The Backpacker

Day 1: A simple matter of getting on to the flight, sitting still waiting for the smiling Thai air hostess to serve food and drinks, nap a bit, and finally hours after the flight has taken off from Dubai, land in another part of the world, some three hours ahead of my normal time. A place totally alien to me. Thailand, the Land of Smiles.

It was all simple, really. I mean, goin away is really simple. I went away to Thailand without a clue. I mean, I knew things about Thailand, as would every reader of google. But actually being there, alone, is another thing altogether.

I wasnt prepared for anything,. at the same time, prepared for everything. I cant explain that. When I got off the plane at Bangkok,(Suwarnabhumi pronounced Su-wana-poon) a singularly inspiring piece of engineering, I was faced with many different feelings. Euphoria, above everything. But all that had to wait till I actually got out of the airport. I needed my visa, needed a shower and change...rememebr I was going to backpack, had no time to waste, had to pack in as much as I could in five days and I wasnt going to check into a hotel to relax and change in leisure. A backpacker does not fancy hotels anyway, for them hotels are merely places to sleep the night if a railway station or a bus station is not in vicinity!! Oh alright, let me not get away from tracks.

A quick change at the airport, quicker steps to the visa counter, a thousand smiles, a thousand baht, one pic, and lo, my visa was stamped. I was officially in Thailand now. The airport itself is a mini-Budhist town and even before tourists in large groups exited the gates, their camera clicked and clicked, not missing anything. I had no time to lose.

First I need to eat. Well, I didnt know when my next meal would come from and what would be in store for me, so I decided to have breakfast at the airport. Google had suggested Magic Food Court as the cheapest option at the airport but a walk around the food courts threw up many surprises. There were far cheaper options, but I wasnt to know the comparison till I had eaten at the Magic Food Court. By the time I did, I was so full. The first ever meal in Thailand consited of rice noodles (the flat broad ones), with sweet and spicy sauce, tofu, pork, csprouts, herbs i had never seen or heard of (or tasted before). I never got the name of the dish but I cant say I particularly loved it...despite having made up my mind to enjoy the last grin of Thai rice in every meal.

Outside of the Magic Court is the exit. This is where you can get a bus to the City. Airport Express operates from ehre at regular intervals. The buses are named..AE 1, AE 2, AE3. My mind was fixed on getting out of the city as fast as I could and I knew (google) that a train left Thonburi station at 1.50 pm for Kanchanaburi, which is where I had wanted to go. However it was early. It was just about 8 am and I had plenty of time. I bought a ticket: 150 baht. Standar fare. There were options, of course, but taxis are very expensive and i saw no point in spending extra to go the same place I could go to in less.

The bus saw me off at Sanam Luang, its last stop, in close proximity to the TAT office, to the ferry that would take me across to Thonburi.

The ride from the airport was smooth, my first connection with the land. So totally different from my own familiar territory. The bus appeared to have been commisoned soley for the purpose of shuttling backpacker such as I. There wasnt any group of people, no tourists, no family-style visitors...just few backpackers, scattered over the bus, each with a map or a Lonely Planet guide book, looking as content as possible for the 75 minutes ride into the city. I enjoyed the feeling of not knowing where i was going, more than the Thai songs that played loudly, more than the Thainglish the driver spoke, eager to convey to me the suprises of his country. One curious backpacker with several tatoos (hence backpackers will be referred as BP. Baht as THB), asualted me with a barrage of questions, wanting to know why as a single Indian woman, I was on my own. Indians were many, holidaying of making money, but he had, he told me honestly, not come across a single Indian woman BP in Thailand....and he had been two months on the trails already. He came once in two years.

Well, hurrah to the new breed of Indian BP's. Keep pattaya off your itenarary, he told me with a serious face. If you like the treks, you are in the 'league of BPs that would not like the seedy beach." I took his word for it.

He left before I could say goodbye at Sanam Luang.

Sanam Luang is a quiet, cool and shady area and shows the city in good light. An eager tuk-tuk wallah fell on me with much force.

I smiled. He smiled even wider. Thonburi, I told him, gesturing at the tuk-tuk and asking him how much it would cost.

He had ideas...and he spoke a bit of English. He suggested going to the TAT office nearby, get myself an itenarary or probably even a ticket, and the correct information. He kindly hailed another tuk-tuk and spoke rapidly in Thai. In the end, it was agreed that I would pay the tuk-tuk wallah 10THB for a ride to the TAT office and if I didnt like their plans, I would be shown three sights nearby (all Budha of course) for an additional 10THB.

I suppose it was a good deal and tuk-tuks were the best way to see the city. They make a noise that can beat their Indian counterparts hands down, but it was more exciting to ride on a open tuk-tuk. The young driver put in all his energy, drove rapidly through the clean roads to the office, stopping enroute at 7/11 (the convenience stores all over Thailand) for coffee (bought him one too. The cost of coffee at 7/11 is 10 THB), and shot off to the office.

I drew a blank there. I didnt want their itenarary, didnt want to be stuck with their brood of boring family tourists. Refusing to visit the Sleeping Budha, i asked him to drive me to Tha Phra Chand where I could catch a ferry to Thonburi on the other side of the river. It was the most sensible thing to do anyway.

Tha Phra Chand is in close proximity to the Grand Palace, the university, the Supreme Court and the office of the attorney general, but has its own presence as the point of ferry-boarding. It is busy.

While looking for a washroom, I met Mrs Supawadee Maspong. I sought her out of the hundred of other people milling about, because she looked like she knew English. I had to make myself understood that I needed a loo.

Yes, She knew English. She was nice and friendly, in a deep maroon skirt and blouse, Thai style with a single strand of pearl necklace. She knew where to find a loo. We walked backwards, towards the pier and we got talking.

She was heading to Ayuthya, the former capital of Thailand, a temple town, and asked if i would like to come along. I hated to miss the train to kanchanaburi and ayuthya did not feature on my plans but heck, why not? I didnt have a destination, and here was a free ride (and back too maybe). I could always take the early morning train.

So to Ayutya I went with her. Mrs Supawadee Maspong (I called her Pari) happened to be the Chief Provincial Public Prosecutor of Ayuthya Province!

Meandering through the heavy traffic, we reached Ayuthya through the expressway after paying tolls at four different booths (total about 90THB). Thats how I reached Ayuthya.

It was a terrible choice to make...and fast.

1. Ignore the traffic signal

2. Ignore Geroge Michael and his Careless Whispers 

3. Ignore the very appealing bloke in a 4WD on my left. 

The traffic signal turned green, the horns continued to blare...so you know what choice I finally made.

Now why did I do that? Oh, handsome fellows in 4WD always have that extra-appeal, especially when there is a dimple at the corner of their bow-like lips

(Here I will beg you not to take me seriously. For as far as I am concerned, there is only one man in a 4WD that can actually make my heart skip several beats and he aint got a dimple)

I lowered my windows, turned off the music and smiled. The bloke smiled. He had the look of someone very nearly lost and had no time to correct that mistake. Remember, we were at the signal near the Dry Docks (coming from Al Diyafah Road) and turning into Jumeirah.

Where is the Al Wasl Road, he boomed.

He had a disticnt foreign accent. No, not Arabic, not Asian, not even French.  

Oh, said I, suddenly horror struck. He had missed the Al Wasl Road. There was no way he could backtrack, owing to the traffic and there was hardly any time to explain how he could get there through Jumeirah.  And there was no way I could go away leaving him sititng at the signal either.

At the signal, there was no U-turn to boot. Then I was struck buy another, more devilish thought.

"Oh, quitely slip into that road which does not allow the U-turn and double back a short distance past the gas station and take the first right."

He waved a cheery thumbs up. partners in crime! Behind me, quite a number of cars piled up, horns blaring, the light had already turned green. But withlittle care I held my ground and grinned.

It was great fun to break rules at times. But to have someone involved in doing the same was even better. The dimpled, lost, driver od the 4WD zoomed into the no-entry road, with little care or fear about breaking rules, and I on my part was excited over the prospect of having abetted a traffic violation.

But heck, it was so evil and exciting!!  

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!)

Part II continued....

An ancient car, once referred to as the Ambassador, whisked us away to the top. If I have forgotten to mention the Bull God made of black stone and the gallons of sugarcane juice, the man with the jingle-bells, flowers and the haggling over batteries, then blame it on the extreme exhaustion. Nevertheless, it was fun. FUN with a capital F.

Off we went in a cloud of smoke along with the dutiful Ganesha and the mother of the driver for company...and we paid the bill!! Anyway, one does not crib on occasions like these when there is much for the eys and mind to feast on. I have believed that nature can be partial and looking at the city spread out below from various vantage points on the hill, one is apt to believe in one's own theory. It was almost dream-like. I dont know how Ganesha felt, but for someone who has been in the thick of sand for sometime, trees, shrubs, monkeys, wayside footstuff, groaning motor cars, curious, grinning cops, the exhaustion, the altitude, the hustler bsutle, the cows and dogs, the smoke, jostling public, the conmen... everything holds an exotic appeal. It is a wonder how one's mother land suddenly changes the meaning of existence. Here, you realise, one LIVED!

Then just as suddenly we were facing a fierce warrior. (See pic). For Maya, it was love at first sight, the giant with his exotic mustache that would put the good Hercule Poirot to shame, a sword and a snake and adorned in a curious shade of green. I wondered why he was there. Anyway, our not to reason why!! We made our way around the temple street, with hawkers thrusting in our direction peacock feathers, bells, wooden boxes, CD's, statues of various Gods. Cows greeted us at every corner and monkeys did a jig on the roof tops.      

And the most beautiful sound caught my ears. "Om sri Lalitha Devi namaha....." 

I have been listenting to that particular chanting for sometime now. But to hear it right outside the temple on a hill top, surrounded by so many life species, with the wind blowing on our faces was magical. For a moment everything was alright with the world. With me, with Maya because her lips formed the words I could hardly utter (it being Sanskrit and all) and her eyes lit up. There was much power in those verses...A power to which I momentarily succumbed. I wished...I believed in that instant I could never fail...

To think, I have lived in these parts for so long and NEVER before attempted to climb a thousand steps in search of the temple on top. Leave the temple, any person with a grain of adventurous streak, would make a beeline for the Chamundi Hills,(Mysore) up the stone steps, past the lush vegetation, stop to look at the beautiful view of Mysore spread out below, bow to the black Bull God and finally, in a surge of passion, scamper up the last 400 or so steps to the flat mountian top that houses a nasty looking statue of Mahishasura with a sword and a snake in each hand, standing guard over the various temples spread around.

But I had none of that before. So when I finally made up my mind, (well, it was less of making up the mind and more of for want of a better alternative), I was not alone. Ha, my climbing partner was quite unlike any climbing partner I have had in the past. Maya, was, by no means a climber. But she had the grit. It was up or no where else. I am all for climbing mountains, but my mind and body are two different things. In the end, after trying to bribe an auto-driver into taking us up and failing because he was asking us the price of his ancient auto, we decided to walk.

It is remarkably easy for the body to follow when the mind is made up. One, two, three...on we went, more out of curiosity than with the actual intention of undertaking an exciting walk through sunlit steps and overhanging branches upon which huge spiders had spun their webs, bouncy monkeys chattering away without a care.

Whether it was a miracle or sheer coincidence I dont know, but after we met Ganesha, a tiny young fellow who materialised from nowhere suddenly, our walk became more bearable. Also, I seized the oppurtunity to brush up my Kannada, which, much to my relief and that if Ganesha, I am sure, had not suffered much in the hands of the ultra modern Middle East culture and much wandering about in foreign land. Ganesha hid his curiosity well. For a fellow not used to being around women accustomed to swearing at everything, he kept his head right and eyes fixed on the steps, and never for a moment letting his amusement get the better of him. He hid shock, surpirse, amusement and many other emotions well.

A handy fellow he was, making walking stick out of fallen branches, upon which I leaned heavily from time to time in order to catch my breath. Well, the less said of Maya's efforts in that quarter the better. I really didnt believe she would make it, and had she not, there was very little Ganesha and I could have done, but she was a chump alright. She plodded on like a good soldier and I kicked myself mentaly because, for all the climbing I had done in the past, I had let myself be taken over by the softness of the city life.

Then we sighted cucumbers. It must have been just as we were about to die at the top of 600 steps. There was a welcome party on the top. A policeman in Khaki uniform with a walkie-talkie had appeared on a motor bike and looked down upon us as we pushed ourself over the last few steps.

Nothing like cucumber sprinkeld with chilli and salt to revive a dying man, I say.

(Part II continued)

People will ask questions. It is their right. Unfortunately they ask all the wrong questions or questions guarenteed to get your goat up. Ask me. I am a standing example of what will happen to a person who has been forced to answer questions that have no answer.

Like yesterday.

Recently I did a short business-cum-pleasure trip to Fujairah. After speaking with fishermen unceremoniously banned from selling fish, I decided to make the best of the short trip to this emirate. The result of which, in my own valuable opinion, was excellent. Well, I did come back with some great pictures to last me thorugh the time I would spend away from the mind boggling place.

The post-Fujairah effects were just about receeding when a wise guy, leaning over my shoulder and peeping into my pic gallery on my computer threw this question.

"You have been to Fujairh?"

No. That was my alter ego posing by the sea, for God's sake. I clearly have no idea what he was driving at and I suspect he did not either but that question did annoy me no end. But I know what it did to me. I felt as though my nerve had been extracted (without being anesthetised) and the whole of US Army had marched over it.

Even now I am wondering if questions need to be asked? Are we so dumb as not to know "a thing" when we see one?

http://photobucket.com/albums/d180/travelblogs/

(En route to Dehra Dun--North India)

My impression of Khatauli was influenced by its idyllic surrounding. It had that picture-postcard perfection, depicting peaceful wayside cafeterias one sees on the cover of travel magazines. A pretty canal ran along the rice fields and the blushing green ears of corn leaned over the cheerful canal to say a quick “hello,” while young boys stretched out against pleasant looking buffaloes under the banyan trees, and the very sun surrendered to the charms of the canal and lay down on its waters.

It was the kind of place that made you put hunger out of your mind. The landscape invited one to walk up to the canal and say, “thank you dear friend, your very sight fills my mind and not to mention the stomach. Now I will move on. Have a good day.”

But in rare moments, even a sight as pretty as Khatauli cannot stop the stomach from wondering why it has been abandoned and try as it might, the gurgling canal cannot drown the groaning sounds it produces occasionally as a symbol of protest. Then one is forced to seek food.

Khatauli had on offer several hotels and cafeterias at strategic points with names that could easily alarm the hungry traveler. After discarding ‘Cheetal’ and ‘Sher Khan,’ we pulled up at ‘Alkananda’.

Not the one to waste time, I made a dash for the nearest table. A waiter sidled up to me noiselessly.

I have something against waiters who walk without a sound. By some deep instinct, I know they are up to mischief.

He launched into a narration of what his hotel had to offer the hungry traveler. Had he not been wearing his red waiter’s uniform, he could have been mistaken for a seller of tickets in the black market. He had a habit of finishing every word with a hiss. And when he came to the end of the rather exhaustive list, he hissed out the last item on the menu, looking relieved. I disliked him even more.

I have had, on one occasion, the privilege of watching a toy train puff its way through man-made tunnels in a children’s park with screaming toddlers on board. That engine was not in the least excited about the work it was assigned to and chugged on unhappily. When it finally came to the end of its short, uneventful journey, it hissed in relief and letting out steam came to a complete standstill. “There,” it seemed to say, “I have done my job. I am going home.”

The waiter, like that train, stood right there, immobile, not in the least concerned over his badly performed job. As far as he was concerned, he had done it. He was not expecting a pat on his back anyway.

On occasions like these, words fail and the eyes do the job of conveying the emotions. I looked at him and said nothing.

He started again, and his list grew slightly longer and comprehensible. He seemed to be just the sort of chap who needed a couple of tries before perfecting his score.

The third round commenced. Yes, it was definitely better. He was getting there.

He started with the south Indian section.

“Idli - vada - dosa,” he murmured, giving clear indications that given a chance he would have liked to forget such a name had passed his lips. I must have stiffened in my chair for suddenly he ceased his narration.

An image of faultlessly fried vada rose in my mind. I even caught the slight whispers of sound as the batter slipped into the boiling hot coconut oil and bubbled there while before rising up to the surface and nimbly turning over and over letting the oil take over. It was a thought that brought a smile to my lips. The waiter knew a look when he saw one and mistaking the smile for an encouragement, leaned closer.

“Idli-vada? One plate? Sambhar or chutney?” he hissed with some urgency.

“All of that,” said I generously. He slipped away as noiselessly as he had arrived. Faced with the possibility of savouring a meal that had my hearty approval, I was quite in a magnanimous mood. I could go as far as saying that I forgave the waiter his lack of mannerisms too.

He came right back bearing a tray bearing two unclean containers and putting it down on the table, he gave me a look.

“This,” it meant, “is what you wanted. I am really so sorry for you.”

Right from the way the vada sat on the plate, lifeless and semi-brown, to the first eye contact I made with it, it was a dampener. It was a terrible blow, a disappointment, the enormity of which I have had only on few occasions encountered. I had imagined a vada brimming with energy, looking to end its short existence in my appreciative stomach, its sole purpose being to appease my approving taste bud. This particular vada lacked that vital element that causes any food lover to lose their head over them. It looked at me with its “eye” half shut.

No connection could be made here. It was simply unappealing.

The idly, chutney and sambhar, did not even merit a second look. A look, if any was needed, was reserved for the waiter. For some reason I knew he was behind the disaster.

I thought of Shankar, the worlds best idli-maker in my opinion, high in the mountains of Yercaud who would have died of shame had his idlis appeared on the table looking jaundiced. The whole thing was to sum it in one word “despicable.”

My efforts to establish friendly connection with my stomach were shot down.

I ordered coffee.

“Yes, madam,” the waiter hissed, eyeing the food and me as if to say he knew right from the start that I was a waster. For reasons best known to him, he seemed to have enjoyed the entire episode.

See what I meant?

He returned with a soup-bowl sized cup.

The cup however was accompanied by a smell that had nothing to do with coffee. That it was chocolate was established even before I saw the flakes floating on the top.

With an impatient wave of my hand, I pushed it away and demanded another, in a smaller, cleaner cup. Also strong and without chocolate.

“Yes madam,” he said and without the slightest suggestion of annoyance, turned and walk right back to the kitchen. There was something suspicious about his submissiveness.

It was quite tolerable the second time. He was still smiling.

I had yet to see the bottom of my cup when he fished out something from his pocket and slapped it down on the table.

It was, I saw, The Bill.

Shocking news, it is universally accepted, must be gently broken down. That is the only situation that justifies beating about the bush. One should, never, ever attempt to shock an individual right after he has ingested a meal his senses have not approved of. It is unkind and cruel. This is a lesson one feels the hospitality industry must learn without fail, seeing that they are the bearers of such a news quite often in the form of a Bill.

You could have knocked me down with a feather. The figures that appeared on the Bill, underlined twice so as to say that it had been double checked, were, to put it mildly, the price I should have paid for the hotel itself had I intended to buy it.

“What is the meaning of this?” I cried. “Go, please check it again.”
His smile widened as though he had another secret weapon up his sleeve and he would not hesitate to produce it if needed.

“I checked, madam. Twice.”

“Seventy rupees? For what, man, tell me. For this?” I viciously jabbed the ugly yellow heap on the plate and then again at the crumpled vada. “Seventy rupees? What for?”

Few passengers from the bus stopped by at the table coughing politely and said nothing.

“For the idli, vada, sambha, chutney,” he explained, politely, “and coffee.”

Pookot Lake

You may wonder why I have never written about lakes before, seeing that I have spent half my life (or nearly so) in and about lakes, sea and rivers (not to mention an occasional dam). In fact when I was very young, I even took to swimming in a river and nearly drowned. That beastly river near Calicut (Kerala) nearly took away my life. But you get the drift. I am a water- girl, among other things.

So with a colorful history behind me, I proceeded to this lake. Well, lakes in general are innocent. They are less wild than the rivers and more serene than the sea. In comparison to a dam, they are like kittens. And this lake was above all suspicion.

To give a brief history of this one. Pookot Lake in Waynad district in Kerala (southern India) is perhaps one of the largest fresh water lakes in the country. It sits comfortably in the lap of green hills and thick foliage, two thousand meters above sea level, half way between Calicut and Sulthans Battery in a place named Vythiri, which records the second highest rainfall in India after Chirpunji.

So you see it has a lot going for it. And not one negative. It has everything one can hope for in a lake decent lake __deep calm waters, boats, rolling hills, chirping birds, water lilies….everything. There is also an aquarium where you can watch fish lazily swim in captivity if your tired of the woods. An ideal place to put up ones feet and give in to a short peaceful slumber.

How I reached here was interesting. I had been off to Calicut from Sulthan’s Battery one day (a three hour journey). As we reached Vythiri, the bus was grounded. Now, being grounded in Vythiri is no sin. Thousands of vehicles ply on the road. But that day, we were told there had been a mishap downhill. Understand this. Downhill through 36 hairpin bends is no laughing matter especially if the roads are no wider than your palms and there is a deep drop on either side. A mishap on a turn and the vehicles line up for miles. To top it all it was a cold misty day, not uncommon, but it certainly made going tough.

Many of the locals decided to walk some distance to keep the blood flowing. Likewise some distance away the road branched off from the main road and went right, on which I walked. A board bearing the name ‘Pookot’ appeared behind a cloud of mist so I carried on. I remember some footsteps behind me as well.

That is how I reached this lake. I have never regretted the walk or even the short mishap in the water. I am coming to that.

People, as you know, always want something to remind them of the places they have visited. So it happened that this bloke was trying to shoot a video of this pretty lake, but upon seeing me (I don’t blame him though!!) decided to zero in on me.

That was also the time when I had passed out of law school (you bet I am not a spitting image of justice but I did drag my feet through the marble floors of the law school!!) and was bursting with ideas of a freedom and right to privacy. So when this guy insisted on having me in every shot, I lost it.

Also remember that paddle boats are not best suited for racing and are known to lose their balance at the drop of a pin. The bloke and his offending family had the advantage of being in a row boat. So when I finally pulled up beside them and saw him grinning very stupidly, I saw red, or rather green and blue (green being his shirt and blue his pants). My mind told me anyone with that combination on him was trouble. He was stupid alright. When I pulled up alongside, he actually leaned across to show me my pictures, looking pleased.

First. I hated his choice of colors. Second: I hated his grin. Third: He was a lousy videographer. Anyone who could make me look like a sheep shorn of its wooly coating had no right to be a videographer.

Without a thought I snatched his stuff and with a curse was about to throw it into the lake when my paddle boat shifted.

The rest like I said is history. The lifeguard later told me, between giggles and frown that he has never seen anyone wetter than I was after I had to be pulled up from the lake with water lilies sticking in my hair. The consolation was that the video camera was lost for good.

It was also then I decided that lakes were deceptive. Now I do not mind much if someone is taking my pictures. Law and ideals have long gone. If it helps any silly photographer, I would even go as far as posing. So long as there is no resemblence to a sheep.

All that glitters...is GOLD

Three features distinguish Brunei from other holiday destinations. It’s thriving oil trade, age old Sultanate rule and their colorful festivals. If these are not reasons enough to encourage you to visit Brunei, then there is more: Water Villages at Kampong Ayer. A walk along the Bruenii River and you will see what makes this tiny state in the northwest coast of Borneo and bordering Malaysian state of Sarawak special.

Here everything is well, different__a contrast of sorts. The water villages entirely comprises of houses built on stilts over the Brunei River, despite the fact that people here have the highest per capita income in the world!! You can reach here by boats or through a complex maze of wooden bridges and roam at leisure indulging in sightseeing. Naturally, houses on stilts are not an everyday affair. (Ignore the clothes hanging outside to dry.) Once that is established, walk about the capital city.

Bandar Seri Begawan has everything a tourist would hope for. The roads are well laid out and clean. In other words, Brunei sparkles. Swanky shopping malls (Yayasan being the biggest) rub shoulders with magnificent mosques symbolizing the strong faith and money, such as Omar Ali Saifuddin Mosque which dominates the city. You also get to see more gold, marble (Italian) and ceramic tiles in one place than you ever seen before!! Walking about is a pretty good option here, provided you are wearing light cotton dresses and know what signs to make. Thumb rule. Do not use your thumb to hail a taxi or clap to get attention. What you must do instead is make a T-sign with your palm facing down and your forefinger pointing at the centre. It is corny, but the only way to stop a cab. No one complains and it works.

Hire a taxi for a visit to the Tasek Recreational Park. It is old (never refer to it that way) but the beautiful gardens and flowers manages to add life to it. There is also an 8 m high wall for those who are looking for ways to hone their skills. It is popular with naughty children. Surprisingly, there is a delightful jungle walk, complete with pools and waterfalls minutes from the capital at Wasai Kandal (the names here are quite a mouthful__ like their local delicacy satay) after which you could wander away to the Laboi Lake, a still, swampy, eerie pond. Good for the soul. In fact there are so many pools and waterfalls in close proximity to each other that it would be easier to discover it yourself. More than the trails, the names confuse. God knows you cannot ask your way out. There are clumps of bamboos growing all around too.

But if you are looking for a more adventurous journey, then follow the Headhunters' Trail from Limbang to Mulu. You will arrive at your destination after a ‘temuai’ (longboat) travel, ride on a local bus and several hours trekking through the jungle in the national park. Stay in the local longhouse or national park hostel (the former is suggested). The high point of the longboat travel is that you can hop on and off the boat at low river stretches and dance in the dense forests. It is supposed to help relieve stress. If you are looking for more outdoor recreation, then Ulu Temburong National Park is just the place, although it is accessible only by longboats, which is just as well as it helps maintain that sense of adventure. Also the Peradayan Forest Recreation Park will be of interest because of its caves and rock formations.

The park includes the 410 m high twin hills Bukit Peradayan and Bukit Patoi. Like the jungles, the beaches are equally alluring with long stretches of warm golden sands in Kuala Belait or Seri districts. In Jerudong, you can even enjoy fish in the numerous stalls or buy traditional items like brass cannons, kris, intricate basketry, miniature boats and gongs for throwaway prices. Community events are held with great pomp and show at Taman Mini Perayaan Kampong Parit, 26 km from the capital. It features mini replicas of dwellings that represent rural Brunei and Kampong Ayer complete with forests and waterfalls.

Community events and festivals are often held here, such as the Sultan's birthday celebration. Try to participate in one of those. The fish is excellent and are the meats. However they do not give out the recipes.

If you have had your fill of the jungles and walks, indulge in some historic site seeing. Begin with the Royal Regalia Building in the heart of Bandar Seri Begawan which houses a collection of royal regalia, including the royal chariot, gold and silver ceremonial armoury and jewel-encrusted crowns. There is also an exhibition which fully documents the history of the constitution of Brunei Darussalam. In Bruneii people believe that all which glitters is gold. This you will find true, especially in the case of Lapau, a magnificent building within Bandar Seri Begawan with an exquisite golden dome. Traditional ‘glittering’ royal ceremonies are normally held here. Accommodation is not a problem in this sultanate.

There is everything to suit the traveler. However, The Empire Hotel and Country Club on the untouched shores serenaded by the waters of the South China Sea and Sheraton Utama Hotel (Seri Begawan) do take the cake, both for their ambience and style. But budget traveler can put aside their fears.

There are plenty of smaller-budget options available such as the Crown Princess and the Capital Hotel (all in Darussalaam) which have excellent facilities. Here, hospitality is a way of life. And so are the festivals. Here they find an important meaning as “religious celebrations” or mark the anniversaries of important historic event. However among the important celebrations is Hari Raya Haji (end of Ramadan). Being a Muslim country, Brunei celebrates all the festivals of Islam like Eid and Ramadan.

The month of Ramadan is most important and most of the Muslim populace goes on daily fast. Chinese community celebrates the Lunar New Year for 15 days in January/February with sumptuous feast. It is also the time to offer gifts to youngsters, given mostly in a red packet, the ang pow, containing money that symbolizes health and prosperity. It is not surprising that with all the blessings and the ang pow, Brunei is keeping up to its name!!

What you should know

Getting around: It is easy __ with the innumerable metered, self or chauffeur-driven taxis and buses that operate regular-as-clockwork from 6.30 am. Airport taxis and taxis in most hotels and shopping centers are available. Fares are metered. Tipping is optional. Water taxi services are available to Kampong Ayer, with stations at Jalan Kianggeh and Jalan McArthur. Fares are negotiable. Regular water taxi and boat services also ply between Bandar Seri Begawan and Bangar (in Temburong), Limbang (in Sarawak), Labuan and some towns in the Malaysian state of Sabah. City tour packages are also available.

Food: They come in many styles such as the hawker-style, stand up or sit down, walk-about, indoor, outdoor and even steamboat-style!! Take your pick. Hawker centers offer fine local delicacies at very reasonable prices. Here you can find everything including satay, noodles, rice, whole roasted chickens, grilled fish and steamboats. A leisurely walk along the Brunei River in downtown Bandar Seri Begawan with a take-away sushi can make it taste like heaven. The Persiaran Damuan Park on Jalan Tutong is famous for its steamboat-dinners. The indoor hawker centre in Gadong offers a variety of food from the Far East to the Orient. Fast food has caught on. Pizza Hut, KFC and MacDonalds all have outlets in the city and at Jerudong Park. Jollibee, Sugar Bun and Express Burger are local equivalents. Public sale and consumption of alcohol is prohibited by law and restaurants do not sell alcohol.

Stay: Currency is Brunei dollars. Accommodations to suit all budgets are available the lowest being USD 10 (does not come with any assured safety for your bags) and highest USD 300.

Visa/Travel: Required by all except for US nationals (up to 90 days); UK, Germany and Greece nationals (up to 30 days), Belgium, Denmark, France, Italy, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Spain, Sweden, Canada, Indonesia, Japan, Korea, Liechtenstein, Maldives, Norway, Philippines, Switzerland and Thai nationals (up to 14 days). Brunei is connected by air to almost all the countries. You can also arrive by road from Sarawak.

Religion: Two-thirds of population is of Malay origin, the important minority ethnic group being Chinese.

Season: Brunei doesn't have marked wet and dry seasons making it tourist friendly at all times.

Travel writing can be more interesting than the actual journey as it gives you the freedom and time to sharpen your memories and let words recreate the fleeting moments of magic and make it last forever. All this however depends on how well you apply your HEART!! It is our heart where our minds look for approval and the eyes for appreciation.

To be a good travel writer then, you must carry your heart on your sleeve, literally. Let the readers see through your eyes and mind and feel with your heart. If you even keep a bit of you hidden, it could make the difference between a good and a thoroughly unpleasant writing. Then you must be a good traveler. And a good traveler sees what he sees and not what he has come to see!! And a good writer allows the reader just that benefit, of not actually having traveled there, but wishing he had!!

History:

Travel writing has been around since the 13th century, when Marco Polo wandered Asia and scribbled down everything he saw. It became a modern craft under the guidance of Mark Twain, who helped popularize the craft. It did not stop there. Travel writing is like a journey itself, once set in motion it takes great courage to stop.

Some years later, along came another travel enthusiast Jack Karouac, who, by his sheer skillful writing launched a cult who came to be called the ‘hippies’ and later modified to “backpackers.” History is witness to this major change which influenced a large number of people by mere words. This shows how much good, honest writing can serve to shake the very foundations of travel writing widely mistaken for travel guides and travelogues. However, for all of its journeys, travel journalism has rarely found its way into a classroom. So how then do we know what we must write?

There are no boundaries to ones creativity or imagination and it would be shameful to let the thoughts and words choke in the boundaries of established rules of writing. Personally I find that the necessity of restricting words dries up the creative juices, yet that very factor in the end brings out the best in travel writing.

Essentials of good writing:

Some questions your article should answer: How to grab and hold you readers' interest. What does the reader want to know? How to take your readers to the location? Why it is imperative you show your readers rather than tell them. Powerful, attention grabbing opening can go a long way to cover up for any messup that may appear in the body. The secret structure of a well written article - successful templates you can inculcate. These are my rules. 1) Observation 2) Assimilation 3) Reflection 4) Formation 5) Reproduction

Observation: What the eye see in the given span of time. Even when traveling you do not have a whole year to gaze at the waterfall just so you write about it. The senses must be sharpened to observe much in a short span. Assimilation: Begins after the eyes have rested and other senses take over, like the ears and the nose. It is how successfully you can discipline your body to work in tandem to reproduce the same feeling your eyes have first seen. In other words complement your sight with smells and reinforce it with touch or sound. If you have forgotten what the said place looked like, chances are that a whiff of some flower or coffee may bring back the visions in startling clarity from where you can continue.

Reflection: Pondering of the bygones, perceiving through application of all the senses. Formation: When the above three have been satisfied, the mind begins to form a picture as the eyes have seen it and the senses have perceived and chooses words to describe the result.

Reproduction: This final stage happens in coordination of all the senses. Once all that is harmony it is ready for the reader.

Who can write: 

Everybody who has the inclination and everybody who dares break new grounds: Anyone who goes somewhere beyond their normal place or work area and shares their experience is basically doing travel journalism. It can be letters or postcards, anything really. It is a craft that offers you a multitude of options and not restricting it to any destination. It about traveling, the things you see, experiences you have and most importantly the people you meet. And it borders on fiction seeing that few writers have taken liberties with facts. How do you then separate fiction from travel writing?

Anyone who is a realistic: There are two ways you can approach travel writing. One is imagining and the other far more encouraged approach is by actually experiencing it. The limitations of the former approach are many. For how can one mind possibly contrive so many images and ideas without repeating itself? The second approach is best for a full time travel writer. What the eyes see and the mind registers is inexhaustible, and there is no fear of repetition. The mind will guide the flow of words and the re-creation of sounds, sights or smells without restriction.

A good travel writer must also keep the following points in mind Avoid the use of too many adjectives. Excessive adjectives do not add to the power of the description. For example if your main focus is snow, there is no need to say it was thick and white and looked smashing in the fantastic brilliant light of the morning sun. Excessive use of adjectives takes the reader away from the main theme…here, the snow. Few things are obvious—that is the beauty. So let it be.

The article must be supported by as many facts as one can fit in reasonably. The trick is not to waste ink and space on the OBVIOUS. A travel writer must therfor be-

a) Truthful b) Apply himself to his task honestly c) Create an atmosphere the reader can feel, see or touch d) Be sure what he wants to write about e) Be as accurate as possible without sounding like a travel guide f) Bring the place to you g) Summon a sense of satisfaction h) Pay attention to detail.

People sometimes “cheat” on a place. You can smell them a mile away.

Why is it necessary to maintain a travel journal?

It helps recall facts and figures, your experience, important places, time, temperature everything that you may want to reproduce later. It is not necessary to write lengthy essays for you may have then missed the woods for the trees. A travel writer is excessively sharp and a keen observer

What is a good read? T

he article must flow on its own, like a stream with its own music. As there are no rules as to what must be described first, every reading in chronological order however appeals to most readers. It is advisable thus to begin at the start and work your way through taking your reader on your journey and seeing them safely back at the destination. In other words, a good beginning and a good ending is must for a good read.

Suggested reading:

Michael Palin: Himalayas

Richard Moreno: The Roadside History of Nevada series and Backyard Traveler As I read this book, I found myself wishing that I had had it along on the many trips I have taken through Nevada. As I finished each section of the book, I was ready to get into the car and go exploring the places that Moreno discusses. Who should read this book? Anyone who has an interest in Nevada and/or western history in general. And anyone who enjoys seeing where history was made.

J K Jerome: Three Men in Boat / Three men on the Bummel: While not really a travelogue, this book has all the elements of a great travel book. Beginning with the plot, which is very simple and a journey which anyone could undertake it reflects the keen observation of the writer of things we would overlook.

Jack Karouac: This not only launched the backpacking tribe but also opened up possibilities of travel writing and helped set a distinct style.