Slow Days.

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Kandy Lake

Mahaweli Ganga, Kandy

An episode from a book read aeons ago remains a clear & distinct memory.

Of a young Norwegian entering her cold & gloomy place of work day after dreary day, thrilling at the sight of a poster advertising a beach holiday in Ceylon.

The book, ‘The Drifters’ by James Michener follows the trajectory of a group of young people. Of diverse backgrounds, living out their dreams – from the USA to Spain to Portugal, Morocco & Mozambique. Published in 1971, it inspired an entire generation to travel.

Long on the bucket list the pearl drop, rain drop, tear drop isle happened at the peak of a harsh North Indian winter. Pure bliss. Two weeks in sunny Ceylon where the Indian rupee quadrupled in value.

A land of great natural beauty, immense forest wealth, lovely people. The Buddhist faith of the majority has tempered them infusing a kind of gentleness that rubs off on a casual visitor. Slow paced, laid back, like travelling back in time. Ambling along without hurry or push the traveller quickly slips into the groove accepting things as they are. Zen like acceptance, harsh words rarely exchanged.

The train’s a great way to see the country. Dirt cheap too. The Colombo – Ella line winds it’s way through verdant tropical countryside – tea gardens, tunnels, waterfalls, dense forests, the iconic Nine Arch Bridge, varied flora- fauna. Starting at sea level it touches 1800’ at Kandy & 6200’ at Nanuoya/ Nuwara Eliya. Doors – windows left open, soft breezes wafting in, travellers squat on door steps or hang out of door frames crying whoa – whoa as the train clambers on. Cruising at an easy 25 – 30 it occasionally picks up speed, making an otherwise short journey unduly long. (Make sure you’re well stocked for food & drink. Breaking journey midway makes sense). Counted among the most beautiful train journeys in the world, I cannot entirely agree. A pleasant ride certainly, memorable holiday experience too. Nothing more. Having said that I wouldn’t miss it in all the world.

Travelling by the coastal train from Colombo to Galle likewise, one hardly catches a glimpse of its most talked about feature – the waters of the ocean lashing against the shore.

Small & clean, without display screens or porters, most stations have a run down look. There isn’t much difference between categories too. Second & first class for instance. First is air conditioned with sockets for charging while second is open & airy. Preferable if one likes sticking the head out of the window, feel the wind on the face as the train chugs along lulling one to sleep.

Buying a ticket is simple, ensuring a window seat not. Even if booked online. The online ticket valid only after it’s exchanged for a physical one at the station. A classic lesson in how to complicate things.

Signs of general economic distress abound, though nothing like the abject poverty one encounters elsewhere. Incomplete projects stalled for lack of funds. Signs of ‘regret inconvenience, work in progress’ without any evidence of work being in progress. Hard times result in hard measures which is perhaps why fuel is adulterated, making the air reek of a mix of diesel & K oil. On the plus side the one way rule is strictly enforced & traffic snarls are rare. Traffic unbelievably comes to a halt at crossings, pedestrians given right of way always.

Colombo’s glass – metal gleam & spit polish finish belies the underside. Welcoming of outsiders, the capital eagerly awaits tourist footfalls.

A nicely laid out city it has much to offer. Not on the general circuit, Geoffrey Bawa’s home turned museum is a must – see. An innovative artist far ahead of his time, people from world over flock to visit & pay homage. ( book in advance preferably or wait it out at Cafe Mitsis next door)

A Tuktuk will take you around Colombo for less than $ 2. Meter less mostly, drivers charge at random, Uber a better option definitely.

In the midst of an economic downturn what struck me was the abundance of spas, money changers, finance – banking institutions. Hotels, restaurants & bars. Colombo’s nightlife begins & ends at Park Street Mews & the Dutch Hospital Complex. Live music, local – international cuisine, great sea food, ‘The Ministry of Crab’ is everyone’s go to place.

On the sidelines was a different distraction – scintillating sapphires in a myriad hues, the good natured shop keeper recognising a non serious buyer but humouring him still. It became a pre supper ritual of sorts. First, a visual treat of sapphires, then the meal followed by a post dinner walk on Galle Face Promenade.

Two nights in Kandy will more than suffice. Among its many attractions from the Buddha Tooth Temple to the Lake, War cemetery, Botanical gardens etc ‘Gajamuthu’ tops. The ‘Queens’ signature drink served iced & chilled is a delightful mix of Arrack, ginger beer, mint, lemon & brown sugar. Most invigorating of poisons, a Gajamuthu a day kept unhappiness away.

During WW 2 Lord Mountbatten of Burma – as Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia – was a frequent guest at the ‘Queens’. Built in 1844 this colonial style hotel has a ‘Queen of Hearts’ restaurant, ‘The Royal Ballroom’ & ‘The Pub Royal.’ Poorly maintained, it has undoubtedly seen better days.

Of special interest to movie buffs in particular is the Mahaweli Ganga where David Lean’s ‘Bridge on river Kwai’ was filmed.

Having heard so much about Nuwara Eliya expectations naturally ran high. At 6200’ it was indeed ‘high’ but a washout otherwise – literally & metaphorically. Unseasonal rains & plummeting temperatures kept one indoors. Afraid of missing out on something I ventured out, to the gem of a post office – exquisite architecture – managing to drop off a postcard even. Hot cappuccino at ‘Nashers’ an added rain – day bonus.

Ella (3000’) was cool. The weather as well as the vibes. It had a rhythm & feel special to touristy places around the globe. Nature walks, hiking trails, trekking up Little Adam’s Peak or the more challenging Ella Rock. Ample outdoor activity along with holiday crowds & decent night life. This one street town was chock-a-block with Bistro – bars & street food stalls. Popular with the young, ‘Cafe Chill’ blaring loud music looked busy & inviting. So Cafe Chill it was, for hot Tomato soup in Chicken broth. The ‘Ceylon Village Cafe’ further up the road for good, authentic local.

Ella to Galle the south western tip of the island, is best done by road. A 3.5 hour drive through pristine forests, a palette of green with every shade imaginable. The island’s forest wealth truly astonishing, one goes past tiny villages getting a peep into life lived in the back of beyond.

A UNESCO world heritage site, the clock tower & lighthouse prominent landmarks, Galle preserves remnants of an interesting colonial past. The Portuguese, Dutch & English all having come & gone. The Portuguese built the outer sea walls fortified later by the Dutch. Stunning stone ramparts, cobble stoned streets & leafy boulevards.

‘What’s there to do in Galle? It’s for people of leisure with time to stand & stare. Sip slowly on the wine. I’d give it time, if only for the pleasure of roaming its car free streets or sitting on stone walls gazing out at sea. Picturesque & charming, stroll in & out of book stores, souvenir shops, art galleries, boutique hotels, restaurants, cafés, bars. Enjoy local & international cuisine – ‘Kalita’ for sea food, the best in town. Galle was hot but it was vibrant & feisty & had the perfect mood & swing.

There was the mystery of the cactus that never got resolved. Large & small varieties, prominently placed everywhere indoors. In the midst of a natural profusion of greens what was the significance of a poor & lowly succulent ?

Another more recent phenomenon was the mother-son duos. From Europe mainly. A dutiful son perhaps, who left Dad back home with a caregiver, to give Mum a much needed winter break. A pleasant if radical change from the singletons of old.

The Hammerer’s, Josefa & Julian were one such pair. We ran into each other at an overcrowded Colombo bar. Julian trying to find himself a table, me having done with, offering to make way. Striking a conversation the good old fashioned way we ended up exchanging numbers. Amazing how frequently our paths crossed thereafter. Staying in touch from one town to the next, spending many joyful hours together.

What’s in a name?

Everything.

If anyone’s wondering at the constant use of archaic, non existent ‘Ceylon,’ Josefa & I both took vicarious delight in consistently using the name. The geography of the world much changed from our schooldays when we dreamt of travelling – to Ceylon.

Ceylon aka Srilanka. The difference?

The word. What sits easy on the tongue.

The first, poetic. A soft & gentle whisper from a magical past.

The other prosaic. As prosaic as can be.

The Iconic 9 Arch Bridge

Pining for those Pines

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When ‘Liberty of the Seas’ docked at ‘Civita Vecchia’, our excitement leapt unbound. Rows of buses lined & ready to transport us into town. Details of that drive are blurred, not the moment of entry, first glimpse & impression. Watching knee deep crowds from a high seater bus, a Romanesque extravaganza unfold, made me want to jump out in frustration. All I did was gawk at the grandeur that was Rome. The guide drew attention to the unending line of monuments on either side of the moving bus. Not knowing whether to look right or left. Or in front. Whichever way one turned one would miss something or the other. An architectural trove. An open air museum. Was it for real?

A first visit, seeing Rome this way was heartbreaking. I could have killed myself.

The second time, five years later, was a definite plus. A month long solo trip that involved a lot of research & planning. Wanting to pack-in as much as possible I over stretched to include Florence, Pisa, (Tuscany/Chianti countryside), Cinque Terre, Venice, Naples, Pompeii, Salerno & Amalfi along with Capri. Which in effect left just four – five days in Rome.

Difficult choices. What’s to do?

*Onboard Apertivo. A boat ride down the Tiber past Romes’ only island – Tiberina. Under ancient bridges offering splendid Vatican views.

A midnight walking tour especially enjoyable without daytime hordes that practically take over the city.

Double flavour gelatos (past midnight) around Trevi, the fountain lit up fairy – like.

The metro to the Colosseum, a walk around & the tram to Trastevere.

Caffe & trattorias for the Carbonara Rome’s known for.

And a last ride on ‘Leonardo’ – to the airport, going back home.

Got a sense & feel of the city that left me asking for more.

Soon it was time to leave.

Arrivederci Roma.

Another five years & I was back with a clearer idea of what I desired. I wanted to roam around at random. Care-free, unmindful. To experience the city first hand. With a plan & a will it was doable. Only 4 days once again. Even so.

Aided by http://www.com self guided walking tours were curated.

Jewish Ghetto Tour. I got pickpocketed aboard Bus 64 going to Largo Torre Argentina. It was bound to happen. What’s Rome’s without hiccups. Jokes apart, I should have known better than board a crowded bus.

Piazza ‘Largo Argentina’s an archaeological site not many visit or know about. Hollowed out ground off the main street, it has ruins of four Republican era temples. Overlooking it is Teatro Argentina, a modern state-of -the -art theatre built on the remains of another – Pompey’s – ancient one. Home to a large colony of cats, one can hardly believe it was once the seat of the Roman Senate. The spot where Julius Caesar was stabbed – 23 times (44 bc) – The Ides of March. “Et Tu Brutus !”

A busy transport junction it has cafés, parks, bars & restaurants. A cool place to hang around.

I begin walking from Torre Argentina – ‘via Arenula’ to reach the Tiber, turning left to walk along the river front – ‘lungotevere,’ – the Vatican & Sant’Angelo across the river to the right. At Ponte Fabricio, the oldest Roman era bridge (62 bc) still in use, one could take a right to go to Trastevere & the Vatican or simply cross the road taking a left for the Jewish Quarter. A Catholic Church at the corner the landmark, onwards to the Synagogue, museum, theatre Marcello, Portico Octavia & Piazza Mattei. The last with its absolutely must – see Turtle fountain: Fontana Tartarughe

Old cobblestone streets, buildings in rich ochre-orange tones, the Jewish Quarter is fascinating. Largely traffic free, vibrant & alive it is best to walk it’s maze of lanes & by lanes, soaking in the atmosphere. With stone benches to sit & people watch & outdoor eateries that provide the best Jewish traditional. All Kosher of course. Even coffee & sushi – whatever – The deep fried zucchini flowers were best.

The main attraction is the Synagogue & Museum. A pleasant way to while away the afternoon, the place has history. And, it makes a statement. Portico Octavia’s where a thousand plus Jews were rounded up for deportation. On Oct 15, 1943. Never to return. Along the walk one stumbles upon brass plaques embedded on cobblestones. Called ‘tripping’ stones for you to slow down & ponder. They bear names/dates of victims, stirring both remembrance & feeling. A short walk distance-wise, one ends up spending hours. Such is its charm.

Jewish Quarter

Tour 2 Via Napoli – via Nazionale – via Fontane, across back streets to the ever popular Fontana Trevi. The crowds seen to be believed. But crowds can sometimes be fun. I plonked myself on the steps of an adjacent church and sat down to watch & enjoy. (One of the many advantages of travelling solo)

When I’d had my fill of crowds, time again to strike out alone. On to via Condotti, Romes’ upscale shopping street, to the Spanish Steps and ……… more crowds. How does Rome cope, I wonder.

Been here, seen that. The sights – piazza, church, obelisk, monument & fountain. Each clicked & written over a thousand times. I’ve come looking for the Keats- Shelley House however. ‘Casarina Rosa’ as the locals call it. A memorial to Romantics it was for me a place of pilgrimage. A bright red banner proclaims its presence on the second floor of the building to the east of the Steps. Alas, for a yet to be recognised poet to die at twenty five. Keats spent his last days here, with a clear view of the Steps, the Square & Bernini’s boat shaped fountain. I looked around the museum, watched a documentary on his life & left – for Piazza del Popolo. Walking all the way back to the hotel having clocked over twenty thousand steps, hurray!!

Tour 3 What could be nicer than walking the streets accompanied by a local? One born & bred here. Who better than my one time language teacher (Italian)? Architect by profession, Carlo loves the city. We spent the day walking & chatting – history, culture, arts – step by measured step, stopping by places, breaking for lunch. Pizza-beer at an ‘antica trattoria’.

Food’s no trifling matter, going by the category of eateries. A ‘trattoria’ for instance is not as formal or high end as ‘ristorante’ but it’s a notch superior to ‘osteria’. A ‘Pescaria’ serves fish based cuisine & the difference between ‘caffe’ & ‘bistro is small but significant. If you wish to sit & eat out in the open you must go to an ‘Al Fresco’. And if it’s fast food you crave there’s ‘Tavola Calda’. A ‘Pizzeria’ is simply what the name states. And ‘Enoteca ? – the closest to a tavern, pub, bar.

Grazie Signor, that was quite an education.

A mild October sun radiating warmth & joy we started near Piazza Cinquecento, crossing streets & back streets between via Nazionale & Piazza Venezia. Right across stood the building from where Duce Mussolini had addressed crowds, giving fascist speeches from the second floor balcony. To its right was the Tomb of the Unknown soldier, a monument many years in the making. One every Italian loves to hate. Some call it the wedding cake, others the typewriter. Not surprising in a country with fastidious taste. Foreign tourists flock to it however. Its humongous size the attraction perhaps.

Crisscrossing streets & alleys we arrive at Piazza Navona & Bernini’s ‘Fountain of Four Rivers’ – a remarkable piece of baroque. From there to Capitoline hill for an uncommon view of the Roman Forum.

Despite belonging to different periods of history a noticeable feature of the architecture is that it comes across as a harmonious whole. The modern alongside the ancient & renaissance, medieval, baroque, all juxtaposed side by side. Friendly & approachable and without arrogance. These monuments were never meant to intimidate. They exist for everyone’s pleasure. Walk you must. The only way to truly enjoy the city.

City of palaces & squares, fountains, gardens & springs. Everything on a grand scale, everything captured & documented a zillion times. The little things too draw attention.

Never before had I seen construction sites camouflaged so aesthetically. Giant posters with post completion images cover entire walls. Even before completion. To enable passersby I was told, to familiarise themselves with street/ corner/ place & not feel disoriented on coming upon it suddenly.

Practically every road had a sunny & shady side, giving pedestrians the choice of walking whichever side they preferred. A practical lesson in urban design – planning.

Anyone visiting Rome would have noticed the Stone Pines. Those beautiful, stunted, umbrella like trees that standout amidst a sea of ochre. The pines seemed taller than before. Had they really grown or was it my imagination.

Back home in India the trademark pines are the first thing I sometimes see on waking up each morning. Stark – dark & strangely alluring. Some kind of a karmic connect surely.

The infamous balcony (view blocked unfortunately) & the Wedding cake

Under construction Site with Advt et al.

Shantiniketan: Red Earth

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The Master himself

Tagore did most of his writing under this tree

Sunit, Toto driver-guide

A Santhal village

Sonajhuri Forest

A Noble laureates’ refuge, Tagore-Vishwabharati-Shantiniketan are inextricably linked.

Essentially a university town it has a homely feel, students from around the world giving it a special flavour.

There is no public transport. You either commute by E Rick or cycle or walk. For a nominal Rs 500, the ubiquitous Toto takes you everywhere. Driver cum guide, Sunit knew people & places & had facts on his finger tips. He showed me around at a leisurely pace every day. Tribal villages, Kankalitola, Surul, Kopai, Vishwabharati, Amar Kutir, Srijan. Cool wind in the hair & face, where’s the hurry after all.

The trip happened after a year of waiting & watching. Waiting for the right time so as to avoid both summer heat & winter rush. The Poush Mela – Durga Puja crowds too. Zeroed in on the monsoons therefore, when the heavens descend in a celestial downpour, creating magic everywhere.

It’s the last day of June. The last day also of my stay and I’m still waiting for the rains. For the skies to open & the magic to begin. Unlucky me!

“Not so,” corrects the Toto-wallah. “You are not unlucky. But ‘His’ blessings are missing.”

One and the same thing I thought but to him there was a clear difference.

Shantiniketan is three hours from Calcutta. I prefer to drive down from Durgapur instead in just an hour & half. Rain or no rain, rural Bengals’ flat, lush green countryside, forests, water bodies & fields are guaranteed to mesmerise. A pretty good road too which was a surprise, as was the eight kms stretch of forest along the way.

I am staying at a traditional mud villa. An architectural style particular to the place. The outer walls, decorated in what has come to be known as Shantiniketan art, depict local flora & fauna & carved panels & doors show scenes from folklore. Sadly, very little of it survives.

The interiors are modern & comfortable. It has wifi that works and splendid cuisine, Bengali & Santhal both. As authentic an experience as one can expect.

Coming in late Friday I decide to sit back & enjoy the quiet beauty of the place. The sole reason for being there in the first place.

‘Khoai Shaniberer Haat’ is lined up for next day. A weekend market where artisan & connoisseur interact in the hope of a meaningful transaction. Spread across a vast swathe of forest land, goods sold range from handcrafted jewellery & textiles to musical instruments & leather-ware. Watching sellers bring in stuff on mo-bikes & accept payment via portals like ‘phone-pe’, was quite an eye opener. A result of being so out of sync living in the city

Under a canopy of Sonajhuri trees, tribals decked in finery dance to the beat of cymbals & drums. A plaintive cry rings out from somewhere. A Baul, his Ektaara tugging at the heart strings as he belts out a tune. I roamed about soaking in the scene. Munching on ‘Jhal Muri’ – a puffed rice concoction I was having for the first time. There is always a first time.

Everyone liked & noticed my pink umbrella-hat. The tribals especially who inspected it minutely to understand how it worked. Would try replicate it, they said. Sell it for nothing less than Rs 200, I advised. A start-up hopefully.

Owl motifs & figures abound. Here an owl, there an owl, everywhere an owl-owl. In most parts of our country the owl stands for stupidity. In Chinese culture however it is a symbol of ill omen. A bird of wisdom in the West, it’s significance here was largely unclear. Being animists, tribals worship nature. This night bird too is worshipped.

Kankalitala temple on the banks of the Kopai is one of the 51 Shaktipeethas. A little out of town, it was a huge disappointment. “Never again”, I swore. How often have I said that before? I never seem to learn.

The terracotta temples at Surul are a delight however. Over 300 year old they are privately owned & are being restored by artisans brought in from Murshidabad. Skilled craftsmen working on it for six months & will take another six to complete. “They are like family” says the Thakur who hired them.

(Surul, Supur & Itonda, are the three places that have temples made of terracotta.)

Wandering into a Santhal village I chance upon a film crew shooting a Bengali serial. And further down the neat row of mud huts is Lipis’ studio. An alumni of the Faculty of Arts Baroda, her creations are lovely, the ceramic studio a piece of art in itself. One of the joys of solo travel is meeting people, encounters that add value & make for a memorable experience. Here was a qualified young person who had chosen to live & work among tribals in a remote part of the country. No doubt enhancing their lives as well.

Most of us have phobias. We harbour unfounded stereotypes. A stereotypical Bong to me was one into music, art & culture. Rabindra sangeet, rosogolla, fish. Not off the mark completely but to that I shall now add ‘lottery’. Seeing is believing.

Who doesn’t love a sudden windfall? But this was something else. Lottery tickets from all over bought & sold everywhere. Within the precincts of Kankalitala too. The temple was a disappointment I said. Not so the sight of diehards seeking divine intervention. Young & old, high & low. All come here. Buy lottery tickets, bow in prayer & leave. Beaming & smiling. Prayer answered ? As if. Wish fulfilled? Almost.

Easy come, easy go.

Morocco

September 14, 2023 by sudapoedia47

Cold Press Argan Oil

Riad Arabesque, Fes

A landscape of rugged mountains, desert expanses & stunning coastlines makes for exciting but difficult travel. Public transportation not always an option for women travelling alone, Morocco being an Islamic country.

Going solo, logistic support was essential. Four wheel drive – driver/ guide. Long haul, three weeks across varied terrain where mode of transport could only be donkey, camel or car. Casablanca – Fes – Merzouga – Skoura -Marrakesh.

Desert beats on the go, Sayyid at the wheel practising limited English language skills. ‘My friend’….. is how he always began. Curious about life & times he once explained why being allowed four wives was a practical idea. “One wife………she is pregnant/ill, who cook – clean?

Casablanca to Fes (3 hours). Fes – Merzouga (7 hours) via the Middle Atlas Mountains, home to aromatic Atlas Cedar & tailless Barbary Macaque. Past panoramic views & traditional caravan routes. Ifrane’s Swiss style chalets – ski slopes, the Ziz valley’s Date Palm groves. Any wonder that the scheduled seven hours stretched to nine?

Merzouga to Skoura (5 hours), desert to oasis saw us in the Dades – river, cliff, picturesque villages. And, the Grand Todra Gorge.

It was another 4-5 hours, across the High Atlas from Skoura to Marrakech. Winding roads, remote Berber settlements & Quarzazate, the studio there known for big banner productions like ‘Gladiator,’ ‘Lawrence of Arabia.’ Onward to ‘Ait Ben Haddou’ the wondrous mud brick Kasbah on steep mountain slopes & Tiz n Tichka Pass where we stopped for cold press Argan oil.

Together for over a fortnight it was ‘goodbye Sayyid’ at Marrakech. True, straight talking Berber, a better Man Friday impossible to find.

Less than 48 hours after the devastating earthquake, most sites in Marrakech were closed. Shops too, owners returning to their homes in the mountain to enquire about their families. With nothing of major interest I contented myself walking the alleys of the old Medina to get a feel of this darling of tourist destinations.

The country’s road – rail network’s pretty sorted. ‘Al Atlas’ category of trains connect major towns & cities. Fast, frequent & on time they are comfortable except for ‘hole in the floor’ toilets. The big job a strict no-no naturally. High speed ‘Al Boraq’ linking Casablanca to Rabat & Tangier is as good as France’s TGV. Affordable, it has a lounge for first class travellers. Equally reliable & efficient, buses connect remote towns & villages. All the above of little or no consequence if travelling into the desert or mountain.

A unique destination, Morocco’s geographical location has allowed for cross cultural interaction.

Having been a French protectorate (1912-1956) there’s a tangible French influence in everything from language to food. Breaking for siesta, the country follows French work hours. There’s a great love for bread & roadside cafés are full of people sipping mint tea – not coffee – all day.

The Hamam’s a one of a kind experience having little in common with it’s Turkish counterpart. More like a public bath, women gather to catch up & meet. Old world, authentic, one fourth the cost, it’s approach completely ‘No Nonsensical’. You enter a steam bath, squat on a mat & have hot water slapped over you. A rigorous application of black Moroccan soap follows. Left to sweat & stew in your juices, onto a raised platform thereafter where the actual scrubbing begins. Loofah in hand it is scrub a dub – drub. Dirt unseen, unbeknown. Watch the layers peel off. More scrub followed by intermittent splashes of hot – cold water, rounded with a generous dollop of cream. The body feels bruised. It’s not, of course. You come out shining new.

Misconceptions about the country abound, perpetuated on blogging sites mainly.

There is no preferred dress code. Wear what you will without anyone batting an eye, keeping legs (knee downwards) & shoulder covered – inside places of worship alone.

As for pickpockets & scams, worry not. The big three – Paris, Rome, Barcelona – continue to hold sway. Just be wary & watchful.

That women dislike being photographed isn’t entirely true but it’s polite to ask. A nomad I ran into was thrilled at being clicked but forbade posting it on Facebook. Hilariously cute, considering she was unschooled & without access to anything. Not even the basics. (Her husband traveled miles to ferry home water on a donkey) Rootless, the family roamed the wilds striking home wherever they fancied.

It is not uncommon to see women driving or sitting by themselves in cafés or parks. This Islamic country makes wine & beer, ‘Casablanca’ a beer you will like. No restrictions on drinking either. The problem’s that of easy availability.

Intrinsic to Moroccan life & culture is ‘Kasbah,’ ‘Medina,’ ‘Riad’. A word about each.

The Kasbah’s a fort/citadel. Found all over the country, ‘Ait Ben Haddou’ in the High Atlas, it’s finest example.

Medina’s the city centre. A labyrinthine of lanes – alleys where locals can also get lost. In this maze no gps works. Best to explore, allow oneself to be lost & find the way again. The 9th century Medina at Fès a perfect example. Spread across 540 acres, a world in itself, it has everything from souks, eating places, shops, living quarters, mosque – medrasa, the oldest university in the world, Mellah (Jewish Quarter) & 1000 year tanneries. Every trade adequately represented – weavers, potters, coppersmiths……. A corner for cheap Chinese goods too. With more than 18 gates, 300 mosques & ten thousand cobbled alleyways, some as narrow as 60 cms, it is the largest car free zone in the world.

The Riad is a traditional Moroccan home built around an interior garden. It has open balconies, terraces & inward facing rooms with exquisite Zelig (mosaic) & intricate wood carving. Large or small these are beautiful living spaces where one should spend at least a night. High walled (for privacy) & high domed with a clear view of the Heavens, each has a water body in the central courtyard, a fountain or pool. Water being the source of life.

Casablanca’s Moorish architecture & Corniche – the lively beach front district – calls for a stopover. Most flights land here in any case. The other ‘Casablanca’ (1942), Ingrid Bergman – Humphrey Bogart starrer continues to fuel dreams. Watch visitors queue up outside ‘Ricks’ mythical gin joint. Entering as if searching, for someone – something. Looking around, sipping a Negroni ‘as time goes by’ is played & replayed, several times upon request.

Neither Marrakech nor Casablanca – Fes being in a league of its own – Tangier’s my favourite. For the atmospherics primarily & for the fact that Ibn Batuta belonged here (14th century). A 19th century lighthouse at the entrance to the Mediterranean the landmark. At the crossroad of cultures & civilisations Tangier is a heady mix. It’s charm precisely what is often said in denigration – ‘a den of rogues, writers, spies & sleaze balls’.

The Kasbah has Batutas’ mausoleum – museum & offers fantastic across the Bay views of the Rock of Gibraltar & Spain. Cafe Hafa (1921) popularised by the Beatles & Rolling Stones offers similar views along with wonderful ambience & food. Graceful boulevards, sleek modern buildings & many many cafés.

More enjoyable than ‘Mamounia’s’ (1960) excellent Couscous was it’s aged guitarist singing ‘Mustafa,’ his tinny voice taking me down memory lane.

Ranked among the fifty best in the world ‘Cafe Gran de Paris’, (95 years) indulgence extends to letting guests lounge around as long as they please even as countless others wait. A business mantra that seemingly works. Sip fresh orange juice in elegant tall glasses, watch the world go by. No rush, no hurry.

Tangier to Asilah or Tetouan could be day trips but Chefchaouen deserves a night. This charming little place in the Rif mountains is Morocco’s blue pearl, the entire town a soothing Mediterranean blue. Hike up to the Spanish church for a bird’s eye view. Traipse its cobblestone streets. Rue El Asri for Sawa (chicken Moroccan noodles) and Instagram moments, Morocco’s feline beauties lying curled or stretched, sure to sneak into the frame.

(I was drowsy eyed 24×7, was there hash in the air?)

Separating desert from ocean, the Atlas cuts diagonally across. Jagged peaks & cliffs, the effect of centuries of weathering. Rivers, canyons – gorges, passes. Incredible views. The mountain changing mood & colour, flitting from dark to grey, blue – pink, depending upon the sun.

Closed for summer, Erg Chebbi reopened early September making me the first, the only guest beginning of season. Like a tiny speck, in a vast space in the middle of nowhere, not for a moment did I feel alone. Timeless, immemorial, the desert sands shimmered & stretched. Everything around silent & still. Venus like a lamp across the firmament, the night sky streaming with stars. Shooting stars. If only wishes were horses. An experience as intense as the heat, a Berber saying came readily to mind, “God made water & land for man to live & the desert to find his soul.”

The Sahara was harsh. Solar power & water but no fan or air conditioning. Height of sustainable living. The mornings were magical as were the evenings, the day heating up fast. Hotter than hell, heating everything around from body to electronic devices that refused to charge. Unbearable within enclosed confines, sitting out in the open a better option especially as the wind picked up, even if it was hot & searing & even if it blew sand into the eyes, hair & face – tasting gritty between the teeth.

The reason perhaps why many prefer to stay in nearby Merzouga. Officially ‘gateway’ to the Sahara, Merzouga has luxury hotels with air conditioning & pools.

But it is soulless.

Those who come do so for a single night alone. Arriving in the cool of the evening, leaving before noon next day.

The two nights spent here were so out of the ordinary. Surprised to find working wifi & astonished at its speed – as fast as light – I’d scamper up the nearest dune to make video calls to friends back home, excited at sharing what I was seeing.

“Look …..not mountains, mounds or hills but dunes……. “

“Excuse my clothes. It’s bloody hot……”

“Here, have a look, that’s the Morning Star”

If there’s any regret it’s not sleeping under the stars. Why didn’t I think of it?

The one big takeaway without a doubt, was the love & respect shown everywhere I went. Due in no small measure to Shahrukh & Bollywood. Of that I’m certain. Make no mistake. India’s’ soft power is real and it is neither IT nor cricket but Bollywood.

Cap Spartel, Lighthouse – Maritime Museum 1861

Haima. Portable tent made of camel/goat hair

Ground Water Spring

Ricks Gin Joint. Casablanca

Cafe Hafa. Bay of Tangier

Enroute Tangier – Chefchaouen

Atlas Mountains. Todra Gorge

The Desert at dawn

Erg Chebbi Sahara

Camel milk, tongue, meat, fat stored in the Hump. Everything edible

A Mixed Bag

July 20, 2023 by sudapoedia47

June 2023

A road trip across Kumaon Himalayas

Delhi – Nainital – Ranikhet – Kasauni – Binsar – Nainital – Delhi.

Contrary to common practice summer’s the worst time in the hills. A fierce sun, sky rocketing prices, mad summer rush. One absolutely must avoid the big four at least – Simla, Nainital, Manali, Mussourie – Several others too. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.

Driving into Nainital cops stop to question wanting to know whether or not one has reservations. Only then are you allowed to proceed. Parking’s another problem, visitors coaxed into hiring a taxi onwards. Chaos supreme. No walking space either, neither on the Mall, Bara Bazaar or Bhutia market.

Natures allure can never be denied. It made us plunge into jostling crowds for a stroll around the lake & temple. I went hunting for ‘yantras’ ( use them as bookmarks ) Handmade, ‘mantras’ are chiseled on to little square pieces of ‘ashtadhatu’ (an alloy of 8 metals) with a 24 carat gold finish. I bought 3, with the ‘Gayatri’ ‘Guru’ & ‘Navagraha’ mantras. Delighted, I rendezvous with friends for a pint at the Boat Club. It is an oasis of serenity with marvellous vistas. A ‘Kumaon – Thali’ is also on the cards. Where else but ‘Anupams’. So off we go, into the crowds again.

There’s never a respite from crammed roads & surging crowds, getting out of Nainital as painful as getting in. The 2 hour drive to Ranikhet takes much longer because of ‘Kainchi Babas’ sthan on the way. Long gone, Baba from his heavenly abode reigns supreme over Uttarakhand’s devout, his popularity soaring after visits by VIPS, cricketers, politicians. Virat Kohli & Anushka among them.

Ranikhet Cantonment is tranquil, pristine & slow paced. Dense forests of oak, rhododendron, pine, fir & deodar cover hillsides filled with birdsong & the piercing cry of Cicadas. A haven of peace & quiet we spend time reading, relaxing, walking, things one likes doing on holiday. Also visiting the Jhuladevi temple & apple orchards nearby. A drive up to Chaubatia to watch the sun go down not to be missed.

Ranikhet to Kasauni is another 2 hours. It’s a scenic drive with plenty of nasty hairpin bends. Ridge lines soar, merge, crisscross & descend to low lying valleys filled with the sweet scent of Pine. A famous person – Mahatma Gandhi, no less – compared it to Switzerland. I wouldn’t go that far but Kasauni does offer magnificent, 360 degree, panoramic views of the Himalayas. Peak to peak, stretching from Kamet in the west to the Panchchulis in the east, Trishul & Nandadevi towering in the centre.

Playing rogue several times GPS we discovered was not entirely dependable, taking us on to bad country roads only to reach dead ends, our destination receding further and further. Travelling from Kasauni to Binsar, it played truant again. Frustrating to say the least, we laboured on regardless swearing never to trust it completely. The blessing in disguise was encountering ‘sights’ – entirely by default. Excruciating rural poverty for one. Women carrying unimaginable loads, everything from fodder to firewood to water. Fruits available aplenty but plainly out of reach for those who grow them.

The Kumaon Mandal Guest house is within the precincts of the Binsar Bird sanctuary. Time has stood still, with everything almost the way it was three decades ago. The entry fee’s steep. Electric power limited to just two hours in the evening. No running hot water consequently. This at an altitude of 7000’+. Nor wifi either, except in the tiny area around the reception. One takes it good naturedly in stride. Anything to be one with the universe, the pleasure of co – existing with birds & trees.

It’s the 10 km stretch from the gate of the sanctuary to the residential area that galls. Broken down & pot holed, the road is worse than bad.

One wonders at the non – use of solar energy too. In today’s time & age. But who’s asking or answering. Ideally located within the sanctuary KMVN remains the best bet.

Verdant forests, pleasant walks, bracing mountain air.

Blue skies, starry nights – everyday except when raining.

When was the last time YOU saw the Milky Way?

Boat Club, Nainital

Sunrise Kasauni

Malabar Coast

June 20, 2023 by sudapoedia47

Where do I belong? A frequently asked question best left unanswered.

The world’s my home & life takes me places. Every place my own.

Geographical names invariably trigger the wanderlust. Mountains, rivers, streams. Coastlines, above all. The Coromandel, Konkan, Malabar. Fascinating places, lyrical names. How can adrenalin not flow?

Malabar’s the latest bee in my bonnet. It’s where I absolutely must go. No sooner said when a zillion ‘why’s??’ hit back.

“Go to Goa instead.”

“No” I answer.

“Why not? It’s so happening”

“That’s precisely why.”

Others who’ve never heard of Kannur, coo –

‘Coonoor, up in the Nilgiris. Wow !’

Kannur, Malabar, North Kerala, India. I’d considered making it a base for trips to Wayanad, Kozhikode, Mallapuram & Kasaragod. Each within 100 – 150 kilometre radius. Plans made followed by calls soliciting tips from someone who ‘belongs’ there.

I am offered a place to stay. A bungalow, driver and car. The latter’s welcome but it’s a strict ‘No’ to accommodation for I have set my heart upon a place by the sea. A village homestay on a lagoon.

A tranquil seaside town Kannur has the finest beaches. The Drive In Beach it’s trophy. The only one of its kind in India, the largest in Asia. Loved zooming across it.

The heritage home, 50 metres from the beach had two other wanderers. After morning swim & breakfast the hot day kept us indoor, each of us keeping largely to ourselves. I’d spend the day reading – writing while Antonette sketched the outdoors & Anna worked on her podcast. Antonette has been coming here these last seventeen years & is on first name terms with everyone including the village goldsmith.

Malabars’ cuisine is it’s hot selling point. Delicious home cooked food everyday. Restaurants serve a ‘Kerala Thali’ that has a large variety, the main dish fish based of course. We ended up having Pomfret fried, golden Prawns, Tuna for lunch & Mackerel – Squid at dinner. All in a day.

Come evening & there’s a knock at the door. Antonette & Anna wanting to know if I’d like a drink. Out come the bottles, a clink of glasses & friendly exchanges. Coming from the ends of the earth there’s much to be said & heard.

The Fort & Arrakal museum are both must – sees. It is the temples that surprise. Not a temple goer I manage three nevertheless – Annapurna, Karthike & Raja Rajeshwar – and have to say there’s something special about each of them. A certain feeling & vibe that touches the core, more than the better known ones elsewhere. These lost in antiquity temples built around little ponds & peepul trees had a strange effect. Hindu temples I’m told were never meant to be places of worship alone. It is where one goes to recharge & contemplate. To energise & revive before starting out for the day.

Temples have long been repositories of traditional dance. Peculiar to north Kerala, ‘Theyyam’ can best be described as dance, ritual, tradition, culture & art, all rolled into one. The season begins around October carrying into March. Performed by tribal & lower caste males, the devout – Brahmins among them – seek their blessings & guidance. Theyyam dancers are looked upon as Living Gods. A kind of social order defiance that comes naturally to Kerala.

At a ‘Thaiyyam’

150 kilometres from Kannur, Wayanad is 80% forest. With the Kabini flowing languidly by, it has natural beauty, wild life, spice gardens, plantations & upscale cottages & homes. A smooth drive up to a mountain plateau, it was amusing to see large Messi cut outs all along the way. A soccer crazy world after all.

Far from the madding crowd ‘The Spice Trail’s a 15 acre plantation growing coconut & rubber along with every spice imaginable. Bird watchers delight, a natural stream runs through the property crisscrossing its many trails & walks. Family owned, the spice garden is beleaguered with acute labour shortage, a consequence of the young & able shunning farm work in pursuit of Gulf dreams, even if it means earning a pittance.

Santosh & Sheeba’s rice fields lie barren therefore. They’ve had to give up animal husbandry too & taken to letting out rooms to supplement income. The silver lining being the opening of minds & widening horizons for their two little girls who’ve benefited from interaction with travellers from around the world. Santosh’s eldest, his pride, now studying to become an archeologist.

Known as the land of lore & looms, north Kerala is blessed with natures’ bounty. A land of abundance & plenty, gone are the literate & semi literate beggars of yore. Gone too the topless old women & long – skirted girls.

There is longevity as before. The big difference – erudite old men bemoaning the direction the country is going.

“It’s not what we strived for”

Dreams die first. More’s the pity.

Crossing the Kabini

Sicily

February 3, 2023 by sudapoedia47

No love for Paris. It was first port of call only because France gave Schengen V. Forty eight hours, no more I swore & ended up wasting half a day tackling post Covid challenges. Travel no longer easy, the pandemic had wreaked havoc on the psyche too.

I did manage a few delightful hours at Montmartre, walking up the 200 odd steps to the ‘Sacre Coeur’ for a fantastic view. Watched little children run, play, ride the carousel & chase pigeons in the sun.

Then off to Sicily, the largest Mediterranean island.

Why Sicily? It is the birthplace of the Mafia. It is also fifty years of ‘Godfather’. Long exterminated, the mafia no longer exists. There is instead a ‘No Mafia’ museum. A citizen enterprise open everyday, entry free. Unsurprisingly there is a lot of ‘mafia’ nostalgia. The hugely popular ’Don Corleone’ tour cashes upon it showing visitors around places where the film was shot. Sound business sense. Why not?

I solo circumnavigated the island in 20 days. From Palermo the capital to Stromboli, Catania, Taormina, Siracusa – Ortigia & Agrigento.

Alluring landscape, delicious food, fascinating history, varied culture. Sicily has it all. Every ethnic group that ever came here – Arab, Norman, Byzantine, Greek or Roman – left an indelible mark on its cuisine & architecture.

A blend of Italy & Greece, a cocktail of cultures, there is something robustly magical about it. As for the average Sicilian, he is passionate about everything

Italy’s fifth largest city, Palermo comes across as chaotic & grimy. It scores high on charm not cleanliness & can best be described as a city upon cities going deep into the earth one below the other. There are buildings with glass floors under which are visible ancient walls, fortification, artefacts from layers of history. The pride of a city in its well preserved past.

Music fills the air at the historic centre, ‘Quattro Canti’. An opera singers’ deep tenor serenading crowds from Romeo – Juliette balconies. Around the corner is ‘Fontana Pretoria,’ the Fountain of Shame with statues of nude men & women from Greek & Roman mythology. Defying convention, cocking a snook at the seminary, nunnery & church nearby. Nobody seems to mind nor is anybody scandalised. The priests & nuns least of all.

It’s a pleasure walking streets & back streets, soaking in the atmosphere, going in & out of churches (leg & shoulder fully covered), idling by roadside cafés. Granita in hand. Or an Aranchina. Perhaps a coffee – Canola. Palermo is easily the street-food capital of the world. And Sicilian tapas has great variety. You cannot miss having ‘Panificio Pollicino’ the local pizza. I liked trying something new everyday & chanced upon ‘Polpette di Sarde’ a dish of sardine cakes stuffed with pine nuts & raisins & served in a rich herb infused sauce.

Archeological sites under shops & buildings

Italian railway is streamlined, efficient. It is also the best way to see the country. Train cancellations happen but with systems in place disruptions are rare. I experienced it first hand when a connecting train was suddenly cancelled. A Flix Bus arrived transporting passengers to their destination, taking us cross country with the added pleasure of seeing places we never would otherwise.

The trip up the Tyrrhenian coast from Palermo to Milazzo must rank among the most beautiful train journeys of the world. It takes 2.30 hours, the tracks running closely parallel to the coast, less than five yards in places. With a window seat facing the direction in which the train was moving stunning views flash by.

Palermo to Milazzo by train

The highlight was of course crossing the straits from Messina (Sicily) to Villa San Giovanni on the mainland. The Palermo-Rome ‘Intercity Notte’ takes 12 hours & is a memorable experience. Bedding, water, chocolate bar, juice provided, as is a mug of steaming hot coffee early next morning. Not to forget breathtaking views along the way, the stretch from San Giovanni to Naples especially.

At Messina the entire train (8 bogies) is loaded on to a ship in a precise, clinical manoeuvre. The exercise takes about 2 hours including a 30 minute halt at Messina. Thirty minutes loading, thirty for the crossing & another thirty off loading & assembling. The train rocking gently on the ferry one is literally shipped to Italy. Passengers have a choice of continuing inside the coach or coming out on the deck for a breath of fresh air – coffee.

The Strait of Messina is narrow – barely 30 kms. It is therefore unclear why an underground tunnel or overhead bridge cannot be made. Reasons like the meeting of seas are often cited, as are currents & geological fault lines that cause the mainland to drift.

Loading the Inter- City Notte on to the ship

A quiet seaside town, Milazzo is the gateway to the Aeolian islands. I took the hydrofoil, negotiating choppy waters at terrific speed, a 2.30 hour ride to the farthermost island – Stromboli. The first thing to catch the eye is the mountain/volcano looming large over the tiny isle. It has been bellowing smoke & fire, spewing lava for over 2000 years. I am lucky to get a room with some kind of view but the fireworks are best observed at the opposite end from around the island. I plan to do it from a boat bobbing on the waters.

A perfect holiday destination Stromboli is barely 8 kms end to end. Scenic, remote, beautiful, it has wild flowers & rare botanical plants. One can spend time walking, hiking, trekking up the mountain, swimming or spending happy hours drinking, eating, reading & relaxing. Shopping too, for souvenirs made of black lava. Besides a picturesque lighthouse, church, village & observatory there is a museum dedicated to screen pairs down the years, inspired by Ingrid Bergman & Rossellini the lead pair of the 1953 classic (‘Stromboli’)

Sicily’s second largest city Catania was the springboard for trips to Taormina & Etna. (A meter gauge train goes right up to the foot of Mt Etna). In the shadow of an active volcano that rumbles & spurts, Catania is compact & easy to walk, a favourite among tourists many of whom prefer it to Palermo. I enjoyed walking the main street Corso Emanuele & Duomo Piazza with the black lava Elephant Fountain. Catania’s subterranean river, Amenano, surfaces at a baroque fountain in the corner of the square. Carved with mythological figures it separates the piazza from a bustling fish market. Adjacent to it is Sicily’s oldest university (1434). Great Baroque architecture, great food, I liked Catania but didn’t find it exciting. Not many will agree. The shortcoming mine for not giving it enough time, being in too much of a hurry to get to Etna & Taormina.

Piazza Duomo Catania

Atop a promontory on the Ionian sea the latter is a gem. A charming mountain town with shades of Amalfi & Cinque Terre but less crowded & touristy. A cable car connects Isola beach to Corso Umberto the main thoroughfare ( €3 / every fifteen minutes). A fifteen minute walk end to end Taormina quite literally has beauty spilling down its mountain slopes – enormous sea views, Mt Etna views, medieval ruins, a Greek amphitheatre, churches & cafe lined squares. A ‘passeggiata’ of sorts, the most popular activity strolling, people watching, window shopping. A one street wonder it is wonderful.

Taormina views

Among Italys’ famous three, Mt Etna at 3350 m is the highest (in Europe). Also the youngest (1000 years). It has been erupting for centuries, the last big eruption in 1669 when Catania was completely destroyed. It is a six hour day trip from Catania. Three hours to and fro & another three for a halt 2000 metres up. The wind – chill factor is high. There are eating & staying places, a bio-park, birch woods, vineyards & citrus groves. One either treks up from 2000 m or takes the cable car upto 500 metre’s short. OR, circumnavigates from the comfort of a small train. Silvestri the central crater is active as are fourteen others. There being 260 scattered craters in all.

And…. taking ‘work from home’ to a whole new level, a fellow with a laptop. One begins to wonder…

A reference to St Paul/Siracusa stored in hidden memory, Ortigia had entered the consciousness long before reaching there. Along with a very definite connect was the mystery of the unknown. Small seaside towns enamour. This was perfect.

Two little bridges connect this magical isle (1000 x 500 meters) to Siracusa, birthplace of Archimedes. A lovely Baroque town, world heritage site, Greek, Roman, Jewish & early Christian influences visible everywhere. One can imagine it some 2000 + years ago. Not very different I guess. There – in lies its charm.

A no traffic island with parking along the periphery, it is immensely walkable. And walk I did exploring it end to end, tasting each & every flavour of Granita along the way. Negotiating streets & alleys, map in hand for better navigation. Doing the forbidden – talking to strangers. You simply cannot get lost, would find your way if you did.

500 m from the train station, Piazza Pancali’s the hub. Six streets leading to six different directions radiate from here. It has cafés & bars, an ancient market & St Paul’s church that overlooks the ruins of the Temple of Apollo (6 BC). My walk starts here going past the ruins & the church to Dianas’ Fountain in Archimedes Square. Onwards to the Cathedral (former temple of Athena ) & Arethusa Spring. It has a really evocative sculpture of ‘The Chase’.

Sea winds, sail boats, blue waters, bluer skies, I am at the southern most end in front of the supremely imposing Castello Maniace. A military base, one can wander around nonetheless. Turning the corner at the castle the walk continues along a splendid marina, the waters of the Ionian washing against the shore. A tiny ‘spiaggia’/ beach along the way surprises. It has a few bathers & swimmers. Wandering & wondering I stroll into an alley to find myself in the fascinating Jewish Quarter. A feast of sights & sounds. Then out again into a large Square that has the temple of Minerva – a place of Christian worship today.

Time to treat myself to a beer (Peroni) / Tuna – pasta, don’t you think?

A train to Noto leaves every four hours – €5/30 minutes. Another heritage site, Noto is early 18 century Sicilian Baroque – churches, palaces, squares, architectural sites. I took an early morning train hoping to spend an entire day out but a sudden downpour spoilt the fun. An enchanting train ride across rain washed countryside the only consolation.

Siracusa to Agrigento – just about 150 kms as the crow flies. One ends up clocking 250 instead. Thanks to poor connectivity. There are no flights or direct bus/train connections. One has to travel back via Catania. A bit of an annoyance considering that moving from place to place never took more than an hour or so thus far. And to think that Agrigento was just about 2 hours from Palermo, I certainly could have planned it better. On the flip side was the thrill of going deep into the interiors, never mind that it took more than 6 hours doing so.

The Sicilian heartland is a kaleidoscope of hues – black, brown, tan, shades of green. Wide, bowl shaped contours, fields of yellow & green interspersed with dark magna rich soil. Sweeping downs & gentle slopes leading to mountains on the rim.

A small, quaint town Agrigento’s main street has flights of stairs ascending to higher streets & alleys. Full of cafés & bars, restaurants, book stores, shops selling jewellery – fashion brands & churches. Church bells ring out every half hour but there are no candles to light, churches having switched to an electric system where candles light up when a coin is inserted.

The Valley of Temples, a 2500 year old archaeological site is on the outskirts, 3 kms away. It has remnants of the ancient Greek city of Akragas (5-6BC). Spread over an area of 13 sq metres there are Greek & Roman statues, seven Doric temples & a series of Byzantine tombs built into city walls/fortifications. The temple of Concordia 430 BC is the best preserved, a fallen Icarus & a gnarled 800 year Olive tree by its side.

A lush green, shady corner of the site, history & nature meet at the Kolymbetra gardens – A citrus grove with over 300 + labelled species of Mediterranean plants

Devoid of natural vegetation walking under a harsh sun can become an ordeal. It was a rainy day luckily making the 5-6 km walk pleasant & enjoyable. A blessing of sorts that cost me a visit to the ‘Scala dei Turchi’. Just about ten kms away I got to see it only in passing. Wedged between two sandy beaches these stunning limestone cliffs are in the shape of a staircase. Called Turkish Steps as it became a safe haven for Turkish pirates who boarded, landed & took shelter here.

Valley of Temples Agrigento

Some Takeaways

*A 20 day solo trip with an 8.5 kg backpack.

*Visa delays & woes. Well laid plans out for a toss. Impromptu travel instead.

*Delicious food everywhere. My vote however goes to ‘L’Ambasciata di Sicilia’ Agrigento (1928) for the best Ravioli ever.

*Sicilians have winsome ways. This one goes to the unknown stranger handing me a 10€ note & scurrying off hurriedly. Thought me a beggar or was he just being nice. I’ll never know.

*Towns. All charming. Have to hand it to – Ortigia though. It was the best

*The weirdest thing, Sicilian breakfast of course. Ever heard of Brioche with a filling of Granita?

*A Sicilian proverb lastly. Unable to recall the exact words it would translate as “do not dwell on the good you do. Move on. Give serious thought to the evil in you”

Roads Less Traveled

April 5, 2022 by sudapoedia47

Aren’t books just marvellous? Terrific companions that kick start dreams. Inspire. I put down ‘The Savage Hills’ to be assailed by a savage urge – to dash off to Bhaderwah/Kishtwar (J&K).

“It’s the wrong time of year” said everyone. “In November it’s neither green nor white”

So be it. Brown is beautiful. And, it’s doable.

In no time was I flying across snow capped mountains into Jammu, an ordinary but prosperous town with neat, low roofed houses and a lot of cars. A taxi mafia unfortunately holds it in its grip. Life could be that much easier.

The hotel overlooks a historic gurudwara that is said to have given shelter to Rani Jindan, the last queen of Punjab. The effect is soothing. Pleasing too the sight of young girls on the move, a sizeable number having joined the work force. Food – tastes also look to be changing. While pasta may not as yet have replaced ‘rajma’ it is slowly making a dent. Never mind if it looks & tastes nothing like the original.

Under the shadow of Covid, shopping either for jhumkas, panjiri or saffron (regular Jammu staples) is completely out of the question. I therefore hit the road, the Jammu – Srinagar highway to Bhaderwah 190 kms away. It’s a 4-5 hour drive, network connectivity is poor, there isn’t a toilet on the way.

Into the Pir Panjals & beyond, past Gujar huts, grassy meadows and valleys. The Chenab giving company upto Pul Doda where one takes the turn for Bhaderwah. It’s a smooth ride on a good road, the Niru flowing alongside. We make brief halts at soldier homes, the first in Udhampur & another later in the day. Necessary breaks that uplift and stir for these are martyr homes. Each having sacrificed a loved one for the country.

Arriving in freezing cold to the warmth & welcome of a village home we are seated around a crackling bukhari, sipping salted tea, chatting. Inexhaustible travel tales that continue around the dining table and into the night. Dinner’s a simple, homely spread of rajma beans, rice, Karam saag & rotis. Rounded off with a saffron rich rice pudding. Never before have I had either salt tea or Karam, a green leafy vegetable and local delicacy. And never has rajma-chawal tasted better. Something to do with the air, water or cooking perhaps.

It’s time to hit the sack. I’m handed a hot water bottle that my host insists I use, along with the quilt & blanket. “Temperatures drop you see”

This is a landed family, educated and well – to – do. It is also a ‘joint’ family. Soon to be a thing of the past. A much loved matriarch rules the roost sharing space with three sons, daughters-in-law and grandchildren – a well knit, harmonious whole who chat, eat, pray together.

I get talking to the youngest daughter in law. Madhu is pretty and shy. She is 22 and has been married two years.

How was it growing up in these environs? Was she allowed to follow her dreams or coerced into matrimony? Does she get time to herself or does she feel cabined and cribbed within these confines?

“No, No” she replies laughing.

She had aspired to be a nurse & married only after becoming one, rejecting several suitors in the meantime. Happy & contented she did not feel restricted in any way.

“I have ample time for myself…….After a girl marries the husband’s family and home become hers.”

The next day we are on the road again. To Kishtwar, a 2-3 hour drive. Without a place to stay, I had considered giving it the go by but Providence willed otherwise, the army as always, coming to the rescue.

Resting on a plateau Kishtwar is surrounded by stark, barren, humps of mountain. Dark & foreboding the mountains loom large, the Chenab flows quietly by and in the valley beyond lies Kashmir.

The military post located some distance away from town is a nice little perch. Literally at the back of beyond it has everything from piped water to solar heating. I have always wondered at the soldiers ability, not only to adapt and make-do but create and transform. Not to speak of hospitality that is legendary.

It was heartening to see them live that way, jungle mein mangal – a far cry from the not so distant past when basics like water and electricity were hard to come by.

“Absolutely,” concurred the Captain. “My father was a JCO. I remember filling buckets of water before leaving for school. We were without electricity for an entire week once. This in Agra mind you, not some far flung, God forsaken place.”

Cheers! Here come drinks and snacks.

Kishtwar is known for its 2 S’s – Namely sapphire & saffron. Did I buy some? Not a chance. Curiosity alone brought me here together with the opportunity and urge to connect with real people.

The little pleasures of life. The wonder of it all. Travel ultimately is about people and places. It can touch you in strange ways

Rajasthan On the Rebound

September 29, 2021 by sudapoedia47

In Bishnoi land. Pic says it all

Staying home-bound is doable for just about 6 months. Impossible after that.

Wave 2, ‘21 had us boxed in but a window of opportunity had to appear. And it did. April – July was hard, come August, bags packed, vaccinated, I was raring to go.

Pushkar for the umpteenth time.

Once, never enough. Never, during the cattle fair either.

An eight hour drive across rain washed countryside, beyond the Aravalis.

(The Monsoon I am convinced, is the best season to travel. In the plains at least. Not winter, as many believe. The sun being quite harsh then)

What’s not to like about a heritage hotel with rooms overlooking the sacred lake, a view of the Brahma temple and hills along the periphery?

Where dawn is welcomed with a chiming of bells and sun bid adieu in a crescendo of drums.

Kailash & his son are ‘nagara’ players who regularly perform outside Sunset Cafe, where everyone meets to catch up over ‘chai’ & watch the sun go down.

Essentially a one-lane town, Pushkar is full of bookstores, rooftop cafes & hair braid parlours. As famous for Gulkand – Malpua as it is for pandas & sadhus. One of whom took me on rather zealously, wanting to know if I did not see the difference between Brahmin & Bhangi. His words alas, not mine.

“None. To my mind” was the reply. An upper caste advantage emboldening the retort.

And did I detect something akin to Covid effect in the little town’s sulk at the loss of tourists?

Why then had people suddenly become so apathetic & uncaring?

Don’t ever remember seeing littered ghats either (the reason for that altercation with the panda)

Less than 8 kms away is another Holy of Holies. Ajmer Sharif. Corona or not the crowd is knee deep and almost everyone is without mask. Time to scuttle and scoot, for if the virus doesn’t get you beggars and touts certainly will.

The magic hour

Jodhpur is four hours away. The drive through dull countryside and semi desert vegetation. A grey monsoon sky completed the picture. Or saved the day?

Everyone makes a beeline for the charming, ‘old’ town with a clock tower. It’s historic gullies and lanes crowded with heritage havelis & step-wells. The magnificent Mehrangarh looming above it all.

This time however the old vibes were missing. The flavour gone. Abandoned by travellers, shops & cafes closed, without the regular hustle and bustle the place was dead.

Apologising profusely, I checked out after a single night & moved to a great place near the Circuit House.

One word that best describes Jodhpur is ‘order.’ A strange term in the context of an Indian city but I cannot think of another with its mix of history, heritage, beauty, modernity – ‘order’ and ‘discipline’.

The Royal Estates are managed by a Trust headed by the Maharaja. The great Gaj Singh. Be it the many palaces & museums, the Mehrangarh Fort or the royal cenotaphs (Jaswant Thada). Or even the gardens at Mandore. Each exceptionally well maintained, traveler friendly. Signages, ramps, lifts, bins, toilets, kiosks – everything in place.

Move about freely, without fear of harassment. There isn’t a beggar or tout in sight.

Pushkar happened simply because it was along the way. The prime attraction, the Bishnoi villages near Jodhpur. The entire trip planned around it.

The Bishnoi’s love of environment is well known and well documented. They stood up to a Raja’s diktat ordering the felling of trees. The year 1730 when 363 villagers were killed endeavouring to protect trees. Making the ruler retract. At the forefront was Amrita Devi, hugging a tree, proclaiming, “a chopped head is cheaper than a chopped tree.” The episode, the inspiration for today’s ‘Chipko’ movement. Not to forget the more recent killing of a black buck that sent Salman Khan to jail. For Bishnois, environment is everything.

The main villages are Khejarli, Guda, Kankani, Rebari, Salawas and Singhasni. Each known for a particular trade. Inhabited by about 2500 families.

Guda has a lake, home to myriad bird & fowl, the Great Indian Bustard, Brahmi Duck & Siberian Crane among them.

Guda Lake

Khejarli has the martyrs memorial, a tribute to Amrita Devi and her companions. A man-made oasis of green in a landscape of Keekar, Pathar and Kankar. Populated by trees, mainly Neem, Peepul and Bargat, squirrels and birds abound and peacocks strut about vainly. A cool breeze picks up and blows. Bird-calls fill the air.

Step-Well, Old City, Jodhpur

Jaswant Thada, Cenotaphs

Village Kankani

The Khejarli Memorial

Khejarli

A road trip from Delhi to Udaipur. Return by air. Kumbhalgarh and Ranakpur enticingly along the way.

The route should have been – Jodhpur-Ranakpur-Kumbhalgarh-Udaipur – along the national highway but an oversight made me do Kumbhalgarh ahead of Ranakpur. Resulting in a choppy, four hour drive across State Highways. A lucky mistake that took me into the interiors. Inside villages nestling in the lap of the Aravali. The mountain high and mighty. How high, I had quite forgotten.

Kumbhalgarh has the world renowned fort with incredibly long – wide walls. A wonder, no less than the Great Wall. If only it was better managed. I had expected a lot and felt cheated of what could have been a memorable experience. Spending a night there was another mistake. It gets noisy because of visitors who come solely to drink ( Gujarat, next door having banned liquor)

Village Narlai would have made a better stay option.

The Kumbhalgarh Fort

On to Ranakpur and it’s architectural wonder, the 15th century Chaturmukhi Jain Temple in the middle of a forest. It is a lovely drive (90 minutes) through villages with stone huts. Where custard apples grow wild.

It’s impossible to capture the beauty of this wonder in marble. The Derasar has 80 sculpted domes, 446 columns and 1444 intricately carved pillars. There is one without any carving at all. An artistic imperfection to ward off the evil eye. Also, no two pillars are alike.

As in most Jain temples there is a Rayan tree inside. Data apart, what truly touches a chord is the pillar inscribed with Emperor Akbar’s Din- Ilahi. A late 16 century addition.

Ranakpur was a fitting finale to a wonderful trip, ending with the satisfaction of knowing it was worth it.

Entrance to Chaturmukhi temple

Pillar No: 13 Akbar’s ‘Din Ilahi’

Wave 2

May 19, 2021 by sudapoedia47

mice and men

holed up

inside

alone.

scurrying

dark

passage ways

afraid.

scouring

love

food

air.

as mice shall they the

distraught desert

fighting beat down

the scourge.

Keep

hope afloat.

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