani and paneer innovations at highly acclaimed restaurants like La Porte Des Indes overflowing with locals every evening. Be it music, beer, chocolate or desi food, Belgians truly know how to live it up, and the spirit of gaiety never ebbs in Europe's Joie de vivre! FACT FILE Jet Airways has daily non-stop flights from Mumbai, Delhi and Chennai. Antwerp, Ghent and Bruges are 30-45 min away from each other by road. Top-end boutique and luxury hotels in varying budgets in all destinations. Excellent Indian restaurants in all three destinations. English is widely spoken and understood.

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Belgium is famous for its 450 different varieties of beer and several exotic chocolate varieties. Euro is the currency.

Corbett's magical Kumaon

ENNAPADAM S KRISHNAMOORTHY

July 17, 2010

Long treks, wildlife safaris, scenic viewpoints and serenity... Kumaon offers all these and more. Located at a height of over 6000 feet, the lake encircled by mountains is truly picturesque and breathtaking. The Himalayan foothills, the Kumaon now in Uttarakhand is an area synonymous with forests of pine, conifer, deodar and oak; the tiger and the leopard; and Jim Corbett, that adventurous Englishman whose concern for the environment and legendary huntsmanship endeared him to millions. From New Delhi we drive through the dusty wastelands of North India, passing tributaries of the Yamuna and the Kosi already, in April, shadows of their hoary past, thanks perhaps to indiscriminate human development. We skirt the towns of Moradabad and Rampur and are soon at the edges of the Corbett National Park. The temperature falls as we enter its hallowed precincts, now a hub of tourist focused activity. Everything is eponymous to Corbett here; the resorts, cafes, and curiosity shops. We check into one among the many resorts that border the forest reserve and learn that both jeep and elephant safaris are on offer; bookings having to be made 24 hours in advance. We also learn that safari routes are now restricted to the fringes of the forest, deeper areas having been declared out of bounds, due to poaching. Clearly a case of deprivation for many nature lovers, thanks to few unscrupulous individuals. In search of the big cat A misty morning beckons as we bundle ourselves into a jeep, expecting eagerly to hit the jungle trail. Alas, we have to first submit to the whims of the Indian bureaucrat; no doubt well intentioned with wildlife protection in mind but, also, poorly organised, engendering corruption and exploitation. We soon find ourselves amid clamouring local guides and bewildered tourists at a Government office, the queue having long disappeared. A half hour of energetic jostling by our guide, having produced proof of identity, we are awarded a permit. Brandishing this triumphantly, we set off on an eight-kilometre drive to the forest gate. It remains unclear why the permit office cannot be better organised and located conveniently at the forest gate. Sadly, precious early morning time, when animal sightings are common, has been lost in this scrum for a permit. As we drive through the forest we encounter many beautiful species of deer and other smaller animals in the wild; and a range of birds. We skirt the northern edges of the park, bordered by the Ram Ganga, and spot tiger pug marks and territorial markings. However, the big cat remains elusive, during our three hour odyssey. Repeated early morning and late evening
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journeys into the park are our guide's prescription for those bent on spotting the tiger or leopard. A lake at over 6000 feet From the Corbett National Park in the Kumaon plains, we take a two hour drive up the hills, towards Naini Tal, for decades the capital of this region, where Jim Corbett spent his formative years and grew to become a city elder. Legend has it that an Englishman put his gun to the head of a local and demanded to be taken to the large lake in the forest that he had heard about, where locals reportedly worshipped at a forest temple. Thus was Naini Tal, a lake shaped like an eye, discovered and settled by the British, soon becoming a regional summer capital. Located at a height of over 6000 feet, the lake encircled by mountains is truly picturesque and breathtaking. The Mall in Naini Tal, its main thoroughfare, houses many a relic from the town's colonial past. The traffic, however, is daunting, generating a cacophony unbecoming of such a beautiful locale. As always, one wonders why, we, in India, fail to preserve the magic and serenity of these divine spaces. Naini Tal's recent enhancement in status, with the obligatorily ostentatious Government buildings, will undoubtedly threaten its serenity. Presently, it remains perfect for the hill station tourist: with walks around the lake, boating, horse riding and shopping at The Mall all being on offer. Jim Corbett's winter home in Kaladhungi, the lower reaches of the Kumaon, maintained as a museum, is among the many attractions. Lesser known Tals (lakes) now compete with Naini Tal on the tourist agenda: Sat Tal, Bhim Tal and Naukuchia Tal; all meriting a visit. What is common is the experience of a lake at a high altitude, encircled by mountains. No trip to the Kumaon is complete without a glimpse of the haloed Himalayan range. For this we travel in a north-easterly direction from Naini Tal, the towns of Mukteshwar and Almora offering wonderful vantage points for such viewing. Our destination is a home stay haven located at 7000 feet, in the village of Bhallard near Nathuakan, offering commanding views of the Uttarakhand Himalayas. After a two-hour drive from Nainital, we stop in front of a narrow hill path, the car not being able to go further. It is sunny with a cool breeze, the temperature a perfect 20. A large and steep C-shaped valley, a deodar reserve forest, is on our left; and a short climb to our right, a row of pretty cottages overlooking the valley. At their centre, built in the pahadi style with stone, red tin roofs and the colonial feel of a bygone era, is the euphemistically named Aah! Himalaya. Even as we approach a paradise flycatcher swoops overhead in welcome. From the famous first floor deck of this house, we see rows of green hilltops and, beyond them, through the summer haze, the outline of the Himalayan mountain range. From here, we are assured, are clearly visible, at appropriate times, the snow capped Himalayan range; Trishul being most prominent. A beautiful photograph is displayed as testimony to this view. We hike along the hill path to Nathuakhan, through the deodar forests. Leopards, we understand, still populate these parts; one having delivered three cubs some weeks earlier, to the delight of the local community. We pass modest stone dwellings complete with interlocking slate stone rooftops, listen to the rumbling of livestock, and hear the sounds of silence; twittering birds, chattering forest insects; rustling of undergrowth by small animals heading for cover; fluttering in the wind of beautiful wild flowers that cover entire rock faces.
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We pass trees laden with raw fruit: plums, pears, peaches and apples that will soon ripen for plucking, transforming this forest into a veritable orchard. Indeed, in this rural corner of India, at a height of over 7000 feet, each of the seasons is described as magical. The abundance of fruits in summer is followed by the monsoon, with a sea of rain clouds covering the valley, some travelling into house, literally! Pristine landscape The landscape in winter, enveloped in pristine whiteness, enhancing the view of the snow capped Himalayan range; spring, with its explosion of colour, as the flowers bloom and birds abound. This then, probably, is the true magic of the Kumaon as Jim Corbett knew it; a communion with nature and its creator, in the shadow of the Himalayan range; with bountiful flora and fauna; sans urbanisation; sans tourists. Clearly, one now has to travel to remote corners of the Kumaon, to experience this magic. However, having witnessed the pathos of urbanisation even in these higher reaches; rampant construction and plastic trash carelessly strewn about; one cannot help but wonder whether this magical Kumaon of Corbett will endure, for future generations to experience and enjoy. The author is Director and T.S. Srinivasan Chair at The Institute of Neurological Sciences, VHS Hospital, Chennai. E-mail: esk@nsig.org

Around Cologne
JANARDHAN ROYE Planning a trip to Europe in winter? Don't miss out on Cologne's shopping malls and Christmas markets. On a recent evening we drove on an autobahn to reach a city variously known as Keulen, Colonia, Kolnbut well-known around the world as the West Germany city that gifted it Eau de Cologne. The perfume originally blended in 1709 by an Italian-born immigrant Giovanni Maria Farina (1685-1766) has brought fame and fortune to Cologne. Though today there are hundreds of generics' going by the name, the honour of the original scent belongs to Farina. The French moniker is attributed to the fact that in the 17th century French was Europe's lingua franca. Nippy weather Cologne straddles both sides of the Rhine. And on the evening we reached the city, the river's cold winds swept through making us shiver as we got out and went by foot to discover the ancient Rhineland destination. Our first destination was Altstadt, the old towne. This was once a very happening place where medieval merchants and bankers gathered to talk shop, eat, drink and make merry. Around us were charming old buildings and alleys, the celebrated Cologne Cathedral grandly illuminated, wide expanses of shopping centres and other artsy modern facades, and the white grandeur of Weihnachtsmarkt, a Christmas market. On entering the square we were delighted with the scene and the offerings. First stop was a stall offering hot delicious mulled wine. The fruity mix instantly warmed the frozen, protesting innards!
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Such stalls and markets magically spring up all over cities, towns and villages at the end of November and carry the holiday spirit right till Christmas. By mid-December these traditional markets take on a warm, romantic look. The square was festooned with strings of light bulbs, neon displays, and a huge decorated Christmas tree. All around were temporary kiosks with seasonal items: hand-crafted crib and tree figurines, toys, wood carvings, marionettes, candles, and such seasonal merchandise. To add to the festive ambience, there was the aroma of baked apples, gingerbread biscuits, cakes, marzipans and other sweets, hot chestnuts, grilled sausages and other yummy snacks. A bandstand in the centre of the square had rosy-cheeked singers and spirited musicians filling the air with Christmas carols. While shoppers and revellers thronged the Christmas market, there was a different ambience in the Dom or the Cologne Cathedral. This Gothic masterpiece, built in 1248 and completed 642 years later, has been a must-see, must-do destination for more than six million devotees and tourists. The finely crafted facade and twin spires are synonymous with Cologne. During WWII, parts of the building were strafed by Brit fighter planes. But by and large the church was spared. It was divine intervention, whispered a tour guide, Due to its historical and spiritual significance or perhaps as an orientation point, the Allied forces did not destroy it. The UNESCO world heritage site today hosts important architectural monuments with priceless, ancient works of art including stunning stained glass windows, the crowned skulls and clothes of the Three Magi, and an ancient oak carved crucifix known as the Gero Cross; the oldest surviving crucifix north of the Alps'. The cobbled streets of Cologne lead to a number of fun and entertainment venues. There are endless gourmet restaurants, brewpubs, shopping ops, fashion/trade fairs and carnivals. The city's night life includes hot live music and dance, cabaret and erotic, adult shows. For the connoisseurs of the performing arts operas and classical music concerts take place through out the year. The Klner Philharmonie orchestra plays at the beautiful concert hall near the Dom. Cologne has a high ratio of bars to people. There are pubs, taverns and beer gardens almost everywhere. On river cruises (6.80) waiters serve platters of fresh French camembert and glasses of German Riesling. Upriver, crowds flock to boutiques featuring the latest designs. For dining, there is a huge selection of cuisine options from traditional German brauhauses and French bistros, Spanish bodegas and Italian trattorias to tastes of Asia and Indian restaurants. Early next morning, even though it was dark and frightfully cold, I set out by foot starting from Marzellenstrasse to experience the riverside promenade, Frankenwerft. People were coming out from the train station, Kln Hauptbahnhof, and briskly heading out to coffeehouses and shops. At Cologne's famous river, there was little activity on the water. A solitary luxury cruise boat lay anchored; devoid of its late night revellers, it lay forlorn, lazily bobbing. In the distance the Koln-Dusseldorfer ferry chugged along on the blue-green water. I walked past beautiful buildings, age-old beer-halls and restaurants, universities, galleries and museums, and mansions.

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The native smell Around me, by the Rhine, were early morning strollers and bicyclists, all warmly clad in long jackets, gloves, beanies. I paused under a brown-leafed tree and took a long deep breath. The air was chilly but pleasant. And as a bevy of nattily dressed girls passed by, there was fragrance in the air. I thought of Eau de Cologne. As chance would have it, I came across a statue of its inventor. Giovanni Maria Farina stands proudly in the impressive town hall building. This building known as Rathaus dominates the skyline as much as the Dom. Well known to art lovers and historians, Rathaus has a bell tower with a charming glockenspiel. A grotesque wooden sculpture opens its mouth and sticks out its tongue when the tower clock strikes the hour. Built around the 14th century this 61m late Gothic style tower was another building hit during WWII. The restoration work on this landmark started soon after the war and took close to 50 years to complete. Interestingly, during the civil work, excavators came across an age-old site that gave many clues to the birth of the city. Archaeologists found a 2,000-year-old praetorium at the site, baths and such evidence to show that the intrepid Romans had come up the Rhine and founded the colony, Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium where the great-grand-daughter of Caesar Augustus and the mother of Emperor Nero, Agrippina the Younger (15-59) was born. The colony eventually became Cologne, and a household name thanks to the Italian Farina and Eau de Cologne!

Jewel of Abu Dhabi

Sabita Radhakrishna

November 5, 2011

Sabita Radhakrishna is in awe of the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque, a feat of architectural splendour. It was well worth every minute of the hot dusty ride from Dubai to Abu Dhabi. What awaited us at the end of our journey was a magnificent mosque, a remarkable feat of architecture melded with aesthetics, and the dream of the late president H.H. Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan, who is fondly thought of as the father of the UAE. You gladly don the soft silky burqas provided for women, unbelievably cool, and my mother gratefully accepts the wheelchair which is provided for her with typical Arabic concern, and our tour begins of the most imposing religious and national landmark in Abu Dhabi to date. The 22,412 sq.m. mosque site is equivalent to around the size of five football fields, and can accommodate 40,960 worshippers. We found that the 7,874 sq.m. of water bodies strategically positioned and inlaid with dark tiles, surround the mosque, while coloured floral marble and mosaics pave the 17,000 sq.m. courtyard which is decorated with white marble from Greece. The pools, the glass, and the lights reflect the mosque's spectacular image, which becomes even more resplendent at night and the interior walls have decorative gold-glass mosaic features, which further enhances the grandeur. Five petalled glass images frame the entrance of the doorways, each handmade and cut to the highest grade of precision. Further the glass is cut into iridescent mosaic pieces, which allows
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the play of light into the prayer halls. You walk into these large halls with smooth marble walls giving you the illusion of hand crafted gardens! From the floor, almost halfway through are inlay mother-of pearl foliage and flowers in colours of pink, yellow and blue. The work is done on the white pillars, and in some places spill on to the floor. Your mind harks back to the Taj Mahal, since some of the motifs and craft bear a striking similarity. Twenty-eight different types of marble have been used throughout the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque, and include sivec a fine-grained white dolomitic marble, from Greece and Macedonia. Mixed features An architectural treasure of a contemporary UAE society, the majestic Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque was conceived as an idea in the late 1980s. To begin with the architectural design was Moroccan, but gradually it evolved to include features from various parts of the world, since artisans and materials from countries such as Italy, Germany, Morocco, India, Turkey, Iran, China, Greece and the UAE were brought in. More than 3,000 workers and 38 renowned contracting companies took part in the construction of the mosque. The exterior walls are of traditional Turkish design and throughout the magnificent building there is lavish use of natural products like marble, stone, gold, semi-precious stones, crystals and ceramics. Our bare feet sink into carpets as we follow the guide who tells us that the world's largest hand-knotted carpet can be found here. Designed by Iranian artist, Ali Khaliqi, the carpet was hand-crafted by 1,200 artisans in small villages near Mashhadin in Iran. The artisans were flown to Abu Dhabi to stitch the carpet pieces together for the final fitting. Consisting of 2,268,000 knots, the Mosque's carpet is estimated to be valued at US$8.2 million. The Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque features 82 domes of Moroccan design decorated with white marble and the main dome's outer shell measures 32.8 metres in diameter! The 1,000 odd columns in the outer areas are clad with more than 20,000 marble panels inlaid with semi-precious stones, including lapis lazuli, red agate, amethyst, abalone shell and mother of pearl. We gaze upwards at the world's largest chandelier in the main prayer hall 10 metres in diameter, 15 metres in height and weighing over nine tonnes. The mosque's seven 24 carat gold-plated chandeliers, from Germany, feature thousands of Swarovski crystals from Austria and glasswork from Italy. Devout worshippers all round us sink into prayer before the Qibla wall with its subtle fibreoptic backlighting which faces the direction of the Holy City of Mecca. Gold-glass mosaic and 24 carat gold in gold leaf has been used in the Mehrab or niche in the middle of the Qibla wall. The 99 names of Allah on the Qibla are inscribed in traditional Kufi calligraphy, designed by the prominent UAE calligrapher, Mohammed Mandi. The mosque has 80 Iznik panels highly decorated ceramic tiles popular in the 16th century which feature distinctly in Istanbul's imperial and religious buildings. Traditionally handcrafted, each tile was designed by Turkish calligrapher Othman Agha. Additionally, the mosque has four beautiful minarets standing at almost 107 metres each at the four corners of the mosque. However awestruck one might be, words are not enough to describe this splendiferous mosque, and it is so beautiful and well conceived and lavish to say the least that the beauty
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can be savoured only by visits not just once but again and again. As we slid off our silky black burqas we promised ourselves to make another visit whenever we could.

Once there was a king...

GustaspJeroo Irani Enjoy life like a king at Chittoor Kottaram, the only living palace still owned by the Cochin royal family. Gustasp and Jeroo Irani The Rajahs of Cochin were not flamboyant monarchs like their blue-blooded ilk in other parts of India. Their palaces resembled stately mansions and were devoid of excessive ornamentation. Deep wrap-around verandas, solid teak pillars, vast landscaped lawns, stunning views, cosy yet royal feel... The members of the royal family were steeped in culture and the arts which they patronised vigorously and their pleasures were modest. No peccadilloes and idiosyncrasies to fascinate a voyeuristic world hungry to see that the pedigreed were mortals too. Many were deeply spiritual. So way back in the 14th century, when the Rajah of Cochin shifted his capital from Perumpadappu to Tripunithara, he set out to build a Lord Krishna temple as grand as the one in Guruvayoor in his old kingdom. The charming tiered edifice called Chittoorappan was built in a quiet hamlet called Cheranelloor, fringed by the backwaters of Kochi. The king would return to the temple time and again to soak in the peace and spiritual calm of the place. Soon he built a palace, just 50 yards away, where he would rest, after paying obeisance to the family deity. Like him, we too arrived regally at the Chittoor Kottaram palace in a boat; but ours was not a royal barge steered by 18 oarsmen. The welcome, however, was regal enough as a small group of retainers, headed by the redoubtable Milton who now manages this minuscule palace-resort, stood at the jetty to receive us. We clambered up and saw the white facade of the mansion unravel on glistening green lawns a pillared one-storeyed structure with an aged red-tiled roof. In a corner stood a thatched pavilion with a gauzy white curtain where we sat to sip tender coconut water. (It also doubles as a spa pavilion for Ayurvedic massages.) Chittoor Kottaram is the only living palace still owned by the Cochin royal family. It is today a single key heritage hotel where only a couple of members of one family may stay. Milton ceremoniously handed us the keys of our kingdom and suggested that we play king and queen for a day. No one would be allowed to disturb us or enter the palace without our permission; not even the Raja of Cochin! No longer should we regard ourselves as commoners but as royalty and our every wish would be his command, he stated with a grand flourish. Nature's influence We explored our temporary fiefdom, charmed by its nooks and crannies, its intimate spaces where one could commune with nature and each other. The entire estate was awash in the molten honey-gold rays of an end-of-the-monsoon-sun. White wrought iron chairs and a table on the lawns would be ideal for a bracing cup of tea the next day, we decided, while at the
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ground level veranda or on the upper one which commanded views of the glittering backwaters and a bank of water lilies, one could sit and read a book. The mini palace had two bedrooms on the ground level and one above. We opted for nothing less than the king's room on the upper level where the spacious bathroom even had a bookcase with tomes and best sellers that were royal favourites and a skylight through which natural light filtered through. Everywhere there were expanses of polished wood, red hibiscus flowers, spacious four posters draped with flowing mosquito nets, quaint writing desks and portraits of royalty that looked down at us usurpers with a frown. As a nod to royal traditions, we padded around the palace barefoot and enjoyed subtly spiced vegetarian, Kerala-style cuisine. That first afternoon, we savoured a royal sadya of 24 Kerala delicacies in the spacious dining room which was located in a separate red-tiled roof cottage. Annie, a Chittoor local, rustled it all up in the adjacent kitchen. In the sultry afternoon, an inviting hammock strung between two trees, beckoned. As we swung in it, a Brahminy kite with magnificent wings outspread cleaved the air and soared upwards; a blue kingfisher skimmed the backwaters and triumphantly swooped away with a fish dangling in its beak; a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed squirrel bounded away... The world was a hushed spectator to it all. Later, a sunset cruise on the backwaters was on the agenda and as our boat chugged past idyllic villages snuggling amid coconut groves, tall palms leaned across to kiss the waters. A Shiva temple rose against a darkening sky, the spire of a church stabbed a crucifix at the heavens; coconut palms fanned the sky; paddy fields stretched away to the horizon; large spidery Chinese fishing nets with arms outspread in welcome filtered the rays of a dying sun... Everything had a leisurely beachcomber pace. Soon the sun set in fiery swirls of golds, reds, softening to mauve and pink ... like nature's own laser show. Evening lights On our return, the lawns were studded with diyas and the lamp-lit palace exuded a soft mysterious glow, rivaling the post-sunset sky. So too must the kings of yore have returned to their fairy-tale retreat to softly sink into its cultural pleasures and sweet ease. Post dinner, eaten off gleaming silver thalis, replete with honest-to-goodness fare, a cultural-spiritual feast awaited. Two priests from the Krishna temple, arrived, bearing a drum and a brass thali. With these simple instruments and the rich baritone of the singer, they wooed the Lord (essentially Krishna and Shiva), singing songs of praise in Sanskrit, much as their forefathers had done to a royal audience in another era. The next day, we imperial pretenders left the palace but only after a photograph was taken. We got into the spirit of things and wore shawls and a turban while palm-frond umbrellas were held over our heads by our faithful retainers. As we drove away with many a backward glance at the palace and the temple, we resolved to return one day to reclaim our kingdom.

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Voice of the waves

SHALINI SATISH

June 20, 2010

Snorkelling, scuba diving, fishing if you are the outdoors type and serene landscapes to lose yourself in if you are the contemplative type: Havelock Island in the Andamans has it all The sun hinted at signs of retreating. Its golden rays gleamed across the water. The clock struck five and within minutes the splendour of the surroundings was concealed in a veil of darkness. A pathway hewn between a cluster of trees led us to a resort about which we had heard rave reviews. Beyond the lanky trees is a beautiful beach we were told. Our cottage was just a few meters away from the crescent shaped Radhanagar Beach, one of the most famed beaches of Asia. We were in Havelock, a highly popular island with tourists in the Andamans. Barefoot is a resort by the sea. Cobbled pathways lead to cottages that have donned the colours of the earth. There are 10 fan-cooled Nicobari cottages, eight air-conditioned Andaman villas and an exclusive Nicobari suite. Locally available natural material like cane, bamboo and dried leaves have been extensively used in the construction. Cradled by a canopy of trees, these cottages, with warm lighting, thatched roofs, wooden floors and sunlit bathrooms, strike a chord with nature. There is a conscious effort to optimise the use of natural resources and integrate with the environment in a symbiotic manner. Walking into nature's arms was a pleasure and an experience to treasure. Cosmopolitan spread Recipes from around the world amidst aromas that are truly Indian have made their way into the kitchen at Barefoot. We treated ourselves to a platter of mouth-watering delicacies. The dishes ranged from chocolate pancakes and idlisfor breakfast to pasta and parathasfor lunch followed by gulab jamunsand chocolate truffle for dessert. Visitors can hang up their feet at the lounge bar and enjoy a drink too. While we were at the restaurant one afternoon, the clonk of a bell cracked the silence. The tingle heralded the arrival of Rajan and all eyes turned in his direction. Rajan, a 60-year-old elephant, has made Havelock his home. Adopted by Barefoot, Rajan has become an icon of the resort. He has a long-standing relationship with his mahout with whom he shares an intimate bond. Rajan is taken into the forest during the day and spends the night at the resort. Among other things that make this gentle giant special is his ability to swim. He loves to wade into the water and paddle in the sea. Visitors can dive and snorkel with Rajan and have their photograph clicked underwater. Lured by the exciting outdoors offered by Barefoot Adventures, we chalked out a plan for our stay at Havelock. Snorkelling, scuba diving, joy fishing, island camping, finding Rajan in the forest, diving with Rajan, kayaking and hiking in the nearby hills were some of the activities on offer. There are many good spots for snorkelling and scuba diving around Havelock. While scuba diving is for experts, snorkelling is for novices. With no prior experience, scuba diving would have been a tough proposition so we chose to explore the waters of the Andaman Sea with our snorkels.

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Submerged worlds Aboard a dungi (a small motorboat) loaded with snorkels, fins, tender coconuts and biscuits, we headed out to Elephant Beach, the first stop for the day. Elephant Beach seemed like a piece of heaven on earth with boats anchored to the shore and tree stumps flaunting artistic poses against the backdrop of the blue-green sea. Floating on the surface of the water and breathing through the snorkel, we marvelled at the world that lies beneath. Bold and beautiful corals painted the ocean bed with a riot of colours. The silent orchestra of the depths of the ocean was mind blowing. Schools of fish seemed to be going about their business hastily. I watched in awe as the fish pranced around the colourful corals gleefully. Hump-head parrotfish, clown fish, cleaner wrasse, sea stars were a few that we could identify from the many that crossed our path. We were told that these waters are home to a colossal number of species of fish including exotic ones like manta rays, pacific lionfish, parrotfish and marbled stingrays. South Button, Aquarium, Henry Lawrence, Inglis and Lighthouse are other good spots to feel the pulse of the sea and explore life under the surface of the water. Walking along the beaches at Havelock is an out of the ordinary experience. Shells of myriad colours and shapes strewn on the silver-white sand invariably have live creatures inside. The intricate sand art created by crabs is intriguing. These beaches are throbbing with life, quite literally. The water sparkles like a million gems as the sun hovers over its expanse, the waves dance to the tunes of the wind, the shade of the trees on the beach is inviting. Slow and laid back, these beautiful beaches are perfect for those who like to escape into the beauty of nature and the bliss of serenity. Ideal mode of exploration We rented a scooter and hit the tarmac to explore Havelock Island. Riding along the shoreline, we stopped at beaches along the way. The play of light and the colours of the water were a sight to behold. Starting from Radhanagar Beach we traversed the entire island on our bike reaching the Kalapathar Beach on the other side. Although we were assured that Havelock is very safe even at night, it got a bit spooky as we made our way back with the headlights piercing the darkness. There were no signs of people for miles on end. Braving the chilly wind and creatures calling out from the bushes, we reached the resort. Intensive logging has thinned down this densely wooded island. The residents are migrants from the mainland and visitors are tourists from India and abroad. Boats trickle into the jetty ferrying people and almost everything else that is used on the island. Newspapers are brought in all the way from Kolkata every day. On the island are seven villages, splendid beaches and fields of areca, coconut, paddy and banana. Village One has the boat jetty and carries a trail of litter left behind by the large number of tourists who visit Havelock. Village Three (Govindnagar) has the market place and is abuzz with activity. This is where the locals buy commodities that are brought in from the mainland. Colourful Indian artefacts, shells and local handicrafts on display in roadside shops make a walk down the bazaar an interesting one. Village Five has a string of resorts, restaurants and cafes lining the beach. Village Seven (Radhanagar), located towards the northwest of Havelock, is an ocean of calm. The TimeMagazine voted the Radhanagar Beach as the best beach in Asia in 2004. Everything you want

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Crystal clear waters, sun soaked beaches and strips of silvery sand draw beach buffs to Havelock. Spectacular coral reefs and colourful fish that dart underwater make this a great spot for snorkelling and scuba diving. Hills overlooking the sea and mangroves bordering rivulets add variety to the landscape. Be it walking along the beach, diving into the sea or just devouring delicious food, Havelock presents a slice of adventure, tossed in bright sunshine and garnished with a cool blue of the ocean. Quick Facts Getting there: Port Blair is connected to Chennai and Kolkata by air and sea. Ferries ply between Port Blair and Havelock. Ensure that the flight timings and ferry timings to Havelock Island are well co-coordinated. Scooters are the best way of getting around Havelock. Carry your driving licence. Season: The weather is warm and oppressive for most part of the year. It is relatively cool in the peak season lasting from December to January. Avoid a visit to the Andamans from May through September. Tariff: The tariff for cottages and villas range from Rs. 6,500 to Rs. 9,000. For reservations contact: Central Reservations, Barefoot Group, B-4, RM Towers, No. 108, Chamiers Road, Chennai -600018; Ph: +91-9003115483, +91-44-24341001 For more information log on to http://www.barefootindia.com/

Tracks of destiny
Sandip Hor

December 31, 2011

Sandip Hor travels out of Bangkok to Kanchanburi to trace the history of the death rail lines. During the Second World War in 1942, the Japanese after claiming both Thailand and Burma, built a 415 km railway, through a jungle-covered mountainous terrain, connecting Kanchanaburi in Thailand with Thanbyuzayat in Burma. They mercilessly deployed into the job, 60,000 Australian, British, Dutch and American prisoners of war already held by them in Singapore, plus over 2,70,000 local Asian labourers. All of these workers were ruthlessly forced to work almost 20 hours a day to move trains on the route within a short period of time. Most of them died from the hard labour, physical tortures, poor camping conditions and tropical diseases. Built with blood, sweat, tears and an enormous death toll, it became infamously recorded in the history as Death Railway. Celebrated filmmaker David Lean immortalised this gruel episode in his award-winning film Bridge on the River Kwai which movingly pictured the tragic ordeal of the captives building the railway; in particular the bridge on the river in Kanchanaburi, which provided a vital link for the route. After its global release in 1957, the film traumatised the world. Though it was shot at a similar location in Sri Lanka, an unstoppable tourism revolution began in Thailand with

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thousands rushing to see the bridge and rail-lines which claimed lives, equivalent of one person for every wooden sleeper laid along the route. That tourist inrush still continues, rather it has blown up over time, states Atuth my local tour guide, the moment I arrive Kanchanaburi. Constant arrival of tourists from different parts of the world, in cars, vans and buses from capital Bangkok, located 150 km away, stand testimony to his statement. On a pilgrimage I notice a large group of grim faced Westerners. Atuth tells me they are probably from England or Australia. It's like a pilgrimage trip for them; they are here to trace the tragic end of their ancestors and to be part of a shameful history. The bridge is distinctly visible from the shanty town's car park near the river. Supported on concrete piers, the 378m long iron-bridge comprising of semicircular spans, couple replaced with straight sided ones after allied bombing in 1945, looks nothing extraordinary. However, when you realise that this bridge and the tracks were built by an unskilled workforce without proper training, tools and machinery within 18 months, a time-period marked as almost impossible even by modern day engineers, you have to acknowledge it as an engineering feat. It was not a miracle, but an outstanding outcome of a distressing act of cruelty, which unfortunately makes the creation historically momentous. You can walk across the bridge and parts of the railway on the wooden planks, but be careful as State Railways of Thailand still run passenger trains along this route from Bangkok to Namtok, the current terminus few kilometres away from Kanchanaburi. Many tourists go for the short train ride to enjoy the breathtaking scenery of the terrain, but I give it a miss eerily thinking the journey to be rolling over the dead. Monuments, museums and cemeteries venerating the railway construction have now become the iconic legacy of Kanchanaburi town. I follow the tourist trail to the Thai-Burma Railway Centre and the Hellfire Pass Museum, an Australian government initiative, where numerous exhibits, in forms of photographs, documents and relics, are fitting tributes to the ones who gave their lives. It's painful to see some of their photographs which resemble nothing but living skeletons. They lived in squalor with a near starvation diet consisting of 150 grams of rice, dried vegetable and dried fish. Uniform was only a scanty piece of cloth, called Jap Happy, wrapped around the waist line. Solemn ambience When perished they were buried in camp grounds, but after the war three cemeteries were built in the region to lay them in rest in a reverent way. The biggest is the one in Kanchanaburi, where 6,892 allied army personnel rest in peace. With neatly arranged tombstones and touching messages, the cemetery is shrouded by a deep sense of solemnity. The graves are arranged in sections, country-wise. Silently walking past them, I observe that many were only in their late teens, probably first time away from home. A cemetery attendant with a thickly-bound register is assisting anxious visitors to locate the graves of their loved ones.

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The above poignant sites, which are now surrounded by hotels, resorts, cafes, restaurants and shops for tourists, are not the only appeal of Kanchanaburi district. The magnificent landscape is dotted with pristine national parks, virgin forests, tranquil rivers and charming waterfalls and offers excellent opportunities for fishing, rafting, canoeing, mountain biking, bird-watching, star-gazing, golfing, elephant and jungle trekking, complimenting the lures from history and culture. Bangkok locals crowd here during weekends to charge their batteries; they see blue sky, lush greenery and breathe ozone filled fresh air, all of which are a rarity in Bangkok. A defining natural attraction in Kanchanaburi is arguably the Three Pagodas Pass, a break in the Thanon Thongchai Mountain Range that divides Thailand and Myanmar. It is through this pass Buddhism from India was thought to have first arrived in Thailand around the 3rd century BC.

Green redefined
Gustasp & Jeroo Irani

October 8, 2011

You will enjoy being a castaway in Bekal. The fort and the sea on its fringes, the food which tells the flavour of the soil, and everything about The Lalit Resort and Spa is an experience. In India, the road to paradise is generally a bumpy one. And so it was when we stumbled on Bekal, a two-hour drive from Mangalore airport. Unhurried and virtually un-trodden, this North Kerala destination is mantled in an air of delicious seclusion. When we were there in the rains, Bekal oozed lashings of romance; there was a sense of abundant time, lazily ticking away amid lush nature. At present, the destination has just one uber luxe hotel The Lalit Resort and Spa to showcase its pristine pleasures. We drove into the Lalit Resort which unfolded like an arresting narrative. Water is a recurring motif there with lagoons (which double up as rain water harvesting pools) sparkling amid sloping-roof villas and the Nombili river encircling it on three sides. In the distance, the sea, fringed by a skein of pearl-white sand, crashed on breakers, sounding like the cymbals of a symphony orchestra. We sipped our welcome drink coconut water from the resort's own trees (there are reportedly 2,800), in the spacious wood-beamed lobby. We asked politely if sugar had been added for we had never tasted such sweet coconut water before. The sweetness comes from the fertile soil, we were told. The Lalit brand of understated elegance builds on the premise that space and tranquillity are the 21st century's concept of ultimate luxury. The 37 villas spread languidly on 26 acres and all the spacious artfully decorated rooms come with private Jacuzzis and other amenities amid the encircling green. (There's even a kettuvallom or traditional houseboat for a holiday with an aquatic feel.) Every morning we would awake to the chirping of birds and enjoy our morning cuppa on our private patio. Our personal butler who was quaintly called a holiday host was always at hand to take us to the Nombili Restaurant in a golf cart or to the meditation pagoda, the spa or even the bird watching point located amid a dreamscape of rockeries and curved wood bridges, dense coconut groves and flowers that were as colourful as a child's Christmas card.

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Over the next few days, we watched Brahminy kites revel in aerial calisthenics above the resort and glittering kingfishers poised to catch the tiny fish that leapt in and out of the river; skimmed the river in a kayak and reached the sea bordered by a palm-lined beach. Round the year One can vacation in Bekal any time of the year, dance in the rains Bollywood style, cuddle in the winter, enjoy the sun in summer... The Lalit Resort provides another incentive get away for a spa-cum-leisure holiday. The resort's 20,000 sq.ft. Rejuve spa with 13 treatment rooms, relaxation lounge, a pool is agleam with the promise of creating a new you. There's state-of-the-art medical equipment, while an Ayurvedic doctor, yoga instructor, dietician and therapists, trained in Ayurveda and international spa therapies, are in attendance for guests looking to lose weight, detox or rejuvenate. We tried the signature massage which combined the long swooping strokes of traditional Ayurveda with the deeper ones of Swedish massage. Soon we emerged with skin as smooth as a baby's bottom. The massages, wraps and scrubs are complemented with flavourful spa cuisine... Ever tried a Caesar's salad embellished with grilled fish mantled in Kerala spices? Or the local nutritious njavara rice with Kerala fish curry presented like a work of art? We savoured delectable meals in romantic locations, under a flowing canopy near the helipad, on the houseboat and in the gazebo of the meditation pagoda. A romantic table for two in the restaurant and even a traditional sadya (a multi-course vegetarian feast) was served on special request. Yes, a holiday in Bekal can be multi-faceted we adopted a beachcomber pace, indulged in the zen of doing nothing and marvelled how the colour green has been redefined in these parts. On our last but one day we headed out of the resort for a spell of sightseeing, drove past sun-dappled woods and palm tree-etched beaches where birds called from unseen depths and the rays of a sleepy sun warmed us after a rain-lashed day. Crocodile tale Thirty kilometres away from the resort is the charming Ananthapuram Lake temple, a tiered roof temple seemingly adrift in the middle of a lake. Here myth, mystique and legend intertwined, the seven idols are made of 64 Ayurvedic ingredients, the priest related. Men have to enter bare-chested and all devotees must remove their footwear. Outside the temple, it was painful to walk on pebbly terrain but we went in search of Babiya, a vegetarian crocodile with a passion for rice balls. When its predecessor was shot dead by a British soldier in 1945, Babiya mysteriously appeared the next day, even though the dead reptile had never had a mate. Babiya did not grace us with a darshan and continued to loll discreetly in the water. The next day we left the Edensque corner of Kerala, having glimpsed a world that might never come back. As we flew back to Mumbai, we wondered if we really wanted to tell people about this one-of-a-kind haven or jealously guard the secret to ourselves!

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High on tea
Sanjay Sivadas Savour the life of a British planter and taste your favourite drink at Valparai in Tamil Nadu. Although tea had its beginnings in ancient China, by the latter part of the 19th century it had proved popular enough to replace ale as the national drink of Britain. And, it has remained their favourite drink, ever since. The British love of a cuppa can today help bring in more tourists from the U.K. to Tamil Nadu. Tamil Nadu is home to some of the largest tea growing belts in the country. One such happens to be Valparai; a quaint hill station located about 100 km from Coimbatore. As it turns out, the British had opened up Valparai for the cultivation of tea in the 1850s. Experiential holidays could be designed for travelers from the U.K. around their favourite beverage. Tea tour Meandering through a sprawling tea plantation in the early hours of the morning to watch a bunch of women nipping two leaves and a bud with their nimble hands and tossing them over their shoulders into baskets slung along their backs can be a heady experience, for many. Taking a walk down memory lane, they could be told how in the early days of the introduction of tea in Tamil Nadu, prisoners from China were brought by the British to work in the tea plantations here. They also have a good chance of spotting the highly endangered Lion Tailed Macaque here. Later, they could pay a visit to a tea factory, where they get to see it all right from when the fresh green leaves are brought into the tea factory for withering to the rolling, drying and shifting stages. It can be rounded off with a tea-tasting session where they could sip some of the finest tea that is grown in Tamil Nadu. The British planters who had created a little bit of England in Tamil Nadu have long gone. But for those interested in savouring the life of a British planter, there are the quintessential British bungalows tucked away in the vast expanses of tea plantations across Tamil Nadu. Many of these have now been lovingly restored. One such happens to be the Briar Tea Bungalows who have thrown open the doors of their property in Valparai for discerning tourists from across the globe. Tea tourism which can be Tamil Nadu's answer to wine tourism which is being promoted by countries like France, Italy and Spain could become a big draw for tourists from the U.K. visiting Tamil Nadu.

A bouquet called Bolzano

KRISHNARAJ IYENGAR

October 15, 2011

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This vibrant place effervesces with the spirit of youth. Krishnaraj Iyengar visits Bolzano, an Italian town on the Austrian border, rich in ancient history and a meeting of the two cultures. Sipping sturdy German beer on a cobbled Italian street, puffing on a Cuban cigar and then, jumping on to a China-made bicycle following street signs in both German and Italian sounds like fun. Yes, when in Bolzano, a charming Italian town on the Austrian border, the two cultures unite while its ancient past appears new and the present, timeless. Strolling past a group of giggling brunettes through a quaint narrow lane, I feast my eyes on myriad mouth-watering gelato varieties and high-end boutiques with designer brands under the arches of old buildings on both sides. A handful of young Senegalese lads selling colourful knick-knacks are a pleasant contrast, their French and Arabic another flower in Bolzano's cultural bouquet. A vibrant university town, Bolzano effervesces with the spirit of youth round the clock. Listening to a stocky local gent engage in friendly verbal fencing with our southern Napolitano buddy Salvatore about the differences between Italy's north and its south, I devoured some irresistible ravioli in a quaint family-run caf, quite like the ones you would find in Germany and Austria with leitmotif pink interiors, old-style windows and fresh, fragrant flowers. Long-winding footpaths with special cycling tracks is another German trademark, not forgetting the hundreds of cyclists of all ages cruising all along the town. With its rich legacy of ancient history, Bolzano is best explored by foot, the next best mode of transport its affable folk prefer after the bicycle. Mummy in museum A visit to the South Tyrol Museum of Archeology is ideally one of the most fascinating experiences the town offers. A haven for international tourists, history and anthropology enthusiasts and young students, the museum houses one of the most well-maintained ancient mummies in the world, that of what is called tzi the ice man. A guided tour of the museum opens doors to an intriguing ethos of an ancient era and its people that ones inhabited the region. Known to have lived nearly 5,300 years ago, the ice man has a unique tale to tell the world. Discovered in a frozen glacier in 1991 by two German tourists from Nuremberg and excavated by German archeologist Herbert Hetzel the same year, intensive research was carried out on the corpse which was scientifically examined by experts. It is estimated that this fascinating ice man was about 1.65 cm (5 feet 5 inches) tall during his death, weighed about 50 kg and was about 45 years of age, while expert analysis shows that he might have spent his childhood in what is today, the village of Feldthurns north of Bolzano, had brown eyes and wore a highly evolved attire designed from natural products. A life-size model of the ice man in the museum reveals his true avatar. A cloak made of woven grass, a coat, a belt, a pair of leggings, a loin cloth and shoes all made from different types of skins. Carbon tattoos

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An intriguing set of carbon tattoos were found on the ice man, some having groups of short, parallel, vertical lines to both sides of the lower spine, a cruciform mark behind one of his knees and various marks around the ankles. Many believe that these tattoos, though quite an enigma, were a kind of an acupuncture or acupressure treatment to relieve pain. Interestingly, a set of implements like a copper axe and a yew handle, a flint knife and a quiver of 14 arrows with viburnum and dogwood shafts were also found along with the corpse. It is said that the tzi ice man was killed after a long and painful struggle, either during a storm, or by a ritual sacrifice for being a chieftain specifically by an arrow wound. A few moments of tranquillity bring you back from history to reality, and Bolzano's famous cathedral is the place for seekers of spiritual solace. A marvel of Romanesque and Gothic architecture, the Assumption of Our Lady Cathedral is known as the treasury museum as it houses one of the finest and richest collections of sacred items in all of Tyrol, dating back to the medieval and Baroque eras. The Dominican Church of St. Dominic is another of Bolzano's favorite attractions especially for art lovers from around the globe. The Chapel of St. John, of St. Catherine and the cloister, all within the church are renowned for their masterpieces of Gothic art from the celebrated Gothic School of Padova (first half of the 14th century) with frescos by legends like Friedrich Pacher. Shopping for designer brands, cycling along the quaint alleyways, kneeling in prayer in a Gothic church or rewinding the clock back to an ancient era, Bolzano with its bouquet of diverse and unique experiences truly enriches the traveller's soul.

In a green wrap
SUPRIYA HIMANSHU Live it up in the cottages of The Tree House Resort in Jaipur. When I think of weekend trips, my mind throws up places like Rajasthan for sand dunes, Madhya Pradesh for the wild, Ladakh for snow capped mountains, Goa for sun bathed beaches. They all are testimony to how deeply embedded my Std. VI geography lessons are in my psyche. There is however, a new book in town and it has the Greens and Rajasthan on the same page. This is a place awash with flora and fauna. The Tree House Resort in Nature Farms can change your view of this arid Zone. Located on NH8, in the lap of the Aravalli Range, 35 km before Jaipur, Tree House is tucked just a few kms away from this highway. The first few steps into the place will defy your imagination as there is lush greenery all around. For a stay you have the option to choose from one of the 16 cottages perched literally on top of a tree. And the branches don't just sit under your house, they go around it and through it, coming right out of the roof of the house as if the house was always there and the trees just grew through it. Surprisingly, the perches come with all the trappings of modern urban life showers, geysers, LCD TVs, ACs, fridge to name a few, with top of the line service and hospitality. The wooden walls and the occasional tree trunk in the room make for a seamless transition of the urbane into the wild.
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Modern facilities We always wanted to provide modern facilities on top of a tree. Spread on 250 acres of land which makes it the largest in the world, this resort has the maximum number of cottages on the trees. The concept is not that of a machaan. Considering the weather in Rajasthan it was important to keep dust away; so we transplanted giant size trees and surprisingly they all survived. People enjoy the stay here as the oxygen level is amazing and you get to see the rarest of birds here. Today this resort is in the bird watch destination maps, says Sunil Mehta, director. The place is ideal if you wish to spend quality time with your family. The pathways between the cottages are like a jungle trail, the truth of which has to be seen to be believed, because every time you walk through this trail, you can make out some creature or the other slithering away or running for cover, just in time to avoid attention. There are rabbits to chase and pamper, the rarest species of birds to watch for hours, swans in small ponds to feed and play, and nocturnal sounds to listen to. The fact that this place is tucked at a safe distance away from the highway adds to the serenity of this hideout. And, if you are a spirited traveller, the place will please you even more. A cosy bar with an entrance arch that is almost 400 years old will welcome you. For water babes, there is a lovely pool to splash in. For those who are high on sports, there is a badminton court, billiard room, and endless plains to walk or jog. For details, call 91-9001797422 / 91-9799490390 Fax: 91-141-2223256

Regal extravagance
Hugh Colleen Gantzer Replete with legend and myths, every sculpture and carving on the sun temple in Konarak is a wonder from the past. Konarak is a royal palimpsest. Like most great monuments the world over, it has accumulated tales upon legends upon myths till it is difficult to know where one ends and the other begins. Tourist guides will patter on about how a huge magnetic stone crowned the soaring temple tower, drawing ships to their doom. Then there's the legend about a king's comely son being stricken with a disfiguring disease and building the temple to cure himself of his affliction. The profusion of sringara sculptures of beguiling sensuousness is sometimes explained as talismans to ward off the evil eye, or lightning. There's also the factual description given by the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) of the seven, superbly sculpted, prancing horses drawing the twelve-wheeled chariot of Surya, the Sun God: an equestrian deity imported from Iran. The horses represent the days of the week, the wheels exemplify the months of the year. As in most folkloric accounts, there seem to be small cores of authenticity in the tales.
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Even the most powerful loadstone would not have had an effect on wooden ships. Scholars believe that a shining brass or gold ball had been installed atop the tower of the temple. Moonlight reflecting off this could have led unwary navigators astray. This, in turn, probably angered the sea-born forces of invaders particularly if they belonged to faiths that had a traditional apathy to women. Misogynists would have found the sculptures in the temple deeply offensive. There is a strong local tradition that the initial damage to the great temple was inflicted by the armies of the legendary iconoclast Kalapathar. Sun power Belief that sunlight cures skin ailments is an old-established one. The striking image of Surya does wear riding boots, contrary to established Hindu iconography, and could have been an Iranian deity worshipped by Magi. There is also strong reason to believe that the original Sun Temple was in present-day Multan, though it is not clear why the legends of that temple were appropriated by Konarak, nor is it clear why the dancing hall was built a fair distance in front of the temple. These structures, including the plinth and entrance, are all that remain of the original temple. They are, however, so richly embellished by carvings and sculptures that they riveted our attention. To start with, the fact that the dance hall is detached from the main temple is curious. Traditionally, the Nata Mandap is an adjunct of the sanctum so that dedicated devadasis could entertain the installed deity. Moreover, there are literally hundreds of images of dancers and musicians, an abundance not seen in many other temples. Finally, as pointed out by scholar Dhirendranath Patnaik in his very informative book Odissi Dance, this dance hall has an unusual, named, sculpture of a Dance Master holding a pair of cadence-keeping cymbals. All this gave us the impression that this dance hall was built for the entertainment of an elite audience, and not of the installed idol. After this, other perceptions began to fall into place. Very few of the carvings and sculptures depicted the lives of common people. They captured wars and hunts and a plethora of voluptuous mithuna couples and sringara. The emphasis was clearly on the pleasures of the flesh and not the pursuits of the mind and spirit. Religious themes were also significantly absent, apart from the main one of the Sun God riding his chariot. Not even the temples of Khajuraho devote so much attention to depicting of the delights of kama. We skimmed through the Archaeological Survey of India's booklet on Konarak, seeking an explanation. We found a very revealing comment. It said: the edifice is the realization of the dazzling dream of an ambitious and mighty king, secular to the core and with immense zest for lifeThe vision of the king, whose personality has been fully reflected in these secular sculptures, has thus been completely fulfilled. Smaller one There is also another significant fact. To the west of the temple stands a second, smaller temple now called the Mayadevi Temple. According to the ASI, This temple was meant originally for Surya.

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Clearly, however, if a rich and powerful monarch wants a great boon from his deity, he has to make a suitable gift. King Narasimha was also known as langulia: One having a tail. Some people are born with a protuberance jutting out from the base of their spines: A vestigial, and enormously embarrassing, tail. It is more than likely, then, that the Nata Mandap was the pleasure dome of the monarch. Later, he built the great temple behind his evocative dancing hall to placate the powerful Surya, begging the Sun God to rid him of that mocking appendage! A tail must have repelled those with whom the monarch shared his vigorous zest for life!

Beauty and the beast

MITA GHOSE

January, 24, 2010

Halong Bay in Vietnam, named after the local resident monster, has a rich cultural imagination in tune with its abundant natural beauty Limestone islands 1,969 in all rise straight up from the waters today like a close-knit clan of giant menhirs... When a famous expanse of water is named after a resident monster, you'd do well to watch out for its mood swings: serene can turn sinister, tranquil can become tempestuous And Vietnam's magical Bay of the Descending Dragon Ha Long created, claims local legend, by the very beast that inspired its name, is as temperamental as can be. The story begins in the ancient past with an attempted Chinese invasion of Vietnam. Roused to fury by the threat to its territory, the dragon had apparently torn its way down from its lair in the mountains to meet the invaders head on, leaving so huge a crater in its wake that water had flowed in from the ocean and filled it. Thus was born the natural wonder that is Halong Bay. The jade and emeralds the beast supposedly spat out in its rage were transformed into innumerable vegetation-covered limestone islands 1,969 in all that rise straight up from the waters today like a close-knit clan of giant menhirs. It's a fascinating interpretation of the way millennia of geological evolution have contributed to the area's breathtaking beauty that earned it the distinction of a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1994 and boosted Vietnam's tourism potential by leaps and bounds. Strategic location Given Halong Bay's geographical position in the Gulf of Tonkin, with the People's Republic of China breathing down its neck from the north and the east, I can well imagine the dragon's sense of unease. Vietnam's history involves, after all, a saga of endless invasions and occupations, with the Chinese having enjoyed the longest run an astounding millennium followed by the French and the Americans. Gazing now at the bay's serene, breeze-ruffled waters from the top deck of the Huong Hai, a mechanised Chinese junk that will take us cruising around the islands with their mysterious caves and grottos, it is hard, indeed, to imagine the place as a scene of great turmoil. Yet, it is here that centuries-old naval battles were fought between the Vietnamese and their aggressive coastal neighbours, giving rise to tales of military ingenuity that helped drive back the enemy on several occasions. The locals are particularly proud of General Tran Hung Dao who sank the Mongol invader Kublai Khan's entire fleet in 1288 by tricking the latter's ships into the bay's waters where
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camouflaged steel-tipped wooden stakes were already in place. Ironically, it's the local fisherfolk who are at risk today from some of the hidden mines planted in the bay by the US Navy during Vietnam's devastating American War. Looking ahead The Vietnamese, however, are born survivors, disinclined to brood over their tragic legacy. And the carefree smiles of the staff manning our junk make it easier to dismiss the trauma their country has endured as a thing of the past. Besides, the wind is distracting me from sombre thoughts by teasing holes in the cloud cover overhead. A shy post-monsoon sun peeks through, setting the waves a-sparkle and transforming the scene into a Turner masterpiece. I watch this amazing play of light and try to visualise Halong Bay in the depths of winter, a surreal ocean of mist encircling the brooding silhouettes of Rooster Island, Incense Burner Island and the evocatively named Lonely Island just three of the nearly thousand such islands bearing names to match their shapes. I'm told, however, that visibility is poor in winter, making navigation treacherous. The summer months are iffy too, despite the promise of deep turquoise waters mirroring a cloudless sky. Intense heat and humidity are a deterrent then, as are the thunderstorms that often lash the bay, leading to frequent cancellation of boat tours. The dragon's temper still erupts, it seems, though only seasonally. Baby-faced Nam, our tour guide for the day, interrupts my reverie with the announcement that we're approaching the island where the junk is scheduled to drop anchor. Ashore, a steep flight of steps transports us to Fantasy Land or rather, Heaven's Cave, an enormous grotto with the sun spiralling in through an aperture high up in the roof to justify the fanciful name. A labyrinth of giant stalactites and stalagmites in intriguing shapes a dragon, an elephant, entwined lovers the cave is suffused with dreamy artificial light violets and greens and looks like a Hollywood horror movie set. I half expect a phantom to float by, cackling maniacally, but the repeated flash of camera bulbs quashes my fanciful musings and we're soon out in the open air again, looking down reflectively into the sparkling waters of the bay, dotted with Chinese junks, their yellow sails gloriously unfurled. Royal feast Awaiting us back on board is a midday feast for royalty: prawn and squid and braised cuttlefish, the bay's marine wealth, as it were, exquisitely prepared and laid out artistically on an array of platters. Stuffed to belching point, I tell myself silently, This is the life! With no regrets whatsoever for missing out on the PS Emeraude, the celebrated deluxe cruiser that offers, to those with deep pockets, an overnight tour of five-star bliss, along with the bay's flamboyant sunsets and delicately tinted dawns. For plebeians like me, the humble Huong Hai will do just fine, thank you. La dolce vita is over all too soon, with a small, canopied boat arriving to transport us to the pier at Halong City. Then it's a three-hour drive back to our hotel in Hanoi, Vietnam's bustling capital. That night, I dream endlessly. Of limestone islands and still waters running deep. Of mists and thunderstorms and man-made hazards that lie beneath, too treacherous even for Halong Bay's mercurial dragon to deal with.

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For that special experience

AARTI PRASHANT A tranquil property within the busy city limits of Delhi, The Manor is an icon of style and personalised service. Adesigner boutique hotel, like The Manor, entrenched in Friends Colony, Delhi, is one where the style of the property is stressed with regard to every detailing that goes into designing it in terms of the rooms, bathrooms, cushions, flooring, etc. Treading through its gates, the building itself reminded me of a typical colonial type of bungalow. I was allured by the exceptional design style of Manor besides the serenity and the lush green environment. What appealed to me the most was the use of sober colours and designs to do up the interiors. For instance, the stylish lobby contrasts the cool Italian mosaic flooring with warm, rich wood panelling on the walls. I happened to come across a high profile client staying at Manor, Daniel Adric, a designer from Paris who loves the style of the property, the fusion of modern and classic. The rooms too render a spacious feel with high ceilings. Since The Manor has a small inventory of rooms, each room is individually decorated with soothing and soft tones ranging from caramel to beige to moss green. There are just about 15 rooms in total; two standard, five superior, seven junior suites and one Manor Suite. Standard rooms, being smaller, have a queen-size bed and a writing table. Some suites have a combined sitting area and bedroom along with a king-size bed, sofa, chairs and a large writing table. But my brownie point goes to the Manor Suite located on the upper floor of the hotel which opens up to its own sitting room. It also comprises a separate bedroom, dressing room, bathing area and a private outdoor terrace with a garden view. Excellent service The basic essence of The Manor is service; the way they serve their guests, relate to them as well as run their restaurant. Since people are well travelled these days all they look for is uniqueness of service', which is easy to achieve in a boutique property as a result of the special staff structure and product structure. If you decide to stay at The Manor, get ready to be thoroughly coddled, with every request of yours fulfilled to perfection, making a guest feel special and at home. This is certainly not possible in other star hotels where the service is more standardised and for a reason. My experience of The Manor reached its pinnacle at the restaurant, Indian Accent. Encompassing an amalgamation of global cuisine along with the Indian taste, this restaurant is truly one of the gems of gastronomic delights of Delhi. Chef Manish Mehrotra deserves all the credit for bringing such an inventive menu to this restaurant. He has managed to combine flavours that go together and this fusion has indeed worked well. An experience in itself; you can enjoy an all-day menu at the Indian Accent. For starters, how about trying some Semolina Puchkas with five kinds of water tamarind, mint, pineapple, pomegranate and butter milk? Add a shot of belvedere vodka if desired. On the other hand, for the main course, there is mouth-watering Galawati Kebab with Foie Gras (goose liver) stuffed with strawberry

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and green chilli chutney. I am convinced that The Manor's core USP is nothing but its unparalleled food. For the connoisseur One factor I found appealing was the food being served with five different kinds of wine which adds flavour to the food. Secondly, I was amazed to discover two kinds of menu cards; a choice between a la carte menu and the chef's tasting menu where each dish is paired with a wine. The menu has my much-loved fruit, mango, as the only seasonal inclusion with desserts like aam ras and mango-lime kulfi(mango puree with Thai Kaffir lime). A visit to the Indian Accent and you might just be lucky enough to experience something called Accent of the Month where festivities of the lunar calendar are commemorated. Be it Janmashtami with peacock feathers, jasmines and flute music dominating the scene or tricolour desserts on Independence Day; each event is celebrated with equal fervour. Adjoining the restaurant is the Oynx bar that opens out onto a beautiful veranda overlooking the lush green lawns. The Manor plays host to elite clients ranging from designers to celebrities to politicians to corporate clients. However, there is a huge patronage from expats, diplomats and international clients and one reason they opt for this property is because they can escape city life to enjoy the aesthetics, ambience and nature. The reason for selecting a boutique hotel over a normal hotel is the compactness that facilitates a sense of intimacy which is highly unlikely in any other big hotel. With quintessential service and design , The Manor was quite an experience

Going wild in Sakleshpur

Wishbone has announced a trip to Kadamane estate, Sakleshpur, beginning just before midnight on the January 29. The estate is a low elevation tea estate which has around 1,000 acres of tea on it. The good news is the entire estate is about 7,000 acres, leaving over 4,000 acres to the wild and its denizens. There is a lot of wildlife, from mouse deer to elephant. There are also a lot of reptiles and amphibians The place is truly scenic as well and you should definitely bring your cameras for the photo-ops there will be. There'll be a trek up to a nearby ridge where you will camp by a precipice which is a roaring waterfall during the rains. It is a fantastic place to be in with breathtaking views, great bird life and some interesting wildlife. It is the area with the most amount of elephant and bison activity on the estate and is completely away from anything even remotely human. Dates: January 30 and 31 Departure: January 29, 11.30 p.m. Arrival: February 1, 5.30 a.m. Location: Kadamane Estate, Sakleshpur Travel time: Six hours
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Accommodation: Estate Bungalow. Will be using sleeping bags. Activities: Mountain ridge trek, Tree climbing, Wildlife tracking. Contact: Kaushik, +9198861-69698. Web: www. wishbone.co.in

In a fabled land
Kumar Iyengar

June 11, 2011

Northern Ireland with its history, mythology and scenic beauty is a traveller's delight. My romance with Ireland started in my early teens with stories of elves and leprechauns roaming the glens of Antrim. I had harboured this burning desire to go to the land of Narnia's Chronicles but the troubles (as the sectarian violence of Northern Ireland came to be known) had deterred me. But when I did go finally I discovered why Northern Ireland is a treasure trove for travellers. First stop was Belfast, just over an hour by air from London, a city wracked by violence for three decades but now emerging as one of the most attractive tourist spots in the world according to Frommers. The City Hall building where the Civic Representatives sit, majestically dominates the downtown area and the Ulster Museum a short walk away has a moving section on Northern Ireland's troubled history. On to another part of the city and you see the dry dock where the Titanic berthed. Murals dot the city, each one having a story to tell. I walked into the heart of protestant Belfast - the Shenkill and a pub called The Stadium, located next to the Orange Hall, a religious-social meeting area, where the Orange Day Parade was to be celebrated. A hush descended over the pub's inmates as I opened the entrance door, since hardly any non-locals visit here but within minutes the Irish friendliness smothered me and as Billy the owner explained to me later, my presence would be grist to the mill of bar room stories for many months to come! Breathtaking views Belfast Castle located at the foot of Cave Hill is a fairy tale castle. The climb up Cave Hill affords a breathtaking view of Belfast Lough (the Irish name for Lake) and the city of Belfast. On a clear day you can even see the Mountains of Mourne (made famous by C.S.Lewis)! And there is a Lake District in Northern Ireland every bit as beautiful as the one in the north of England and a lot less crowded- Fermanagh. I start the next morning taking the Westlink out of Belfast driving to my hosts, the Weirs, at Tamlaght a few miles out of Enniskillen in Fermanagh County. The drive has taken me a leisurely two hours through the serenity and greenery of pastoral Northern Ireland. As many small towns in Northern Ireland do, Enniskillen too has a castle, home to the Royal
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Inniskilling Fusiliers who were acknowledged by the Duke of Wellington for having saved the centre of the line at the Battle of Waterloo. The Lough Erne runs around Enniskillen, and I chart a delightful route looping through Lower Lough Erne, stopping off to take the ferry M.V. Kestrel to one of the oldest medieval Christian settlements in Ireland, Devenish Island where the early Christians integrated many pagan beliefs to promote harmony amongst the faiths. The ferry sails alongside Portora Royal School (founded by James1 in 1608) and boasts such literary alumni as Samuel Beckett and Oscar Wilde amongst its students. No visit to Fermanagh can be complete without a visit to the two most beautifully wooded National Trust properties, Florence Court and Castle Coole both a walker's delight. What a sight the greenery is! City tour The next day I drive through County Tyrone entering the walled city of Derry. I take an award winning city tour through the locations of the famous siege of Derry by the forces of King James. Our guide is a treat to listen to with a commentary ranging from the dramatic to the descriptive as he tells us of the 13 apprentice boys who raised the bridge, grabbed the keys and closed the city gates as the Protestant garrison held out for months in appalling conditions. The famous murals of Derry grip you in its flavour of history and romance both headily mixed to be a storyteller's delight! One in the tour group tells me she is the sister of Roxanne, the well-known singer of the 70s' who was badly injured in a car bomb explosion. My drive continues as I wing my way to an afternoon appointment at the Bushmills Distillery, Ireland's oldest licensed whiskey distillery. Through the Roe Valley and Coleraine, I am entering some of the most scenic spots in the world as I take the Coastal Causeway and the coast plays hide and seek with me. The Distillery has a fascinating whiskey tour and later I drive on to Glenariff the queen of the Antrim glens- and a sheep farm called Dieskirt abutting the Glenariff Mountains. My hosts, the McHenrys are waiting for me and whisk me off to dinner to a cozy restaurant, Laragh Lodge, tucked away in the glen. The next day is spent driving along the Coastal Causeway with unforgettable scenery and glimpses of the coast of Scotland and you remember Paul McCartney singing of the Mull of Kintyre to describe this area. Murlough Bay Fair Head down the road is the north-eastern most tip of Northern Ireland. Marconi's first radio broadcast was made to Rathlin Island, which is a blur on the horizon. The advantage of all these places on the Coast is that they are fairly close to each other and can be covered in an afternoon. The next day is fairytale time, driving through the glens and soaking up local folklore. I pass Cushendall as dusk is falling and drive up Tiveragh Hill where some of the older locals swear to have been chased in their youth by little men. A deserted Tiveragh Hill sends shivers down my spine! The Antrim Hills offer a terrific view of the coast and with luck you can see the northern lights! I stop at the grave of Glenariff's most famous son, Charles McDonnell, Master of the Marco Polo and James Baines ships who sailed round the world in 132 days with the main skysails and stunsails set. These were records at the time and maritimers will tell you that the clipper ship period was the hay day of sail!
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As I drive back to Dieskirt farm, my hosts have invited a professional storyteller, Liz Weir to regale me with the mysteries and spells of the glens. The drive back to Belfast the next day is via fascinating Carrickfergus Castle, the oldest Norman Castle in Northern Ireland and steeped in 800 years of history. As I fly out of Belfast, I marvel at the diversity of the scenery within short distances and the warmth of the Irish people.

Drama in Plassey
Sandip Hor

January, 15, 2012

It is from this West Bengal village that the journey of British rule in India began. This is where India was sold to the British, tells my omniscient guide Quadir when we visit an abandoned mango grove in Plassey, a small village in West Bengal, which for the last 250 years has remained as a silent spectator of a drama that changed the fate of India. History books account that so called drama as Battle of Plassey, which in 1757 was staged between Nawab Siraj-Ud-Daula, ruler undivided Bengal, Bihar, and Orissa and Lord Clive of East India Company. Murshidabad, located 150 km away from Kolkata was then the bustling capital of Siraj's empire; now a shabby district town where almost every stone and brick has a story of lust and passion, obedience and conspiracy, power and greed to narrate. That's enough to lure visitors like me to land there on a weekend and browse through the impoverish townscape, dotted with ruined palaces, mosques, monuments, mausoleums, tomb and graveyards. The history during the golden period of Murshidabad is very interesting. Situated on the banks of the Bhagirathi, it was established in 1717 by Nawab Murshid Quli Khan as the capital of his province in Eastern India at a time when the might of Mughals in Delhi was on the wane. The British East India Company, established a century ago in Calcutta, was becoming more interested in territory than trade. They had organised an army of their own and built walled bastions in Calcutta, Madras and Bombay. Other European colonizers the French, Dutch and Portuguese were also trying to make their presence felt, but their scores were limited. Siraj-Ud-Daula, ascended to the throne in April 1756 at the age of 26, after the death of his grandfather Ali Vardi Khan, superseding other princes, senior ministers and nobles. This aroused extreme jealousy among close family members and officials. From day one, Siraj was not in good terms with the British Company, particularly because of their strengthening the fortification in Calcutta. So in June 1756, he attacked the fort, captured it and held 146 British subjects in a small, dark chamber, recorded in history as the infamous Black Hole of Calcutta. Only 23 were said to have survived the ordeal. Revenge became the top of the agenda item for the Company. At the same time, a conspiracy to overthrow Siraj was growing exponentially in Murshidabad. His most senior minister Mir Zafar, aunty Ghasetti Begum and many others including wealthy merchants like Jagath Seth and Umichand, joined hands with Lord Clive,
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the commander of East India Company and struck a deal that if Siraj can be ousted, the throne will be awarded to Mir Zafar. So on June 23, 1757, the 3,000-strong army of Clive met face-to-face with Nawab's 50,000 men equipped with a train of heavy artillery at the tranquil mango grove of Plassey at the outer periphery of Murshidabad. However, the outcome of the battle had been decided long before the soldiers came to the battlefield. Nawab's soldiers were bribed by Mir Zafar to throw away their weapons and surrender prematurely. So without many gun shots fired, the battle ended within a day and with Siraj fleeing for his life; but he was soon captured by Mir Zafar's son and brutally murdered. Nawabs for puppets Mir Zafar and his descendants became the future Nawabs, but remained as puppets under the British, who wasted no time thereafter to establish their reign, not only in Bengal, but all over India. Years later Jawaharlal Nehru, in his book Discovery of India aptly described Clive as having won the battle by promoting treason and forgery, thus marking a sordid start to British rule in India. A monument stands today in the ill-fated battle ground, perhaps to remind the generation of independent India and visitors as well, how sovereignty of a nation was lost and to make them think what would have India looked like today if a fair game was played. Mir Zafar was never forgiven for his disloyalty to his motherland. He was nicknamed Gaddar-e-Abrar in Urdu meaning unfaithful traitor and remembered in history as another word for betrayal. It's said people kick and spit on his decorated graveyard, though we see none doing so when we visit his ruined palace, of which nothing remains except the ornamental gate called the Nimak Haram Deorhi meaning traitors gate. There is also nothing much left to remember Siraj other than his grave in Khosh Bagh, located on the other side of the river. He rests there alongside his grandfather and wife Luftun-nisa, inside an arcaded mausoleum, surrounded by a pleasant garden, peppered with 108 varieties of roses. Italian architecture The town's most tourist occupied venue is the Hazarduary Palace, which surfaced long after the era of Siraj and Mirzafar. Built in 1837, it's an Italian architectural styled three-storied edifice, fitted with 900 real and 100 artificial doors (hazarduary literally means thousand doors), guarding 114 rooms which now display an exquisite collection of Nawabi memorabilia. The 41-acre walled area that also houses a Clock Tower, a mosque, an impressive white- painted Imambara and a huge 4m long cannon, which has been kept idle after it fired its first shot. Its explosive sound was so loud that all pregnant women within a 15 km radius gave birth to their child prematurely. The oldest monument of significance in Murshidabad is the Katra Masjid, a large mosque built on a 20-acre property in 1723 by Nawab Murshid Quili Khan. During heyday, this mosque could accommodate thousands easily and had numerous cave-type cells for worshippers to read the Koran. Though this monument, like few others is maintained by the Archaeological Society of India, unfortunately signs of neglect are evident everywhere.
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Copacabana calling!
Janardhan Roye

January 7, 2012

There's no better place than the beach on a Sunday in Brazil. It's a huge social gala. At any time of the week, any time of the day Copacabana rocks, announced Bernardo, our friend exuberantly, For families, Sunday is the best day of all to be on the beach. We were standing on the roof-top of a 30-floor hotel looking out on the magnificent confluence of land, the long scalloped beach, the sea and mountains at dusk. Down below was the shimmering water, dark palm trees and a curving road with streams of yellow taxis, cars and buses speeding along. Street lamps cast pools of yellow light on pedestrians and beachside vendors. Beaches here are not just for relaxing, they are a huge social event, continued Bernardo, Whole families descend on the beach. People meet, hang out, dance and party, drink and eat, frolic or exercise and generally have a ball all day long in a seamless holiday atmosphere. Inexpensive, lots of fun, this sweet life of Brazilians. Next morning, it was dark when I stepped out into the morning. The roar of the sea, rustling palms and cool breeze were most welcome after the many meetings in stuffy air-conditioned rooms. I filled the lungs with invigorating sea air. Hugging the beach was the magnificent Avenida Atlntica. It has six-lanes separated by a tree-laden median. Beyond the road is a remarkable mosaic tile sidewalk in black and white wavy design, with each block made up in a unique pattern, created by landscape artist Burle Marx, that runs right from the old Copacabana Fort to the huge rock at Leme. As the sand was incredibly soft, I removed my walking gear, slung it over shoulder and ran to meet the advancing, foamy sea. Sea gulls screeched overhead. The waves changed colour to break along the curving beach. It was an amazing sight: The sea, the shore, the series of majestic bluish-gray mountains cascading right down into the Atlantic, and the sky coming together in a happy union. And they do come Ahead was the Leme beach. It was an hour before heavy footfalls and other activity on the sand. The beach chairs and towels, sun worshippers, the surfers with their underarm boards or vendors and the hundreds of pleasure-seekers that descend on the place and claim space in the sun hadn't arrived yet. Then I saw the first of the many string-bikini clad women of the day. She was running towards the waves and foamy water. She stared out on the horizon, at the pink-scattered streaks in the sky, threw fistfuls of sea water on her head and waved to her companions on the shore. Soon a family with little girls in teeny tiny bathing suits, all in giggles, raced to catch the sea. On the promenade walkers, joggers, dog-walkers, bicyclists and such were out. Bare-chested young men, capoeiristas were executing acrobatic power kicks, and cartwheels. Near them were elaborately carved sand-castles with Brazilian flags, and a yoga session
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bhujangasana was in progress led by a svelte redhead. As more couples passed by laughing, it became difficult to tell visitors from the locals. As I passed a couple who looked very Brazilian frizzy hair, tanned bodies, big goggles I heard them speaking in Gujarati! While sunbathing topless may be a European practice, here girls uninhibitedly show off their wellformed assets! On my return journey, I found people couples, children with parents, beautiful women, middle aged and old, dog-walkers freely crossing Av. Atlntico. There is no vehicular traffic on Sundays from 7 am to 6 pm. Three lanes are closed to public vehicles, making the boulevard an exclusive pedestrian pathway. I passed several kiosks, snack and drink bars. Many were getting ready for the day. A few that were open were there all night, serving the ladies of the evening and their clients or groups of young people still celebrating a Saturday night fever. Great divide Seeing several poodles fancily made up pink ribbons, snazzy hairstyles, being taken out to the sidewalk, I looked up at the eclectic neighbourhood, from where they emerged. It was a stunning sight, the home of the Rio rich. It was an endless sea of off-white high-rises and million-dollar penthouses art nouveau and neoclassical buildings, construction that capitalised on the 1964 legislation that permitted more than 12-storey buildings in the area. Behind these glitzy structures for contrast were the favelas, the unregulated housings, where life pulses to a different beat, beneath the glitz and glamour of the beautiful city. Back on the other side, the pace of human traffic had picked up as the sun ascended the sky. There was a flurry of activity all around young futevle, soccer volleyball players, energetic favela kids displaying amazing soccer skills, girls singing and dancing, children skate-boarding or splashing around in the sea while their elders lazed under umbrellas. Everywhere young women white, tanned, dark were sunning, or under bright coloured umbrellas on the versatile canga, feasting on a pushcart vendor's shrimp-sticks or ice-cream. At the barracas, little bars, long lines had formed for caipirinhas, a delicious cocktail of rum, sugar and lime over ice. Vendors were shouting out their lungs among beached and tanned bodies teenagers with outsize boom boxes were playing music and dancing. By midday, the beach was filled with vendors working their way around the sunbathers, offering their wares from shirts, towels, bracelets and souvenirs to items on hire umbrellas, sea slide chutes for kids and canoes, pedal boats, and all manner of amenities. It pays to get in early at Copacabana. Early arrivals get a choice of beach space. Latecomers have to lean on the barraca operators. These biz-savvy individuals set up tents, beach chairs, umbrellas early and rent them, besides selling beer, soft drinks, fruit juices, coconut water, sandwiches, and snacks. As per tradition, old-timers have their marked spots to which they gravitate dutifully, early in the day. There with bottled water or beer, they settle down to read the Rio Times or O Globo or watch the drama of life unfold around them. The old-timers sit there for hours on end, Bernardo said, and get up, to let out the many Bohemia Pilsners they've had into the Atlantic! In time, the sidewalk became very crowded. People come from the beach, get out to enjoy a stroll on the pavement or head for a late lunch at a nearby restaurant, explained a middle106

aged lady in a skimpy outfit who had stopped me to ask the time and also whether I was a) an Indian, b) knew Shah Rukh Khan, and c) whether I had acted in any Indian telenovellas. There are several notable eateries around the beach. In particular the weigh-and-pay, the comida por kilo restaurants are very popular. Here diners choose food from a sumptuous buffet take as much as they like and have the plate weighed at the till. You pays for what you eats! They say Copacabana hosts the biggest New Year party in the world. And that the exquisite fireworks that marks the replacement of the old year with the new, cheers the gathered two million party-animals. But for the present, I couldn't believe that there could be anything bigger or livelier than a Sunday at Copacabana.

Tetley amid the turtlebacks

Zerin Anklesaria

January 7, 2012

A cozy cabin for comfort and a cheeky car driver for company, Munnar turns out to be a destination of memories. He was very American, a huge bear of a man towering over us in the lobby of the resort at Munnar. Outdoorsy too, in a tan coloured shirt and shorts, with binoculars and camera slung over his shoulder. Where you from? he asked. Mumbai. And you? Cal-a-furrnia, but I've been in the Heem-a-liars for three months looking for rare animals. He had then driven right across India to see the Nilgiri Tahr or ibex endemic here, only to find its protected habitat crowded with people. Cars, families, noise and litter everywhere, and not an animal in sight. And this is an endangered species, he ranted, as if I was somehow responsible. Unfortunately he had landed up there on a holiday, and couldn't spare the time for another try. Too bad! One could have sympathised if he hadn't been such a grouch. Two days later we made our way up to Anamudi, the highest peak south of the Himalayas, with the densest concentration of the ibex. A scenic drive took us more than halfway up, and we stopped at a quiet spot to view the valley stretching for miles below. Herd of ibex Soon our driver, having gone to the teahouse up the road, signaled excitedly. In a shady hollow behind it we discovered an entire herd of ibex, the adults regarding us with mild curiosity in their kohl-rimmed amber eyes, while the babalok, snuggled up to their mothers, snoozed blissfully in the noonday heat. Except for gnats and dragonflies nothing stirred. We were thrilled and humbled at our intrusion into this idyll. If only we could have thumbed our noses at the grouchy Californian! The Mahindra Resort covers 25 acres of rolling hillside. The main building with scenic vistas on all sides, houses the reception areas and kitchens, separate dining rooms for buffet and a la carte meals, recreation rooms and shops. Though this is more convenient for senior citizens, the Alpine log cabins proved irresistible. No faux imitations these, but the real thing built
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under Austrian supervision, connected by a network of paths on which golf buggies plied throughout the day. At night a van took us down for dinner, and we waited for it on the road bundled up in caps and heavy coats feeling like Arctic explorers. But our cabin was a haven of comfort. The wood exuded warmth, and our woolies could be discarded the moment we entered. A single room large enough to accommodate a family, it provided a kitchen and dining area, sofas, lockers, and huge beds, warm and inviting. You could lie curled up the whole day reading, watching TV; or sit out on the sun-warmed porch beguiled by the shifting cloud patterns, the distant hills sharply etched against a brilliant blue sky as veils of mist settled into the valley. Munnar is the fiefdom of the Tatas, the home of Tetley Tea. They are either owners or lessees of vast tracts of tea gardens, and maintain guesthouses and a palatial bungalow for VIPs. So here we were, in the only place in the South where Parsis as a community are known and assumed to be seriously rich. Unaware of our pseudo-celebrity status we visited the shopping centre one day, to an instant buzz: Tata Tata, Parsi Parsi. Shopkeepers hailed us, hawkers pursued us, and schoolgirls gawped. Much ado about nothing, because all we wanted was a tube of toothpaste! Come again, come again, cried our disappointed fans; and zaroor, zaroor, we replied, and fled. For sightseeing we hired a private taxi, and ever-smiling Raju was our man of the moment. He took us on the tourist beat; the Mattupetty Lake and dam with a beautiful Rose Garden next door, and smoothly contoured slopes all around aptly called Turtlebacks; and all the while he talked incessantly about his work, his family, his beliefs. He wasn't a temple-goer, he said. Why I give money to priests? I do little puja in my house. I think like this: I doing good, I getting good. Being rationalists ourselves we were charmed by his homespun wisdom, and when he offered us a larger taxi for our return journey to Kochi and quoted a reasonable rate the deal was settled. Unexpected reason The next day there he was, cheerful and punctual, but when it came to loading the taxi there was a small hitch. His brother-in-law who was to drive us down had rushed to his village overnight. His uncle's wife had run away and the extended family had rallied round the inconsolable old man, while the men-folk were in hot pursuit to restore the errant woman to the bosom of her spouse. These excuses had a familiar ring. In the good old days everyone had live-in servants with a host of village relatives on standby, ever ready to fall ill or drop dead when leave was required; and once in a forgetful moment our cook had resurrected his mother-in-law to bump her off a second time. Raju's alibi was more sophisticated. Here was a car belonging to another driver, but it would cost more. We reasoned, we raged, we ranted. Not an extra rupee would he get. No paying, no car, he said implacably. Arguments flew back and forth, but in the end we had to agree. Remember Raju, I warned, you no doing good, you no getting good. I'll tell everyone, never trust Raju. With this parting shot we piled into the car, and as we rounded the last

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bend we looked up at our log cabin, and there was Raju, driver, guide, philosopher and smalltime conman, waving a cheery goodbye.

Backwater hideaway
Akber Ayub

January 28, 2012

Surrounded by waterways and the huge Vembanad Lake, a stay at the 150-year-old Akkarakalam Memoirs is an experience to cherish. A mere 20 ft separated the back of the house from the backwaters. The long languid rear veranda sporting traditional wooden recliners faced the waterway across a small yard. Ripening jack fruits and off-season mangoes hung from gnarled old trees, while slender coconut and areca palms swayed in the light breeze. Green was everywhere from the lush tropical foliage and rectangular lawns to patches of moss on tiled roofs and tufts of grass poking from paved pathways and the pebble strewn yard. I was in Akkarakalam Memoirs, a 150-year-old traditional Kerala house transformed into a homestay. Just 80 km south of Kochi past the charming coastal town of Alappuzha and a short drive into the Changanacherry Road, the homestay lies quietly by the waterfront within a 10-acre plot a world away from urban cacophony. Life here moved at a sedate pace, totally tied to the rhythms of the earth imbued with a simple rusticity and a soporific air. And you get to taste that right after check-in. There's nothing flashy about the heritage rooms. Rather, it carries the peace and tranquillity of generations of its previous occupants. The furniture is the same; four poster beds, wooden tables and chairs and wardrobes, all polished and restored to their original sheen. And professional housekeeping sees to it that creature comforts are maintained in five air-conditioned rooms and two cottages. Contemporary comfort The bathrooms though have been given a complete makeover and brought to contemporary standards. But most of the original features of the house have been left intact: A wooden grain cellar called Para, aged doors and windows and flooring, wooden stairway bringing to life a forgotten era and such other venerable symbols, all restored fairly well. The front veranda has been transformed into the dining hall, but with present-day furniture and gleaming cutlery. Food conforms to traditional Kerala cuisine, starting with puttu and appams for breakfast to rice, fish and poultry for lunch and dinner. Add an assortment of spicy vegetarian preparations and other accompaniments and you get classic Kerala food served in a fairly contemporary setting. But it's the famed waterways of Kerala that's the USP of the place. The unique backwaters an interlinked network of canals and lakes spanning 450 km from Thiruvananthapuram to Vadakara create picture postcard scenes of a delightful interplay between verdant earth and winding waterways. Of this, the biggest waterbody Vembanad Lake, stretches from Kodungallur in the north to Alappuzha in the south. And when the rains arrive in early June, the backwaters cast a spell with their effusive charm, compelling even the most harried
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urbanite to slow down and look, to soak in its sensory riches. And that is best done by undertaking a motorboat cruise. It's a delightful experience, and is complimentary for inhouse guests. But the experience is heightened to another level when you step into a houseboat for a day cruise or for an overnight stay in the Vembanad Lake. Plush airconditioned bedrooms, elegant dining room and a cosy sitting area upfront, all add to the uniqueness of the experience. A perfect means of exploring a magical land conjured up by land and water.

Top of the world

Ashish Kothari

February 4, 2012

Climb the mythical heights of the Khumbu in the Himalayas for a brush with Sherpa traditions. My first view of the world's highest peak, emerging from the clouds, was breathtaking. It was not just the sight itself, but also the years of reading about it since early childhood, that had built up expectations and excitement. We were half-way up to Nauche, a popular halt for trekkers heading to the base camp of Mt. Everest. Or rather, and there hangs a sorry tale I'll come back to, the base of Chhomolongma mountain. The walk has been exhausting, but we have been resting a lot, in the process acclimatizing to the thinning air. Failure to do so, I'd been warned, could cause high altitude sickness, with nausea, fever, headaches, and worse. We had flown in from Kathmandu to Lukla, at 2,800 mtrs one of the world's highest civilian airports. The flight itself was an experience: Much of it was parallel to the Himalayan ranges, about as breathtaking as the scary descent to Lukla's single, thin runaway nestled between mountains. Ups and downs! From Lukla, after a warm meal at one of its many comfortable lodges, we started walking. I was with Tenzing Tashi Sherpa, one of the area's most active leaders in nature and culture conservation, and Stan Stevens, an American professor who has worked in this region for many years. Our first halt, Phakding, was an easy walk, mostly downhill. It was the next day, climbing 800 mtrs upto Nauche that was a test for anyone whose muscles have atrophied in city life. But the landscape is so captivating one forgets the aching legs and bursting lungs. With the Dudh Koshi river cascading below us, pine or oak forests on the slopes above one bank, agricultural fields and villages on the other, there is little time for anything else than feasting one's eyes. In the distance snow-covered or black-faced mountains tower above the valley, bringing alive the picture postcards one can buy in Kathmandu or Lukla. At higher altitudes the vegetation turns to juniper and birch, and expanses of moraine where once moved glaciers appear below the snowbound areas of the peaks. Vertical black cliffs with white mineral deposits running down their sides rise above the vegetation, and frozen waterfalls testify to the rapidly decreasing temperatures as winter approaches. The path itself is busy, trekkers using the last of the tourist season to reach the base camp, and locals with their massive yaks or dzos (yak-cattle hybrids) carrying essential items up and down. We've been warned to stay on the cliff side of the path when passing these animals, lest one of them knock us down the valley (no kidding, a few people die every year this way)! And then there
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are the cultural protocols; as a predominantly Buddhist region, there are numerous mani stones carved with prayers and chants, and one has to remember to walk to their left. There are even more numerous mani (prayer) wheels, and yet another way of taking one's mind off the aches of climbing is to make sure every one of these is rotated as one passes by. And these are just some aspects of the sophisticated cultural system of the Sherpas, who, migrating from Tibet, inhabited this region several centuries ago. For me, the other delight was the wildlife. Sherpa traditions prohibit killing of wild animals (except occasionally predators like snow leopard that threaten their livestock), and this shows in the rather bold behaviour of birds and mammals. Pheasants of several species, musk deer, Himalayan tahr, and dozens of smaller animals can be relatively easily seen from the path. Much of the walk is in fact inside the Sagarmatha National Park, declared in 1976, though most people feel that the wildlife survives more due to Sherpa traditions than to the Park. That's another story I'll come back to later. Nauche affords the weary trekker every possible facility. Over 40 lodges, most of them with hot running water, warm beds, and food ranging from western to Chinese to local cuisines, dot this rapidly growing village. The markets offer everything from mountaineering guides and maps to warm clothing and local crafts. There is even Lavazza and Illy coffee if you're inclined to have a luxurious (and expensive) cappuccino! In fact I've never seen a more wellendowed trekking route; all the way from Lukla to the base camp, or to other spots in the Khumbu region, one can get such comforts. Fortunately most of this is run by local people, who thereby make a decent living; and increasingly they are also gearing up to dealing with damaging impacts like garbage, water pollution, and deforestation. There are, however, anomalies that stick out like sore thumbs, such as very high-end luxury hotels run by outsiders, a couple of which even have airstrips attached to them so that you can fly in from Japan or wherever, get a great view of the Everest range, and fly back without having to climb a step. Which brings me to the sorry tales I mentioned above. There has been a steady cultural invasion of the region for many decades. Among the earliest is the naming of the world's highest peak; British authorities in the 1860s swallowed the myth that the mountain had no existing name, and promptly christened it Mt. Everest, after George Everest, the former Surveyor-General of India. Truth is, it had at least three names at the time: the Tibetans called it Quomolangma, the Sherpas Chomolungma, and the Nepalis Sagarmatha. But this itself is minor compared to the way in which Sherpa language and culture have been swamped by mainstream and official Nepali terms and concepts. Many of the other peaks, and even the villages, have been renamed on official maps; till recently Sherpa language was not allowed to be taught in schools, whose syllabus comes from Kathmandu; decision-making for the region takes place from outside; and there has been substantial migration of non-Sherpas into the area to handle trade, business, tourism, and other affairs. The National Park itself ignored the Sherpa traditions of conservation, imposing a western concept on the area. Slowly this is changing as the Sherpas themselves assert their identity, set up centres where visitors can be taught about their culture and traditions (Nauche alone has three), insert their language into school teaching, and press for their conservation practices to become part of the National Park's management. Sunset at Chhomolongma Beyond Nauche, as we climbed to Khumjung, we got a great view of Chhomolongma and neighbouring peaks from a pass at about 3,900 mtrs. The sun was setting, and the peaks
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appeared to be on fire. In the distance, far above Khumjung, we could see a cave where Padmasambhava (the Guru Rimpoche), founder of Tibetan Buddhism, is said to have stayed. A chorten (stupa) stood sentinel at the pass, and colourful prayer flags swayed in the breeze above the path. We lingered for a long time here, understanding with all our senses why the Sherpas consider this region to be sacred.

Hills of silver
KALPANA SUNDER

February 11, 2012

Enter the ghoulish town of Kutna Hora, where stone, metal and sculptures talk of the past.KALPANA SUNDER We are on a promenade lined by Baroque statues, looking over a wooded valley. History is full of ironies. Bucolic Kutna Hora could have been as famous as Prague and even wealthier, but today it's one of the most visited sites of the Czech Republic for an entirely different reason; but more of that later. Kutna Hora's brush with wealth goes back to the time when it was a great mining town, with silver ore running in great veins in the hills surrounding it. Thanks to this town's wealth, many Bohemian kings became rich and powerful rulers. Legend has it, that the town takes its name from the cowl of a monk's dress, following the discovery of silver, by a lazy Cistercian monk who was taking a nap near the All Saints Church. More than 2,500 workers used to work in the claustrophobic mines here, shoveling out the precious metal for more than 11 hours a day. The silver groschen that was minted here, in those days, was the most powerful currency, all over Europe. More than 2,500 tons of silver were extracted, over 400 years. As the silver deposits spluttered and ran dry, the town's importance also dwindled. Kutna Hora is built over rolling hills, with cobbled streets and brightly coloured patrician homes emblazoned with friezes of miners and sculptures of knights. The finest sight in town is the tent like St. Barbara Church, which was the miner's church. It was built over a period of 500 years, out of locally quarried sandstone it was named after the patron saint of the miners. Our guide says that St. Barbara was revered by the miners, and there are countless stories about how she showed the way out, to workers stuck in a mine, or helped in opening a hard rock. The Hussite wars and the town's reserves of silver dwindling, all contributed to the church's construction slowing down. High ceilings, wooden statues and traces of its exquisite frescoes, double arched flying buttresses and mining motifs; sunlight streaming through its windows it's an impressive church. The church has one of the finest pipe organs that I have seen. The town hosts a unique Organ music festival every year, when the local churches resound with mellifluous organ music. Royal mint The Italian Court was once the home of the Royal mint, filled with the din of the hammers of the ancient coin minters, as well as the residence of the king when he came to visit the mines. Today, a swish museum has the ancient coins stashed under glass, in stone pillars, with portraits of kings who had their coins minted there on the walls. There is a coin minter who gives us our own special souvenir coin, made of aluminum! About 2,000 coins a day used to be turned out, and the noise levels made many minters deaf. In a chamber downstairs, we understand about medieval quality control there are mint masters marks painted on the
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walls they were marks that indicated quality. The Assembly Room of the Royal Palace is ornate, with paintings depicting the history of Kutna Hora. There is an interesting bench which came from the town hall. It is built in the shape of a chest with a revolving back-rest. When the councillors did not agree with the mayor, they turned the back-rest and sat with their backs to him. The show-stopper of the building is the Royal Chapel, where masters from Nuremberg created the altar and the paintings. There is a hollow wooden statue of Jesus Christ. It has a door at the back and was used to store important documents. My guide, Georgina warns me that I am going to see something very strange and unique next. Most people visit Kutna Hora, to see the macabre Bone Church or Ossuary at Sedlec. It all started when a local abbot brought back a sackful of holy soil from Golgotha, Jerusalem, where Christ was crucified. He sprinkled the soil in Sedlec, and soon, everyone wanted to be buried here. Due to the Black Plague, more than 40,000 people had to be buried here; many poor souls had to be dug up to make room for more. A half blind monk arranged the bones in pyramids, later a wood carver was appointed by the Schwarzenberg family to decorate the chapel and the rest is history. Today the ossuary draws curious visitors from around the world. We walk in to the dimly lit pint-sized chapel. Piles of skulls with femur bones in their mouths and garlands of femur greet us. The piece de resistance of the creepy dcor is a chandelier made of every bone in the human body! Floor-to ceiling mountains of human bones, coat of arms of the Schwarzenberg family, creepily creative bone Chalices and candelabras decorate the church. Even the carpenter's signature is executed in bone! We walk around in hushed silence, occasionally exclaiming at the bizarre creations. Glass cases hold broken skulls of soldiers maimed by medieval weapons like a flail or mace. I notice that even the souvenirs are small skulls and candle holders in the shape of skulls. After a morbid morning, we head for the vineyards near the St. Barbara Church, for some wine tasting. The sommelier, Kocian, explains that the first grapes that were cultivated here were brought from Burgundy, in France, and over the ages adapted to the climate and soil here. Today, this region produces some of the best wine in the Czech Republic and has won many awards. Kutna Hora sure gives you a taste of the sublime and the macabre.

Chasing a revolution
Neeti Mehra In Jordan's Wadi Rum, retrace the footsteps of Lawrence of Arabia and enjoy Bedouin hospitality.Neeti Mehra Standing on the edge of a precipice, looking ahead at a boundless, rust-coloured world, the words of TE Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia, describing the Wadi Rum came rushing back to me vast, echoing and god-like. In this timeless wilderness, soft, red dunes of sand billowed into shape, collecting around stumps of brush whose spiky branches yearned towards the sky. Stupendous canyons soared upwards, sculpted by the hand of god. Jordan's Wadi Rum, a valley in stone and dust, is a stunning landscape a maze of monolithic rockscapes carved by the relentless wind; empty spaces and fiery red sand.
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From here the Arab Revolt surged through, leading to the capture of the port city of Aqaba, with the help of Lawrence, a British Officer. Many years later, the Oscar-winning biopic was filmed partly on this soil. Glittering like a russet mirage in the summer sun, it's no wonder that Wadi Rum scrabbled into UNESCO's World Heritage List for its natural beauty and cultural significance earlier this year. A Bedouin's life Driving down for a couple of hours from Jordan's capital Amman, I arrived at the perimeter of Wadi Rum. Helping me retrace the footsteps of Lawrence of Arabia in the Valley of the Moon, as it is known as, was Atallah, a Bedouin from the Zawaideh Tribe, a Jordanian tribe that settled here centuries ago. During the war against the Ottoman Turks, his forefathers had fought alongside Lawrence. Atallah, a lanky young lad in braces and a fuzzy upper lip, barely 18, stood dwarfed by the Mitsubishi family jeep, barely inspiring confidence in my touristy heart. Clad in a traditional robe or Dish-dash, a bright orange baseball cap replacing the traditional kouffieh, he revved the jeep through Wadi Rum's unforgiving terrain. Churning up dust devils, we lurched through loose sand that enveloped us in a dun-coloured haze. Covering a swathe of nearly 74,000 hectares of land right next to Saudi Arabia, one wondered why Prince Faisal Bin Hussein and T.E. Lawrence based their headquarters in this seemingly desolate region during the Arab Revolt. And why was this young, strapping British lad fighting a war in the belly of the desert? British interests needed to be protected, said Ibrahim, the guide. Namely, the preservation of their trade routes to India, while keeping the Ottoman Turks gainfully occupied in war in this region, and thus, away from the World War I, a ruse that worked successfully. From Wadi Rum, Lawrence, with the Arabs, captured the Mameluke Fort in Aqaba, booting the Turks out of the port city. With its sleek boats bobbing on the Red Sea and its hotels, Aqaba, next on our stop, hardly seemed to have been caught in the whorl of the revolution. A proud flag, testament to this event, fluttered gamely in the breeze. Atallah, meanwhile, steered the truck to a small tented desert camp belonging to his tribe. Carved on a rock face was an image of Lawrence staring back at us. Enjoying Bedouin hospitality, as he had, we sipped on cups of bitter coffee prepared on a mud stove, listening to tales of the film and the tribe's nomadic life in the desert, where no one called any definite place home. Sunset on the horizon Driving on, we passed rocky mountainous outcrops of sandstone and granite. Each was distinct, as if a giant chisel had carved them. For miles, the only signs of life were a handful of snoozing wild asses and grazing camels. Sometimes, a tourist vehicle would emerge and disappear in a trail of red dust. Approaching a steep rock shelf, Atallah slowed down the jeep. On the rock walls were Petroglyphs, rock engravings etched centuries ago. Wadi Rum has a staggering combination of 25,000 rock carvings and 20,000 inscriptions, a vocabulary of human evolution in its gorges. The curious drawings high up on the rock surface described a time when more camels roamed the region than men, Ibrahim joked.

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As the sun began to set, we climbed onto a rocky plateau, joined by other tourists pouring out of jeeps, phantasms gliding over sand. We watched the sky melt into hues of crimson, with stars taking over the night canvas, as Lawrence had many moons ago in this ancient land. Our last stop was Captain's Desert Camp, whose billowing tents made from warm goat's hair were home to a nocturnal feast. In the Al-Zarb, an oven one meter deep in the ground, brick coated, vegetables and lamb had been slow roasting for hours. We gorged on delicately spiced meat, scooping it up in lumpen pieces of shrak freshly baked whole wheat bread, still warm from the hearth, a meal fit for royalty. By the time we got ready to leave, the desert wind had spiralled into a crescendo. Stepping on a dirt track that would lead us outside Wadi Rum for Aqaba, a sudden gust mussed the tyre tracks and camels hoof prints. Many years ago Lawrence had tread on this very pathway a trail that changed the course of history.

Splendour in the wilderness

KALPANA SUNDER

July 16, 2011

Nature, beauty and luxury make for an incredibly heady combination at Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise, Canada. It was a cold wet day in 1882 with the sound of avalanches in the air. Tom Wilson, a horse packer for the Canadian Pacific Railway, was shown a hanging valley and a glassy lake called the Lake of the little fishes' by some Stoney Indians. He later wrote, As God is my judge, I never in all my explorations saw such a matchless scene. He called it Emerald Lake because of its unearthly green colour, which was later changed to Lake Louise after the fourth daughter of Queen Victoria. More than a century later, it's still the awe-inspiring setting that makes the place so special. From my windows I see the surreal view of the milky jade lake frozen in parts, framed by the Victoria glacier and the serrated peaks covered with spruce forests. It's the sort of view that sends a shiver down your spine and launches a thousand postcards. The unique colour of the lake is due to the presence of rock flour, the material that is formed when a glacier grinds the rocks; it remains suspended in the water and scatters the sunlight to an impossibly wondrous colour. I am at the blue roofed and turreted luxurious Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise, situated in the centre of the Banff National Park in Canada. Simple beginnings The hotel had its beginnings as a simple one-storey log cabin, built by the Canadian Pacific Railway, to lure moneyed travellers to visit the Wild West. Fire destroyed this structure twice. It was re-built, rooms being added successively. Today it has 548 rooms in three wings. My room has feather duvets, pine furniture, heritage photographs of local pioneers and botany sketches and a luxurious nightly turndown service. As we walk through the hotel we
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notice towering columns, tapestries with an Italian Renaissance influence and wood accents. The ornate chandeliers in the main lobby pay tribute to the wives of Swiss guides who would stand with lanterns at the windows to light the way home for returning mountaineers! We take a historical tour of the hotel with Jeff Douglas, a Mountain Heritage guide who intersperses the tour with humorous titbits and stories and shows us old photographs from his bag like a magician drawing a rabbit out of his hat. There is the Painter's wing built in 1913 - an engineering marvel of its day - which is the oldest surviving structure in this hotel and now the Victoria Ballroom. It has hand painted murals on arches, large windows, and a wood beam ceiling. Jeff talks about Canada's success in preserving its mountains and eco-systems compared to countries like Switzerland. In the early 1900s Lake Louise attracted Swiss guides and mountaineers who influenced the architecture, food and ambience of the hotel. The hotel seems to be a successful combination of old world rustic charm and European opulence. It has attracted celebrities from Queen Elizabeth and Cary Grant to Alfred Hitchcock and is a popular venue for weddings. Jeff even claims to have had big fat Indian weddings here! What the hotel is also known for, other than its opulence and wondrous views, are its environmental-friendly programmes. Awarded five green keys by the Hotel Association of Canada, it purchases green power for about 40 per cent of its electricity needs, recycles kitchen oils, even converts leftover toilet soaps into laundry detergents. The hotel is also dogfriendly and even has a resident lab retriever dog; the hotel's mascot! New wing Jeff takes us to the newly built Mount Temple Wing, which has cathedral-like spaces and modernistic interiors. The highlight is the five large arched windows with hand-made stained glass that showcase not divine beings but the key wildlife of Lake Louise: the eagle, bear, Mountain goat, fish and wolf. Jeff enthrals us with his knowledge of wildlife ranging from the talons of the golden eagle that he calls an incredible predator to the diminished population of black bears, which were hunted until 2010! The Chateau was only a summer resort until the early 1980s when it became an all season resort. In the summer you can hike up the 4.4 mile trail to Lake Agnes and the tea-house on the way. The frigid temperatures of the lake make swimming impossible but you can rent a canoe and paddle. In the winter, activities range from snow shoeing and skiing to ice hockey on the lake and dog sledding. In January, the hotel is the venue of an Ice Magic Festival with professional ice carvers, who use chainsaws to create ornate ice sculptures, which are judged; the best part is that the exhibits remain on show till warm weather melts them. Each public room in the Chateau is different: the Lakeview Lounge is a great place to sip on some sweet ice-wine and catch the glorious views through the tall arched windows. Warm candlelight and wooden walls make the evenings incredibly romantic as we soak in the views of the lake and mountains in the falling light. Breakfasts at the Poppy Brasserie are fortifying with a wide range of local breads, fruits, waffles, pancakes and cereal. The emphasis is on local produce, be it Alberta beef, or wines and fruits from Okanagan. If its retail therapy that you crave for, there are more than 20 shops
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selling everything ranging from Native American art , ammonite jewellery to wood and antler carvings and vintage postcards. We take a chairlift gondola from the Lodge of the 10 peaks to the Mount White Horn panoramic viewpoint with a Wildlife Interpretation Centre. This is grizzly country and we hear that the last sighting was just five days ago, close to where we are standing today. Much later, a picture of Lake Louise becomes my screen saver: nature, beauty and luxury make an incredibly heady combination! The author is a Japanese language specialist and travel writer based in Chennai. Quick facts How to get there: Fly to Calgary and drive to Lake Louise from there. What to do: Visit the Columbia ice fields, take a gondola ride to Mount Whitehorn, and visit Banff town. You can hike or canoe in the summer and ski, snowboard and play hockey in the winter. Stay: The Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise has rooms with Alpine dcor and high speed internet. For more details visit http://www.fairmont.com/lakelouise

In the city of steals

SATHYA SARAN Shopping in Venice is not for the faint of heart. Venice; city of sighs. Sigh is exactly what I did in just short of an hour of walking the streets, taking in the Piazza San Marco and the Guggenheim Museum. Wearing heels, however stylish they may be, is not a good idea when hopping in and out of a ferry, and I was also finding out that the cobbled streets of Venice held an almost pathological aversion to heeled footwear. Ideal browsing So, despite my careful planning of how to apportion my Euros, the first shopping stop in this picture postcard city was a shoe shop. Well, the shoe shop was in Italy after all where leather is dressed to its best. The shop I entered (Mori e Bozzi, on Cannaregio 2367) displayed beautifully crafted shoes and sandals that would grace any pair of feet wonderfully but I had comfort top of mind and pushed aside the devil who whispered temptation. Finally, I emerged unscathed and wended my way further down to, you will never guess, BATA, where I found a pair of dependable Dr. Scholl's that made my tired feet actually smile. I had some other shopping calls to make before I started on shoes, but I did mark out a very fine pair of Made in Italy' leather shoes for my husband. Incidentally, since I cannot but look at shoes, I did stop at a store recommended as ideal browsing. It was a treasure chest of ideas for stories of droll creatures: shoes with curved

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toes, and in all colours of the rainbow! The Rolando Segalin shoe store in San Marco 4365 is justly famous. Incidentally though shoes - like everything else in Venice - cost more than anywhere else in Italy, much of what is in stores in the smaller shops at least is manufactured in the factories close by. City of sighs indeed. I sighed as I went past the Rialto, the bridge creaking I thought under the weight of the shops on either side. The leather was as beautifully finished as silk; the merchants as tough as steel. Tourist trap though it is, the Rialto is a memory worth stashing away and mine came in the form of a leather crossover bag; its hide a soft tawny brown that gleamed in the sun. I paid an astronomical 60 for it, considering it was off the street, but there was no other way. The 40 I invested in a strand of spiky corals at the other end of the bridge ended the story of that 100 note. The only consolation is that the sneaking suspicion that I had paid for plastic proved wrong. Imitations do abound; after all Venice lives off tourists. A day trip to Murano had me sighing for the beautiful glass creations in such vivid colours as I had never seen before. But the prohibitive prices in the fascinating Murano Art Shop at San Marco 1232, plus the reality of having to carry the piece back if I were rash enough to invest in one, stilled my urge. I pandered to it instead by doing the done thing: buying off the smaller shops, a Murano watch for my mother, a purple dial with matching strap (25), and a necklace for a friend (15). A few key chains were also possible, but somehow I was not sure they were for real... crafty salesmen mix the real with the plastic and hope to make an easy buck. Venice has enough bookshops to fill libraries with beautiful hardbound books and illustrated coffee table volumes. But I steered clear, staring at the productions through the safe distance of glass windows. I had lace on my mind, lighter to carry, and much heavier on the pocket. Imitations, as I said before are a real hazard. Lace is a prime target. Fairytale lace A visit to Burano - the beautiful lost-in-time village where making lace was till recently almost a multi-generation occupation in every household - captured my imagination. The yarn, the act of spinning it, working with it to create the stuff gowns in fairy tales are embellished with...I just had to have something made of lace. Ah the romance of it! But telling the real from the ones imported from Hong Kong, (I was suitably warned beforehand!) was a proposition indeed. Almost every other shop window had lace blouses and shirts displayed at the window. Finally, hoping to be lucky, I managed to find one at the Piazza San Marco with a serious reputation for expensive genuine lace and, after sifting through enough choices to befuddle the mind, bought a white blouse with a lace front (250). Our own chikankari blouses, if exquisitely created, do give a similar effect, but Venetian lace is in a class of its own and worth every cent of your money. I did buy the shoes for my husband (90) and felt less guilty about my blouse. He quite liked and they give him much comfort, he says.
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And the happy end to this story is the fact that, on a second visit while my friend and I sailed past on the ferry, I noticed a flea market in full session. We jumped off, of course, and I combed the goods on the sidewalk to find.... a beautiful red Durano drinking goblet with four lion's claws to support it. The only survivor from a set of six. I bought it for 8. It sits in my book shelf, catching the light. I have not had the guts to drink from it.

Reviving regal glory

GUSTASP JEROO IRANI Once dubbed an environmental disaster, the iconic Jal Mahal today attracts tourists with its extraordinary beauty. It was rumoured that the former pleasure palace was haunted; that, as dusk descended on the glittering city of Jaipur, ghosts would frolic and flit in the Jal Mahal. In truth, the edifice that once floated on the mirror-still Man Sagar Lake had become a forlorn bedraggled reminder of its once-regal past; the infamous watering hole of drunks who were oblivious to the stench that rose from the swamp in which it was mired. Fast forward to the present. The floodlit 18th century water palace now rises from the midst of a blue lake and is bathed in an amber glow as dusk mantles the city and the call of roosting birds waft on the fragrant night air. A ride back As our carved wooden barge drifted away from the palace jetty, we felt the pull of a magical past and imagined that we heard the sound of flirtatious laughter, the tinkle of ghunghroos, the flourish of trumpets and the rustle of silks emanating from the sun-warmed edifice. And was that the maharaja seated on a gold throne as though sculpted into it? The illusion was complete... thanks to the Jal Tarang project, a 100-acre mixed-use tourism infrastructure project by Jal Mahal Resorts Pvt Ltd that brought the resources of the Rajasthan Government and the private sector together in a unique partnership. Jal Mahal Resorts spent Rs. 20 crore and the Government another Rs. 24 crore on bringing the lake, dubbed an environmental disaster, to life; cleaning and dredging two million tons of toxic waste and oxygenating it. The city's sewage still flows into the lake but it is treated by an ecofriendly system, as is the rain water that once carried in its wake 300 tons of plastic a year! Today fish leap in the limpid waters, birds nest on nesting islands and a flock of flamingos recently flew over the water body. It was no ordinary face-lift, we realised, as project director Rajeev Lunkad related his extraordinary journey of transformation, peppered with highs and lows even as the iconic Jal Mahal glowed in the distance like some exotic extraterrestrial galleon that had strayed into the lake. An architect with a passionate interest in cultural history, Rajeev plunged in at the deep end in 2005 when an agreement was signed granting Jal Mahal Resorts a lease to develop 100 acres along Mansagar Lake and restore the historic edifice.

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The government-private initiative happened because Jal Mahal is an unlisted monument, which the powers that be deemed had no real historical value and was ruined beyond redemption. (If the country has say, 10 listed monuments, it has 10,000 unlisted ones, said Rajeev, and there is tremendous opportunity for the private sector to contribute to conservation in the vast spectrum of unlisted monuments.) Rajeev and his development team recruited experts from around the world and harnessed the skills of local craftsmen and masons like Bajrang Lal Kumavat, who has been associated with the restoration of Samode Palace and the famous Patwon ki Haveli in Jaisalmer among other vintage monuments. His walnut-brown face glowed with the purity of one who lives in the past tense. I can build the Hawa Mahal today, said the unlettered mason-cum-restorer with quiet pride. It would be a remarkable feat for Kumavat has studied neither architecture nor engineering in a formal sense but has the expertise because he was born into a family of masons. Equally unassuming was Mohan Lal Soni from Shekhawati, an artist who has worked on miniature paintings all his life and has painted the frescoes on the roof of one of the pavilions of the Jal Mahal's terrace garden. What bound all of them from art and architecture historians, architects, conservationists, specialist in lighting design, environmental engineers, master craftsmen and humble stone masons and artists was an overriding passion for a pioneering project that would breathe life into a wasteland and restore an iconic monument to glory. But ultimately much work still has to be done in terms of bringing Jal Tarang, a green leisure destination, from the drawing board to vibrant life. An amphitheatre, a craft market with handicrafts from all over India, boutiques and art galleries, cultural performances and lakeshore dining along a tree-lined promenade have been envisaged. Two high-end resorts are also planned so that tourists staying at these hotels will plunge into the colour and buzz of the Rajasthani metro as soon as they step out of their luxe sanctuaries. At the heart of the experience will remain that jewel of a palace, Jal Mahal, built around 1734 by Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II (1688-1743). Here the sounds of duck hunting parties, firework displays and elaborate music and dance festivals used to reverberate across the marble monument that throbbed with life. In its heyday, the palace was strewn with silk pillows and glowing carpets, the courtyard and corridors were shaded with rich awnings. Today the hallways, corridors and archways have been decorated with paintings in the miniature style (digitally blown up to cover entire walls) while frescoes adorn two of the pavilions in the romantic terrace garden atop the monument. We moved through the five themed galleries including a 34-ft long painted mural of the Jal Mahal and its surrounds shrouded in the dark mystery of the monsoons... The Scented Chamber where visitors experience the traditional fragrances of Rajasthan; other themes centred around water, Rajasthani festivals and, finally, the Gardens of Pleasure give you a glimpse of what awaits you on the rooftop terrace. Called Chameli Bagh and inspired by the courtly gardens of the past, the white marble rooftop garden is fragrant with frangipani and jasmine and bordered by chhatris and elegant tibaris or pavilions, which showcase the best of Jaipur's traditional decorative arts... all were created by master artisans who have been working on them for over a year.
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As we stood looking out of the terrace garden, all our senses were engaged by the sights and sounds that enveloped us: the view of the muscled Aravallis that rimmed the entire canvas, the lake that resembled shards of glass, the magnificent battlements of Amber Fort snaking up the hill, a minaret tipped with light that stabbed the night sky... Finally, we were riveted by the Jal Mahal, a maharaja's fantasy, with moonlight dappling the ancient stone. Such is the power of royalty that this, their ultimate playground, enchants and plays forever on the imagination.

Journeys of discovery
Indians are travelling like never before. From silver-haired adventure tourists to young techies with deep pockets, they are willing to spend for that ideal holiday experience. Tourism in India is ready for prime time and can do without bungling interference from the Government, say Hugh and Colleen Gantzer.
The prolonged stresses of globalised living have created Wellness Tourism... Visitors don't want to merely see far away places with strange sounding names'. They also want to experience ethnic lifestyles' in those places.

Tourism is impelled by a compulsive genetic drive.

The urge to see what lies on the other side of the mountain has forced us to clamber out of the African Rift Valley and colonise every corner of the earth. In these obsessive migrations, we changed, adapting to hostile new environments. We evolved, through a process called physioplasticity, into the varied races of Homo sapiens. This basic human impulse, to abandon established comfort zones and court new challenges, accounts for virtually every change in the evolution of human societies. When the Biblical First Parents risked exile from the sybaritic Garden of Eden, by biting the Apple of Knowledge, they propelled mankind into its endless quest for new experiences. Every new footprint in virgin terrain was, one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind. The couples we saw, buckling on their life jackets on the banks of the foaming Kali River in Karnataka, were the spiritual clones of Neil Armstrong. They identified themselves as the Dates, Pathaks and Bapats, and they were very enthusiastic.

Who is scared?
Are you scared? we asked. Why should we be scared? They replied, raising their voices above the roar of the angry river. They are not scared. They pointed to another group of eager river-runners. They' were in their late teens, early twenties. We' were silver-haired travellers from Pune. When these zestful Senior Citizens staggered out of their buffeting, bouncing, spinning, drenching rafting ride, they told us that they do Something new, something adventurous' every six months. Such silver-haired adventure tourists evolved out of the disintegrating joint families. They were compelled to seek companionship outside familial bonds. This, in turn, gave them the freedom to accept challenges that they would have been reluctant to face, fearing criticism from conservatives in their family circle.
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Brief respites from the compulsions of the urban rat-race drive the The Week-enders. These are the 9-to-9, career-driven, DINKS: Double Income No Kids, products of 21st-century India. They would not have evolved if we had been stuck in the old Ambassador-FiatStandard days, before the government splurged on the Golden Quadrilateral, before Sam Pitroda liberated the telephone network, before the socialist pattern of society' shed its politico-bureaucratic fetters. But The Week-enders are still a mercurial segment. As one of them said, after returning to Mumbai from Daman: The week-end destination has to be both accessible and affordable. It depends on how long we want to drive, and how much we want to spend at that time. It's unpredictable, impulsive! Nevertheless, it does result in the creation of new fad places which could, in time, grow into full fledged destinations in their own right.

Coping with stress

The prolonged stresses of globalised living have created Wellness Tourism. It attracts those people whose diurnal cycles are continually out of sync with their clients in varying time zones. In the Indus Valley, a Wellness Centre out of Mysore, we met two PR women who worked in a multinational in Seattle. They suffered from the same disorienting problems that often afflict compulsive multi-taskers. In a single day, Rochelle and Paulina might have to pacify irate customers in Australia, India, Saudi Arabia, the UK and Spain. All five clients were generally at various crests and peaks of their daily environment and expected the PR handlers' moods to match their own. After hearing their problems we coined the term SET Lag: Shifting Environmental Time Lag. They needed Wellness Tourism to re-establish the equilibrium of their lives. They gladly paid substantial fees to eat less, eat better, exercise, be counselled, sleep more, meditate, and be subjected to a regimen of massages, purging and sweating. We met them at the virtual end of their treatment and they said that they felt Destressed, de-toxified and more centred. We have heard the terms de-stressed and detoxified', from customers in the three other wellness spas we have researched. They had reset their biological clocks and decided to be more focused in future. Changing attitudes and altered motivations have affected Pilgrim Tourism. Till fairly recently, pilgrims prepared themselves for the rugged Char Dham Yatra in our Himalayas by performing their last rites: they did not expect to return. In 1999, we saw a man dying on a pilgrimage to Kedarnath. His family had left him on a make-shift stretcher in a wayside dhaba, gasping for air, while they trudged on to the shrine. When they, and we, returned, he was dead. We spoke to the family. They were solemn but not distraught with grief. One of them said You see, he had already made his peace with the Almighty and he told us to go on saying that he would complete the pilgrimage without his body. It was a very holy way to die!

Changing mind-set
This mind-set is changing. Those who can afford it, do much of the trip by helicopter, others merely circle round the shrine and drop flowers on it. More and more of the younger generation shun hardship on such a pilgrimage. They demand better hotels en route, and they also want to explore interesting places off the pilgrim trail. In other words, they'll go on a pilgrimage only if the add-ons are attractive. Given the vast numbers of pilgrims thronging our shrines, the potential of this expanding market is phenomenal, and still largely untapped.

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In our travels, fairly recently, we have met the rapidly growing segment of up-market travellers who, because of frequent business trips to other states in India, and abroad, have discovered the excitement of experimenting with unusual foods and wines. Dietary restrictions, once very strictly observed, are being thrown to the winds with the argument, Those were, essentially, ancient hygienic and conservation-oriented prohibitions. They have very limited relevance today. One must be realistic! This was the justification given by an MIT man who is a strict vegetarian at home but omnivorous outside. There has also been a reverse trend. Thanks, possibly, to the need to attract high-spending vegetarian tourists, we were served a delicious Beet Steak in Lapland Hotel's Riekonlinna in Finland's Saariselka. The increasing number of frequent travellers of both sexes has also led to the growth of specialist restaurants, gourmet tours, and the increasing popularity of wine. Women claim that wine is more socially acceptable than traditional spirits. While Karnataka has imposed a knee-jerk ban on western dancing' that was the term used by a former disco employee the state government cannily promoted a wine tasting festival, courting the expanding constituency of vineyard owners! Experiential encounters define most of the latest tourism trends. Visitors don't want to merely see far away places with strange sounding names'. They also want to experience ethnic lifestyles' in those places. This has led the Ministry of Tourism to launch its Rural Tourism Scheme. In principle, the idea was excellent. The MoT wanted to expose tourists to the mores, food, handicrafts and festivals of our villages. But when the Ministry entrusted it all to the UNDP it became a matter of the blind leading the blind. The UNDP asked us to visit three of their projects. One in Gujarat's Hodka was a great success because the local people had internalised the essence of the idea and had begun to replicate it. The other two, in MP and Karnataka, floundered because the civic authorities had neither the know-how nor the creativity to guide the village organisations. Though officers of the IAS dominate Indian Tourism, they have, at best, an amateur's knowledge of it and, generally, bumble their way through. In both Pranpur and Banvasi the village tourism committee said, You are the first people to have given us pragmatic advice. No one had told us what tourists are looking for. The extent of this largely wasted investment can be judged from the fact that an estimated 158 rural tourism facilities have been set up in 28 states.

Poor implementation
Another half-baked idea served up by the Ministry is Caravan Tourism. We don't have the caravan parks to handle the discharge of effluent from the caravans, the facilities for the topping up of water and fuel in caravan tanks, or the plug-in electrical connections and the other essential parking service requirements. Besides, there is a major security concern. Once, when we were parked on the National Highway between Delhi and Dehradun, having a snack lunch, a UP police jeep drew up and the armed patrol advised us to stop near habitation, only: There are goondason this road, they cautioned. Foreigners driving on our badly signposted and maintained rural roads are likely to fall easy prey to such predators. Besides, caravans can carry a large amount of concealed material: arms, ammunition, drugs, subversive and surveillance equipment. Foreigners staying in hotels are required to register their presence with the local authorities. Where do the foreigners, in a caravan parked on a truly rural road, register? The David Headleys of this world would be delighted with such freedom to survey and sabotage! Then there is the issue of home stays. The concept of home stays was largely the result of a knee-jerk reaction when the Ministry suddenly realised that it was likely to run woefully short
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of accommodation for visitors. Because of the hurried launching of this scheme, adequate monitoring systems were not established. The essential character of a home stay, that guests must dine with the family in residence, is not being enforced. And so, the so-called home stays could easily deteriorate into disreputable room-by-the-hour establishments if they are left in the hands of ill-trained, low-paid, employees. They are not covered even by the, often lax, procedures governing hotels. Having said that, however, we must admit that many home stays have set their own high standards. We have experienced excellent home stays in Kerala, Goa and Karnataka. Tranquil, in Kerala's Wayanad, has earned accolades from such prestigious international evaluators as The Tattler Field Guide for 2010, The Guardian and The Sunday Telegraph. Most significantly, it has done so without relying on government patronage.

Future direction
This, essentially, is the core of the problem of Indian Tourism in our 21st century. Tourism has come a long way since those days when crossing the kala pani resulted in social ostracism. Immediately after Independence, Tourism had to be nurtured by the State. Today, however, it has developed its own muscle and does not need the interference of ill-equipped, and often reluctant, bureaucrats like those who have mishandled Rural Tourism and Caravan Tourism. Tourism is, at long last, ready to embark upon the independent road blazed by the Information Technology sector. And it is still being powered by the compulsive Tourism Gene!

New markets
A new tourism segment, evolving out of generational conflicts within families, is the Women Only Market. In Karnatakas Elephant Camp in Dubare, a group of housewives from Bangalore drove in, settled themselves around a campfire, and let their hair down. They even applauded a late arrival who appeared in a top and jeans chosen by her liberal husband. But, they told us, She wouldnt have dared to wear such modern clothes at home because her mother-in-law is very conservative. We meet once a month in places where we are certain that no one else will intrude. Presumably the Mrs. Grundys of their milieu were unlikely to visit the Elephant Camp! Now, more and more travel companies are tailoring tours, both in India and abroad, for such Ladies-only groups. Generally, the emphasis is on shopping, food and fun with a little bit of culture thrown in for good measure.

Himalayan hideaway
GUNVANTHI BALARAM

Magnificent views, wonderful food, cosy rooms... a stay at Hotel Eagle's Nest is truly la dolce vita. A whinny! From my big warm bed in the Hotel Eagle's Nest in the mountains above McLeod Ganj, I look out of the large glass windows and, yes, it is horses that I see amid the deodars;
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four sun-browned Paharis chewing on the forest grass with Zen mindfulness. Not a bad wakeup call, neigh? Chandra, the owners Bo and Sheila's golden pony, is not part of the quad; she's not an early riser, just an easy rider: she brings guests up to this lofty perch via the lush cedar, rhododendron and oak woods from the just-about-motorable road below in 15 minutes. Out on the terrace of the Deodar Room', I sip on steaming-hot mint tea sent up by the young chef, Vikki, and watch the play of the snowy Dhauladhar peaks trying to hide behind the swirling grey clouds. We've had a grand thunderstorm during the night and there's promise of an encore. Unusual for mid-April, but no dampener; the rain in no way detracts from the beauty of the mountain wilderness. Let's walk There's time for a walk before breakfast. Yesterday, I'd lingered at the point' in the garden, gazing at the panoramic vista extending from the mountains over Dharamsala marked by the wavy white roof of the Dalai Lama's temple down to the Kangra Valley far below. Now, the scenery calling out to be explored; I set off on the trail leading from the 50-acre hotel estate to the village of Naddi. The forest floor is a squelch, but the purple wildflowers fringing the rocky footpath are bouncy, and the deep green of the trees is set off by the red of the rain-punctured rhododendron. Nisha and Sapna are walking up from Naddi to their job at the Nest. They greet me with Gaddi grace. Later, three langurs come and go before one can say Om Mani Padme Hum. The birds are less shy. Minivets share the airspace with chestnut thrushes and blue robins; creatures I recognise only because I've been studying the Birds of Kangra by Jan Willem den Besten. There are no eagles, name notwithstanding. Optimistically, I look around for pug marks (there are leopards around here, one took Chandra's foal a year ago; black bears too, one once encountered Bo and preferred to turn away): None. Back at the hotel, I gravitate towards the kitchen. Vikki and Co are chatting away in Gaddi bhasha and preparing porridge, pancakes and parathas. I ask for, and watch a pancake being made: there's none of the ritual formality that marks top-end hotels here, just homely warmth; the signature tune of the hosts, Bo O'Hara and Sheila Sedgwick. The silver-haired Bo doles out dry wit and cold beer. The elegant Sheila is decidedly less boisterous but equally friendly. He flits about changing the music, preparing the pudding (caramelised pineapple-n-cream today), entertaining the kids just now he's teaching young Rosina to play the harmonica, having dipped it into beer and then in water to make the music flow and ensuring that everyone's well-hydrated. She's in and out of the office, checking e-mails, arranging tickets, telling guests about the best walks and temple trails, and thangkas. A decade ago, the two of them chucked in their jobs in the music industry in London, where Bo ran a night club and Sheila worked as head of press for MCA and RCA (she won PR of the Year in 1984 for launching the Eurhythmics) to take up the challenge of turning this erstwhile Presbyterian mission station into an exclusive hotel. They had been coming to these mountains for 20 years before that and had numerous friends here, including the late painter Alfred Hallet. For Sheila, it was a form of homecoming: her grandfather Thomasan Sedgwick
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had been professor of engineering at Rourkee at the turn of the century, and her father was born in Rawalpindi in 1913. Home grown food It took some doing, but they created a Nest so cosy that the Frommer's Guide, the U.S., calls it our favourite hideaway in Himachal. Set in an unprepossessing stone-and-timber structure, it's got just seven rooms and suites set on two levels around a book-lined diningroom. Each has a fireplace, and a theme. Themes can easily descend into kitsch, but they don't here because the art's not ersatz, as Sheila points out, but fashioned by local talent. The Tibetan Suite, for instance, has been decorated by artists from the Norbulingka Institute in the valley. The Hallet Room has paintings by Hallet, who lived and died in this neck of the woods. Everything's home-grown. The Staff hails from Naddi and Dharamkot. The drinking water comes from the local spring. The heating is drawn from the Himalayan sun. The fruit and vegetables and cheese are from Kangra Valley. The cuisine's glocal' (global recipes, local ingredients), all vegetarian though the cook will, on request, rustle up chicken (pinched no doubt from the neighbour's farm). The idea, says Bo,is for the money to flow from the mountain-top to the valley. Only the beer and wine come from further a-field and, naturally, the guests (60:40, Indian: foreign). All of them have a robust desire for tranquillity and the sturdy ability to pay for it: this spectacular seclusion costs Rs 8,000 a night for a double. They include corporate achievers, writers, international musicians celebrities whose names Bo will not reveal newly weds, Nirvana-seekers, amateur trekkers and professional spies (yes, the Nest recently had two, and female to boot). I meet a spy myself: five-year-old George, who wants to see who's hiding in my cupboard. The other guests have less simple preoccupations: the Californian lady's into Gurdjieff dancing meditation; the German couple into Osho retreats; the honeymooning Jaipur pair's busy investigating whether love's more than skin-deep, and George's English Mum and sparkly sis Rosina are into discovering India. Hot coffee comes around. La dolce vita! The Germans are setting off on another trek (the staff include trained trekking guides who escort guests on both one-day excursions and threeday camping trips). The English trio has finished eating and started doing a jigsaw. The Californian dancer, who's not swept off her feet by the rain, is packing. The Jaipuris are smooching around on the back terrace, and I am watching the storm clouds embracing the mountains instead. Where it is Hotel Eagle's Nest; Upper Dharamkot, Mcleodganj, Dharamsala, Himachal Pradesh 176219. Phone: +9192184 02822; 1892 221910; 1892 221920; 1892 220794. Email: info@hoteleaglesnest.com Website: www.hoteleaglesnest.com

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Going the Windflower way

Akber Ayub

August 20, 2011

Secluded within a sprawling coffee plantation in Coorg, The Windflower Resort and Spa is just the place to chill. It was a palette of light and shadow... an arcadia of winding tracks amid luxuriant coffee bushes, lofty Silver Oaks swaddled in pepper vines, orange trees, and jackfruits and the occasional mango. With no man-made intrusions, the wooded estate joyously proclaimed the glory of nature, under a cloudless sky. Crickets kept up an unending chirp, while birds of different feathers tweeted and warbled and yodelled, proclaiming that they are the masters of this domain. Drenched in overnight showers, foliage glowed a brilliant green, while grass edging the twin tracks on the path glistened with fresh moisture and leafy branches swayed lazily in the cool morning air. The intermittent splattering of dung on the twisting trail could've come from horses, deer, or even elephants that occasionally roamed the estate. I was in The Windflower Resort & Spa in Coorg. Just a two-hour drive from Mysore along a smooth and winding highway, this secluded retreat ensconced within a sprawling 25-acre coffee plantation and perched over 5,000 feet above sea level promises contemporary luxuries, gourmet food, wellness therapies and interesting adventure and leisure options. Accommodation comes in three categories: studio, suite, and villas. The studios promise contemporary comforts without really indulging the guests. The suites are better located though along a winding paved path bounded by landscaped gardens. And the interiors are designed to indulge. Pull back the curtains on the wide French Windows in the living room and the distant hills beckon you; step on to the deck outside, relax on rattan chairs and take in the verdant misty slopes. While parquet flooring, plush seating, and warm lights make the living room cosy, the bedroom is large and spacious, with recliners and other pieces of furniture adding comfort and utility and large windows letting you savour the outdoors, while you lie snug in the king-sized bed. The bathrooms are a delight too: trendy fittings, a Jacuzzi, glass enclosed shower niche and an open-air shower in a cosy little pebble strewn. Toiletries are generous and classy too. But the villas go up another notch in terms of comfort and space. Bedroom and living are roomier with added accessories and so is the bath, but it's the wooden deck outside the living area that takes the cake. Ample privacy Surrounded by clipped hedges that provide ample privacy, a capacious Jacuzzi that can accommodate four adults with room to spare, sits on a patch of grass. Lounging chairs on the deck surrounding the Jacuzzi invite you to bask in comfort and may be catch up on your reading. With such attention to creature comforts, food cannot be any less pretentious. The yet-to-benamed restaurant is wide and spacious and sits on a lower deck below the huge reception portal, overlooking the infinity swimming pool. Rattan chairs and glass topped tables, rows of lights under cane and cloth shades hanging from the high ceiling, a patch of green with a tree growing right through the ceiling, decorative light fixtures and an entire side open to the

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green outdoors make for an ideal setting to savour the gourmet fare. A-la-carte or buffet is based on occupancy but both offer Indian, Asian, continental and the local Kodava cuisine. The Emerge Spa here is a welcome feature, housed inside a separate block not far from the meandering line of suites and villas. The entrance foyer is a study in peace and elegance. The muted shades of the walls, the soft-toned flooring, pieces of art hanging strategically from the walls, the minimalist but classy furniture, all contribute to the understated but tranquil ambience. Adding to the tranquillity, a peaceful visage of Buddha on a large granite bust sits inside a rectangular pool under a patch of sky. The lower floors house the massage rooms for traditional ayurvedic massages and other procedures, while the upper floors has rooms for Balinese massage and other wellness treatments. Steam, sauna and chilled showers add to the experience. While a well-equipped gym caters to the fitness freaks, yoga and meditation classes every evening purvey the mind and body. The swimming pool here boasts an interesting setting. Surrounded by lush greenery and lofty old trees, the contoured pool is capacious and inviting. While the pool deck is strewn with lounging chairs and sun shades, a large water body nearby provides an ideal waddling pool to a dozen or so geese that go about their business unmindful of the swimmers nearby. At the break of dawn, guests looking for peace and tranquillity could be seen taking up vantage points around the waterfront for meditation. Elephant watch Outdoor activities include plantation walk, early morning nature walk, horse rides within the estate, treks and river rafting at the nearby Dubare Elephant camp, and if the guest prefers, a dinner at a traditional Coorg home for groups of 8 to 10. A trip to Madikeri town just 15 km away and called the Scotland of India offers vistas of misty hills in winter, lush forests, acres of tea and coffee plantations and orange groves. En route, the Abbi Falls is a popular tourist attraction especially post monsoon.

In fortified Obidos
Janardhan Roye This historical hill-town by the Lisbon coast offers sunshine on sandy beaches, mountain air and intriguing wine, with a host of activities for the holiday lover. Little town of Obidos on the Silver Coast Geraniums hang in cluster over the balconies, their fuzzy red paws intent on climbing down, as this century's only Obidos invasion. Queen Leonor owned this town

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and her forgotten whispers pry open our dreams. As I lie in your arms I hear the irregular clip-clop of footsteps on the cobbled street. Two sets of church bells chime the hour. For brief days we hide in calmness as though the world were not beating our arched gates. (Eleanore Schonmaier, Treading Fast Rivers) No visit to Portugal is complete without a stop by the wispy little white-washed town of Obidos. Perched high up in the hills, this fortified city dates back to Roman times and is located 80 km north of Lisbon by the coast. Visitors head to this exquisite destination for different reasons for a holiday in the mild sunshine, blue skies and mountain air, or to step back in time exploring the quaint artistic history and culture of the place. Some to raise, swirl glasses of the region's unique, intriguing wines such as Ginja. Just 15 minutes away from the hilltop is a haven for honeymooners. A large tidal lagoon resort, where wave-washed white sand beaches beckon, sometimes with moonlight. Yachting enthusiasts, swimmers, sunbathers, windsurfers and whole families revel in the water. Party animals pull up here for weekend parties and musical performances a time when local musicians and fishermen pull out all the stops for a feast of flavours and sounds catch of the day and timeless melodies, and rocking hits of the day. Chocolate fair Also commonly seen here are people lugging tennis raquets or golf clubs and heading for a massive sporting complex near by the 600-acre Praia D'el Rey club, open to guests. The large crowds though are generally seasonal, and can be seen ascending the magical maze of cobbled streets for the annual chocolate fair. With so much to do and see, and so little time, we hurried out on a sunny September day. With a helpful driver cum guide, Senhor Antonio and a Volvo we made the scenic drive and pulled up at the spectacular 18th Century tiled gate, Porta da Vila. From there we went by foot. Ascending the winding cobblestone lane, we quickly realised why this gated community is like no other. This was fairytale setting. Something out of the romances of medieval times.
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Inside the limestone and marble walled tiny city is a world far removed from the cyberfrenzy, hustle and bustle of the 21st Century. Our narrow path Rua Direita, the main street, led us through a relaxed and calm city of unbelievable charm and inexplicable beauty. At each step, specially in the bylanes, were marks of different cultures and civilizations Roman, Visigoth, Moor. Whitewashed houses gleamed in the sunlight. Flowers and lush foliage covered terraces. Burnt-orange terra cotta roofs, Gothic doorways and unusual archways and entrances overflowed with bougainvillea, morning glories and geraniums. The enchanting scent of flowers lingered in the air. Nearby, from behind doors, emanated fado singing accompanied by piano and guitars bringing to mind the sea, nostalgia of partings, grief as also joy, of reunions, hope. In what was increasingly becoming a living museum, central Obidos had a gorgeous square with a beautiful fountain, a 15{+t}{+h} Century wooden framework on a post formerly used for punishment but now decorated with the arms of Queen Leonor and covered by fishing net, and the Santa Maria Church. It was in this church in 1444, that a famous child marriage took place: the 10-year old King Afonso V married his eight-year-old cousin Isabel. Earlier, in 1282, the marriage of King Dinis with Isabella of Aragon was solemnised here. In each of these weddings, the bride was presented with the town and castle a tradition maintained for hundreds of years. The only time of the year the high-walled city of 4,000 residents takes on a significantly different look is during the International Chocolate Festival. Held every March, this rollicking two-week affair attracts chocolate lovers from all over the world. There are chocolate displays, recipe contests, sculptures, fashions, and ops aplenty to yield to the temptation of sinful chocolate! Our steep climb ended at a Manueline style castle. The old military hangout has been converted into Pousada de bidos, a guest house. There are awesome views of the surroundings from the ramparts of the fort in the distance were windmills, green pastures, and endless green and lime-green stretches of vineyards wrapped around the hills. Immediately below us were age-old monuments, small shops selling local handicraft traditional ceramics, wicker baskets, embroidery and woolen clothes. And not too far to the west was the Atlantic. Much of this scenery was the same during the Roman rule. A time when this westernmost point was the last frontier of the Old World, prompting many a Roman to drink life to the lees. Recent excavations point to exquisite architecture forum, baths, gardens and other structures giving an idea of where these spirited celebrations of life took place! Due to its strategic location along the coast, the city became a thriving trading port and a commercial hub. But in the 16th Century, large deposits of silt at the river delta formed and blocked the harbour area. This development ended the maritime trade and much of the frenetic commercial activity. With that Obidos metamorphosed into a quiet holiday destination among the Portuguese royalty and now, has opened its doors to the world. Public buses Being close to Lisbon, and located on the main A8 highway, Obidos attracts many daytrippers both independent and organised tour participant in the high summer season. Public buses operate from Lisbon's Campo Grande, costing six Euros per head.

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Discerning holiday makers, who arrive in the slack period, get the benefit of inexpensive accommodation or even villas with swimming pools, gardens and easy access to restaurants and local attractions. Besides the world heritage site is the Costa de Prata or Silver Coast with its large stretches of undiscovered beauty stunning beaches, natural beauty and golf courses, tennis, surfing and other sporting facilities making it a great getaway.

At the Finnish line

Samual Jonathan

August 13, 2011

Family travel, leisure, sports or entertainment... the diversity of options available in Finland makes it one of the most exotic holiday destination. Its spring time in Finland and after months of cold winter, the onset of spring awakens life in the north. The sun is shining throughout and the last specks of snow are fast disappearing. The first signs of life on trees with tiny buds sprouting makes the heart warmer and the rays of spring time sun glistening on vast blue lakes make a stunning spectacle in the land of lakes, pines and snow. Finland has remained an exotic place to many in India. Considering that the travelling time between New Delhi and Helsinki is the shortest among air travel between Asia and Europe, it is surprising that the country has remained outside the radar of rapidly expanding Indian tourism industry though the number of Indians visiting Finland is increasing every year. Options galore Be it family travel, leisure, sports or entertainment, the diversity of options highlights the richness of the country. The country is genuinely versatile. If the snowy slopes in Vuokatti offer great downhill skiing experiences during the winter, the long sandy beaches in Kalajoki are a favourite get-away in summer. And during Christmas, the official home town of Santa Claus and the heart of Lapland Rovaniemi is bustling with visitors from all over the world. The quaint towns of Raahe, Kajaani, Taivolkoski and Happavesi nestled among the vast swathes of Pine forest and lakes have their distinct cultural identity. Guided city tours organised by the lake side are the best way to get acquainted with the place, its history and its people. Vuokatti, has a modern downhill ski centre with ski tracks for children and adults and a range of indoor activities from a spa to a 16-lane bowling alley making it the most popular all seasons tourist resort in Finland. The snow holiday season starts in October and ends in the last week of April. A unique snow board tunnel provides an opportunity for snow boarding in rain and even during heavy frost. Golf is gaining popularity and a beautiful golf course is attracting many international tourists. An international training and sports institute is located here. Holiday Club Kainkulta, billed as the most versatile tourism resort in Scandinavia, has high quality restaurant, treatment and golf courses has offers several weekly family activities ranging from cross country skiing to hiking and sports. The number of holiday apartments in the vicinity of Katinkulta is expected to grow to touch 350 soon.
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Tourists will not go hungry in Vuokatti as there are plenty of cuisines ranging from traditional Kainuu food which includes game meat, fish and berries. A variety of breads delicious rye bread, pies and Finnish fish pasties and vegetarians will not be disappointed either. For most details long on to www.vuokatti.fi The Finnish summer is at its best at Kalajoki. Over five million tourists throng the long and sandy camping areas on beaches making it most popular summer destination. A unique walking experience awaits the tourist- which includes an 8-k.m walking path running the length of beach on the sand dunes-Kalajoki Hiekkasarkat. The Spa Sanifani is the largest spa in Finland , while water parks offer a soothing swimming experience. One can play golf in a natural Finnish setting at the golf course. A wide array of accommodation from hotels to holiday cottages is found. For more informationlog into www.kalajoki.fi Dream come alive A visit to Rovaniemi, the heart of Finnish Lapland, located in the Northern Arctic Circle, is a life-time experience. Visitors can have lasting memories of under crossing the Arctic Circle at the wondrous Santa Park. One can experience Christmas in the middle of summer in the home town of Santa Claus and visit Santa Claus any day through the year. Santa has his own post office which receives 700,000 greetings from around the world and till date 13 million letters and greetings! Reality and fairy tale meet at this border of Arctic Circle and one can savour the spectacle of Northern Lights, called as Aurora Borealis, in Autumn and in Winter. One can also watch the summer solstice, when the sun never goes down and vice-versa inwinter solstice. The other places of interest include, Arkikum, a provincial museum where visitors can learn about the culture of Finnish Sami people and experience the distinct culture of the North. The house of culture, Korundi, opened recently. Managing Director, Rovaniemi Tourism and Marketing, Sanna Kortelainen, said that a new summer package has been designed for families for three days at a price of 119 Euros. The package includes visits to reindeer farms, sled dog tours, guided visits and safaris in Ranua Wildlife Park. The heat of the town changes in summer and the never-ending sunshine provides visitors a range of options to explore the nature. One can choose from a range of outdoor activities, including nature trails, mountain biking at the hill side in Ounasvaara which also has a skiing centre. Visitors can choose from a range of accommodation including hotels and cottages. For more details log on into www.visitrovaneimi.fi Lapland Safari is exploring the Indian market and has already tied up with some major Indian tour operators. All the major towns in Finland have daily air connections to Helsinki, the capital city. The bookings can be made on-line and is hassle-free.

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Call of the prairie

K. V. Krishnan

November 12, 2011

A trip worth making for the surge of creativity one experiences, says K.V. Krishnan on his visit to some mystic destinations in the US. I was on sacred territory stretching for hundreds of miles. Here, native chiefs and war heroes alike would have drifted to solitary lakes and towering mounds following Nature's mystic cues to perform rituals to realise life's true meaning. This was an ideal setting for such a mission here loom majestic buttes and secret forests, surreal wastelands of cretaceous origins and vast plains where once roamed Oligocene behemoths, ancient mammoths and thundering herds of buffalo. One summer morning, we drove from the bustle of Denver towards northeast Wyoming. I could make out the weird stump of Devils Tower from a distance. An odd formation geologically known as a laccolith, 1,267 feet of angry stone had been pushed up from the bowels of the earth millions of years ago. The megalith of grayish stone called phonolite porphyry clumped into huge columns loomed vertically over the Belle Fourche River amid a forest of spruce and ponderosa pine. Tribe legends Revered by several native tribes over generations, legend has it that a brother and seven sisters were once playing on the prairie. Suddenly the boy was transformed into a fearsome bear that chased the sisters who started scrambling atop a tree. The animal relentlessly clawed its way up in pursuit and miracles of miracles, the tree soared up to the skies, turning into a stony behemoth reaching for the heavens. Wise old men say that the seven sisters are the Pleiades that glimmer down Devils Tower known as Mato Tipila or the Bear Lodge from the night sky. Stories run of arcane vision quests and Sun Dances when tribes congregated at the base of the mountain, and embarked on a voyage of self-introspection and spiritual journey. What is there on the top? is always a curious question. Popularised by Steven Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind, the flat summit is apparently the size of a football field shared by chipmunks, mice and the occasional snake that seems to have no problems slithering to the top. I could see a few climbers dangling their way up the vertical cliffs on their way up above. An average climb takes about five hours, a feat surpassed by one Todd Skinner in 1980, who manoeuvred his way to the summit using bare hands and feet in 18 minutes! A three-hour drive brought us back to Rapid City in South Dakota. The following afternoon we drove 23 miles north to hallowed Bear Butte. We passed Sturgis, home of the worldfamous motorcycle rally where every July the roar of Harley Davidson bikes rumble through town. The skies loomed ominously dark gray as we neared the hump-like formation, and we soon spotted the bison herd that roams the plains below the mountain. Legend goes that the bear of Devils Tower took rest here, sleeping on its side after its fruitless pursuit. A shower of hail quickly dismissed any hopes of doing the 90-minute climb to the 1200-ft summit. I saw a

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descending group of pilgrims with prayer ribbons, tying cloth bundles to the branches as a mark of worship. Artifacts dating to over 10,000 years ago have been found scattered in this area. Legends run of an ancient Cheyenne chief, Sweet Medicine, who received divine commandments and four arrows at the summit of this mountain. In a later convention of the Indian Nations in 1857, the Sioux chief Crazy Horse is said to have incited a major revolt against the occupying US forces in a bid to reclaim sacred Indian lands. A 45-minute drive east of Rapid City brought us to a sight I wasn't mentally prepared for here the mighty rawness of Mother Nature exposes a rugged beauty that changes by the moment. The Badlands National Park spreads over 244,000 acres of harsh landscape with spires, pinnacles and buttes jutting from an endless prairie this could have been Mars or the Moon for all I cared. Every changing ray of the sun seemed to light up a different smile to those curious formations awash with blues, purples, yellows, and reds. Over 60 millions of years ago these lands were covered by a vast ocean that had dried up over the eons, leaving layers of rich fossil sandwiched between shale and other deposits. Lush tropical rainforests that had taken the place of these waters too vanished with time letting wind, water and the elements sculpt rocks into inconceivably eerie formations. Evidenced by fossils that keep cropping up here, ancient monsters walked upon these lands where today only stark barrenness abounds. Ancient Paleo-Indians, the Arikara and the Sioux looked on in perplexed awe at the dreaded Badlands or the Mako Sica this timeless miracle of Nature where tribes performed their hamblechia or vision quests by several sacred buttes. Not far from the Badlands is Wounded Knee, and its horrific memories of the 1890 carnage when the US Cavalry butchered over 300 men, women and children who were being moved to another reservation against their will. We packed our bags and moved to quaint Keystone there were a lot more of the Black Hills to explore from a different vantage point. A mere ten-minute drive away is the worldrenowned Mount Rushmore National Memorial. Four Presidential faces George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln have been immortalised for posterity upon the faces of the mountain by Gutzon Borglum and his handy 400-man crew. Between 1927 and 1941 these workers blasted away at the rocks, creating these majestic 60 foot-high carvings depicting the first 150 years of American history. Evidenced by the model preserved in the Sculptor's Studio I realised that the work of art was never completed because of insufficient funds. A little known fact is that this mountain once known as Six Grandfathers to the Lakota Sioux was a landmark in the spiritual quest of the shaman Black Elk that took him all the way to nearby Harney Peak, the tallest point in South Dakota. World's largest The Crazy Horse Memorial, dedicated to the Sioux spiritual chief and warrior by the same name is a bolder venture just a 30-minute drive away. Considered the largest sculpture in the world, only the face has been partially worked into the mountain face. One day, the ranger added it will be transformed into an oversized warrior gallantly astride his steed, pointing his hand at all those lands snatched away from the Indian Nations.

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The glimmering secrets of nearby Jewel Cave National Monument and Wind Cave National Park are but a short drive from these lands. At 150 explored miles and counting, Jewel Cave today ranks as the second-longest cave in the world. Here lies secreted a world deep in the earth's womb, glittering with calcite crystal formations known as popcorns, flowstones and delicate strands of gypsum. Accidentally discovered by brothers who stumbled upon the natural entrance at Hell Canyon in 1905, it has now been charted beyond the one-mile trail to what it is today. After the one-hour cave trail, it felt good to come up to the surface. The call of the prairie was far too bewitching to ignore and we headed out to nearby Custer State Park. At over 71,000 acres, this place was teeming with natural beauty from the vast plains where buffalo thunder in large herd, the gait of the fleet-footed pronghorn antelope, the loom of the Needles vertical slabs of granite that loom in the landscape or the quiet beauty of Sylvan Lake, where Chief Crazy Horse followed a magical red-tailed hawk on his vision quest. The squeaky bark of prairie dogs darting in and out of underground burrows in their large colonies was interspersed by the caw of a stray raven as we did the un-missable 18-mile Wildlife Loop around the park. Not native to this area, wild burros almost, since their forefathers were busy lugging visitors atop Harney Peak are often seen here stopping cars, begging for food, so relentlessly that one bolder beast tried to chew through my car window to get at the luscious carrots my daughter had saved for the next feeding frenzy. I was too wearied to climb up the hallowed summit of Harney Peak someone warned me that it would be only a moderate seven-hour climb. From atop one takes in the landscape as far as the eye can see rolling prairie, lush forests and rugged lands. Black Hills was so called because the dense mottle of the trees gave a dark tint to the mountains, viewed from afar. Ancient Paleo-Indians walked these lands followed by the Arikara and several other tribes till they were driven out by the Sioux. The quest for gold was really started by General George Armstrong Custer in the late 1800s, which led to a massive gold rush, trampling over native sentiments through trickery, treachery and greed, till these lands were eventually taken over by the US government. A recent ruling in 1980 offered a monetary reparation to the Lakota, which to date they haven't accepted since they believe these were their sacred lands in the first place, and that is the only thing they want in return. It was a packed week as I took a flight out of Rapid City back home. Peering out from my window seat, I noticed we had just passed those grassy plains and lush forests and were drifting into the stark expanse of the Badlands all around. I had realised Sacred Paha Sapa or hallowed Black Hills indeed was a land of contradictions. With the touristy bustle of Wall by the quietude of Badlands, or the jingle-jangle of the Deadwood casinos and the roar of motorcycles by the muted prayers in Bear Butte, or those Presidential faces looking down from once-hallowed mountains, these Hills seem to be steeped in contrast, even as those dark trees upon these mountains. Little known to General Custer and his hordes who ravaged these lands in quest of yellow metal, shamans and the ancient peoples before them had cherished not the endless lodes of gold that seeped from Earth's innards, but that sacred throb that let them continually relish an indescribable world beyond. I drove 400 miles up from Denver (which was the most convenient base), approximately 61/2 hours to Devils Tower in Wyoming. From Devils Tower I drove 120 miles to Keystone,
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stopping at Vore Buffalo Jump and Mammoth Discovery Site before winding down for the evening. Though there are some low-budget motels here, vacation rentals are the best option in Keystone or Hill City while Rapid City has an assortment of hotels one could choose from.

Walking The Camino

Dr. Sanjiva Wijesinha

October 22, 2011

To the devout, it is a pilgrimage. For the others The Camino's several trails offer spectacular mountain views and some breathtaking scenery of Spain. Of the many popular walking trails and hiking tracks in Europe, perhaps the best known is the pilgrim trail known as El Camino de Santiago or the Way of Saint James. Granted World Heritage status by UNESCO in 1993, The Camino is now the subject of a movie that is being released later this year (directed by Emilio Estevez, starring his father Martin Sheen and appropriately titled The Way) about an American dentist too busy to take a holiday and his life-changing experience of walking the Camino. Apostle's bones Legend has it that the bones of Saint James, one of Jesus Christ's twelve apostles, who in Spain is known as Santiago, are buried in the magnificent cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain. For the past thousand years or so, devout pilgrims, mostly Catholics, have been trekking their way from various parts of Europe to worship at the shrine. But as an oft-quoted 12th century poem states, the Camino is open to all sick and well, not only Catholics but also pagans, Jews, heretics and vagabonds and these days as many as a hundred thousand such pilgrims arrive in Santiago each year, having walked or cycled all or part of the way, to collect a Compostela or certificate of completion of their pilgrimage. The Camino actually consists of several trails that converge on Santiago the most popular being the Via Frances or French Way that stretches some 800 km from the little town of St. Jean Pied de Port at the foothills of the Pyrenees in France through northern Spain to the cathedral city (itself a World Heritage site) near the Atlantic coast. The start of the Via Frances, although physically demanding as one climbs through the Pyrenees to about a mile above sea level, takes the walker through some spectacular mountain views. Walking The Camino is a great way to get to Santiago allowing you to enjoy some breathtaking scenery and also to sample the culture, the food and the wine of Spain in the company of various like-minded pilgrims. Clear paths Recognising the contribution that the advent of so many thousand visitors can make to their economies, the regional governments of Spain ensure that the path is clearly way-marked and well maintained. Every ten to 15 km one finds convenient cheap accommodation in the form of Albergues run by local monasteries, municipalities and private individuals which offer a place to sleep for the night for around 5 or 6 Euros. This is usually in dormitories with bunk
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beds, although a few do have a limited number of single or double rooms available for about 20 per person. Some Albergues as well as most restaurants along The Camino provide a reasonable three-course pilgrim meal for about 10. In order to avail oneself of the facilities at these Albergues, one needs a Pilgrim Passport, known as a Credencial, which can be obtained from the pilgrim office in St Jean Pied de Port or alternatively by post from one of the official Pilgrim Confraternities (eg. American Pilgrims on the Camino http://www.americanpilgrims.com/ ). And whether you do it for spiritual reasons, cultural reasons or just for the physical challenge, The Camino is certainly a path worth walking. What better way to spend a glorious spring day than hiking through beautiful country, admiring picturesque views of the Pyrenees or passing through little Spanish villages that still have a medieval air about them? You cross over ancient bridges, pass through quaint villages and ancient walled towns like Astorga, and walk past impressive Templar castles such as Ponferrada. When you reach the big cities, one of the privileges of walking the Camino is taking a day off to see the tourist sights along the way such as the amazing new Museum of Human Evolution in Burgos or the magnificent Cathedral in Leon. At the end of the day's walk you have the choice of staying in a cheap Albergue or a less inexpensive pension or motel it is all part of the glorious experience of walking The Camino. You can walk alone (which gives time for reflection), undertake the journey with a family member or friend (as I did this year with my son) or use the opportunity to meet people and make new friends. At the end of each day's walking, in a manner reminiscent of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, there is the opportunity of meeting fellow walkers peregrinos, pelerins and pilgrims from different walks of life and various parts of the world. They certainly make a great and welcoming fraternity with which to break bread and share experiences at the end of the day not only the Catholics, but also the pagans, the heretics and the vagabonds! sanjiva.wijesinha@med.monash.edu.au

Hitchcock's trail
Janardhan Roye It is an illusion cleverly created by the director. One finds many things amiss in the famous locales of San Francisco from what has been pictured in the iconic movie Vertigo. It's an odd thing, but anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco wrote Oscar Wilde a long time ago, apparently tongue in cheek. His observations could well relate to the happenings in Hitchcock's Vertigo (1958) often rated by critics as the greatest film ever made. In the movie Madeline (Kim Novak) mysteriously disappears and just as the hero is filled with remorse for not saving her in time, a look-alike appears. In between, viewers get one breath-taking ride after another of the delightful city.

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Though San Francisco features prominently as a backdrop in books such as Vikram Seth's The Golden Gate, Jack Kerouac's On the Road, and Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and in the movies The Woman in Red (1984), Mrs Doubtfire (1993), and The Wedding Planner (2001), the photogenic city and Vertigo remain inseparable in the minds of old movie fans. The psychological thriller remains as much admired for the whirl-wind tour of the city as for its chills, spills and thrills. In the movie, retired private sleuth Scottie (James Stewart) lives in No. 900, Lombard St. flat with views of Coit Tower. A rich client, a former collegemate, hires him to trail his wife, Madeline. The lady is a manic-depressive, says his old friend, and she's on the verge of suicide. The detective hesitatingly takes on the case. And follows her around San Francisco: The detective follows her to various parts of the city including Mission Dolores, Legion of Honor where she sits possessed by a Carlotta Valdes portrait, Fort Point under the Golden Gate Bridge, where she jumps into the Bay. Scottie dives in after her, and saves her from a watery grave. Soon the hunter and the hunted fall in love, and dreamily walk into the Palace of Fine Arts. Some 60 years after it was first screened, Vertigo continues to enchant fans, students of cinema, movie-makers and equally critics. Though much has changed in the city, die-hard movie-buffs lob up at the famous old locales hoping to relive the cinematic excitement. The locales in the movie then and now continue to be more or less the same but to the discerning eye, amid the splendour there is always something amiss! No tower and staircase At the Mission San Juan Bautista for instance, there is no such thing as a bell tower. In the movie, this scene is pivotal to the narration with the acrophobic Scottie chasing Madeline up the stairs, with the background score thumping away appropriately until the fall. When I went to the Mission, I found there's no spiral staircase, and on Montgomery St., either they had shut down or was there ever Ernie's Supper Club. In Castro, at Mission Dolores the grave where Madeline lays a posy is missing and in the Legion of Honor museum where Madeline gazes at Carlotta there is no such portrait. Blank and another blank. Fact is movie-makers create illusions, not everything in the setting is real. Instead of cinematic angst, I took a long, deep breath and enjoyed the ride. For, on every stop in the Hitchcock trail, there's plenty to fill the eye, warm the heart. Lombard Street at the top of Hyde Street where it meets the crookedest street in the world there are great views of Alcatraz. As I studied Scottie's address, the Powell-Hyde cable car came dreamily up, paused and went clanking away downhill. In front, the 27 degree Lombard incline was packed with zigzag curves and beautiful Painted Ladies and cheerful gardens bursting with flowers in full bloom. Coit Tower came into view at several spots on the Byzantine curve but not Scottie's No. 900 flat. Coit Tower the landmark has a top that resembles a fire-hose nozzle, and is visible right from Ferry Point. It was built by an eccentric wealthy lady, Lillie Hitchcock who smoked cigars, gambled heavily and lived raucously. She was rumoured to have had the hots for firemen! No relation, though to the director.

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Mission Dolores the oldest brick and mortar building in San Francisco, built in 1776, has a small museum that traces the city's early history. In its compact white-walled cemetery stands a statue of the Spanish missionary Junipero, looming over the garden and tombstones of the original Indians of the area and early settlers. When I got there, Vertigo fans were all over, scrambling for Madeline's grave. In reality, there's no such thing. Legion of Honor Don't waste time looking for the non-existent Carlotta. Instead get a load of Rodin's Thinker, Kiss at the palace-like museum. The gallery has a wonderful collection of Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Monet's lily pond series and other delightful works of art. Beyond the relaxed, picturesque location are great views of the Bay, Golden Gate Bridge. Fort Point built originally to guard the Bay and defend vessels ferrying gold from Californian mines. Cannons and other 19th century weaponry lie in the courtyard. Nearby is the lovely Crissy Field waterfront and park. Standing below the Bridge, near the lighthouse on the fort's thick walls, it's easy to get swept off one's feet either by the panoramic views or by gusty winds. Golden Gate Bridge this famous landmark has six-lanes for vehicles plus a pedestrian walkway connecting SF with Marin County. The 746-ft twin red towers holds more than 128,000 kms of steel wires, enough to encircle the globe thrice over at the equator! Nippy winds are the order of the day, any time prompting Mark Twain to quip, The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco. Bay Area the playpen of countercultures comprises nine counties Alameda, Contra Costa, Marin, Napa, San Francisco, San Mateo, Santa Clara, Solano and the Sonoma, 101 cities, and 7,000 square miles. I bet, there's someone out there from Bangalore, said a desi referring to the many countrymen who inhabit Silicon Valley. Illusions gallery Palace of Fine Arts constructed in 1915, this grandiose monument has sculptures, Corinthian pillars, waterworks and lawns. It is here that Scottie and Madeline walk in the garden. Today the Rotunda and Exploratorium attract thousands for the interactive exhibits and multi-media attractions. The optical illusions gallery is a big hit with visitors. At the end of the trail, visitors are bowled over by the clever illusions weaved by the master director in this iconic movie to heighten the suspense, dramaand equally by the delightful city that they have chanced upon, captured on camera and in the mind!

The moor's last sigh

Veena Muthuraman

October 1, 2011

A perfect blend of palaces, mosques and museums with white-washed villages and hidden courtyards... Discover Andalusia. As most people would recall, 1492 was an important year for Spain, for late in that year Christopher Columbus discovered a New World that was to enrich Spain for centuries to

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come. Lesser known though, no less important historically, it was also the year of the moor's last sigh. The last of the Moorish rulers, Sultan Boabdil, surrendered the Andalusian city of Granada and the Alhambra in early 1492, thus bringing an end to nearly seven centuries of Islamic rule in Spain. As the story goes, he sighed and burst into tears as he took one last look at Granada from a pass on the Sierra Nevada Mountains on his way to exile in Morocco. Five centuries and a bit later, standing on the ramparts of the Alhambra where the Christian reconquerors had raised the flag of Ferdinand and Isabella, one can still get a sense of the extent of Boabdil's loss. The Alhambra (red fortress) is arguably the best example of Moorish architecture left standing in Spain today. Looking down from the Alcazaba, its watchtower, down to the city, it is easy to think of Granada not as a metropolis that it is today but a collection of white villages more reminiscent of the countries of North Africa. The whitewashed houses of the city extend well up into the Sierra Nevada range, the peaks of which still glisten with snow in late April. What brings up back squarely into Europe is the presence of rather ornate cathedrals and large plazas that dot the city landscape. If what is outside the walls of the Alhambra complex is stunning, what is inside is no less so. We had just come out of the Nasrid palaces a timed entry early in the morning ensured that we missed the peak tourist rush though that is not saying much. The elegant rooms, the intricate work that adorns the doors and columns, and the lovely and serene patios transport you into the 15th century, until you are abruptly brought down to current day by the presence of camera-wielding tourist armies. Or by a couple of orange-vested workmen perched on a scaffolding patiently restoring the woodwork. Despite the crowds and the noise, one can still admire the uniqueness of the palace the horseshoe arches, the Almoravid palms and stalactite ceilings essential elements of the Nasrid architectural style that developed in relative isolation from contemporary Islamic architecture of the Middle East. The Alhambra was built well into the decline of the Islamic empire, so instead of expensive materials, the focus was on workmanship, and the results are there for everyone to see. Italian imprint Next to the Nasrid palaces is the Palace of Carlos V a classical Italian Renaissance square building with an inside circular courtyard a beautiful building except that it looked totally incongruous in the Moorish setting of the Alhambra. I was reminded of our visit to Cordoba the day before to see the Mezquita. This structure was built on land where an old cathedral once stood which in turn was built on top of a pagan temple. Built in the 10th century, this enormous mosque, with its giant double arches and hundreds of columns, seeks to recreate Islam's desert homeland. An extremely graceful building, except that smack in the middle of this once-mosque is an ornamental Renaissance cathedral which was built after the Christian re-conquest. The contrast could not have been more marked. The brochure brought out by the Catholic Church (which maintains the building today) defends the building of the cathedral inside the mosque centuries ago recuperation of a sacred space that had suffered the imposition of a faith distant from the Christian experience. This is an interesting defence, considering that a significant portion of Cordoba's population in that period consisted of Muslims and Jews who were forcibly converted to Christianity, the same people who would soon face the full force of the Inquisition.

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Coming back to the Alhambra, we discovered that the Carlos V palace is home to a fine arts museum. Brooding, religious art, my friend was quite dismissive and I wasn't very enthusiastic either, so we decided not to go in. However, we saw signs to a special exhibition on the works on M.C. Escher. I was puzzled but then it clicked. There was a reason why the tiles all over the palace, especially the tessellated ones with their repeated shapes and patters looked familiar tessellations is an Escher specialty. The exhibition was well worth the time. Culture showcase The Escher exhibition was a lovely end to our Andalusian trip but more importantly, it is a fitting testament to Andalusia herself, and the different cultures that intermingled here, and that is best reflected in her architecture. It is indeed her white washed villages and hidden courtyards, tessellated tiles and Moorish patios that retain the power to inspire artists into the 20th century and beyond.

Amid sea and sky

Nimi Kurian Surrounded by islands, Banyan Tree at Koh Samui is an idyllic getaway. If you are looking for a quick getaway from the world and all its troubles then Koh Samui could be the answer. Samui, as the local people call it, is an island off the east coast of Kra Isthmus in Thailand. It is Thailand's second largest island and is awash with white sandy beaches, clear blue seas, coral reefs and coconut trees. The Banyan Tree Hotel and Resorts at Koh Samui offers you the perfect retreat. If you want to stay hidden in your villa or if you want to go skinny dipping or if you just want to enjoy an early morning swim in the calm waters of the Gulf of Thailand it is all there for the asking. Koh Samui is but a 45-minute flight away from the hustle and bustle of throbbing Bangkok. From the minute you land at the airport you are transported to a different world. Small holiday buggies transport you from your aircraft to the beautifully designed airport. Driving through the town is pleasant and it gives you a quick tour of the holiday town. Soon you leave behind everything and enter a different world Banyan Tree. The view from the lobby is breathtaking. All you see ahead of you is the wide expanse of the greenish blue sea with islands at a distance. To the left are the villas aesthetically constructed, delicately perched on the mountainsides. A short buggy ride takes you up hill and down dale, turning sharp curves and passing ponds and gazebos and you are at your villa. There are 88 villas in all and they are spacious, catering to your every whim and fancy. Each villa has its own swimming pool, jet pool and wading pool and also sun beds. One side of the villa is sheer glass so as not to impede the view of the mountains and the sea.

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Samui's traditional industry coconut has been incorporated into the architectural design of the villas. The rotated square columns were inspired by old temple designs, and coconut leaves and shells are used as materials. The decor is soothing earth tone shades and local artwork giving you the feel of a tropical getaway. At prominent locations along the cliff side the resort has restaurants Sands, the beachside restaurant, and The Edge and Saffron. Saffron is placed on the highest point of the resort and at night is rather a choice location. It offers a southeast Asian cuisine with strong Thai flavours. The USP of the Edge is the stunning view of the bay that promises to liven up your meal, be it night or day. But perhaps the best location for holiday dining is at the Sands. With its wide repertoire of continental and Thai cuisine you can enjoy the food, sun and sand. Banyan Tree at Koh Samui boasts of the first spa and hydrotherapy facility. Its speciality is the Rainforest, which is a hydrothermal therapy that takes you on the road to wellness. The coup d'tat is the Vitality Pool and the body massage on the hot stone bench. Bangkok buzz It's now time to face the glitz and glitter of Bangkok and the Banyan Tree in the heart of the city does not disappoint. Completely revitalised by the sun and sand you are ready to take up a day of shopping, sight seeing and experience the night life. There is a Presidential suite, a two bedroom Grand Banyan suite, one-bedroom Banyan suite and Banyan Tree club. The signature restaurant at Banyan Tree is the Saffron and is located on the 52nd floor. The view is breathtaking. Bai Yun on the 60th floor offers the best of Chinese cuisine and at Rom Sai you can enjoy the casual all day dining. Giving a totally new meaning to vertigo is the Vertigo Grill and Moon Bar. This is an open-air rooftop lounge which offers you one of the best views of Bangkok. At the end of a long and tiring day it is ideal to sit back, sip your cocktails and watch Bangkok by night. The facilities offered include a gym, a swimming pool, a gallery and also a shopping companion. The last, of course, is a popular service for guests who are new to Bangkok, as they can be guided to the most suitable shopping areas and advised as to the rates and what to shop for. Getting to Koh Samui There are flights by Bangkok Airways and Thai Airways daily from Bangkok to Koh Samui. It is a short flight just 45 minutes.

Living on the edge

Kalpana Sunder Ahilya Fort hotel clings to the ramparts, overlooks basalt temples and a sinuous Narmada. Women wash clothes on the banks of the river like centuries before, bare bodied children leap into the waters and painted boats chug along taking devotees to the different Shiva temples along the banks. Deep in the fertile plains of one of India's largest States, is a town called Maheshwar where time has stood still. Ahilya Fort is a piece of glorious Indian history.
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Akbar built the ramparts here in 1601 and Ahilya Bai Holkar, the philosopher queen and a prolific builder who personally led armies into battle, made this her home for 30 years from 1766. Ahilya Fort was built in the simple Wada style of Maratha architecture with wooden pillars and supporting beams made of lime and bricks. It's a complete antithesis to the opulent palaces that are found elsewhere in India. Today, part of it has been converted into an atmospheric and intimate heritage hotel with 13 tastefully decorated rooms by Prince Richard Holkar, her descendant and the son of the last Maharajah of Indore. Ahilya Fort's main selling point is her magnificent location. The hotel clings to the walls of the fort and looks down on the Ghats, the basalt stone temples and the sinuous Narmada River. Marvel restored When Richard started restoring the hotel, with the help of Mysore based conservation architects, Ravi Gundu Rao and Associates, the derelict fort had no running water, the pillars were rotting and there was bat excreta all around. Today, it's a splendid maze of low, white washed buildings, hidden terraces and turrets, corridors and lush gardens. Rattan furniture painted black and white, wooden ceilings, piles of books almost everywhere on eclectic subjects from history and art to philosophy and fiction, an internet room with an antique door, two adorable pugs called Yoda and Alhambra... the ambience created is warm and cozy. Gods and goddesses smeared with vermillion, urns and planters filled with flower petals, paintings of local scenes and sepia photographs of the Holkar family all create a back-in-time feel. Each room is unique and is named after the tree that it overlooks. I am in the Gulmohar Room with a lounger and antique desk, soft Chanderi quilts on my bed, marigolds in brass vessels and old style fans. The bathroom has modern plumbing but the endearing details continue a brass bucket and lota with rough stone floors. There are no modern distractions like television, intercoms or even room service. The silence is deafening broken only by the distant drone of a motor boat or the croaks of frogs and birdsong. The personal touch is evident everywhere. Kunta Bai, a genial, warm lady came to work for the Holkars more than 30 years ago, and today she is a virtual institution. A picnic lunch of aloo parathas and aam ka achaar is rustled up in no time, a local masseuse is summoned and in many ways it feels like a welcoming home. Stanford-educated, debonair Richard Holkar, of course, is an integral part of the Ahilya experience whether setting the daily menu for his chef, enquiring about a missing cocktail shaker or educating someone on the nuances of masala porridge. He is himself a gourmet cook and the author of a cookery book. The food is organic and local most of the fruits and vegetables are grown right here in the gardens of the hotel or sourced directly from where it's grown. Delicious meals are served alfresco in different places in the terrace overlooking the Narmada or the courtyard garden of the erstwhile cow shed or the lush Poshakwada filled with greenery. There are jams and preserves which have been made by Richard in Paris, house-made walnut bread, salads and cold soups. There's a unique Battisi preserve, which has 32 ingredients and Richard claims that you cannot taste it outside Ahilya Fort! Night beckons
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Come night, Ahilya Fort takes on a bewitching look. Oil lamps are lit everywhere, casting small, warm pools of orange light and creating a dramatic stage for aperitifs. From the terrace we hear the chants of prayers and the ringing of bells on the Ghats. There is a loose community kind of dining experience where you can mingle with the other guests. I enjoy my evenings with chatty Mumbaikars, elegant Parisians, NRI returnees engrossed in social change and an investment banker with a yen for photography. Every turn or flight of stairs seems to lead to a hidden treasure. There is the Lingarchan courtyard which has two quaint rooms called Neem and Imli with window seats that have panoramic views of the Narmada. Though Ahilya Fort is perfect for lotus-eating, I tear myself away to visit the Baneshwar temple in the middle of the river, which local legend says is the centre of the universe. Another day I take a trip on bone-rattling roads to Mandu, a town of beauteous ruins and legends. I visit Rehwa (the old name for the Narmada), an organisation started by Richard and his former wife Sally in the 1970s to resurrect the local Maheshwari weaving. Today it provides employment to more than 150 weavers, runs a school for the weavers' children and has brought back the glory to the gossamer Maheshwari sari. The charm of Ahilya Fort is that it's a throwback to a gentler era and pace of life when the high points of a day are a walk on the Ghats or a boat ride on the river. It's an authentic, multi-faceted Indian experience, which is rare in the relentless march to modernity. How to get there: Fly Jet Airways to Indore through Hyderabad or Mumbai and from there it's a two-hour drive to Maheshwar. Ahilya Fort arranges pick up at a cost. Where to stay: Ahilya Fort has doubles with garden and river views. Contact Durgesh Chaddha at durgesh@ahilyafort.com, info@ahilyafort.com for bookings. What to do: Take a boat ride on the Narmada, visit the numerous Shiva temples, and take a day trip to Mandu and Omkareshwar. Visit the Rehwa looms to see how they weave Maheshwari saris. Buy: Maheshwari saris and salwar suits, scarves and dupattas. For further information visit www.ahilyafort.com The author is a Japanese language specialist and travel writer based in Chennai.

Cultural harmony
Pushpa Chari

September 24, 2011

The unique architectural splendour of the Great Shia Mosque in Xian takes you back in time. In the beautiful 2000-year-old city of Xian, one of the four capitals of ancient China and capital of Shaanxi province today, history meets you at every turn and walks with you on pathways which once formed the eastern most outpost of the Silk Route. You literally touch its sooty fingers at the imposing Great Wall on the edge of the city, hear its haunting music as the bells toll at the Bell Tower and are transfixed by its timeless beginnings as you gaze upon
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the magnificent terracotta warriors keeping vigil at Emperor Din Qin Shi Huang's burial site. If you are adventurous enough to walk off the touristy beaten track, you might, if you get lucky, saunter into a 1000-year-old park ablaze with roses and peonies watched over by impossibly graceful weeping willows. Or wander into a mosque like none other. We did just that when enticed by the fragrance of freshly baking naan and biryani on the boil, we drifted off a main road and into a twisting, spice laden lane. And what a fascinating world it opened to us! Tiny shops on either side of the narrow bustling lane sold all manner of touristy bric a brac: fans and scrolls, lengths of embroidery, Chinese landscapes, dolls, boiled sweets, mobiles, dry fruit, Arabic calligraphy and much else. We saw women in hijabs and headscarves and men in lace caps for the first time in China jostling with crowds from many parts of the world buying and bargaining. The aroma of spices and street food hung thickly in the air. Biriyani was being cooked in huge cauldrons, kebabs roasted on open fires, cousin of the snack Yang rou chuan served in Beijing homes. My son, a votary of street food and local gastronomical flavours, ate plates of biriyani and kebab before pronouncing it a perfect kababiath blend of flavours from Chandni Chowk to China. Chinese style The Great Shia Mosque of Xian which lie at the end of the lane presents a synthesis of another kind. It is unique in that it has neither dome nor minarets and is a complete synthesis of Chinese architectural style into mosque architecture. It was originally built during the Tang dynasty in the 7th century, in memory of the Arab trader who brought Islam to these parts though the lovely mosque that stands today was constructed during the Ming dynasty in 1392. The Great Mosque has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site. As we stepped into the mosque complex, the beautiful garden in the first courtyard stretched before us. Dotted with topiaried cypress trees and bushes and dominated by a fantastic pagoda with its poetry inspiring eves, one had a sense more of Buddhist temple than a mosque complex. Indeed the layout of the mosque does resemble that of a 15th century Buddhist temple with successive courtyards built on a single linear axis, filled with pagodas and pavilions to suit Islamic function. However, the axis is aligned from east to west and faces Mecca. The play of emerald green courtyards, superlatively carved, tiled and decorated signature pavilions is sheer enchantment. The Unmatched or Yizhen Pavilion in the centre of the first courtyard is truly unmatched in its beauty with elaborate awnings, finely carved doors, huge sculpted dragons and floral motifs decorating roof, ridges and crests. The second courtyard has a pair of steles on either side of the elegant shallow roofed pavilion which feature exquisite calligraphy executed by the Soong dynasty M Fu and Don Quichang of the Ming dynasty. Many towers feature in the garden such as a nine-metre tall one at the entrance covered with 17th century ceramic tiles and the superb 10-metre high Tower of the Visiting Heart inside. On either side of the nine-metre tower are rooms full of exquisite Ming furniture, vases and plates making it a connoisseur's delight. In the third courtyard is the Quing Xiu Dian or the Place of Meditation which is a stunning octagonal pavilion three storeys high wrapped by wooden balconies. A reception hall in the courtyard has a magnificent hand-written Koran dating back to the Ming dynasty. Large gathering
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The Ming mosque itself at the western end of the central axis stands like a gem of muted architectural harmony, its sloping roof decorated with blue glazed tiles and dragon heads. The prayer hall within the Great Mosque can accommodate a thousand worshippers. The large hall is supported by columns intricately decorated with low relief wood carving and the heavy cylindrical columns are painted red like the walls. The inside walls of the prayer hall are the stuff of which poetry is made covered with carvings of flowers and vine. The complete Koran is carved on wooden panels on the wall in both Arabic and Chinese. There are four bands of Koranic inscriptions encircling the mihrab which reflect the influence of Chinese calligraphy on the Arabic letters symbolic of the creative-aesthetic synthesis which defines the Great Mosque of Xian.

Land of dreams
Vikas Pawar As a teenager, I was captivated by the Tintin comic series created by Herge. The fascinating element about these adventures was the writer's weaving of factual and fictional lands in adding depth to his plots. One such quest was Tintin's adventure where the trail leads the cast of characters to the mystifying Andean landscape of Peru. Ever since, it has been a dream of mine to visit and experience firsthand, this exotic territory. While packing bags and heading to Peru is not easy, with proper planning and research, it is workable as it was for me. Our first stop at Peru was the capital city of Lima, which is well connected with major US and European cities. Moving around Lima is a great experience for someone interested in appreciating the urban verve in South America. For folks with tourism on mind, areas like Miraflores and Barranco have some good hotels. Other advantages include abundant eateries and proximity to the Pacific coastline. Historical places of significance like the Plaza San Martin and Plaza de Armas are in the older city. I suggest a night tour around Lima to fully admire the three phases of the city, viz.: pre-colonial, post-colonial and contemporary. The impressive architecture at the Palacio De Gobierno, Palacio Arzobispal and the Cathedral Basilica, with its Spanish influences, is worth exploring. Other notable places of interest are the three museums (Larco, National Museum and Peruvian Gold Museum), which chronicle the Peruvian history. Elaborate cuisine Lima offers an excellent opportunity for foodies to explore the Peruvian cuisine. Pisco Sour, a flavourful concoction of Peruvian liquor and lemon is an essential part of a Peruvian meal. For teetotallers, a non-alcoholic variety of Chi Cha, a beverage made of purple corn is a definite recommendation. Peru's national delicacy is Ceviche, a type of seafood salad and a must for every seafood lover. Peruvian cuisine provides an elaborate selection for vegetarians too. From Lima, we took a short flight to Cusco, the Archeological capital of the Americas. Cusco, with its distinct narrow cobbled pathways, is a charming little town located on the high altitudes of the Andes. Saqsayhuaman and related archaeological sites in the northern part of Cusco offer a chance to appreciate the Incan aptitude at designing quake resistant structures. Qorikancha, a present-day convent, was superimposed on the ancient Incan
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structure, by the Spanish settlers. In consequence, it provides a varying blend of ancient and modern architecture. Cusco is the gateway to Machu Picchu, referred to as the Lost City of the Incas. Situated 110 km northwest of Cusco, Machu Picchu is undoubtedly the most recognisable icon of the Incan empire. There are generally two options for getting to Machu Picchu from Cusco. A backpacker's option is to take the arduous four-day 60-mile Inca trail through rustic Peru. The easier option is to buy tickets on the Peruvian Rail service to Aguas Calientes (Hot Springs). The town is at the foothills of the historic site and one can find a range of lodging services here. Machu Picchu (the Old Mountain), built in the 15th century, is a breathtaking structure spread over 20 hectares on a mountain ridge some 2500 metres above sea level. The magnitude of this massive undertaking is even more mind-boggling given the stones were painstakingly hauled by humans uphill for miles. The site is divided into various sectors with designated walking trails. The agricultural sector consists of a series of terraces cut into the mountain sides, which the Incas used for cultivation. The urban sector is made of houses, storage spaces, a fountain system and royal enclosures. It also houses an Astronomical Observatory. Interspersed among the sectors are some sacred structures, viz.: Temple of the Sun, Temple of the three windows, and Temple of the Condor. While a walk around the ruins gives one a closer look, there are two options that provide a panoramic postcard view of the ruins. The first option is a demanding stair-stepped trail to an adjacent mountain called the Huayna Picchu (Young Mountain). The easier option is to take a trail to Intipunku (Gate of the Sun) on the western side of the site. Either way, a glimpse of Machu Picchu is an experience of a lifetime. Peruvian hospitality A striking part of our trip to Peru was the hospitality of the Peruvian people in spite of the language barrier. In fact, we were astonished at their knowledge of Bollywood, which ranged from Mother India to Shah Rukh Khan. As our week-long holiday in Peru concluded and we headed back home, all we had were memories of the incredible places we visited and wonderful people we met. A trip to Peru is one unforgettable experience filled with roads truly less travelled.

Relics of the Lost City

Sandip Hor

September 17, 2011

Sandip Hor travels through Jordan for a firsthand experience of the region's most exotic architecture that still dazzles human imagination. I want the rose-red city of Petra, replied Cleopatra when Caesar asked the Egyptian Pharaoh what she wanted as her birthday gift. Though the Roman Emperor never baulked at the idea, Petra's fame as the earth's most pompous and wealthy city of the time, continued to soar and over time earned it a place into the realms of the wonders, alongside Taj Mahal in India and the Great Wall in China.
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Presently located in southern Jordan, 220 km out of capital Amman, Petra was built in the 3rd century BC by the Nabataean Kings, who originally came from old Arabia and established a settlement in a deep valley between the harsh mountains, in the middle of the exotic trade route between the Persian Gulf and Damascus. They became immensely prosperous by trading frankincense and myrrh and by imposing tax from foreign merchants, wanting a safe passage through the terrain. The wealth generated was not wasted, but utilised to carve out of the soft sandstone mountain rocks, a plethora of mausoleums, temples and monasteries. The opulence of the stunning architecture dazzled human imagination and made contemporary cities like Alexandria and Rome envious. However around 8th century AD, the site just as Machu Pichu and Angkor Wat was mysteriously abandoned and remained shielded from the outside world, until 1812, when Swiss explorer Johann Ludwig Burckhardt stumbled on it and unveiled to the world, the relics of the lost empire. A world wonder This incredible site, particularly after being voted in 2007 as one of the Seven Wonders of the World, is swarmed everyday with visitors like me, who believe no matter how much you have read or seen images before, nothing beats the first hand experience. The thrill begins the moment you enter the valley through one of Petra's most awe inspiring natural feature, a kmlong deep canyon, called the Siq, which was formed by the tectonic forces splitting the mountain. You can get horses or horse driven carts to cover the distance, but I walk with my guide Akram through the narrow and winding stone-pathway, to make it truly walking in the footsteps of history; the sensuous colouring of the sandstone and extraordinary artwork on the edging walls coming as a bonus. When wondering where this gorge will end, a narrow bend appears and then unexpectedly a highly ornamental edifice, whose rose red colour is shimmering in bright daylight, becomes visible through a slim split in the gorge. The dramatic visual assault hypnotizes me for a while; later Akram confirms it as a usual reaction of first-time visitors. Regaining senses, I step out with gusto into the open air and stand rapt in front of Petra's signature monument, the Treasury, which was built by the Nabataeans, a century before Christ, to impress every visitor who stepped into their land. Surely the appealing effect still remains undiminished. Two millennia of heat and dust, wind and rain have blemished some grandeur off the structure, but oddly enough the monument's fresh appearance surprises me, the same way, it startled 19{+t}{+h} century poet Dean John William Burgon who aptly characterised the ruins as the rose-red city half as old as time. Like most structures in Petra, the 40m high and 30m wide Treasury building is not a freestanding edifice, but a classical faade, chiseled out of the sides of sheer sandstone cliffs. It derives its name from a popular belief that a Nabatean King hid all his treasures in the massive urn of the faade, far from the reach of humans. So for many years the locals spent countless hours firing ammunition at it, hoping jewels will shower from there; instead they received chunks of stones. Petra is far more than a rock carving or two it is an entire ghost town of many acres. A sandy pathway from the plaza in front of the Treasury, called Outer Siq leads on to the main
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colonnaded street of the ruined city that still boasts of several imposing Royal tombs, some as high as 50m, an ancient Roman style theatre that was meticulously cut into a hillside, magnificent temples, a mountain top monastery which can be only reached by a hour's strenuous climb, storage rooms and myriad stone cut constructions whose unknown purpose adds to the mystery that has always shrouded the capital of the Nabateans. Not finding any signs of domestic dwelling I interestingly learn from Akram that people then used to live in tents. The structures discovered so far, mostly represent tombs and religious sites, so in one sense what you are exploring today is nothing but a decorative graveyard, like the Pyramids of Egypt, he quotes. Glowing colours I clamber up to a raised plateau from where the vista of the surrounding landscape below appears breathtaking. The glowing colours of the different fascias, described by most as rose red, though novelist Agatha Christie saw it blood red and few even compared it with the colours of raw beef, pink salmon, ham or chocolates, are a feast for the eyes. This kaleidoscope of colours, which changes as the sun moves from east to west, is a fascinating feature of Petra, which scores more than the actual architectural marvels. As the sun dips behind the mountains, I enter the Siq once again, sadly leaving behind the lost city to snooze alone in silent darkness, until awakened by the light of newly risen sun.

Teeing off in Naldehra

RAJNISH WATTAS The scenic Naldehra course, close to Shimla, is full of unique hazards to lure the keen golfer. RAJNISH WATTAS The ardent golfer would play Mount Everest if someone would put a flagstick on top. Pete Daye Y ou don't have to go all the way to Mount Everest for that golfing high! Playing at Naldehra's challenging hilly course with its unique hazards is quite enough, for me at least. The Naldehra golf course - located just 20 km from Shimla at an altitude of 2200 m - blends the charm of a Himalayan landscape with history and legends. Recently I took a road trip from Chandigarh to Naldehra on an exciting three-day golf holiday. The drive through dense deodars offers panoramic views of the Shimla hills. The cloud-veiled peaks and green hillsides, thanks to the monsoon, transport you to an ethereal world. At Naldehra, natural meadows have been transformed into a scenic golfing ground with towering deodars encircling the course. The club house, built in 1905 and later renovated, is a quaint timber-framed English cottage with a cosy bar, lounge and a dining hall displaying memorabilia of the club's fascinating colonial history. This is the first attraction. The next is an excellent Chinese meal served by the legendary owner-chef manager Mishra Sahib'! Though I've come with my golf set, I have no partner. It's afternoon and all the regular golfers, who usually play in the morning, have left. But luck favours the keen golfer! A man
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returning from a walk in the forest overhears my lament and, like a true gentleman golfer, offers to play a few holes with me! One look at the daunting course, and I meekly confess, Look, I'm no Tiger Woods. He sportingly answers, Don't worry! I'm a tiger mostly in the woods! After this initial bonding, we tee-off. Tricky course My caddy-cum-mentor Hari Dayal is a local hill man with a deep knowledge of the tricky course. Without his guidance, it would be impossible for a new-comer to tackle the steep slopes, obstructions and the rolling slopes. Once initiated in the mysteries of the Naldehra golf, it's time to head for the proverbial 19th hole: the bar! While I'm sitting in the club house verandah with a chill beer, enjoying a grandstand view of the course, the friendly manager Pratap Singh Verma enlightens me about the club's history. In 1905, the Viceroy of India, Lord Curzon was enamoured by Naldehra. Legend has it that he named his third daughter Alexandra Naldehra. Also he established what is today one of the highest, oldest and most scenic golf courses in the country. On the second day, I'm more familiar with the terrain and know how to tackle the hilltop holes located over mounds. The trick is to scoop the ball high with sand and pitching wedges, instead of hitting long drives or with fairway woods. Also, one has to hit very accurate shots, as a little extra distance will take the ball downhill! Unique hazards There is even an ancient temple located between the holes. You have to loft the ball really high to make sure that the ball carried well above the temple shikhra all the way to the putting green. The other unique hazards are the water tanks located in the fairways and the green bunkers' filled with uncut grass instead of the usual sand. The most trying and difficult holes are fifth and ninth where you can't see the flagstick on the greens because of the tall deodars in between. Unless you hit a very lofted and accurate shot, the ball will be consigned to the deodar forests or roll back into a valley. So say a little prayer before you whack the ball with a seven-iron shot! Suddenly a haunting mist descends from the Himalayan peaks onto the undulating fairways; reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands from where this game originated. Then I see an apparition! Was it really Lord Curzon swinging his club or just too much of beer gone to my golfer's head?

Chill out in Lamphun

Rupa Gopal

September 10, 2011

Triaphum in Thailand is complete with a de-stress plan, ethnic architecture, delectable food and plenty of nature. Thailand offers the tourist many pleasures mindless shopping, watersports, safaris, overeating etc. The cultural aspect and vernacular architecture are frequently just taken for
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granted, the verdant scenery glossed over in the mind that is raring to find a bargain. For the tourist with a difference, for one looking for simple pleasures, Lamphun in northern Thailand, just about 26 miles from Chiang Mai provides the needful. A rural setting charms instantly, the frenetic and frenzy a forgotten matter. Woody views Brett Williams, a retired American banker found his heaven on earth in a small village 7 km from Lamphun, on the banks of the Ping river, over two acres in area. He set to building his home in the Thai style, complete with a sala, or pavilion facing the river. Wood is predominant here, with open spaces, all blending to bring the lush gardens indoors. Water features reflect the sky and trees, with magical floating lamps ushering in the dusk, and cool nights. An open to sky secluded bath is really charming, complete with walls painted with local art Brett is particularly proud of this feature. Furnished beautifully in ethnic style, no expense has been spared in the property's dcor, with artefacts, textiles and furniture all carefully sourced, and collected. Two looms sit in the sala, reflecting the strong handloom weaving tradition of the region. Brett, his wife Kanitha, their son and daughter, and grandmother Yai complete this warm Eurasian family. The sala, kitchen, dining room, and the entire gardens are open to guests. Rest, meditation, massage these are Traiphum's attractions, a complete de-stress plan. Guests can learn to cook traditional Thai recipes from Yai, using herbs and vegetables grown in the garden. Fruit trees provide longan, mango, coconut and rambutan in plenty. Breakfast and lunch are provided in the plan, and dinner for those who ask for it. Those wanting to learn to weave can do so, with Kanitha an expert weaver of both silk and cotton. A northern Thai tradition sets alight large paper lamps that float away up into the sky, carrying one's troubles away. This is a magical sight on the river-front at night, a fitting end to a beautiful day. Bicycle rides Traiphum provides bicycles for exploring the countryside, and can arrange trips to nearby villages. Cliched safaris, shopping trips etc are not done, but can be arranged if need be. Guests are picked up and dropped at Chiang Mai airport, or Lamphun. The word Traiphum means three worlds heaven, earth, and the underworld. Here is all the beauty in the world, served to you on a platter, at very affordable rates. Contact: reservations@traiphum.com Tel: +66 811238119

Road to eternity
Noni Chawla Delhi roads teach some lessons in spirituality like nothing else can. You are lucky if you stay alive to learn.

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Through millennia India has been a magnet for people in pursuit of spirituality, people who have risked life and limb, crossed oceans and mountains to come and sit at the feet of enlightened masters in the hope of attaining a higher consciousness, sometimes helped by a bit of hash or coke. The Beatles, Goldie Hawn, Julia Roberts and Richard Gere... can't all be wrong! While meditation and yoga are two of the many paths to higher consciousness, and while Delhi roads have the power to drive you over the edge literally, if you have any inclination towards spirituality, driving in Delhi has many lessons for the able student. For starters, you are convinced that there has to be a higher force in the universe. No physical or natural law can explain why in a city with four million motor vehicles, with road users utterly lacking the self preservation instinct, or any respect for others' life or property, only four or five souls transmigrate from the streets of Delhi every day. Even the most die-hard atheist is likely to start believing there is some divine intervention. A victim a day Theoretically only human beings can have driving licenses. However, in Delhi, I wonder if that is true. Are Blue Line bus drivers androids or terrorists or a unique species? Painted on the outside of each bus is the legend: Propelled by Clean Fuel. What is not painted is: Driven by demonic fury. The decrepit condition of these buses would convince even a dodo that they cannot be controlled mechanically. They must be controlled through psycho kinesis. The android drivers are devoid of any human civility. Their daily prayer seems to be: Oh Lord, give me this day my daily victim, but deliver me from prosecution! From a spiritual perspective, this teaches you about paradoxes. Life is full of them. Probably the most recognised is the paradox of good and evil. Some human beings are good, some are evil. Most of us are somewhere in between. This is the basic stuff of life. Some schools of spirituality believe that if you are not always stretching yourselves to the limit, then you are not evolving as human beings. Motorcyclists in Delhi are hardcore adherents of this school. Like moths, who hurl themselves into flames, they hurl themselves before cars, buses and trucks. Delhi bikers are automatically enrolled in a secret society the objectives of which include running through red lights, cutting across several lanes in front of hurtling traffic, and tempting death as frequently as possible. Like trapeze artists, their aim is to tempt fate but not let the soul separate from the body. But the eternal wheel of life necessitates that some will. Darting through traffic, hitting wing mirrors of as many cars as possible, fatalists one and all, they risk anything to gain that split second advantage. Proving the primacy of mind over matter is important for spiritual development. Inculcating humility is essential to spiritual growth. However, if one didn't encounter arrogance how would one recognise humility? To teach us humility we have the call centre cab drivers. They are easily recognisable by their battered white Qualises, Taveras and Innovas with yellow plates, usually bearing HR and UP numbers. Most of them also fashion their looks after Bollywood villains. Unmindful of minor irritants like traffic rules, they go haring around the city scraping cars, kerbs and anything else that comes in their way. They are true spiritual masters because they put the fear of God into people. Immutable rules Spiritual teaching is also imparted by three-wheeler drivers. Their chariots are painted green, because they drive on CNG, an eco friendly fuel. But their friendliness is limited to their
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colour. They also have a secret society with some immutable rules. One, you must not drive in one lane, always straddle two. Second, you must not allow anybody to overtake you. Three, you must turn around suddenly, and frequently, in the middle of the busiest road without first looking to see if there is any traffic behind you. Four, you must drive with only one hand (the one on the accelerator) and one foot, the other one is usually tucked under your bum (a new asana?). Five, you must overcharge. Six, thou shall resist going to the destination of the passenger. Seven, you must park three or four abreast on busy roads. Their rear view mirrors are pointed inwards towards themselves: Know thyself, our scriptures remind us! Their ear-shattering engines, and blaring Bollywood music, drown out all other road sounds including the warning horns of other road users. Oblivious of everything except potential passengers, they believe that what they don't see does not exist. Woe betide anybody who comes in their way. They teach us serenity. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Remember, all of God's creatures must have equal rights on earth. India has the largest cattle population in the world, and the second largest human population. Delhi's roads are the natural habitat of both. Being both social and spiritual, our neighbourhood cows have frequent conferences, meditation and cud-chewing sessions in the middle of the busiest roads. Occasionally a cow or a buffalo will step off the kerb, from behind a bush on the road divider, just as you are driving up. If your reflexes are not as good as Schumacher's then instead of spirituality you will attain divinity (heavenly abode). The second category of pedestrians, technically members of the species homo sapiens, are only distinguishable from the four legged variety by their physical features, not by their behaviour. Both species roam the roads freely in the midst of Kafkaesque traffic and believe that the date and time of death are preordained. That is the abiding lesson for the student of spirituality. In most countries, when going around a rotary, the rule is that the vehicle already on the rotary has the right of way. In this city of high fliers and climbers, we actively promote brinkmanship and risk taking! After all without inner strength how could we ever hope to deal with Pakistan and terrorism? So, the rule is: when you approach a rotary, you sit on the horn and the accelerator, heading for the gap which must appear magically between two vehicles. As divinely ordained, it usually does. However, sometimes the inscrutable cosmic forces are out of synch, and the gap closes. Roads littered with splintered glass bear testimony to the fact that man has still not overcome all cosmic forces. In this sport, the police set the example. After all, as law enforcers, they don't have to observe it. Gods are always above terrestrial laws. Tu jaanta nahin mai kaun hu-n? is a spiritual question that erring drivers often put to traffic policemen. Who am I? is a question all spiritual seekers ask themselves daily. For those seeking to understand the mysteries of the universe, there is much to learn here. Somebody once defined spirituality as the attempt to be in harmony with the unseen order of things. In Delhi you begin to believe that there must be an unseen order in operation, and that there is harmony in chaos. The Good Book says the meek shall inherit the earth. We know that, no matter how powerful or agile your chariot, there is always someone more powerful or more aggressive. Drivers who want to stay healthy in Delhi take the middle path, as recommended by the Buddha. They have realised that excess of striving leads to scrapes and excess of relaxation leads to eternity.

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Detachment, we have been told, is an important element of spiritual development. No matter how evolved your driving may be, some time, somewhere some dude is going to hit your beautifully maintained car. At that time, you must remember that you are not your car. You are not even your body. You are only an instrument of God. You must forgive those who know not what they do. Om Shanthi, shanthi, om! Noni Chawla is a photographer based in New Delhi.

Rural retreat
MADHUMITHA SRINIVASAN

September 3, 2011

Ideal for a weekend break, Mangala Heritage Home in Thirupugalur, Tamil Nadu, comes with all urban comforts. Thirupugalur is your quintessential village perfect for a country getaway. Though largely unchanged, it has not been able to escape the clutches of urbanisation, albeit minimally. One room houses with their thatched roofs accessorised with a satellite dish; nursery school vans plying on single lane katcha roads; a young temple elephant caretaker going about his job with a latest Tamil movie number belted out by his mobile phone for company. May be it is just the beginning; may be it is all the village will give way for. Whatever be the case, it is the perfect place to get away from the mechanical madness that is the bane of an urban lifestyle. But a break in a village need not necessarily mean you have to do without the comforts you are used to at home or even better ones. Mangala Heritage Home promises just that a perfect rural break with all the urban comforts. Arriving at the village after being on the road for over seven hours, we were desperately on the look out for a building that would stand out from the other houses in the village. In fact, till the vehicle stopped right before the home, we couldn't tell it from the rest; it was just like any other house in the village, but just a little newer. Traditional The Spartan exterior was a contrast to what the home was like inside. It is a traditional Chettinad-style house that is in two parts the front portion with the open courtyard right in the centre, two bedrooms and a yard; and the back portion beyond the yard with the kitchen, dining area and two more bedrooms. It's not the structure, but what Shanta Guhan, member of The Crafts Council of India, and architect Benny Kuriakose, credited with designing Dakshinachitra, have done to it. The facelift comes from the contrastingly painted walls (bright yellow, blue and orange), polished pillars, double wooden swings, framed artwork, brass artefacts, cement bathtubs to brass fittings in the bathrooms. The contradiction is not just in the wall colour or between the exterior and the interior, but in the fact that the former owner sold the property to move to the city seeking better fortunes and it was bought over and renovated to house those wishing for a break from that very city.

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With just four bedrooms, privacy is ample; even when you are sitting out on the verandah, the villagers go about their business, except may be a few kids trying to while away a Saturday evening. This, by the way, is one of the things you can do to pass time strike up a conversation with the curious kids. A simple smile is all it takes to encourage them to gather around and start chatting. You English or Tamil? I speak both. Are you from Chennai? Yes. Is Chennai the same as Tiruchi? !!! After such insightful conversation, you could perhaps glance beyond the courtyard to look at the magnificent fourth century Agneeshwarar temple's gopuram overlooking the entire village as if to constantly remind them of the higher power. That was the very reason why gopurams were built that way in the first place, just that later man decided to take over with taller structures. The temple, along with the temple tank around which the village is built, makes for a lovely sight. You could also admire the view from the stone benches across the house except that the goats might not be so pleased to give up that seat in the evenings. Friendly environment The experience is enhanced by the friendly staff who are only happy to help and also keep you company when in need for a conversation giving insights into the village and its activities. They also cook up some delicious simple, home-cooked vegetarian meals and savouries, adding to the homely factor. No wonder then that they chose to call it Mangala Heritage Home. Barring the occasional power cuts and not having much to do except for the spirituallyinclined (every adjacent village or town has a temple of significance and there are also the famous Velankanni church and Nagur Darga), a weekend here should serve as your ideal retreat, or a short stop en route. For details on Mangala Heritage Home, look up: www.mangalaheritagehome.in

Exhilarating Edinburgh
Aparna Karthikeyan

September 3, 2011

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A city that has inspired some of the world's greatest wordsmiths, fittingly hailed as the first UNESCO City of Literature, and where, you're as likely to bump into an author or his/her muse round every bend welcome to Edinburgh. I had never met a real character before, until, that is, I met the lovely Dilly Emslie. Immortalised in Alexander McCall Smith's novels (the 44 Scotland Street series), Dilly commented just as she does in the books, over a cup of coffee, in Edinburgh's gorgeous New Town that people assumed her character was entirely fictional because of her unusual name! And therein, I thought to my-mighty-chuffed-self, walking back home with an all-too wide grin, lies the charm of Edinburgh. This strikingly beautiful city, home to world-famous authors and poets, is simply teeming with references to people and places. Walk up any mound which, on a city built on seven hills, is aplenty and the sight (actually the stiff climb, but never mind) simply takes your breath away. Well, it certainly did ours, the day we set out to explore Calton Hill, recommended by Robert Louis Stevenson, in Edinburgh: Picturesque Notes: Of all places for a view, this Calton Hill is perhaps the best. Barely minutes from the commercial heart of Edinburgh, this pudgy little hill is generously sprinkled with monuments, the sky-line dominated by, famously, a folly, (unfinished model of the Greek Parthenon), and another commemorating Robert Burns, the celebrated Scottish Poet. Downhill, in the middle-distance, as if to offset Princes Street's unexceptional string of chain-stores, the magnificent Scott Monument soars into the sky, much like the works of Sir Walter Scott himself. With a crisp, cold wind flirting with the silvery-white clouds, and mellow sunshine gilding the fortress-like Edinburgh castle, we were, that day, rewarded with rare, sweeping views of Old and New Town Edinburgh. Slashed by narrow, dark, claustrophobic closes, and spires that puncture the air (McCall Smith) the Old-town's Gothic starkness was considerably softened by the cheerful New-town, with its airy squares and stately Georgian residences. And it is this shocking dichotomy that is supposed to have, in some ways, inspired R.L. Stevenson to pen his especially macabre tale the Strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Stevenson himself was born and educated in Edinburgh, and he lived here, off and on, until he was 29. One of the houses he lived, a majestic Georgian town-house at 17, Heriot Row (now a private residence) still carries a plaque in his memory, on the handsome cast-iron lamp by the red-door. Inscribed with a few lines from the talented poet/ author's The Lamplighter, the words easily invoke an aura of the days when the world functioned by the shaky puddles of light cast by hand-lit street-lamps. (And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light, O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight!) And not very far, was the genteel Scotland Street with its non-existent door-number 44, peopled by characters that anybody who's visited Edinburgh can identify with which becomes, almost a minor character in several Alexander McCall Smith books! Caf's and Museums
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Marching up the Old-town, after that idyllic romp through the New-town, however, invoked mixed feelings. There was, of course, the million goose-bumps racing up the spine, thrilling at the thought of walking in the footsteps of so very many men and women of letters. But some of the shine was somewhat rubbed off by forbidding place names (Fleshmarket Close, the setting and title of Ian Rankin's crime thriller, featuring his extremely popular detective, Inspector Rebus) and pubs named after seedy characters (Deacon Brodie's Tavern). And so we hurried to a cheery red caf near-by, where the picture window was obscured by dozens of tourists, all pointing the sharp end of the camera at the words Birthplace of Harry Potter emblazoned in gold. A visibly star-struck daughter, by then saucer-eyed with excitement, mooned over the sign, even as we walked into The Elephant House Caf, now, clearly, a shrine to the whole Harry Potter phenomenon. Rowling, we're told, wrote the books in the backroom, and the atmosphere and splendid views (a particularly photogenic view of the castle is directly in the line of vision) invites aspiring writers. People-watching, we discovered, was a popular past-time here, and we too sat and watched a chap writing the oldfashioned way, chewing his pen and frequently glancing up at the castle, as if for inspiration! Writer's Museum From there braced with delightfully fragrant coffee and cakes it was but a short walk to the Writer's Museum. A tribute to three of Scotland's most famous sons, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns and R.L. Stevenson, this wonderfully laid-out museum tells interesting tales of the storytellers themselves. But it was in the basement that the exhibits came alive, thanks to two enthusiastic and highly knowledgeable volunteers Ian Gardiner and Mitchell Manson, committee members of the R.L.S. Club. Starting with a picture of little Stevenson dressed as a girl (in 1850's, upper classes of Scotland always dressed up little boys as girls to prevent them from being kidnapped, to be chimney-sweeps), and moving on to his life and times in the glorious city, they made me feel, at the end of the tour, that Stevenson was a dear old friend! I came away, that evening, my head buzzing with words and names, and I couldn't help recalling Alexander McCall Smith's comment (in an essay in The Sunday Times, UK) If you find yourself in exhilarating surroundings, you work accordingly. And Edinburgh certainly provided that exhilarating backdrop, didn't she?

Memories of Faiz
Rakhshanda Jalil Faiz Ghar aims to promote the humanistic ideas of the poet-activist while celebrating his multi-faceted personality. A trip to Lahore is incomplete without a visit to Faiz Ghar. My visit becomes all the more memorable when my guide is Ali Madeeh Hashmi, the poet's grandson. A practising psychiatrist and Professor at the King Edward Medical College, Hashmi is one of the founder-trustees of Faiz Ghar. He, along with his mother and aunt (Faiz's daughters) are at the forefront of a movement to collect whatever remains of Faiz's tangible legacy be it some of his letters, personal effects, papers and memorabilia.

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Located in a bungalow in the sprawling Model Town neighbourhood not far from the house where Faiz spent the last few years of his life Faiz Ghar is a unique experiment. Part museum dedicated to Faiz memorabilia, part open space for the city's creative people to practise and pursue their diverse interests, the house itself is leased to the Faiz Foundation by an admirer of the poet's for a token rent of one rupee a month. Launched a little over two years ago, on March 1, 2009, the Faiz Ghar is a project of the Faiz Foundation Trust, set up for the promotion of the progressive and humanistic ideas of Faiz Ahmad Faiz (1911-1984). It celebrates different aspects of this multi-faceted man poet, activist for human rights and liberties, journalist and editor of literary magazines, trade unionist, film lyricist, founder of public cultural institutions, and, of course, one of the finest, most compelling poetic voices to have emerged from South asia. After Iqbal, the greatest Urdu poet, like Iqbal a resident of Lahore and a Punjabi, Faiz took to poetry like a bird takes to song. An effort supported almost entirely from the family's own resources and the contributions of Faiz's friends and admirers, needs a substantial and sustained infusion of funds and resources. Till someone with sufficiently deep pockets comes along, the dedicated people behind the idea of Faiz Ghar are doing splendidly well with a judicious mix of ingenuity and technology. A facebook page brings together Faiz lovers from across the globe allowing them to speak and exchange notes on a virtual platform. Activities for everyone A slew of interesting activities offer a variety of delights for different age groups Urdu Baithak/Sing along sessions, music classes, workshops on poetry appreciation (especially Faiz's), art appreciation classes by the poet's artist daughter, Salima Hashmi, documentary and film screenings, and much else besides. The proceeds from registration fee go to Faiz Ghar, as do the monies raised through the sale of souvenirs such as music cds, t-shirts, books and other memorabilia.

A defining moment....
AROON RAMAN

August 27, 2011

It was a sublime experience to stand at the summit of Kala Pattar and gaze at Mount Everest and the almost impossible remoteness and purity of the landscape over which it reigns one that has been irresistible to so many men and women over the years I am alone. A cocoon envelopes me; a grey nimbus of fatigue, torpor and pain. The icy December wind sweeps in from the northeast and howls along the mountain like a hurricane. It slices into you like a surgeon's knife, cutting to the very bone, laying you bare against the mountainside. I draw long, shuddering breaths; no amount of air that I pull into my lungs seems to suffice. The altimeter in my watch reads 18,300 feet, the baro pressure at 54 hPa. At these pressures, the atmosphere is so thin that the oxygen levels have dropped to almost 50 per cent of that at sea-level. My muscles are screaming with each step. I look up for the umpteenth time. The summit of Kala Pattar is etched stark against an azure sky. It looks deceptively close, but then it's looked

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this way for almost three hours ever since I started up this black, boulder-strewn mound at 5.00 a.m. 8:50 a.m. A gloved hand claps me on the shoulder. I look up to see my guide Dawa's face crack into a wide grin. Congratulations, Sir, you've done it. He sweeps his arm. Look! In our lives, we all experience some defining moments that become embedded in memory, in the inner recesses of the self, for all time. I turn and there it is spread out before me: a panorama often described as one of the most astonishing views on earth. Dead ahead is a gigantic massif of rock and ice. The immense wall of this colossus is riven everywhere into a million folds like the flesh of some pre-historic creature; then it all coalesces into a triangle at the apex where the summit of Nuptse lances the sky at 25,850 feet. To its left a sweeping curve of ice rather like a ski slope ends in a mass of tumbled blocks at the foot of the massif. This is the famous Western Cwm that ends in the Khumbu Icefall. Such is the scale of the vision that unfolds before us that boulders of ice hundreds of feet high appear like children's playing blocks. But it is to a black triangle behind the two frontal peaks to which my eyes are inexorably drawn. It sits quietly, a backbencher that wishes to draw no attention. The wind chill is intense, but the fatigue and pain have faded. Instead I am suffused by an almost religious sense of awe. For, this is Chomolungma, or saint-mother' to the Tibetans, Sagarmatha to the Nepalis and Everest to much of the world; at 29,038 feet, the highest formation on the surface of the planet. Remembrance For close to two centuries since its emergence as a unified country in the late 17th century, Nepal remained closed to outsiders a land of extraordinary myth and mystery. All foreigners were forbidden in the country beyond the Terai, a swamp country well to the south of the Great Himalaya. British surveyors who were busy mapping the Indian subcontinent in the 19th century had perforce to set up their measuring instruments in the Terai to map the snowy ranges to the north as best they could from a distance of 150 miles. In these earliest surveys, one peak dominated the horizon: Kanchenjunga, at 27,500 feet long regarded as the world's tallest mountain. However, sitting well behind and to the left, the surveying team sighted another perceptible but rather indistinct' summit. First called Peak b' and then Peak XV, it seemed to show a maddening promise, perennially hidden by clouds and compounding the already serious problems of estimating barometric pressures and temperatures over such a distance. The survey struggled on for another two years, at the end of which it concluded that this summit measured at 29,002 feet was probably the highest in the world'. In 1865, in a contentious meeting of the Royal Geographical Society in London, Peak XV stamped itself clearly on public consciousness when it was decided to name it Mount Everest (after George Everest, the Surveyor-General who completed the Great Arc of India). But it remained as remote as ever: a distant spire of mystery deep in a hidden land. The British secret expedition to Tibet in 1903 under Sir Francis Younghusband was the first to take some of the earliest definitive photographs of the mountain from a distance of about
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90 miles, but now from the Tibetan northeast. Among the first dispatches was one by Younghusband: the first streaks of dawn gilding the snowy summits of Mount Everest, poised high in heaven as the spotless pinnacle of the world. Triumph and tragedy This is not the time and place to recount the high drama of early attempts to tackle the mountain. Suffice it to say that by now Everest had fired the imagination of the mountaineering fraternity the world over. The 1922 and 1924 expeditions saw triumph and tragedy; triumph that human beings crossed a height of 28,000 feet for the first time, tragedy that these attempts cost several lives. The most famous casualties were those of George Mallory and Sandy Irvine, who disappeared during their summit push on June 8, 1924, leaving behind a sort of whodunit' of mountaineering (their bodies were found several decades later). Other assaults were made on Everest during the 1930s. One was by the mad Yorkshireman' Maurice Wilson who, incredibly, decided to fly to India in his second-hand Tiger Moth, crash-land his plane on the lower slopes of Everest, and make a solo push for the summit. Climbers even today come across Wilson's remains, which crop up with bizarre regularity upon the Rongbuk Glacier. Despite several serious attempts that came tantalisingly close to the summit, the mountain held out against all comers, time and again defeating them with its weather, altitude and terrain. The Chinese occupation of Tibet in 1951 suddenly sealed off the mountain but, as one door shut another opened, with Nepal unexpectedly permitting an approach to Everest the first from the southern side. Prelude Eric Shipton the pre-eminent Himalayan mountaineer of his day led the 1951 recon expedition. It was a path-breaking effort: for the first time, the menacing Khumbu Icefall was breached and the Western Cwm attained. A more controversial product of the expedition was what appeared to be definitive photographs of the footprints of the yeti the abominable snowman' of legend. The ascent of Everest 1953, then, was a crucial year. It was the turn of the British to take a stab at the mountain and the pressure on them was enormous. The Swiss had almost succeeded in 1952 (with Lambert and Tenzing reaching 28,210 feet) and it was clear the mountain would be climbed and soon. This brought in an element of ruthlessness into the calculus of deciding who would head the expedition. Shipton was dropped in favour of Colonel John Hunt, a thruster' who brought military-style siege tactics to the problem of Everest. May 29, 1953 saw two men camped on a narrow ledge at 27,900 feet on the ridge leading to the South Summit of Everest. At 4.00 a.m. it was very still. I opened the tent door and looked far out across the dark and sleeping valleys of Nepal. The icy peaks below us were glowing in the early morning light. So wrote Edmund Hillary as he and Tenzing Norgay started for the top. After seven hours of a draining, never-ending climb over some very tricky ground, they reached the top at 11:30 am. The pinnacle of the world had at last been attained.
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Aftermath As Walt Unsworth has observed, the ascent of Everest ranks along with Scott's epic journey and Stanley's discovery of Livingstone in terms of the universal acclaim with which it was greeted. The weeks that followed present a fascinating picture of the summit pair especially Tenzing caught up in the maelstrom of the racial and colonial politics of the time. It was exactly as one of the expedition members, Wilfred Noyce, had predicted: the Everestof rock and icewould give way to another Everest, the Everest of public acclaim, adulation, sycophancy and misunderstanding.' Descent The lines of Everest are etched clear and sharp, the mountain seemingly close enough to reach out and touch. I take a shuffling step and fling my arms wide and suddenly it is not just Sagarmatha, but the soaring peaks everywhere around me: the perfect equilateral of Pumori to my left, Lingtren, Khumbhutse, and the great spire of Ama Dablam to the south. There is an impossible remoteness and purity to this country of the high Himalaya that sweeps up the spirit, and I am a pilgrim looking upon a promised land'. An arm plucks at my sleeve. It is Dawa, signalling that we should begin our descent. In this cold, he says, we stand a chance of overexposure. I stare at him, a little disoriented. A line of Victor Segalen strays into the mind: Seek relief from sound in silence; let yourself/be drawn back from silence towards sound. It is time to get back. Aroon Raman is a research and innovation entrepreneur. E-mail: raman.aroon@gmail.com

Desert calling
Aftab H. Kola This is the best time of the year to visit Dhofar in Oman when it is lush and verdant. Come June and a region in the Sultanate of Oman erupts with a swirl of mist rolling around the mountains with a drizzle almost every day. Very unusual in this part of the world! The governorate of Dhofar with Salalah as its capital in the southern region of Oman, once a major source of ancient world's most-priced commodities frankincense, turns into a Swisslike landscape to the delight of thousands of tourists from the Gulf and the Middle East who come to savour the scenery and the weather while at home it is a baking 45 C. And for lakhs of Indians settled in Oman, Dhofar reminds them of Kerala. Tourism festival For the natives, the highlight is the Salalah Tourism Festival (STF) held annually from July 15 to August 31 which celebrates the khareef. This year due to Ramadan falling in August, the Salalah Tourism Festival was held in July. The local municipality of Dhofar hosts a

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gamut of cultural and entertainment events which attracts locals from different pockets of the country. The Dhofar region is a panorama of sights and packed with historical and religious places. Religiously, the place is home to a few tombs of prophets. A winding road ascending one of the many summits in the Jabal Qara mountain range sheathed in greenery leads to the mausoleum of Prophet Ayub (Job in Bible). On the sides of the road one can watch people camping amid the green environs. In downtown Salalah, one can also visit Prophet's Omran grave. Another interesting religious sight, in Salalah, is an enclosure which houses a rock with the footprints of Prophet Salih's she-camel. For those historically inclined, Dhofar is replete with many sights having celebrated visitors like Ibn Batutta and Marco Polo. One can visit Khor Rori Samharan, one of the oldest and most important archaeological sites in Oman, or Al Balid, a walled city of yore which is on UNESCO World Heritage list. Part of Al Balid Archaeological Park is the Land of Frankincense Museum. Famous world travellers like Marco Polo (1254-1324) and Ibn Battuta (1304-1377) pointed out in their reports the splendour and wealth of the medieval port city of Al Balid. In historic times, the famous Omani frankincense and Arabian horses were exported from there. Now, a big traditional resort (Balid resort) is being planned in its vicinity. Yet another interesting sight is the Lost City of Ubar (Shisr). Dhofar is famous for frankincense, the signature scent of Arabs and especially Oman. History tells us that frankincense used to be a major source of income for Dhofar natives some 8000 years ago. It is believed that the Queen of Sheba had dispatched a boatload of frankincense as a gift to Prophet Sulaiman (Solomon). Frankincense trees still grow here in a place called Wadi Dawkah, 40 km from Salalah. However, quality frankincense is available for sale from the Haffa souq (market) in Salalah downtown. Dhofar is tinged with spectacular landscapes including cliffs, khawrs (lagoons), bays, beaches and amazing mountain drops. Among the most popular ones is the Mugsayl area with a beach framed against sculpted mountains. Here, the main attraction is the blowholes formed in the limestone rock, where plumes of seawater can reach a height of 30 meters or more. Tourists enjoy getting soaked in the water rockets. A drive to the Yemen border, not very far away, is recommended if you are adventurous. At Wadi Darbat, you are welcomed with a green carpet. The area is full of beautiful green patches against the backdrop of picturesque landscapes, brooks and waterfalls. Oman is endowed with several springs and in Dhofar as you come across several of them while visiting the place. Among the popular ones are Arzat, Jarzeez, Sahnout, Athoum and Hamran springs. Bird paradise Tawi Attar, literally, the Well of the Birds, is a huge natural sinkhole within a massif and is worth a visit as to how nature creates its own landscape. Here, avid bird-watchers have plenty of photo-opportunity. Amid the bountiful settings of a leafy canopy on the outskirts of Salalah thrives an abundance of coconut palms, banana, papaya, sugarcane, custard apple, sapota trees. But what tourists relish is the tender coconut (locally called mishli) which is available in abundance unlike
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other parts of Oman. A visit to Salalah's Dahariz area which abounds in fruit orchards is a must. During the rains Dhofar beckons! The ideal season is from mid-July to end of August. Buses from Ruwi (Muscat) ply daily to Salalah. There are flights from Muscat, UAE to Salalah on a regular basis. There are plenty of furnished accommodations and budget to star hotels in Salalah. Aftab H. Kola can be contacted at aftabkola@gmail.com

Where the sands turn orange

Thomas Abraham

August 6, 2011

A must-do on your itinerary, the Desert Safari in Dubai is filled with ups and downs, good food and great dancing. It took me my fifth trip to Dubai, last winter, to experience the Desert Safari; justifiably item no 1 in the things-to-do-in-Dubai list. And, am I glad I did! Mike, the Filipino driver of our Toyota Land Cruiser, is punctual and picks me up at three. Already in are a three-member family of Indian origin from San Francisco and a father and son from Brazil, trailing their favourite football team. In the 2-3-1 seating formation, I get to sit with Mike. Off we go out of Dubai some 60 km and Mike stops in front of a wayside shop in the wilderness. He announces a half an hour break and suggests we use the shop washroom because the next break would be hours away. The Pakistani shopkeeper is very hospitable, inviting us in to use the washrooms, past the shelves. Everybody stocks up. Water and soft drinks are twice the normal price and Wrigley's chewing gum thrice. I am sure there will be due reward for Mike and the drivers of seven other Land Cruisers that arrive. Exceptional show Soon we are off in a convoy and off road. As the sand dunes appear, the drivers get active; each Land Cruiser taking off in an unpredictable direction. What follows is a show of exceptional driving skills and diesel power. Some attack the sand dunes head-on, climb up to the peak and then disappear on to the other side. Some stay slanted on the slopes, often sliding sideways, gripping the dry sand in full throttle with torque maximised in low gear. Tyres crunch the dry sand and the occupants heave a sigh of relief as the four-wheel drives manage to stabilise themselves. In the process, they kick up more than sand. For one thing, stomachs churn. (Keep the plastic bag handy if you have a delicate tummy). Soon we reach a sandy mound and everybody gets down. For a while the sand turns orange in the setting sun that soon mellows; even in winter, the Arabian sun is harsh through the day making cap and sunglasses part of the recommended accessories. All around are stretches of sand reaching up to the horizon. It is a humbling experience. The group falls silent in the midst of Nature's expansive 360 presence. By the time we reach the campsite shaped like a fort, the sun has vanished. We are received with tea and dates at the walled camp. The bar is open and food is getting ready. The Afghani chef is making naan piping hot, bubbled and brown it tastes fantastic even without any
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accompaniments. Elsewhere, the sight of four varieties of kebabs on the barbecue scales up our appetite. There are shi-shas (hookahs) and a choice of flavours. You need to pull hard for the vapour to pass through water and the smoke reaches parts the cigarette smoke cannot. I am helped with my shi-sha by an Arab attendant who knows a bit of Hindi. We get talking and he turns out to be Shamsuddin from Chennai. Soon it is my turn to show off my Tamil. In the adjoining stall, Arab robes and head gears are available for keepsake photographs. Tourists are taking turns to be photographed before passing them on to others. How much a dress can change looks! Some really look Arabs. I book the robe and headgear being used by an IT group from Hyderabad. Finding the wait too long, I turn to someone I thought was another Indian and ask him for the headgear, if he was through. He turns out to be one of the genuine Arab attendants. You should have seen his face! Moon watching Picking our food, we sit on flat, large cushions around low tables, arranged in a large circle. The tall Arab MC invites us to moon watching by lying on our backs. It is a starry night washed by moonlight. We settle down to experience the total silence. Nothing stirs. In that zero gravity state, nothing exists except the dark blue sky... We are woken up by the MC announcing the arrival of the belly dancer. She tiptoes in a silver wrap. She is tall and lithe. She soon emerges out of the swirling wrap like a black butterfly. She sways to the tune of Arabic songs, switching between flowing, gyrating and vigorous movements. In between, her belly quivers at an incredible rate, enough to keep pace with trained musicians. That justifies the name to what the uninitiated will otherwise see as a moderately sensuous dance. As the artist departs with a bow, amid lot of applause, the day in an Arab desert comes to a close. In uncharacteristic slow steps I leave the tented camp, role-playing Lawrence of Arabia, feeling as if still attired in the robe and head gear...

A legacy of peace
AADARSH CHUNKATH It took the A-bomb just a few seconds to destroy decades of history and culture. Sixty-six years later, Hiroshima throbs with life. We entered the nuclear age in a spectacular fashion; by bombing ourselves back to pre-Stone Age. But the city that the bomb killed witnessed a rebirth of peace. The unforgettable lesson learned from that fateful August day 66 years ago was put to use when the Fukushima crisis unfolded, about six months ago. Non-violence and peace triumphed to rebuild a community, a city and a nation. The legacy of Hiroshima, today, is a legacy of peace. Lest we forget Through the heart of Hiroshima city flows the Motoyasugawa, one of the six rivers that belong to it. On the right bank of the river is the last remaining physical link to August 6, 1945: the A-Bomb Dome. The wreck of this one building has been untouched and preserved
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as it lay 65 years ago. The half-torn building stands austere. At the helm is the iron railing, twisted by radioactive heat and light into a crown of thorns. During the post-war reconstruction, the citizens of the city had decided that this building should remain so; lest we forget. The city in ruins found an unlikely inspiration: flowers. After the bomb, there spread a wild and disheartening rumour that nothing would grow in the poisonous radioactive environment for 75 years. But soon red oleander flowers bloomed and bamboo shoots sprouted. These little signs of life gave the city hope to rebuild itself. Paper cranes, an enduring symbol of Hiroshima, tell the courageous story of Sadako Sasaki. When the bomb struck, two-year-old Sadako was exposed to radiation but unharmed. She grew up lively and strong and excelled in athletics before falling ill with a swelling in her neck. The diagnosis: leukemia. Sadako's faith was unshaken for she believed in an ancient Japanese fable of folding a thousand paper cranes to fulfil any wish. On her hospital bed, she spent even her last waking hours folding paper cranes. Infused with Sadako's spirit, her friends initiated a movement to build a peace memorial for children whose lives had been blighted. A white path bordered with grass leads from the bridge near the A-Bomb Dome to her memorial decorated with a statue of a young girl holding a big golden crane. Children stop to bow there in prayer. At the cenotaph for the A-Bomb victims, an eternal flame burns. Looking through the arch shielding the tomb stone, the horizon is taken up by the A-Bomb Dome. More than 50000 attend the annual Peace Memorial Day Ceremony on August 6 centred round the cenotaph. The Japanese characters carved over the stone coffin in the cenotaph declare: Let all the souls here rest in peace, for we shall not repeat the evil. From late 19th century, Hiroshima was a vibrant port town with a constant flow of emigrants. Ships carrying Japanese troops to campaigns in Korea and China used to set sail from here. The demands of the World Wars led to rapid industrialisation and it became an educational city' with a flourishing university and numerous technical schools. Nakajima district, over which the bomb exploded, had for more than 300years been a lively centre of commerce and trade. All it took were a few cruel seconds to obliterate decades of history and centuries of culture. The Peace Memorial Museum is a chronicler of the current efforts of Hiroshima towards achieving global nuclear disarmament. More than 19000 objects marking that fateful day are on display. Patches of clothes charred by burned flesh. Lumps of concrete fused with human bones. They seem to scream wordlessly. Children felt the deadliest impact of the bomb. More than 6500 were orphaned and left helpless on the streets. They had to fend for themselves, living in tin shacks and doing menial jobs. Moments of childhood were butchered and left incomplete forever. A dragonfly flitted past in front of me and stopped on a fence. I stood up, took my cap in my hands, And was about to catch the dragonfly when
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I left the house in high spirits, grasping the money mother had given me for ice candy, when Grandfather was tending the many trees and potted plants in his yard. I was riding my tricycle barefoot, when These are among the testimonies of the boys and girls of Hiroshima who lived to tell the tale. Gandhiji considered the bomb the greatest sin in the history of science' and stated, The only weapon that can save the world is non-violence.' This was precisely the weapon Japan employed to resurrect itself. Within 20 years, it hosted the Olympics and was well on its way to becoming a technological and economic heavyweight. Jinshuku, self restraint and Kaizen, constant improvement, became the watchwords. Reconstructed structures The centuries old Hiroshima castle had collapsed under the atom bomb. What towers up today is the reconstructed structure; built brick for brick, true to its original design. From the top of the castle is an eagle's eye view of Hiroshima. The metropolis throbs with life; resolute skyscraper, high-rise apartment buildings and one hundred year old streetcars whizzing by. Nature in Hiroshima is matchlessly beautiful. In autumn the hills are streaked maroon and yellow by the chromatic foliage. Spring snow falls gently like the fading petals of cherry blossoms. August is a hot month but the sea-scented breezes usher in cool relief. You come away with the glow of Hiroshima embossed on the mind like an unfading dream of peace.

Lost treasure
HARIHARAN BALAKRISHNAN Udayagiri and Ratnagiri in Orissa were important centres of Buddhist culture in ancient India. But priceless artefacts of that time are being lost thanks to governmental apathy. I went to Ratnagiri a few days ago with Prafulla Mohanti, another unknown Indian who lives in London for eight months a year, and in Cuttack and his native Nanpur (between Cuttack and the port town Paradip, Orissa) the rest of the year. He has been doing this for the past 40 years. What I found shocked my sensibilities. Here is the story: An hour after we started from Cuttack, the highway with the constant drone of trucks was left behind in the smooth left turn we took. I realised the contrast once we started gliding along a silken road with trees on either side forming an enchanting avenue. Indeed, while approaching Ratnagiri, I was reminded of the Buddhist Viharas of ancient India. Fast disappearing Mohanty recalls his childhood in the area: All those hillocks in Ratnagiri, Udayagiri and Lalitgiri were covered with statues. They were full of them; lying under banyan trees, among frolicking monkeys. They were part of our lives. But nobody understood their importance.
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Then, early in the 1960s, people from the Archaeological Survey of India came to the area and found them lying around. One lady was responsible for taking away the best of the artefacts. Much later, I found some of these statues in the Kolkata museum. Since then, many were sold to foreign antique smugglers by local people. In fact, even I was offered some. He recalls a beautiful sitting Buddha that is no longer there. Most of these priceless artefacts disappeared after the 1960s. My estimate is 80% he rues. Ratnagiri and its neighbouring Udayagiri could have been the cultural capitals of the entire Buddhist world but for the neglect and apathy of the government and people of Orissa and India. That includes successive governments of both. There are, even today, priceless treasures wilting in the wilderness atop hilltops here; unwept, unhonoured and unsung. Most of these, since their excavation, have been stolen, just taken away or simply neglected. A 1000 and more years ago, these places were epitomes of Buddhist culture in India. Fits and starts of excavation during the past few decades more in fits than in starts have unearthed amazing evidence of their importance from the heritage angle. for the world at large, and the Buddhist world in particular. Artefacts ranging in size from gigantic, life-like images of the Buddha to exquisite miniature rock and metal models and niche carvings, adorn the place even today. Some lie in wasteland, a few find a home in the beautiful but illequipped ASI Museum and many more are hopefully safe under Mother Earth. Who takes charge of this heritage that is Orissa and India? The ASI museum is open to the public from 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. (entry Rs. 5.). This threestoried structure with four galleries has a staff strength of five: two permanent and three ad hoc, as per one of them. There is an elegant-looking Yatri Nivas close by, which is yet to be opened. It was completed six months ago. The Chief Minister was to inaugurate it a few weeks ago, but bye-elections prevented it. Now it has to wait for the convenience of the CM, said one of the locals. The officer in charge of the museum is in dual charge for a long time, and comes from Konark (160 km away) a couple of times a week. When I asked the Superintending Archaeologist of ASI for Orissa Dr. AK Patel about the two permanent, three ad hoc phenomenon, this is what he had to say: Yes, we are understaffed, not only in Orissa but in the entire country. Even in Konark, which is a world heritage site, there are only three permanent watchmen. As for protection and conservation of the treasures above and below ground, he lamented The local population is not cooperating. As per the rules, no construction made before 1982 in the protected area can be touched, but anything that came up later can be demolished. We have all the responsibility but no power. We can only request the State government for action, which we have been doing. We have also lodged an FIR about some such constructions, and have written to the Collector. But hardly anything is moving. The local people have even threatened to close the museum. I asked Tapaswini Mahapatra, who spent her childhood in Ratnagiri where she was born, about memories of the place as it was three decades ago. She remembers the annual 3-day festival during the New Year (around April 14) held atop the Ratnagiri hillock where 10,000 to 20,000 people gathered each day. The festival was connected to the temple on the hillock. Dr. Patel said it has since been transplanted to the base of the hillock in the 1990s after ASI discovered Buddhist monuments below its plinth. Tapaswini also remembers a 10-foot high sitting Buddha.

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What can be done Poet-anthropologist Dr. Sitakant Mahapatra, former Secretary, Culture, Government of India and Director-general of ASI, says, ASI has problems of inadequate personnel and funding. I hope there have been positive changes since my time. They should expeditiously complete the remaining part of excavations in Ratnagiri, Udayagiri and Lalitgiri, which are not far apart. Secondly, whatever they have already excavated in the other two places should be brought to Ratnagiri. An annexe to the existing museum can be earmarked for Udayagiri and Lalitgiri. Later, they can have a museum complex for all three sites in the area. Land is still available there, unlike in Bhubaneswar. As I drove back to Bhubaneswar, I could hear and feel the gentle breeze wafting through the Bodhi trees, and the silent peace of the Viharas. I could see the Boudha Bhikshus with their urns- when the mind took me to Ratnagiri as it was a thousand years ago. Soon after reaching Bhubaneswar, I got the mind-shattering news of a tsunami in Japan. Will the tsunami of development wash away all traces of Ratnagiri in future? Or will the people in charge wake up and take steps to conserve this golden heritage?

Morning at the Opera

Janardhan Roye

July 23, 2011

From the temples to the boulevards, food and music to theatre, everything about Paris is dramatic. Paris' Opra seems strangely familiar even if you've never been there before yet simultaneously ethereal, distant. Recently I took the subway that runs north under the Seine and hopped off at Metro Madeleine en route to the historic entertainment district. Coincidentally, mysteriously, at the multi-leveled station in the busy 8th arrondissement as I searched for the right sortie' in the maze of exits and escalators, a blast of lively and yet soulful music stopped me a busker with a violin and pre-recorded music was blissfully putting out the theme from Phantom of the Opra! At ground level stood grandly a stunning ancient Graeco-Roman temple with a colonnade of tall Corinthian columns encircling it. Like the 27 BC All the gods' temple in Lazio, Rome it had the grace and refinement of form and stylistic bravado. But this was Paris. And the building with the proportional harmony' and eye-catching details of The Last Judgment on the pediment was La Madeleine or Mary Magdalene Church. The route taken Begun in 1764, the structure was completed only after the French Revolution. In 1806 Napoleon eyed it to memorialise military triumphs. For various reasons, that didn't happen. Instead the idea shifted to Champs-Elysees and resulted in the commemorative Arc de Triomphe. The completed temple was left stranded. Over the years many suggestions were floated for it library, ballroom, stock exchange, marketplace and even a train-station. Finally, the Catholic Church nudged King Louis XVIII to make it a place of worship. And so it is today, La Madeleine born in 1845.

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After the temple visit' I weighed the heady mix of options in the area for a snack cozy bistros, bohemian cafes and quirky bars and centuries old patisseries and boulangeries. I stopped at Fauchon for a sandwich and hot chocolate. This shop/patisserie/delicatessen is known for fine merchandising and food presentation. Clearly it is the sweet-toothed's ultimate gourmet experience. After that expensive tiffin, I walked to the historic crossroads of Blvd des Capucines, Blvd de la Madeleine, Blvd des Italiens and Blvd Montmartre. Built between 1668 and 1705, these roadways were meant for aristocrats and the upper crust. By the late 19th century, with the Revolution and the eased tension between the old Aristocracy and the growing bourgeoisie classes, a town planner remodelled them for the new Paris. The man, Baron Georges Eugene Haussmann (1809-1892), went about the assignment with clinical efficiency demolishing and replacing the medieval living conditions wholesale housing, streets, drains and sewers, and other structures, to build the Second Empire'. In the process not everyone was happy but several hi-tech innovations became a part of the cityscape including the railways, coupling of steel and glass as construction materials, electricity and gas lit streets. To breathe the air of Paris is to preserve the soul,' wrote Hugo in Les Miserables, and with the new gaslights, a late afternoon walk took on added romance. Chic Parisians thronged the illuminated walkways: elegantly dressed women and men in bow-ties, tails and top hats while horse-drawn carriages and riders cantered by. Up on the hill, buxom farm girls partied with their men in open courtyards, and their smiling, calm, and attractive faces caught in flickering light cast by gaslight became the subject of many an artist. Pierre-Auguste Renoir (18411919) for one caught such moods in The Grand Boulevards (1875) and Moulin de la Galette (1876). These paintings give an idea of urban life in the 19{+t}{+h} century and the relaxing windmill-dependent farming community responsible for wheat, milk and cheese, meats, vegetables, wines and other supplies. Such contrasting scenes have long changed. On this morning, pretty women in outlandish goggles and stylish Lacroix-like clothing flitted by, leaving trails of perfume in the air. As I consulted notes to move around, a gentle tap came on my shoulder. Where you from?' asked a petite wheat-complexioned lady, holding out a warm hand and a camera in the other. She was a writer from Auroville and wished me to take pictures of her and her little red-haired boy. Shortly thereafter she and I chatted and walked. This area is noted for theatre activities', she said, in a charming French accented English, Dumas' famous novel/play, La Dame aux camlias had more than a hundred performances here. Imagine that, if you please.' I soon learnt that Giuseppe Verdi who watched the show, was inspired to make it a musical, La Traviata". We passed tree-lined Blvd de la Madeleine and into Blvd des Capucines. There at building No. 14, at the site of the Hotel Scribe and a magnificent glass roof Caf Lumire was a huge surprise. This was the historic venue of the first ever public screening of a movie! It happened on 28 December 1895 at Salon Indien du Grand Caf. Filmmaker-brothers Auguste and Louis Lumiere screened the first cinematographe', moving pictures' of women workers walking out of a factory. These mystical images flickered on and off the cloth screen as Louis hand-cranked the film through a projector. As the stunned viewers gaped and gasped at the visual treat, the only sound in the hall was the hum, clicks and whir of the optomechanical device apart from an occasional cough from the audience.
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After taking in that exalted atmosphere, and reliving cinema's advent, we moved on and reached what looked like a giant 19th century decorated wedding confection with a glistening golden object on the bluish green topping. This was the sumptuous opera and ballet house, Opra de Paris or Opra Garnier or just Opra. The prominent shiny object was the Olympian deity, Apollo with a lyre. The front faade was replete with friezes, sculptures and busts of composers such as Beethoven and Mozart, and on the ground were the famed lampposts of vestal virgins. The magnificent building is the work of architect Jean-Louis Charles Garnier (1825-1898). Commissioned by Emperor Napoleon III, the project came up on a desolate slushy swampy wasteland, and gave Haussmann yet another chance to showcase the grandeur of the Second Empire'. The opera house is built on a framework of metal girders, and has elaborate gold and multicoloured marble friezes, columns, and statues; red velvet, gold leaf, cherubs and nymphs; grand ornate staircase and a magnificent foyer with a seating capacity for 2,200, and accommodation for more than 450 artists; and interweaving corridors, stairwells, alcoves and landings for the movement of large numbers of people to socialise during intermission. A giant central six-ton chandelier surrounded by a Marc Chagall painting, looms over the audience. The real truth During a performance in 1896, the chandelier broke loose from the rafters instantly killing a spectator. This fed the grapevine with stories of the underground lake, cavernous cellars and candles, and other dark elements and mysterious happenings. People were horrified but fascinated by these tales. Gaston Leroux wove these eerie happenings and emotions into a popular novel, The Phantom of the Opra (1909) and put Opra Garnier firmly on the world stage. In its musical avatar, it is the longest running Broadway show and the most successful entertainment enterprise of all time. In it a soprano diva and a mysterious white masked mentor go about sensually exploring the opera house and their hearts But that is another story.

Backwater hideaway
Akber Ayub Surrounded by waterways and the huge Vembanad Lake, a stay at the 150-year-old Akkarakalam Memoirs is an experience to cherish. A mere 20 ft separated the back of the house from the backwaters. The long languid rear veranda sporting traditional wooden recliners faced the waterway across a small yard. Ripening jack fruits and off-season mangoes hung from gnarled old trees, while slender coconut and areca palms swayed in the light breeze. Green was everywhere from the lush tropical foliage and rectangular lawns to patches of moss on tiled roofs and tufts of grass poking from paved pathways and the pebble strewn yard. I was in Akkarakalam Memoirs, a 150-year-old traditional Kerala house transformed into a homestay. Just 80 km south of Kochi past the charming coastal town of Alappuzha and a
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short drive into the Changanacherry Road, the homestay lies quietly by the waterfront within a 10-acre plot a world away from urban cacophony. Life here moved at a sedate pace, totally tied to the rhythms of the earth imbued with a simple rusticity and a soporific air. And you get to taste that right after check-in. There's nothing flashy about the heritage rooms. Rather, it carries the peace and tranquillity of generations of its previous occupants. The furniture is the same; four poster beds, wooden tables and chairs and wardrobes, all polished and restored to their original sheen. And professional housekeeping sees to it that creature comforts are maintained in five air-conditioned rooms and two cottages. Contemporary comfort The bathrooms though have been given a complete makeover and brought to contemporary standards. But most of the original features of the house have been left intact: A wooden grain cellar called Para, aged doors and windows and flooring, wooden stairway bringing to life a forgotten era and such other venerable symbols, all restored fairly well. The front veranda has been transformed into the dining hall, but with present-day furniture and gleaming cutlery. Food conforms to traditional Kerala cuisine, starting with puttu and appams for breakfast to rice, fish and poultry for lunch and dinner. Add an assortment of spicy vegetarian preparations and other accompaniments and you get classic Kerala food served in a fairly contemporary setting. But it's the famed waterways of Kerala that's the USP of the place. The unique backwaters an interlinked network of canals and lakes spanning 450 km from Thiruvananthapuram to Vadakara create picture postcard scenes of a delightful interplay between verdant earth and winding waterways. Of this, the biggest waterbody Vembanad Lake, stretches from Kodungallur in the north to Alappuzha in the south. And when the rains arrive in early June, the backwaters cast a spell with their effusive charm, compelling even the most harried urbanite to slow down and look, to soak in its sensory riches. And that is best done by undertaking a motorboat cruise. It's a delightful experience, and is complimentary for inhouse guests. But the experience is heightened to another level when you step into a houseboat for a day cruise or for an overnight stay in the Vembanad Lake. Plush airconditioned bedrooms, elegant dining room and a cosy sitting area upfront, all add to the uniqueness of the experience. A perfect means of exploring a magical land conjured up by land and water.

Footloose in the Nilgiris

AKBER AYUB May 29, 2011 An ecological hotspot, the Western Ghats still beckons those who are looking for off-beat trails. And as you ride up there, open up your senses and gear up to rediscover the Blue Mountains. Glenmorgan. The name conjures up images of an idyllic English countryside with sweeping grasslands, meadows and rolling uplands. However, add a scenic lake, craggy mountains
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shrouded in mist and hillsides carpeted in tea plantations and you get Glen Morgan an enchanting locale just 17 km from Ooty, the queen of the Nilgiri Mountains in Tamil Nadu. Or, take Lovedale. No, this is not a lakeside lover's nook, but a hundred-year-old, quaint railway station up in the Nilgiris. Nestled amidst swaying sholas and shrouded in mist for half the year, this station, even today, runs on sturdy but antiquated equipment set up by the British. As elsewhere, the Brits have left their mark on these mountains too. And why not? The scenic splendour of the Nilgiri Mountain range awed the British colonialists, who built their summer camps on these majestic peaks. They also established local administration centres here along with ornate mansions to luxuriate in while the plains withered in the sweltering heat of the Indian summer. Remnants of the colonial era still remain on these hills in the form of picturesque railway stations, buildings reminiscent of Victorian architecture and other quaintly charming edifices nestled amidst groves of eucalyptus and shola. They evoke nostalgia and more in the connoisseurs. However, to the busloads of tourists passing through Ooty on whistle-stop excursions or rushed holidaymakers, they are just part of the scenery. Understandably, these, and the many picture postcard locales outside the commercial hub, do not figure in the average tourist itinerary. However, if you are the type of traveller always looking for that something extra, intrepid and ready to rough it out, then get off the regular tourist trails and explore the outlying areas of these mountains a part of the Western Ghats and declared an ecological hot spot of the world and you will discover delightful spots, splendid views and beautiful vistas, virgin and unspoilt, that would touch you somewhere deep in a special way. Western Catchment, Parson's Valley, Mukurthi Forest Reserve, Moyar, Singara and Segur Falls are some of the not-to-be-missed spots, all within a radius of about 40 km around Ooty. Snowden Peak on the Kotagiri Road that commands a view of Mysore, Wenlock Downs and the Kalhatty Falls are some of the other enchanting spots. The list is not over yet. Avalanche, located about 28 km from Ooty is a nature lover's haunt. Capture their essence, especially at the twilight hours, when they lie veiled in a dream-like, surreal splendour. If you are looking to commune with verdant nature, look no further. Head for these uplands and soak up the energies from these primeval provinces. And while in the Nilgiris, who can miss a ride on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway, sporting the UNESCO-granted World Heritage status? As the twin tracks snake past quilted carpets of green and disappear around hillsides, passengers are buffeted by a crisp, snappy breeze lent fragrant by the soaring eucalyptus that stand all around like mute sentinels. And then the train snakes through inky black tunnels and while the rhythmic exhaust beat of the loco rings out aloud, screams and catcalls of passengers fill the air. Emerging abruptly from a dark tunnel, the narrow, metre-gauge train is poised precariously on a slender viaduct spanning a deep gorge. Little wonder this toy train' covering the 46 km journey from Mettupalayam at the foot of the Nilgiri hills to Ooty has been termed an engineering marvel' considering the precarious gradients, the numerous meandering tunnels through rocky hills, the twin tracks clinging perilously to steep hillsides, and venturing gracefully across numerous viaducts positioned hundreds of feet above mountain streams and gushing rivers. Getting There y Closest Cities: Mysore (135 km) and Coimbatore (100 km) y Closest Railhead: Mettupalayam (46 km), connected to Conoor and Coimbatore y Closest Airport: Coimbatore (100 km)
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Getting Around Self-driven car is best, especially to reach all the must-see out-of-the-way spots. Else, opt for a taxi. Bargain for a day package. Obtain route-maps from your hotel/resort or carry a road map. Pack food and water if headed for outlying areas When to Go: If you're the active outdoor type, the summer is the best time; but if you're a cool romantic pick the winter months. It'll be cold and chilly and everything veiled in mist. However, if you dig the rains and verdant greenery, make it June to Sept. What to Pack: Summer or winter, pack warm cloths, more so if it's the latter. Reliable sneakers, a good camera, and a pair of binoculars if you care for birds, should do it. Where to Stay: Hotels abound in the hills to suit all budgets. Shopping: Try homemade chocolates available in most bakeries and curio shops. Buy winter cloths at the downtown shopping centres. Bargain hunters can head for the row of shops outside the botanical gardens. Try the Ooty tea biscuits - they are crisp, aromatic and delicious. The author can be contacted at akbersait@yahoo.co.uk

Time stands still at Pangkor

HUGH COLLEEN GANTZER This is truly an island of dreams; no wonder its visitors keep coming back for more. It was Never-Never from the start. Our ferry looked like a Yellow Submarine and, from the moment we cast-off, a phalanx of hornbills exploded off the trees and escorted us across: flap-flap glide, flap-flap glide. They looked like a flight of pterodactyls, aerial outriders into a Jurassic Park. Our minds spun with images: of fairy tales and fantasies and delightful absurdities. The mainland diminished into a blur. Pangkor emerged. We strode down a jetty standing in a crystal-blue coral sea and into a different cadence, a slower, deeper, heartbeat. Pangkor is the forested peak of a submarine hill, thrusting out of the sea. Its top was covered with dense rainforests, its edges fringed with white coralline sand, washed with the surf of Malaysia's Bay of Melaka. The grounds of our resort were extensive with their own beach and backed against rising rainforests. The charming Guest Relations Manager, Shelina Fernandez, said her grandparents had come from Kochi but she didn't know if it was from Ernakulam, Vypeen or the Fort. She had been born in Malaysia and was married to an Indian but he could have been of Gujarati or Punjabi origin. Clearly, the first message of Pangkor is if you were born in Malaysia your more distant roots don't matter. Like the children of Peter Pan's Never-Never Land, you have shed the baggage of the distant past,
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Of rainforests and beaches We hired a pink taxi and did the island tour, into the rainforests and down to the fishing beaches. Fat pussycats purred on the sun-striated decks of stilt huts while brightly painted fishing smacks bobbed languidly in a sheltered bay. A man with grizzled hair sat on a beached buoy, whittling a stick. He wished us and said, If you're looking for anchovies, you won't find any here. They sell it all to the fish processing factory We thanked him and then asked Are you French? He thought for a while, It is my accent, of course. But no, I'm Belgian from Ghent. I'm a market gardener. I come here every year to escape. And you? We're travel writers... He nodded to himself. So you write so we can escape... good. But don't bring too many tourists here. It will lose its magic... He nodded again and went back to his whittling... The fish processing factory was squeaky clean, exotic. Everything shimmered in gold fins and plastic packs: dried, pickled, bottled and extracted. A Chinese sales girl dimpled at us and held up a bottle of ruby liquid. This very good for long life. Is sea cucumber oil. Stops aging. We looked around. Do any of you take it? we asked. She dimpled at us again We don't need. We live on this island. Feel young... Which is probably why the market gardener from Ghent kept returning. Next stop, Indian temple our driver-guide said. Here whole village of Indians. Not quite correct because the village had Malays, Chinese and Indians. The Sri Pathira Kaliamman Koil run by the Paribalana Sabha was a rather simple, single-celled shrine on a stretch of sandy beach. The head pujari was a portly young man named Venketaraman Sharma who had been educated in England and had had his priestly training in Chennai. He seemed uneasy with the fact that the local Tamils held their weddings during the day and even on Saturdays. Also, They prefer to have it in halls because here they can't serve NV, but in halls they can. That threw us till we realised that he was referring to non-vegetarian wedding feasts. Clearly, Pangkor has dreamed up its own religious scenario. We had two more stops on this eclectic island. The Fu Lin Kong, identified as a Taoist temple, was brilliantly ornate with gold, crimson and green, sinuous dragons and a carp pond embellished with a warning sign saying. BEWARE. Any accident at own risk. FU LIN KONG not responsible. Thank you. It looked like a picture-postcard Chinese shrine, dramatic against a densely forested hill. It was also said to hold a mystical living drum that grew hair. But, we were told, the keeper of this hirsute instrument was away so we had to forego adarshanof this miraculous artefact. Finally we drove up to the conserved ruins of the 17th century Dutch Fort. The Netherlanders had built it to secure their tin exports. But then, as shown on a massive boulder across the road from the fort, local people - outraged by the arrogant ways of the Dutch - had attacked them. The boulder has a line carving on it showing a tiger pouncing on a boy. One story says that it captures the tragic story of the Dutch Governor's son being killed by a tiger. The other

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story, and a far more likely one, contends that this carving is a symbolic representation of the eviction of the Dutch from the island. This is probably why it is called The Sacred Rock. Personal memories We returned to the resort as sunset was gilding the waters of the bay. Fellow guests, Rolf and Elsie Fischer, told us that they have been coming here for a holiday every year, for many years, occasionally accompanied by their children and grandchildren. They're German, he's a chemical engineer, and they've spent many years in Singapore and are now in Shanghai. This time they were on a three-month vacation unwinding in Pangkor. They said that we were very blessed because we had converted our hobby into our profession. We agreed with them. We did not tell them about our anniversary but they must have guessed it when they saw a cake with candles and a bottle of wine being placed on our table that night. And then a band came and played the tune that we had heard the night before we had left for our first professional trip overseas. Time doesn't cease to exist in Pangkor. It's just that, since everyone is encased in glowing bubbles of very personal memories, time just does not matter.

Quick facts Getting There: By air to Kuala Lumpur and then a 3-4 hour road journey to Lumut Jetty where a 30-minute ferry trip takes you to the island Accommodation: There are 258 rooms in the Resort in the Garden Wing, Pacific Wing, Ocean Wing and 12 exclusive villas Reservations: Pangkor Island Beach Resort, c/o Kuala Lumpur Sales office Ph: (603) 2287 6868. Mail sales@pangkorislandbeach.com mktgkul@pangkorislandbeach.com

Vignettes from an age of war

J. N. Sinha

May 21, 2011

This is a semi-wild terrain on the UP-Bihar border hemmed by the two tributaries of the Ganga the Ghaghara and the Gandak. Though remote and backward, its environment is enticing. Kushinagar, where the Buddha breathed his last, is situated on its west, and Balmiki Nagar, the abode of Valmiki, the author of the Ramayana, in the east. In between the two, one may hear of great yogis Gorakhnath and Bhartharihari. Move on and hints of history wobble out everywhere. To add to the romance of the ambiance, you may hear folklores admiring an obscure but conspicuous hero of the region Maharaja Fateh Bahadur Sahi. Historians do not talk of him; but the locals remember him for his valour and love for freedom. Who is this mysterious hero?
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Fateh Bahadur Sahi was an independent ruler of this region whose territory spread across the Bihar-UP border. He belonged to the erstwhile Huseypur estate of the old Saran district of Bihar, from which descended the later-day Tamkuhi Raj of the Kushinagar district of Uttar Pradesh and the Hathwa Raj of Gapalganj district in Bihar. Of his forefathers, Mayyur Bhat is believed to have come from western India to study Sanskrit and astrology at Varanasi, well before the Christian era. Impressed by his talent, the king of Srawasty married his daughter to him. Initially, Mayyur settled in Azamgargh before moving to Gorakhpur from where he established himself in Saran in Bihar. Among his ancestors, Kalyan Mal was an illustrious king and a contemporary of Akbar. The latter decorated him with the title of Maharaja Bahadur, which Jahangir reconfirmed with an additional title of Shahi, on the 87{+t}{+h} raja, Kshemkaran. Kalyan Mal founded his capital at Kalyanpur (named after him) near Gopalganj, which was later on shifted to Huseypur. It was here that Fateh was born a son to Sardar Sahi, and was crowned as the 99{+t}{+h} king in 1750 seven years before the battle of Plassey. Fateh Sahi's estate spread into the territories of Awadh and Bengal. So, when the East India Company gained control over these areas after the battle of Buxur in 1765, it demanded revenue from him. But he refused to oblige, challenging their legitimacy, and mobilised his supporters against them in 1767. He could be dislodged only when the British troops were sent in from Patna, after which he fled into the jungles of Gorakhpur. But this was not the end of the Company's woes. Many factors helped him pursue his designs, keeping the British in constant panic, such as the geopolitical conditions conducive to his tactical manoeuvres, people's attachment to him, and the popular dislike for the British. Raids from the jungle Although dislodged from Huseypur, Fateh Sahi continued to obstruct the collection of revenue in his former territory by launching raids from the jungle. In 1772, he marched into Huseypur and killed the Company's district revenue farmer. Yet, the British kept Fateh in good humour, fearing his disruptive activities. The district collector recommended his pardon for the murder, and he was allowed to return home at Huseypur. He was offered pension with a promise to stop any military action against him; additionally, he was advised to get full autonomy within his territory in lieu of a payment of Rs. 25 lakh and permission for the circulation of British currency in his estate. But Sahi did not agree; instead, he chose to be on war forever. Two months later, he left home and returned to his Gorakhpur hideout in the Bagjogni jungle. The British then designated Mir Jamal as their superintendent of the Huseypur revenue and the estate was farmed out to Basant Sahi, a pro-British cousin of Fateh Sahi. Taking lead from Fateh, several local chiefs challenged the British authority during 1773-74 and refused to pay taxes. Biding his time, Fateh again marched into Saran in 1775. On May 3, on intelligence about the enemy camping at Jadopur near Huseypur, he dashed through darkness with a 1000-strong cavalry to reach the enemy camp just before dawn. In the bloody skirmish that followed, he killed cousin Basant Sahi and Mir Jamal, and escaped with the booty to his forest fastness. Hundreds were left behind dead and wounded. This happened in spite of the vigil of two companies of sepoys stationed in the neighbourhood to contain him. Basant Sahi's head was cut off and sent to his widow, who committed sati along with 13 aides whose husbands too were killed in the battle. The 14 stupas containing their ashes at Huseypur are worshiped till date.
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During his rebellion in August 1781, Raja Chait Singh of Banaras tried to take advantage of the anti-British uprisings in Bihar. He financed Fateh Sahi, a relation, and encouraged him to kill the British and their sepoys. A formidable alliance was forged among the rajas of Huseypur and Majhauli, and the Padrauna and Narrowneys zamindars. Several zamindars from Saran supported Sahi secretly. In October, they assembled a force of 20,000 men at Munjoora and plundered and captured the Company's military station (established to suppress Fateh) at Baragaon. Panicked and helpless, the Saran Collector Grome approached, for help, the anti-Fateh clique of the royal family headed by Dhujju Singh, a family friend and guardian of Basant's minor son. Together, they fought a bloody war with Fateh and compelled him to retreat to the jungle. His Huseypur fort was razed to ground. In reward, Dhujju was called for by Warren Hastings at Banaras and decorated with a khelat of gold cloth. The British, however, did not dare punish any of the supporters of Fateh, fearing a mass revolt against the British in the region. Fateh did not launch any major attack after that, except periodic incursions. His last raid to Champaran occurred in 1795. There is little information about his life thereafter. According to the Hathwa Raj chronicle, he became an ascetic in 1808. Definitely, he was not caught or killed by the British. Had it been so, they would surely have trumpeted the capture of their dreaded enemy. Generations later In fact, the British were so haunted by Fateh that his confiscated estate of Huseypur was conferred, by Cornwallis, on Chattardhari Sahi of the pro-British branch of the family, much later in 1791 and the title of Maharaja Bahadur not until 1837 (there could not be two rulers Fateh being the original of the same estate). After the demolition of the Huseypur fort, Fateh had established his capital at Tamkuhi where the 114{+t}{+h} generation of his dynasty lives today; the descendents of Basant Sahi moved to Hathwa. The remnants of the Huseypur fort are still extant with numerous memorial spots in the surroundings. Fateh Sahi was probably the first Indian ruler to revolt against the British on such a scale. He waged a guerrilla war against them for about 30 years, without any wavering in his goal to oust them. The British countered him with all their strength and resources. The hectic correspondence among the Company officials, however, vividly describes their frustration and travels, as they were unable to rein him in. They also declared a reward of Rs. 20,000 on his head, but in vain. Frustrated and distraught, they stooped to nasty tricks. Presuming that Fateh would participate in the marriage of his daughter, they surrounded the fort with the British forces and intelligence, waiting for the kill. But they could know of him only after he had left. He dressed as a pundit and walked on the traditional wooden sandals (kharaun) well in front of the waiting soldiers! During the hostilities, Fateh Sahi is believed to have collaborated with the king of Banaras, Mughal Emperor Shah Alam II, nawabs of Awadh and Bengal, and many chieftains and zamindars of UP and Bihar. He received wide and sustained support from the common people and his subject who paid him taxes even in exile. His war against the British may probably be considered as India's First War of Independence and he as its hero. He was a contemporary of Tipu Sultan whom the British defeated and killed brutally; but Sahi was never caught or surrendered to them. He rose against them before Tipu and almost a century before the Revolt of 1857 India's First War of Independence. In terms of determination, and intensity and duration of aggression, Sahi's rebellion surpassed almost all uprisings
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before and after him. Sadly, no historian has worked on him seriously. Of late, there is a sudden surge of interest in him, however. The locals have produced tracts, novels, plays, even an epic on him. (Help received from Vaidurya Pratap Sahi, a 114{+t}{+h} generation scion of Fateh Bahadur Sahi, his family, and Prof. Rai Murari of Patna University is acknowledged gratefully.) The author is Associate Professor of History at the University of Delhi. Email: jnsinha@rediffmail.com

On Chaplin's trail
Neeti Mehra

March 19, 2011

The white-tiled kitchen glows in the dappled sunlight. Aromas waft from the South American cocoa beans and Madagascar vanilla, mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread. Just about then I nearly bite into Charlie Chaplin's shoes. The boots have nowhere to run off to, sitting lazily on the scrubbed white, marble table top. Brown and knobbly, they're identical to those worn by the hapless tramp in the cinematic classic, Gold Rush. The footwear's delectable in its current avatar as chocolate miniatures, I'm told, quite unlike the insipid boiled clog Chaplin gnawed on, while twirling his shoelaces spaghetti-like on a fork, in 70mm. Master craftsman Blaise Poyet, one of the last standing artisanal chocolatiers in Vevey, the birth city of chocolate giant Nestl, coaxed me in to devouring a box of pure sin. Bitter drops, sweet nothings, others soaked in tea, and even a few doused in garam masala a swashbuckling tribute to Mumbai, stained my lips chestnut and strained my seams. I politely declined an offer to nibble into the slippers, quite regretfully Blaise's tribute to the auteur is the only such confection in the world. Flecked with bitterness, you can taste Chaplin's onscreen toughness. Balanced with a sliver of caramel you savour his lovable onscreen persona. Completing the triad of flavours is the pine nut, for you to glimpse his revolutionary style all three making a succulent mouthful of Charles. Artful Vevey I had trundled into the charming lakeside town of Vevey, settled on the shores of Lake Geneva, the night before. Walking through cobbled streets lined with pastel-washed homes and shuttered windows; I passed walls flush with art. An army of giant lobsters crawled up one facade. Boats and noblemen flourished on others. A silver gelatin photograph of a lady of the night was draped across an innocuous looking prison. And a solitary fork was pitched vertically, prong down, in the lake, having fallen straight from the heavens into its watery grave. It's the city's natural affinity to beauty and silence that perhaps drew Chaplin to Vevey. Escaping political manoeuvring, the comedian sought refuge here. He spent quarter of a century in an elegant manor, spending a few more years under the arc lights after he moved here. Chaplin finally hung up his tattered shoes in retirement bliss in Vevey, till he ascended the skies. Strolling by the lakeside I bumped into the man himself. In the centre of a rose
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garden was a moustachioed statue of the tramp. Clasping a rose blossom, he was clad in his trademark suit and bowler hat. Still a favourite with lovely lassies, many, including me, linked their arms shyly with the lovable vagrant, a photograph for posterity. In Wine Country If my nose led me to Poyet's chocolate marvels, my feet took me right into the heart of Swiss wine country. Still hot on Chaplin's trail, I trekked through magnificent vineyard terraces of Lavaux, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. On a sunny day a short train ride from Vevey dispatched me to the village of Chexbres. Cosseted in a stunning landscape, my eyes swept over glacial blue waters, girdled tightly by the Alps. Yonder were unending, meandering rock walls; whitewashed homes with sloping eaves; and an undulating landscape braided with vines of fat Chasselas grapes, a typical white variety that dominates the region. I popped in a few luscious grapes, flicking off the bees buzzing around, and made my way to a tiny fairytale like hamlet, Epesses. Brilliantly coloured homes sat on either side of narrow, crooked streets, leading to the quaint dwelling of Patrick Fonjallaz, the 13th generation in a wine growing family. Sitting under a gazebo on his terrace, with a view of the vineyards and the lake, we savoured a decadent meal. Robust, peppery wine from Fonjallaz's wine cellar was paired with tasty ratatouille, a steaming hunk of pork stewed in pinot noir and perch, plucked fresh from the waters. Groaning cheese platters followed and the meal ended with cake, drenched in lashings of wine. After the decadent repast, we creaked down shadowy steps into his ancient cellar. Lined with gargantuan, cheekily carved wine caskets, Fonjallaz pointed out to a sepia toned photograph hanging in a corner. As a young boy he had met Chaplin, a comical yet memorable encounter at the vineyards, etched sharply in his memory. I squinted at the fading picture taken over half a century ago. Oh he's a tramp, his grandfather had whispered about their distinguished guest. On cue, the tiny Patrick crinkled his nose in disdain for the highly amused Chaplin. As the sun melted into the lake, inky darkness enveloped the lush landscape that had so enamoured Charlie. A few fire flies flitted around, drunk on wine, making merry on crumbs. As we got ready to leave behind Chaplin and his world, I could almost hear the comic having the last laugh. Getting there Vevey is well connected to major Swiss cities by the rail network. Find details of the multi-faceted Swiss Pass at www.swisstravelsystem.ch For additional information on the Lake Geneva Region visit www.lake-geneva-region.ch

No rain cloud over Kumarakom

Vasantha K. Krishnaraj Do you like water, greenery, houseboats and sea-food? Then head straight for Kumarakom. In June every year, with unfailing regularity, the rainclouds begin to discharge their bounty on God's Own Country. Having lived in Thiruvananthapuram, the capital city of Kerala, for the first two decades of my life, I have experienced the magic of the monsoons first-hand. The day the skies open, the schools also reopen. I still remember the thrill of walking to
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school, sloshing about in puddles of rainwater the muddier, the better. And then there was the heady smell of damp earth to intoxicate the senses until one threw all restraint to the winds and did an impromptu rain dance before the startled eyes of passersby. Such was the spell that the monsoons cast on impressionable minds. Yearning for the past When I moved to Chennai I had no idea that one day I would yearn to recapture this memory of my childhood and youth with a longing that people usually reserve for lost love. This year, finally, I decided to revisit the monsoons in Kerala. We booked a room at a home stay in Kumarakom and set off by train a week later. Soon after reaching Kottayam, we were speeding down the narrow road that led to Kumarakom. On the way, the taxi driver showed us a spot where a bus had fallen into the Meenachil a few days back. Eleven people drowned, he said. But the river flowed harmlessly past, betraying no signs of the ghastly tragedy. Disappointingly, the sun was out in all its splendour, with not a single raincloud in sight. Are there no rains here? I asked, crestfallen. My husband stole an amused glance at me. The driver remarked that the roads had been waterlogged two days back. So there was hope yet. At the homestay, we were warmly welcomed by our host. After breakfast, we sat on the porch swing and surveyed the surroundings. Just beyond the manicured lawn, a white picket fence ran around the house. But there was a gap in between where an arched doorwaylike structure had been built. A few steps led down from this point as in a temple pond. Standing here, one could see a narrow strip of water flowing past the house. It flows into the kayal (backwaters), informed our host. As in a dream, I saw a vallom (wooden boat) glide noiselessly past. Just then, a vanload of children on their way to school saw us from the road and shouted excitedly, Sayippu! Madamma! I was astonished because my husband and I hardly resembled foreigners. We get a lot of foreigners here, said our host by way of explanation. I looked up at the sky and asked anxiously, Does it rain here? Our host smiled apologetically. It rained heavily the first week. Now it usually rains in the evenings. My heart sank. My daughter flashed a look that said, I told you so. She had never been enthusiastic about the trip. You want to see the rain? she had asked, rolling her eyes. We planned our itinerary for the day. There was not much to do except go boating in the backwaters or visit the bird sanctuary and the Driftwood Museum. My husband wanted to visit a toddy shop. Our host dropped us off at the place where the motorboat was moored. Huge houseboats idled nearby, sporting fanciful names and fancier furniture. Our boat began its journey at a sedate pace, allowing us to soak in the sights and snap pictures. We spotted several lakeside resorts as we glided by. (Kumarakom had been a sleepy hamlet before Vajpayee's visit put it on the tourist map). It felt very quiet and peaceful. After an hour, the boat came to a stop and we clambered ashore. I saw a modest, green-painted building on what seemed like a small island. It was the only building there. My husband explained, It is a toddy shop. Soon, two glasses, a bottle of milky-looking toddy, and plates of lobster fry, karimeen (pearl spot) fry, kappa (tapioca) and fish curry materialised before us. The toddy was slightly sweet and the food fiery and tasty, complementing each other. The toddy detour over, we got on the boat. Soon we had left the open expanse of water behind us. The boat was now passing through residential areas. Life unfolded before us as we went past. A cradle rocked gently inside a hut, a child sulked on a chair, school children washed their lunchboxes in the water that flowed past their school.I lost all track of time, seduced by the languorous charm of the backwaters. I was reminded of a poem by Tennyson The Lotus Eaters'

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which described a similar state of being. The spell broke when we reached our embarkation point. And it rained... After a post-lunch siesta, we went fishing nearby. The backwaters flowed all around us, so all we had to do was pick a spot and squat. Several young local boys engaged in the same pursuit seemed to have their plastic bags full of fish. We inspected their catch. The fish were small, flat in shape and bony. They didn't look very appetising. Later in the evening, it rained. But it was not like the rains of my memories. No loud claps of thunder, no blinding flashes of lightning, no gusty winds, and, to cap it, the rain fell with breaks in between as if to allow people to go about their business. I felt let down. The next day, we visited the bird sanctuary. Half-way through our trek, it began to rain. We walked on and stumbled upon a vallom' lurking around a bend. The boatman looked at us hopefully and we hopped on. He told us that it took 40-50 lakhs to build a houseboat. In three months, a boat could be readied. Banks gave loans for the purpose. Many farmers had sold their lands and gone into the tourism business as it was more lucrative. Our host at the homestay himself had been a farmer. Scarcity of labour had rendered farming unattractive. An entire way of life was in flux. The profusion of luxury resorts told its own story. Our boatman helpfully guided us to a toddy shop... Sated, we walked to the Driftwood Museum nearby. Climbing up a bridge, I saw a board which read, Aymenem Grama Panchayat Welcomes You.' Stunned, I contemplated it for a few seconds. I was standing in a place immortalised by Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things. The founder of the Driftwood Museum had been a schoolteacher in the Andamans. Her driftwood collection was sourced from there. Some of the driftwood sculptures were amazing, like the nest of birds and the entwined snakes. My eyes were drawn to some lovely oil paintings of the Andamans on the walls. Who painted these? I asked the lady. They were gifted to me, she said dismissively. The next day, Kumarakom slumbered under the benign auspices of the hartal. All shops were closed. The roads were emptied of people and vehicles. We were trapped in the land of lotus eaters. Our host dropped us off at the Kottayam railway station. Luckily, our train was on time. With a sigh of relief, we boarded it. It was time to return to the real, or rather, a hartal-less world.

On the Champagne trail

RAJNISH WATTAS

August 8, 2010

Lush green vines dot the entire region making it not only picturesque but also the land of the bubbly! Last summer, while holidaying in Paris, the piece de resistance of our visit was a gourmet meal at haute cuisine restaurant called Sant Cheers! Raise a toast to the city of romance! It was while savouring the evening that a suggestion about driving to the Champagne region came up. Already high on the bubbly, the proposal could only be met with more vigorous cheers.

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Picture perfect And so, we hit the road to the vineyards of Champagne region, about 140 km north of Paris, meandering through one of the most picturesque countrysides. Rambling through the rolling French plains the land of Renaissance gardens and Baroque palaces it was a real feel of the beautiful land, dotted with quaint villages, fields, clumps of Poplar trees and picturepostcard farmhouses. Occasionally the tranquil, pastoral landscape was interspersed with a small rivulet, a stream or a railway bridge. Finally, after about one and a half hour of driving, we saw vineyards in the distance. It felt so exciting to be right amidst the endless rows of grape vines, growing out of the legendary terroir of Champagne land itself! We got out of the vehicle and bent down to feel the vines in our hands and smell them to check if they had any heady bouquet or aroma! Alas, while they looked lush and green, the fruit was just forming, and one has to wait till September to see grape harvesting or crushing! The Champagne region is the most well defined appellation among the wine growing areas of the world. The predominant grapes of the region are Pinot Noir, Pinot Meunier and Chardonnay. Although Pinot Noir is a black grape, its quick pressing ensures that the colour of the skin does not affect the juice, and subsequently the colour of Champagne. The Marne Valley that constitutes the Champagne region primarily comprises the two towns of Epernay and Reims. The chalky and gentle slopes, ideal for drainage and other attributes, make this a special terroir for producing Champagne. Epernay town, located below the leafy hills, is at the heart of the world's most prestigious vineyards with nearly 20,000 hectares of area with a subterranean world of 200 million bottles ageing in kilometres of cellars below. Epernay is a wealthy looking town, with expensive townhouses and mansions constructed mostly in the 19th century, raised on the wealth from champagne. The road winds through narrow streets, lined with traditional, cosy cottages of wine growers and those working on the vineyards. Quaint roadside cafes, gable-roofed cottages with arabesque and very ornamental railings, lamp posts and cute shop signs dot the townscape. With hardly any traffic on the cobble-stoned streets, a lone cyclist might surprise you! However, as soon as you reach the Avenue de Champagne, legendary Champagne producers of the world are lined up alongside. We pass by the famous Moet et Chandon, Mercier and other cellars. From the ornate and gilded gates of the Moet ET Chandon, one can see the statue of the famous monk Dom Perignon, who evolved the process of double fermentation, for producing bubbly wines. A famous landmark of Epernay is De Castellene cellars. Its 1905 wooden tower dominates the town and you get good views across the structure, which is akin to a mini Eiffel Tower' of Epernay. Inside the courtyard of the wine house, are displayed a fine collection of antique riddling machines and hand presses, bringing back the bygone era of Oak casks and mechanised pressings. Just across the road is the famous house of Mercier, the best-selling Champagne of France, where we have a rendezvous for a guided tour. From outside, the building is strikingly modern, with brick walls, glass facades and sweeping concrete cantilevers an architectural contrast to the other historic structures of the town. The new visitor centre is built around the world's biggest barrel made in 1889 by Mons

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Mercier, the founder of the Champagne house for the Paris expo; and is now its main showpiece. As we're admiring the other memorabilia on display, more visitors collect and it's time for the tour to start. Our guide, an immaculately attired expert, welcomes us, and were taken to a mini-auditorium for a presentation on the history of the Mercier house. And then very dramatically you descend in a lift 30m below, and board a laser-guided train for a tour of the 18km- long cellars, which were once Roman mines for chalk. Along the dank, dark and dinghy cellars are lined crates of inverted wine bottles, to let the contents mature. It's both fascinating as well as a little eerie to be inside the cellars. But for the workers and the wine making experts, it's just another day in the office! You wonder about the timeless secrets hidden in these cellars, which lie behind the famous sparkles that pop out of every Mercier a bottle! Once you have experienced the mysteries of Champagne-making, it's good to be out in the light, taken for tastings and to go to the Souvenir shop. At the bar there is an array of bottles and we're offered small helpings by sommeliers to taste the various Mercier brands, including their Pink Champagne! As glasses clink, the hall resounds with happy cheers! It is said that drinking Champagne in Epernay is like listening to Mozart in Salzburg! And truly so. You are not obliged to buy any Champagne, especially if you have paid for entrance, but it's rather nice to get a bottle or two having watched the manufacturing process. Also, the souvenir shop has all kinds of Champagne paraphernalia from ash trays to scarves to champagne buckets and bottle-stoppers. But they are frighteningly expensive, so I make do with buying a wine thermometer, making sure that I have my bubbly at the right temperature. But before we say goodbye to the Capital of Champagne, we take a walk in the adjoining Mercier vineyard, to once again lovingly feel the tiny grapes peeping out of the leafy masses, smell them and taste them. I can almost see the tiny bubbles pouring into slender flutes' playing out their celebrated magic as the corks pop up!

Close encounter of the striped kind

Hugh Colleen Gantzer At the National Park of Pench, the animals seem to have a strange connection with Kipling's novel and one cannot help but feel that this is Mowgli Land. Hugh and Colleen Gantzer For three magical days we were children again. It all started in the high balcony of our room in Kipling's Court at the forested edge of MP's National Park of Pench. Below us sparkled a rocky jungle stream and, beyond, stretched the forests of Seoni. There, the Victorian Nobel Laureate, Rudyard Kipling, had set his Jungle Book. He had populated it with a host of fabulous characters: Mowgli, the boy brought up by wolves, and Kaa, the wise old python, and Bhaloo the mentor, and Sher Khanthe unlikely but unforgettable tiger with a philosophical bent of mind. And, of course, the wolf packs which had become Mowgli's wild family under the leadership of the charismatic Akela. His name still reverberates in the

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promise chanted by junior Boy Scouts, the Cubs, when they chorus Aa-ke- la, we'll do our best..! To us, this was the enchanted Land of Mowgli. Reel to real The next morning we entered our fantasies, at dawn. This is a fairy-tale time of mist and mystery, in the forest. The carnivores, like Sher Khan, are dining and resting over their kills. The herbivores, who often seek protection near human habitation in the depth of night, resume their grazing in the first soft light of day. And, almost as if on cue, there they were. Mowgli believed that spotted deer were fickle, timid; creatures and those monkeys were unruly gangsters. Now, however, we saw the strange understanding between chital and langur. We snapped a langur and a chital close together; and then we observed langurs in the trees, with their wasteful eating habits, dropping leaves and nuts to the ground, and chital chomping on this bounty. And when the langur sentries screamed their alarm calls, the chital fled, certain that a predator was on the prowl. Our naturalist said, The carnivore bounds after them allowing the langurs to escape... The langurs and the chitals have a Most Favoured Species treaty! That's a far cry from the crazy comedians of Kipling's Bandar Log. But we didn't see a tiger that morning. There are, apparently, 53 tigers in the 7000 sq.km of Pench. Like the reclusive Sher Khan of Mowgli, tigers do their own thing and don't feel obliged to appear at the convenience of tourists. But, having said that, the officials of the Park realise that the more people know about the Park and its living creatures, the more the cause of conservation will benefit. At the gate of the Park, for instance, they have an excellent Interpretation Centre. One of its displays showed a leopard that had carried its heavy kill, a chital, into a tree to protect it from other predators. The image of the astuteness of this great cat, lingered in our minds over lunch. Was it instinct, or an acquired trait from its peers, or intelligence? Mowgli's Bagheera, the Black Panther, (or Black Leopard), could talk to the wolf boy, but he had never stored his food in a high larder. The real-life animals of Pench seemed to be a little more human than those of Kipling even though that great writer had been accused by his contemporaries of giving animals human emotions like revenge, spite and love. In those days, wild animals were beasts, red in fang and claw'. Today, however, zoologists have discovered that animals display many, if not all of our emotions. We found this out for ourselves when we drove to Pench's Centre Point and overheard a walkie-talkie conversation between a forest officer and one of the spotters. Five tigers had been seen together: a tigress and her four sub-adult cubs. Without waiting for the message to be relayed to the other visitors, we leapt into our jeep and raced to the spot. Since jeeps might disturb a tiger from its kill, elephants are used for the last leg of the trip. We were the first on an elephant. Before another group could join us we were sitting in our howdah, heading through the forest to the edge of the lake. Our pulses raced as we saw a large tiger stalking away through the trees. We moved forward They had killed a sambar. At the edge of the lake, a tigress had her head buried in their kill . She was, probably, having her second round of breakfast. One of her sub-adult cubs stalked off when he saw us. Another was looking at his mother. The other two, like loving siblings, were grooming each other in purr-fect contentment. They were as much a family as the three kids and their parents in our hotel: happily self-assured in their own company.

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That's when we took a great leap of faith. If these tiger siblings bonded so lovingly, couldn't wolves have bonded with a weak, naked, crawling, human baby, lost in the jungles of Madhya Pradesh? Getting There Air and Rail :Nagpur then 110 km. by road; Jabalpur then 195 km. by road. Accommodation MP Tourism's Kipling's Court and a few other hotels. MP Tourism(Tel:0755-2774340/42; e-mail:info@mptourism.com.

Secrets on the sand

Gustasp Jeroo Irani

February 19, 2012

It's an unscripted pageant with forts, architecture, cultural influence and a tasteful mingling of the past with the present. Gustasp and Jeroo Irani explore Jaisalmer. In Jaisalmer, the desert dust formed a fine layer on our skin while the past permeated our souls; its gorgeous Sonar Kila or Golden Fort in the heart of town stormed our vision with its sheer girth and power. As we explored it, joining the melee of tourists, cows and honking rickshaws, the stones seemed to speak. The secrets of the past wafted in the air and history itself stretched its limbs, its long arms reaching into our present. The oldest inhabited fort in the world, strong and overpowering from the outside, brims with colour and a touch of chaos within. The Arabian-nights style collage of towers, turrets and battlements that we had seen from afar turned out to be a maze of narrow streets over which havelis and the Maharawal's palace rose in all their finely carved glory, seemingly etched in lace rather than golden sandstone. On the narrow streets, pretender sadhus asked for picture money and village belles posed as latter-day princesses. In this world of make-believe where the lines between reality and fantasy were blurred, ambling in the fort became an intriguing pleasure. A masterpiece of defensive architecture, the four-gate fort has 99 bastions that would rain death on advancing enemy with showers of hot oil and enormous boulders. Built in 1156 AD by Maharawal Jaisal Singh, Jaisalmer's fort grabs one by the collar and refuses to let go. For here is an intricately carved balcony, there a wall smothered with sculpture; look upwards and the soaring spires of three densely carved Jain temples thrust upwards. Bhajans floated on the air mingling with the babble of a multitude of tongues guides spewing their practiced spiels and tourists oohing and aahing at the sights of quintessential India! Yes, Jaisalmer is an unscripted pageant, a spectacle that happens. Wares on display All this is overlaid with the thick smell of commerce for everyone seems to be buying or selling something multi-hued rugs, carpets, silver jewellery, curios all of it glinting in the sun like a yawning Alladin's cave of treasure. Everywhere, in and around this Rajasthani honey pot, time seemed to stand still yet ticked away. The contradictions piled up, and clashed and clanged with delightful frequency. As we
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drove to our fort-hotel Suryagarh, 12 km away, shepherds on bicycles herded their flocks; up ahead, groups of bent Jain nuns, clad in white, walked barefoot, carrying sticks and their worldly possessions tied in a bundle. Caparisoned camels filed past in the desert, led by their cameleers some of whom were talking on their cell phones even as their thin clothing seemed inadequate and unable to keep the chill winds at bay. Occasionally mustard fields unfurled in the sun even as carved temples and forts appeared on the horizon. An ancient deserted village spoke of how its people had fled overnight to protect one of their women who was coveted by Salim Singh, the all-powerful prime minister when Jaisalmer was the capital of the princely state. Soon the just over-a-year-old fort hotel appeared on the horizon, shimmering like a fugitive mirage. Suryagarh is Jaisalmer's first boutique hotel (apart from a luxury tented camp) for the town till recently catered to tourists with modest demands. Guest houses in the fort and budget hotels in town continue to lure backpackers and tourists from neighbouring Gujarat. Suryagarh, however, is a game changer, unfolding like a dream in the arid desert, beckoning high-end tourists to enfold themselves in the pomp and pageantry of old Rajputana. This is no wannabe fort but is as close to the real McCoy as a modern-day fortress could be, down to the sati handprints on the walls of the entrance. (In old forts these signify the handprints of women who committed sati when their men died in battle.) Built with Jaisalmer's honey-gold sandstone, the exterior is aflutter with orange flags and banners, the interior spaces strewn with period pieces carved doors, treasure chests and antique lamps. There is a tasteful mingling of the past with 21st century trimmings in the long yellow-tiled corridors and the ochre-coloured walls hung with period paintings. Its 62 rooms are opulently furnished and come with all the mod cons while interior courtyards, numerous terraces and viewpoints lasso views of the Thar, spread like a dusty skirt around the fort. We savoured al fresco dinners, drinks in the colonial-style bar, cultural performances in the amphitheatre and even a High Tea on a lonely sand dune. As we lay back against thick bolsters like oriental potentates, shielded from a wan wintry sun by an orange canopy, a local strummed his ravan hatta , the achingly sweet melody riding the cold desert air. The High Tea in the desert had a surreal quality cucumber sandwiches, cookies, and chicken satays accompanied by steaming hot cups of tea. In the distance, the soft sand spiraled like a mushroom cloud, our caparisoned camels presented their proud profiles for a picture even as we pondered at the strangeness of it all. Sheer luxury in the desert; the music of silence, the vastness of seemingly endless spaces Was it our imagination or was that a camel caravan of yore, lurching its way across the horizon, plying the Spice Route between the East and the West? Fact file The nearest airport is at Jodhpur (300 km). Jaisalmer has its own railway station. By way of accommodation, there are a number of options including old havelis converted into hotels, State tourism lodges, small hotels within the fort, tented camps near the dunes outside the city and Suryagarh, the town's only five-star resort. For more information, visit www.rajasthantourism.gov.in

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Showcasing Ladakh
RAVLEEN KAUR Abdul Ghani Sheikh single-handedly conceptualises a museum in Leh that celebrates Ladakh's cosmopolitan heritage. In popular perception, the Ladakh of today is considered a remote area, cut-off from the rest of the world for six months and a tribal society romanticised by tourists. But it was not very long ago that Ladakh was a centre of cultural exchange, says Abdul Ghani Sheikh, a prominent historian and writer based in Leh. What Port Said is to the Suez Canal, Leh is to the Central Asian Trade road,' this is what a British Joint Commissioner, R.L. Kennion, posted in Ladakh at the turn of the 19th century, Sheikh says. To showcase the rich heritage that resulted from this cultural exchange, Sheikh conceptualised the idea of a Central Asian Museum. The Museum partially opened to the public in August last year. Not very long ago, the whole world was open to Ladakh. We were connected by trade routes to Yarkhand in Central Asia, towards Tibet in the East and Baltistan, which falls in Pakistan now, was in fact a part of Ladakh. The Leh Trade Route was linked with the historical Silk Route, said Sheikh, also an acclaimed Urdu writer. Ladakhi art, food, costume and language were all partially influenced by Central Asia. The word Momo', the most popular food of Ladakh today, is derived from Yarkhand. It was only in 1947 after the political boundaries between nations were demarcated that Ladakh fell into isolation, both geographically and culturally. Traders in their caravans came from Punjab, Yarkhand, Afghanistan, Russia and even Siberia and sold their wares on the streets here, said Sheikh. The Leh bazaar was considered a listening post by the British in the 19th century. Polo, horse-riding and football matches took place in the bazaar and drama troupes from Tibet and Himachal Pradesh would come to perform here during Loser (the Ladakhi New Year). The British suspected that Russia wanted to capture Ladakh so a Joint Commissioner was posted here in the guise of monitoring the trade here. However, his main job was to monitor spies, said Sheikh. Some of the shops in the Leh market still belong to descendents of Punjabi traders who settled down in Leh during those days. The Central Asian Museum is located right in the centre of Leh town. It is built in the Tsas Soma Gardens, the land where the caravans used to camp. The Ladakhi king Senge Namgyal gave permission to some traders to build Leh's first mosque on these grounds. Ladakh and Baltistan are like the members of family divided by the exigencies of time. Now there are only two roads to Ladakh through Srinagar and Manali but earlier, people travelled through Skardo and Gilgit to Rawalpindi. There was another route from Leh to Lhasa from where people could cross over to Sikkim and to Kolkata thereafter. This route was open even till 1960 when the Dalai Lama fled Tibet, said Sheikh who donated his personal collection of books on Ladakh and Central Asia for the Museum library. Worst-affected The Changthang plateau, which is cut-off even from the rest of Ladakh in winters now, is the worst affected by the closing of borders. Located five kilometres above sea level, Changthang was earlier a part of the vast Tibetan plateau and the only way to reach Tibet. The nomads,
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mainly pastoralists, exchanged their Pashmina wool, butter and cheese for pots and spices with traders passing through the plateau. There would be fares at Gartok, the summer capital and Rudok, the winter capital which falls in the part of the plateau occupied by China now. Still, there are huge rocks in Tang-Tse, a major resting place for traders before crossing over to Tibet that bear inscriptions in more than ten languages. Besides business, people from Ladakh also went to Tibet for academic pursuits. Records show that there was no Buddhism in Tibet till 727 AD. A Chinese monk travelled from Leh to Central Asia that year and wrote that he saw Buddhism in Ladakh but not in Tibet. It was Ashoka who brought Hinayana Buddhism to Ladakh through his emissaries. The king of Western Tibet (Changthang) sent his son to Kashmir to study Buddhism. That's why the earlier monasteries like Alchi have Kashmiri influence. However, after Islam came to Kashmir, people started looking up to Tibet for Buddhist teachings and monks were sent to Lhasa to study. In the 13th century, Mahayana and Vajrayana Buddhism from Tibet had spread in Ladakh and it continues to remain so till date, says Sheikh. Islam made its advent in Ladakh because of trade. The relations between the Buddhist and Muslim communities always remained cordial until the late 20th century. Inter-marriages were common. The 17th century king, Jamyang Namgyal married a Balti princess Gyal Khatun, who remained a Muslim till death. Earlier, Loser' and Eid were celebrated together but not anymore, said Sheikh who is an Argon, a community of Muslims traders who settled down in Leh and intermarried with Buddhists. Despite the impact of trade, the Ladakhiness remained intact. "The Mongolians were considered Yamdoots'; who would get angry at the slightest of instances. Ladakhis have always been a peace-loving community who were confident of their cultural ethos. We had our own folk songs and dances. For instance, there are 360 songs for the marriage ceremony alone in Ladakhi, Sheikh said. The trade interactions could not shake the foundations of the Ladakhi culture but the wave of western education and tourism did. The kind of interaction that is happening now, has never happened in ages. Records show that once, in an year, there were just four tourists. This year, there have been more tourists than the population of Ladakh itself, said Sheikh. However, he is optimistic about this change. There were superstitions like a woman could not get out of the house for a month after child-birth. We should move on from these things now, said Sheikh. Ravleen Kaur is a media fellow with the National Foundation of India working in Ladakh.

Want to be a work traveller?

Shonali Muthalaly Co-working is the new watchword of the creative young. An affordable lifestyle and low rents make Berlin their preferred destination. This is your life. Do what you love, and do it often. If you don't like something, change it. If you don't like your job, quit.

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(The Holstee Manifesto created by three entrepreneurs who quit the corporate world to make t-shirts.) This is the age of the digital boheme. A few years ago they were seen as hip intelligentsia working from gleaming Macbooks over lattes at coffee shops. Now, with high-speed Internet access, incessantly connected smartphones and cloud-based computing they're evolving into a significant, influential, networked community. As more and more highly skilled young professionals choose to define their own work hours, rebelling against the daily commute, tyrannical bosses and inflexible work spaces, there's an entire industry growing around them to support their choices. Hence, co-working spaces, offering essential facilities of an office along with a host of perks, from tax consultants to masseurs. Berlin, with its low rents and affordable lifestyle, is becoming a dynamic catalyst of the movement, drawing creative people from all over the world. At Betahaus, Thursday breakfast is a weekly networking opportunity. One of Berlin's most popular co-working spaces, Betahaus is described as a combination of a Vienna-style coffee house, a library, a home office and a university campus. At breakfast, software developers, artists and entrepreneurs introduce themselves across a long table loaded with breadbaskets, cheeses and jams. There's Nico, who's looking for a co-working space to settle at and has seen about ten so far, priced between 200 and 400 for a month. While places like Betahaus offer free internet connectivity for everyone, you need a membership to access the workspace upstairs with more facilities. Joining a co-working space, he says, is far more practical than renting an office. We are just two people and we're looking for a place to sit one or two days a week. At an office, you end up paying at least 500 to 700 for rent. Plus paying for internet, electricity, printers Over here the infrastructure is ready. If you quit, you can just walk out. No losses. Betahaus offers the option of paying for a one day ticket (12). Or, like Erika Riesenkampff, who runs Reign of Art, a virtual art gallery, you can opt to pay for 12 days a month ( 79). We needed to get out of the house, she says, adding that co-working is inspiring. We network. Exchange ideas. So you're not living in your own little bubble. You're seeing what's happening around you. At breakfast, Madeline Mahl, one of the founders of Betahaus, encourages everyone to introduce themselves. This venue is a crucible for all kinds of imaginative ideas. Andreas Stammnitz explains his puzzle maps. There's FigureRunning, a sport that maps a figure such as a rabbit on your GPS-enabled device so you can run it. Up Cycle It encourages people to creatively recycle waste. Ecological awareness tends to be a part of the co-working experience. Cut out the daily commute, says Dagmar Gester, freelance photographer, talking of how driving to the office is wasteful and unnecessary in this age of computing. No real walls Oliver Stark runs his website with three colleagues from a fixed team room at Betahaus (800). It's not that much cheaper than an office, honestly, he says. But it gets a lot of press. And that is worth so much. He quit his job with Puma to move here one-and-a-half

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years ago and start Doonited, combining two global trends social networking and social responsibility. I don't want to sit in an office. There are no real walls here. In 2009 I was studying History and Literature in Berlin. I was also working in a student agency getting young people interested in politics. In the process we worked with a lot of creative people, Madeline says, talking about how she got inspired. We started with six people and no money. People had to bring their own desks. We had an ugly caf automat, she laughs. In one month it was packed. People were looking for offices like this. The crisis had started. People lost their jobs. They needed this infrastructure. She adds thoughtfully, We were the winners of the economic crisis. Though there are about 200 active users, most people don't come in everyday. That's why we offer a membership for five and 12 days a month one third of the people use that. They've expanded into Hamburg, Cologne and Barcelona, but she says Berlin will always be home. There are lots of creative people here. Space is cheap. There are new ideas all the time. It's an easy playground. Unemployment is still high in Berlin, and freelancers are finding it increasingly hard to find work. This month has been hard. People have paused memberships. We try to find them investors, advisors. Offer meetings with computer guys, lawyers, tax advice. The most important thing they do, however, is provide a platform for networking. High quality value, they maintain, is no longer created in classic offices. It comes from changing teams and locations. From digitally networked workspaces set in collaborative environments. Hence programs like Deskswap where clients of Betahaus can exchange workspaces with clients of Startup garage, East Africa's largest co working space, set in Nairobi, Kenya. For people who want something more personal, there are intimate neighbourhood spaces like The Wostel. We are work travellers, says Chuente Noufena, who runs it with Marie Jacobi. One month we work from France, the next month Germany. Instead of luggage, we carry laptops. The Wostel is small, and they like it that way. We get together for a drink every two months. Talk. Make contacts They also make money by renting out the cosy vintage space for seminars. Nokia and E Bay hired it. They say it's a nice change from hotels with their white blank walls. Designer space Chic, bustling Sankt Oberholz, set in the heart of Berlin, has a caf filled with writers, designers and programmers through the day. Upstairs, Ansgar Oberholz is putting the finishing touches on his new designer co-working space, with a host of bells and whistles for clients, including a key for 24/7 entry. Berlin is a city of freelancers and we are in the centre of the city, he says, explaining their popularity. St. Oberholz was one of the first cafes that supported work, with free wifi, extra plug points and sympathetic staff. A lot of people say, Oh, we first had that idea at your place.' The Amen people for instance. Amen, popularly referred to by the international press as That mysterious Berlin startup was so successful they got backing from Ashton Kutcher and Guy Oseary (Madonna's Manager) besides about $2 million from Index Ventures. Sound Cloud, which reportedly has more than seven million users, also has St. Oberholz roots. Stories of rocketing success like this are what fuel the coworking movement.
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We started six years ago, and became known as a place people could come to with their laptops. Sure, there are some bad guys who take advantage of this they buy an espresso and work here all day, plugging in their laptop and mobile to charge and end up costing us money. But most people understand. They meet people, have business breakfasts. Some stay through breakfast, lunch and dinner, says Ansgar. It's somewhere between an office and home. He cautions against seeing freelancing as a romantic lifestyle. You have to set targets and fulfil them yourself. Everyone's fighting for jobs. And what kind of jobs? Translating a catalogue of 200 spare screws: That's also a freelancer's job. Yet, there are a group of people who insist on doing work they enjoy, regardless of the financial risks. If you are young and well educated in Western Europe, if you really want work, you get it. It's not an economic crisis. It's just that people don't want those jobs anymore. They want self fulfilling work, work that makes them feel good and free. That's more important that financial security. The writer was in Berlin as part of Goethe-Institut's Nahaufnahme journalist exchange programme funded by the Robert Bosch Foundation.

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