The Backpacker

There is a saying (I say so myself of course) that if you must reach anywhere and you are not sure of the roads, there are people (cars) you should follow and people you should not follow.

First, never follow a Pathan. No. Because his interests do not lie in the same place as yours. For you it may appear at first that he is the incarnation of the "god guide" but before you know it, he will slip away to some area, industrial most likely and smile in the most demeaning manner possible. And you have already lost your way.

Never follow a truck. They are quite baffling in the routes they opt to reach their destination. They will lead you right up to the point you should take a turn, (obviously with a 10 tonne truck in front there is very little chance for you to see the exit anyway) and suddenly decide that the straight road is after all an easier route. What happens to you? Well, you have lost your precious exit and and forced to go all over the place before finding another exit or a round-about or anything through which you can find your way back.

The Land Cruisers, Patrols and anything that looks like a mountain on wheels. Never follow them. Their primary objective in life being cruising on the lanes, which, going by the manner in they are built is quite exciting. They can easily knock down the smaller cars which have the good sense of keeping safely away from them. But if you are following any of them, you are more likely to run into the nearest car (because no car will ever give you right of way since you are not a threat at all) or drive off road and be stuck in the soft sand.  

To reach anywhere, do not follow women drivers unless you have time, patience and no destination what so ever.

Do not follow the men with ties and stiff shoulders looking straight ahead and clutching the wheels with both their hands. They are the determined lot who will never let you get close, never let you pass and lead you astray. In all likelihood they are people who are not going you way. (However for this you must first establish which zone/area has the maximum number of people arriving to offices wearing tie. If your particular area does not have people with ties, then forget following them. Get rid of them as quickly as you can)

That does not leave you many ideal driver you can follow.  SO you follow your instincts.

But, there is a but here, we know how often the good instincts fail. You land up in a place you had never seen before. So what, you say, so what if you get lost? There is plenty of time to get to work (this because you are an early riser and have hit the roads at 6 am to reach office by 9.30) and the sun is not up yet.

You have reached some place which is empty of cars and add some speed because you know after crawling at 0kmph your car is itching for a run. You convince yourself it is all for the best. You have after all, discovered new roads and the fact that so early in the morning there is no traffic on that particluar road.  Then you are very close to the desert with no idea whatsoever what place it is. You salvage the situation thus.

Park your car wherever you please! The weather is very pleasent, the sun in only a faint colour in the sky and there are plenty of sand dunes on which you can sit, sleep or stretch and watch the sun rise in all glory. Far away on the roads few trucks or cars roar by enthusiastically and the sound that reaches your ear is smooth and lulls you into another world.

The wind catches, sand flies...and slowly the sun appears. You want to lie there forever.... 

You have to get to work. All because the sun rises rather sharply.

Have you tried watching people? Oh, I do not mean the ones at the bus stands or the airports or even the railway stations waiting for their transport. I mean, people at work, or rather just out of work in a place called Media City!

It is a pleasurable way of engaging time, if you have any and if you dont, it is a good enough reason to find time just to watch people.

People, I always maintain, follow a pattern. It matters not their colour, nature of job, their nationality or race. They will behave just like any other. The only noticeable difference between one and the other is the manner of display. Display, I dare say. Yes, for that is what it amounts to in the end. Display of self.

Watch the women leaving work. I mean one goes home from work, dont they? So for what earthly reason one must address their hair or lipstick, sandals, heels or coats which have served their purpose through the day! Forget the make up. It is the walk I find most interesting. Especially those of the women. With the walk comes the observation of the shoes, excuse me, no, not shoes but evil and dangerous protrusions that merely cup the heel and make hideous tick-ticking sounds on the roads while the female body attached to it sways dangerously on the sidewalk. Of course, there is a good reason to sway. For if you cast an eye around you will also notice many of the male species looking just for that oppurtunity to lend a hand in steadying the swaying female.

I watch, yes, I do. Oh, love watching people. I gives me an insight to the human mind. Hercule Poirot would have been proud of me. I always wonder if it is right for a right handed man to wear a watch on his right hand, I watch the colour of the shoes, the movement of the eyes, the laughter, I watch which side a woman carries a bag, I wonder what the miniscule bag contains, why the lipstick shines, why the sudden flattening of tummy in the presence of the other sex, why the quick smile and jerky laughter, the slightly loud and ill-informed talks of world issues, the swinging of the car keys when the car itself is parked few hundred meters away? the change of accent (this common among the Asians especially in the presence of the European counterpart). Oh yes, watching people has its merits.

Then there is the very garment that asks for attention. The skirts that run up the thighs without hesitation or the large necklaces which come as a relief to the exposed upper body...suits worn unnecessarily over the mis-matching inner...this again a very peculiar Asian trait. Oh, I wonder, yes, I do why one must so display ones ignorance in style? I mean what is so wrong about wearing comfortable clothing without sticking out a mile in discomfort!

Then there is what is called watching the watchers. That domain is almost exclusively male dominated. You can be sure to find them all over the place. Their reaction when they are caught "watching" is rather more interesting. No man or woman like to be caught staring or oogling or merely watching a pair of uncovered legs or inside open t-shirts as the case maybe. The shy, conspiratorial grin that follows upon being caught is worth the wait. You should make it a point to catch the 'watcher' off guard.

But when all this happens in a place that has a multiple-coloured people, things hot up. Everyone is vying for attention and Media City's the one place I have seen when no one minds being oogled at. You do not hear someone rush up to a watcher and call him/her a creep or a waster. Here it is a part of the game. A game of making the right match. For whatever reason.   

You know what you should do at night? No, forget the usual pubs-movies-friends-beaches type of entertainment. What you must do is connect with yourself. And how do you acheive that, you ask. I tell you in one simple sentence.

To connect to yourself, be alone.

How do you sit alone in your room? No, do not sit alone in your room. Drive. Go away. Go far. The farther you go the better. In the UAE, you do not have to worry about distances. The roads are well laid out, there are innumerable fuel stations along the way, the police-rescue facility is great, and on a three lane one way road, there are very little chances of running into another car even if your "spirited" enough to snake across the lanes at great speed while singing at the top of your voice.

Then suddenly being alone does not scare you. The lights along the way look like a sting of brightly lit lamps and the skies just above is so calm. The stretches of harsh desert are subdued and if yu stick your head out, you may even smell the sea on one side.

Yes, the driving alone is wonderful. Pull up by the road and speak to the stars or even spring over the fence and dash up a dune. No body bothers you. The only fear you have is in your mind. There is no cause for fear. If you fear, your mind will not allow you the freedom to enjoy what you see.

Pray what do you fear?

If you have someone telling you Dubai never sleeps, kick that person where it hurts and embark upon the task of uncovering the truth all by yourself. It will help if you have starved the previous night, had no sleep because the tummy wouldnt stop growling and make your way to the first available sit-down hotel for breakfast.

But that is the catch! You will NOT find any such hotels eager to appease your hunger before 7 am. They remain gloriously indifferent to your quest, snobbishly announcing some wierd time of working hours. The lousy, more snobbish ones open at 7.30 am and 8 am and care a damn if you pass out from hunger at their door step. (Hope the Saravana Bhavans', Kamats', Emirtates House, Annapoorna's are reading this)

Of course, you may find plenty of alternatives at the fuel stations, the Subway, 24X7 or cafeterias (God bless the enterprising Indians and their life saving 'churrut' parathas) but not a decent south Indian breakfast comprising of idli and vada. No way no sir. And it is most vexing to go "restaurant-hopping" first thing in the morning.

Who says Dubai does not sleep? So dear readers, if you are in some corner of the world harbouring the pleasent thoughts of wolfing "Dubai-vadas" at 6 am (curtesy the info you have been given about the nocturnal status of this golden city), please be warned that "the breakfast of your dreams" does not see the light of the day before 7 am. No foodcourts anywhere open before 9 am and if you are in a hurry the best bet is the cafeterias that have sprung up precisely for this reason. There are plenty of hungry people about very early in the morning who do not have the luxury of eating a home-made breakfast, but who have to content with "paratha rolls (the roll refering to the filling of keema, eggs and tomatoes or paratha_ chai."  

The other options being the fuel stations and damp or cold sandwiches and burgers you must warm all by yourselves and that when you are very hungry is not a very good move, limp croissants from the day before and when you find all these, there is the question of coffee and finding a place to sit.

No Dubai is not friendly when it comes to giving you a good breakfast. In fact it does not encourage hunger before a stipulated time. It chugs along on its own pace. It does not give you breakfast. Not of any kind. English or Continental or Asian.

Ah! The moon has appared.

And after thirty days, I actually had a breakfast!! A proper sit-down breakfast in a proper sit-down hotel. No, it is not as bad as you think. It is worse. After eating on the run from plastic bags and containers for thirty days, I had very nearly mastered the art of unwrapping the paper from sandwiches with one hand and one eye (the other eye on the road) and had lightly developed a taste for paper that crept into the mouth via a bite of sandwich.

But today! Ah, today, I sat at a table and ate a decent Indian breakfast!! What the waiter thought of my appetite was very clear, because after I had run a bill of Dhs 10 over breakfast, he asked me if I would like to eat soemthing else. You see, I did have a plate of crispy vadas, idli, a plain dosa and coffee. Thats pretty much a breakfast for a family of two, but after eating plastic and paper, and coloured breads and raw veggies for a month, you see, even the worse eye of the waiter cannot deter me from sitting down and ordering a large breakfast.  

So no more eating on the run or furitively, avoiding the non-eating people of the Emirates because the moon has appeared! Matters of food can be a little trying here in the season of fasting, especially for people such as I, dependant largely on hotels. One can get tired of paying three times the amount for food at Media City which remains open, and more tired if you dont eat at all.

Am glad the moon appeared. Now for some more food!! 

There is one place in Dubai where the old and the new meet… or flow, to be specific. You can easily miss the experience if you are not looking for it. You can take it in your stride without thinking twice about it and go about it in quite businesslike manner. I have been through it too, many times, thinking deep thoughts but not really trying to draw comparisons. Only yesterday, after many months of living away form that particular spectacle of the old and new, did I realize how little and how short a time it takes for one to realize the purity of it all.  

It began with a walk through the Bur Dubai souk, across tiny shops selling rolls of cloth. I have seen it before, many times, never spared a thought as to what so much cloth was doing huddled in tiny spaces in the first place. I noticed the patterns of the shops, almost running into each other across the narrow walking spaces which, miraculously allowed even push carts through deft maneuvering and quite a bit of jumping about to avoid crashing into the doors of the shop that opened out into the walking space. There is something comforting in walking through narrow spaces. Here, there is life. People live. People work to live, people who see work as a means of satisfying small wants in life. People for whom work represents destiny. It is written on their faces that lights up whenever a prospective shopper passes by. People for whom visitors mean hope.

I walked beyond the narrow spaces and emerged on the other side into a slightly wider area, the actual souk, a main artery which branched into many narrow off shoots, cramped to the roof with goods. There is a heady mixture of smells, flowers from the nearby temple, people, cheap perfumes, leather shoes, new cloth and fried foods. The sounds from the creek waft into the souk and fuses easily with the cacophony of shoppers. It is easy to get lost here. I watched a bargain in progress, the stubborn refusal to accept a ridiculously small amount of money for a roll of material and the rising voices of the colorfully dressed up customers. When I stepped on to the abra platform, the bargaining was in full steam.

The abra is an experience in itself. It works in the same way during the day and night. Only, in the day, it is easy to lose focus. (Lights play on the creek in various designs. The dark waters of the creek are run over by hundreds of old, floating pontoons (the abras). The dark waters absorb the noise of the engines gunning to life, of yachts speeding by on a pleasure trip, of ships anchored on the sides of people shouting over the waters.

The abra pulls out of its bay with gusto and heads on a collision course with another trying to enter the bay. Wood grinds against wood and people are momentarily thrown off balance and all is well. The abra has reached open space. It chugs along merrily through the dark waters. The creek flows unpretentiously between tall buildings on either sides, unmindful of the scorn with they look over it. Neon lights, huge lit up advertisements all gang up against the creek as the abra bears down with determination, anxious only to get to the other side before the more powerful yacht throws if off balance mid-way. The engine settles into a soothing rhythm, which however does not allow you to speak or be heard, but the short journey opens up many long forgotten memories.

A gentle wind picks up and washes past you carrying with a stream of light that momentarily lingers on your face and is gone…

How easy it is to coexist with development so long as one does not encroach upon the other. The creek runs alongside the roads heavy with expensive cars and the abra, with their aging bodies still go about their job of transporting people. There are fewer abra accidents as compared to car-accidents.     

Jabal Hafeet is a pretentious little mountain. Perhaps it would not have been so, had it not been tampered by man’s over zealous industry. Perhaps, it would have been a happy mountain left to itself under the blue skies and miles of desert around. But a mountain that has been carved to resemble an imagination of man’s dream gone wild is not a mountain that inspires the sense of mountain-ness.

Up to a point it holds promises. From afar, it looks even welcoming, its jagged rocks jutting proudly into the air, it has a forlorn look that speaks of ancientness and battles won against the harsh desert weather. But on close quarters, you realize that, somewhere in the battle for survival it has lost. Lost because, it fails to recognize itself any more. It gives an impression of putting up an unsuccessful attempt against man’s invasion. It has resigned itself to that fact the there are master architects who will, carve every rock on its bare body into a striking, yet, artificial masterpiece.

The only thing, currently going for the mountain is its accessibility, and yet that is exactly what destroys the very purpose of a mountain retreat. It is too accessible. I have not been able to figure out the logic behind making a mountain into a place accessible for everyone. The roads are perhaps the best and one must appreciate the effort that went into making it as motor able as possible under the circumstances. But a mountain is better felt if it resembles a mountain. The top of the 1000 mt mountain is suddenly cut off and flattened with paving blocks and looks more like a helipad than a viewing area. There are hotels and portable toilets and every conceivable luxury. Nobody complains. For the “happy family”, it is not too much of a strain to be atop a mountain. There is no question of carrying food or looking for a place to sit. In the dark, you do not have to grope your way around. It is brilliantly lit.

Jabal Hafeet is, to put it shortly, a luxury mountain station.

If you are looking for a sense of adventure, this is a place that will merit no enthusiasm. Every piece of rock has been done over with a fine chisel. At some points you see a rough pile of rocks but which, in reality are cleverly placed over the other to give it a “rocky” look. However, the attempt to rearrange the mountain fails miserable.

You do not climb over rocks to peer over the edge. The horizon offers fabulous views of the deserts on all sides, but to do so, you have to look through grills. Everything is made safe that takes away the very purpose of being a mountain retreat.

There is no rush of adrenaline, if there is any rush at all; it is the winds that can really blow on the top.

One thing you notice is a lack of character. Jabal Haffet has no character and the painstakingly carved rock chameleon or a turtle does little to the general “tampered” atmosphere. It is at once a representation of too much “luxury” one is not expecting from a mountain. There is nothing left to imagination here. It is not a place you would describe to another person as “original”. The best you can perhaps manage is, “nice roads, nice view points, yes, there are hotels on top, plenty of benches to sit down. No the car does not strain uphill, and you’d never need to turn on the lights in the dark.”  That does not say much for a mountain, does it?  What good is a mountain that does not inspire a spine-tingling fear? A little hardship?  

Perhaps, some years ago, before the advent of technology, this place was indeed beautiful. Only some indication of its former beauty exists. And that, you don’t see from the top. To appreciate the mountain you must drive past the mountain and look up at its imposing glory against the desert skyline. Stare wistfully at its rocky outcroppings, and in your own mind conjure up images of wild goats and other animals on its slopes. That would indeed be a way of describing a mountain.

Jabal Hafeet has found its ways into some records, surely. But not for its eye catching beauty. Had it been known worldwide for its “challenging climb,” it would have left you feeling good, sure as anything if you made it to the top, wiping away sweat yet grinning your way up hill, over the rocks. There would have been some satisfaction of have attempting something and succeeding. But to drive up a mountain over a two-lane road lit up fiercely, is no sense of achievement at all. Today’s Jabal Hafeet robs you of the essential sense of accomplishment.

It kills your spirit in a way only a modified-mountain can. Jabal Hafeet made me feel lazy. I hope I never carry that sense of “dispiritedness” when I set about trying to conquer other mountains. I do hope I will not look out for glazed roads and food stations enroute to the Mt Everest.    

It is surprisingly easy to write about your country, especially when you are NOT in your country. Perhaps it has a lot to do with memories. Perhaps. Or maybe when faced with a total different geography, one tends to draw comparisons and arrive at a conclusion that the grass, on the other side is, defnitely green. A good enough reason to write, right?

As the plane prepared to land (and it was rainy season, mind) I got the feeling that I was in for some surprise. And having forgotten what a decent rainy season looks like in Kerala, I was mildly shocked. Cochin Airport, though not built like Dubai, serves its purpose well. It is on the outside that the trouble begins. First thing you notice is the chaos. And behind the eager faces waiting for the arrival of their dear ones, is the shocking green. That is the first impression that comes to mind. Could anything be so green?

Remember my destination was Wayanad, the greener part of Kerala. And Cochin was not a great choice to land because it was many hours of bus/train journey away. But I decided to turn it into an advantage. What better way to shoot the real Kerala?

After much dangerous fling with the traffic, blaring horns, deft manouvering and abuses, I arrived at the railway station. Cochin south, was indeed a station like any other. People came and went. The one noticeable difference being that while years ago (seems like a long time), people waited in queues for platform tickets, now you could put in few coins into a machine and pop came your ticket. (see pic)    I have managed to get hold of coke and water that way, but a platform ticket? Never. It guess it is really been so long since I pounded the railway platforms!! To think I have before spent many a nights on the large but broken benches waiting for the train to arrive and take me places. Sigh, those were the good old backpacking days. The very station today appears to me like a specimen fit to be stared at!

The train arrived. No train arrives to an empty station. In India, trains have that special place in everyone's hearts. The train is royalty. Thousands of people wait in line (not exactly in line) to greet it. Upon their faces are emotions of various kinds, longing and expectations are common. The before it has come to a standstill, they are all over it. Exactly what happened. I was lost in filming the train-welcoming party, nearly missing the trian in the process. Where earlier I would have bounded into the train having muscled my way through, I was waiting till everyone boarded. In vain. The seats are up for grabs. First cum-first-serve basis. I did find a seat though. But there was a handkerchief reposing on it. (Tissues are still a rarity)

I pushed aside the kerchief and sat down. People looked at me funnily but said nothing. I do know what a handkerchief left casually on the seat means: That some bloke has "reserved" his seat. A short while later, the bloke returned, apparently from a visit to the loo (which in my opinion should remain firmly shut at the stations). He was quite a bloke. Tall, heavy built, with dark mustaches and his shirt was ever so colourful. He stood over me. I looked at him quite innocently. "My handkercheif," he said. Not to be cowed down into giving up the seat, I politely it up and handed it to him. "Yes, here it is," I said in my best manner.

Once you have a seat, it is easy to change places. I moved closer to the window. I did get some good video after all. But looking at it later I see that it is green. I never really thought that too much of green can be so pleasing. Except for the rivers, there was nothing to break the 'green view'. If anyone were to ask me how many shades of green I could think of, I would probably say "Kerala."

And before long, I was in Calicut (now Kozhikode). It was dark. But I liked this station better. There was more life here and was not so dingy as Cochin. Perhaps it is the familiarity. I have been here plenty of times before. The auto fares are rather low here. The roads are not much to speak of, but people are samrt enough to find pieces of roads to drive on.

The bus ride to Sulthan Battery in Wayanad is best undertaken on a sunny day. But naturally, the sun does not shine at night and occasionally one must make allowances for lapses in weather. A rainy season naturally means "lots of water" everywhere. But when that delighful element of nature seeps through the roof of the bus and the temperature outside is pretty low, there is no heating in the bus and NO place to move to, I have my opinion to air. Not that much can be done. The best way to beat the rising anger and frustration is to laugh. Or smile and tell yourself to enjoy this. After all, where I live, rain is hardly an event to look forward to. In the light of that fact, I did find the whole thing funny. People held up handkerchiefs over their head and from time to time squeezed out water, cursed and tried to sleep despite it all. But the bus continued on its journey, rushing though the dark, rain and without stopping for breath, over roads that had no right to be. We snaked up the Vythiri Ghats ( pic was taken at a different time) to arrive at Sulthan Battery two hours later.   

Sulthan Battery:

This place has always held appeal. I will tell you why. When arriving from Calicut, you enter the town in style. Its like this. The entrance to the town which begins at Assumption Hospital, is on a slightly higher elevation. So when you have reached the point, the town looks more or less spread out for inspection. Thus you arrive in SB, and not just drive through without acknowledging its magnificient presence. Shops line both sides of the street, nearly always bustling with colourful clothes and various odds and ends hanging at the end of frayed strings. One thing that hits the eys is the traffic, quite impossible you may think, but it is a fact. There must be several thousands of jeeps and auto-rickshaws here, not taking into account the motor bikes, buses etc. 

At night this place is even more attractive. In the worst of summer too, nights are very pleasent and you could be forgiven for wanting a plate of steaming hot samosas or prathas served with spicy chicken curry by the roadside dhaba. That road-side dhaba culture seems to have caught on here rather well. The chips-makers were always around, so to speak. So there is now more variety.

SB lives on its own. Surrounded by a different shade of green tinged with blue. In the very brief stay, I experienced rain and some more.

This tiny yet robust town, robust because it always looks freshly scrubbed and bouding with energy, is in close proximity to Mysore and Ooty. It also has its fiar share of curious shocks in the form of tigers and elephants who appear at regular intervals in the town for a little fun. That is perhaps the only time I have heard of traffic jams in the town. You have to pass through one such delighfuly green forest to reach Mysore. If you are lucky you encounter the wild animals. I saw elephants (see pic. Out of focus because the heroic driver of the yellow KSRTC bus dared not get close to the elephants frolicking on the road!)   

Before pulling into Gundlupet (enroute Mysore from SB), we stop for refreshments. Quite a change from the forests we have passed by.

India is a colourful (visual) delight. It comes with many shades. And before long, we hada rrived at Mysore, past even vaguer shades of green of paddy fields, wild vegetation etc. I have a fancy for drinking coffee at railway stations whenever I can. Once in Mysore, I headed for the station for a cuppa. Not a very commendable habit but it pays. It is a very satisfying experience to get lost in the big old railway station. Mysore being the terminating/originating junction, is nearly always full. Yet, it is calm and unhurried. The old book shop by the coffee-maker sells surprisingly new books. I bought two. Agatha Christie and briefly wondered what Hercule Poirot would have said had he seen the miserly man flog his horse outside the railway station.

Forgot to mention that the railway stations in India still required to be washed. Remember what I said about keeping loos closed at station? That, should be taken seriously. (Mysore station getting a wash!)