Postcard from Eritrea

Mr. T was in Eritrea last week on a work-related trip. When people asked about his whereabouts, I would say, Ethiopia. Not that I was geographically challenged, but for some reason most people looked blank when I said, Eritrea.

Truth be told, I hadn’t given Eritrea a second thought until this trip came up. I only knew it was somewhere near Ethiopia. I did some cursory reading, mostly to figure out how safe it was, and discovered that it was a deemed a ‘state sponsor of terrorism’ and was under ‘UN sanctions’. Of course, I found this out this while Mr. T was in Eritrea, and could do nothing more than ask him to ‘lock the doors and windows at night’.

What’s it like, I asked, the moment he got back. Cold, he said. Eritrea is about 7000 ft. above sea level and temperatures reached a maximum of 24 degrees even in summer.

What’s the place like, I wanted to know. It’s quite like Goa, he replied. That was a huge compliment as far as Eritrea was concerned. Mr. T, an eternal Goaphile, ranked most places he visited based on their semblance to Goa.

It had an easy charm, apparently. An Italian colony until the last century, it still featured graceful, Art Deco buildings, especially in the capital, Asmara. Like any place unused to tourists or travelers, credit cards were rarely accepted, and currency exchanges frequently ‘ran out of dollars’. The ritziest hotel in town was no more than a well-maintained lodge. And that’s where Mr. T and his colleague happened to be staying.

The rooms were squeaky clean but tiny. One could enter the room and fall into bed in the same motion, apparently. Mr. T also ended up sharing the room with scores of mosquitoes. And in the bathroom, apart from a single bar of soap, there were no other toiletries.

One morning, Mr. T and his colleague stopped at the Reception to check if they could get some moisturizer. Because of the cold weather, their skin had turned dry and cracked. The receptionist replied that the hotel had run out toiletries. However, before they could turn around, she opened a drawer and pulled out her handbag. She rummaged through it and came up with a tube of scented body butter. Before they could object, she squeezed out a big dollop on both their palms.

“Have a good day, sir,” she said, waving them off when they tried to thank her.

What Eritrea lacked as a country, it more than made up by its people.

The Middle Path in Macleodganj

 

This heart belongs to:
1. Girls
2. Momos
3. Money


I found this curiously brazen list of priorities scribbled on a napkin and tucked under a glass table top at Momo Cafe. I was in Macleodganj, a small town nestled amid the hills in north India, which had been home to the exiled Dalai Lama, for the last fifty years. I had come expecting to find a solemn, spiritual kind of place, exuding an old world, simple charm.

I wasn’t prepared for the rampant, colourful, commercial tourist town that it turned out to be. The narrow roads leading out from the tiny town square were filled with souvenir stores hawking everything from singing bowls to ‘100% Tibetan silver jewellery’. Outside the temple, near the town square, the fragrance of incense mingled with the aroma of steamed momos, or dumplings, coming from the tiny stalls which ringed the temple. On every available wall space, there were posters promoting courses in Buddhism, massage techniques, Reiki, vegetarian cooking or even on ‘how to find yourself’. You could sample authentic cuisine from Italian cafes and German bakeries. Or even try some fusion fare such as Chocolate Momos or Momo Pizza.

But Macleodganj had its austere side too. Away from the clamorous town centre and higher up in the hills, was Dhamma Sikhara, a Vipassana meditation centre. Vipassana is one of the oldest meditation techniques, used by the Buddha himself, a process of self transformation through self-observation. It’s not for the faint of heart. A Vipassana course consists of 10 days of meditation in absolute silence, avoiding even eye contact with others. The abject stillness at Dhamma Sikhara provided a stunning contrast to the raucous materialism of the town just a kilometre away. Each felt extreme and uneasy.

And then I met Norphal, whose name means ‘jewels’. He had a small trinket store on Bazaar Road and sold Tibetan silver jewellery which he admitted was ‘bought from Bangkok’. Norphal had been born in Macleodganj, and had only seen Tibet in pictures. His grandmother and father had fled from Tibet and walked for 29 days in order to reach India. His grandfather had stayed behind, and they never heard from him again. Norphal was a practising Buddhist, but he said he sometimes closed his shop early and went to St. John’s Church, a 19th century looming Gothic structure, just to experience ‘peace of mind’.

Norphal invited me to his home one morning to meet his grandmother. I had been asking him questions about Tibet and what it meant to be a refugee, when he invited me over. We walked on Tipa Road, past Thangka artists and internet cafes, Kashmiri shawl sellers and women with momo carts. Climbing a small dirt road, we reached a cluster of tiny dilapidated houses. The soulful chant ‘Om Mani Padme Hum’ was playing on a tinny music system in one of the houses. A few hens pecked at the dirt in the garbage-strewn yard.

Norphal’s grandmother was sitting in one corner of an almost bare room, and rocking herself. Her eyes were buried deep in the generous creases on her face, and she stared at me in an unabashed, frank manner. When she stood up to go to the kitchen, she was almost bent double. She came back with a bowl of tsampha or porridge, and salty butter tea. Until then, the only Tibetan fare I’d only sampled were momos and a vegetable broth called thukpa, and they were easy on the palate. The salty tea took a bit of getting used to.

Norphal’s grandmother sat close and watched as I ate. Sometimes she spoke in Tibetan and Norphal translated. He told me of her arduous trek to India, escaping Chinese soldiers and losing family members to exhaustion and starvation. She spoke about meeting the Dalai Lama, and her belief that he would lead them all back to their homeland. If not in her lifetime, then at least in Norphal’s. They had a rapid exchange in Tibetan after she said this. Perhaps, Norphal didn’t approve of her pessimism.

Norphal told me he loved India, and felt Indian most of the times, except when he had to renew his Registration Certificate every year. That’s when he felt like a homeless refugee. “I always ask my grandmother to talk about our home in Tibet, the people the land. And then I feel less... less lost.”

I asked him what his grandmother missed most about the home they’d left behind. She said something and pointed to my face. Norphal turned to look at me, and then both burst out laughing. I asked what they found so funny, and both laughed harder. His grandmother fell on the floor, cackling. The somber mood in the room as we talked about a lost land had vanished. And I couldn’t wait to find out how I had contributed to the merriment.

“She says she misses her cows the most,” said Norphal. “She says, they used to have a ring in their nose, just like you.”

I looked at her as she continued heaving with laughter. Her eyes had slid into one of the crevices on her face, and her near toothless gums quivered with delight. I touched the thin silver hoop on my nose which had caused so much nostalgic merriment. And I began to feel that between there was more to Macleodganj than the tourists and the Dalai Lama.

Intrepid in Iran: Day 1 - Getting there

* “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this to you, but you’ll need to cover your head and your butt,” wrote Sonya in an email, a week before our proposed trip to Shiraz in Iran. I was about to mail a droll reply about how my low-rise jeans weren’t all that low, when she sent me a link to the dress code for tourists in Iran.

The idea of a dress code for tourists in itself seemed remarkable. And then the thought of wearing headscarves and full-sleeved, butt-covering tunics felt a bit archaic and chauvinistic, even. Gaurav, the sole male presence in our 5-member troop, attempted to console us by declaring, “I totally understand. Even I can’t wear my cutoff trousers.”


* Apparently, no one in Dubai covers their butts. I combed every store in Lamcy Plaza and could barely find a top long enough to disguise the (rather unmistakable) fact that I have a butt. I somehow managed to cobble together a wardrobe for the 4-day trip. But when I reached the airport, 4 pairs of eyes zeroed in on the two exposed inches of denim-clad gluteus maximus. When clenching or shirt-tugging didn’t work, Sonia pulled out the ‘emergency robe’. My first thought was that it looked like a bathrobe. But it did an admirable job of not only obscuring my posterior, but also every other non-linear shape neck below.


* “What happens if you don’t wear the proper attire in Iran,” I timidly asked Heeba, the American-born, Dubai-based Iranian in our group. “You go to jail,” she said, with utmost seriousness. “You must understand, it’s not a custom, it’s a law.” I pulled the bathrobe around me tighter.

Anachronistic, chauvinistic or whatever else Iran may be, I had made the choice to visit. And I didn’t have to agree with the rules, I decided. I just had to go along. So when the plane touched down at Shiraz International Airport, like every other female tourist on the flight, I patted my headscarf into place and disembarked.


* ‘Iranian Cultural Heritage Handicrafts and Tourism Organisation would be highly grateful if you could kindly fill the following form and hand it over to the officials’ – read the flimsy yellow flyer we were handed at the airport. One of the few perks of being an Indian travelling to Iran was the Visa On Arrival status. But this form seemed a bit too informal for an officious document.

Apparently, it was. On filling of yellow flyer, one was handed a handwritten slip with visa fees, which had to be paid at another counter, following which another more officious-looking form had to be filled and handed over along with passports for the visa to be processed.

“How much time?” we asked the polite but harried staff on duty. “One hour at least,” he said, with an excessive emphasis on the last two words. “Maybe they’ve never had so many tourists visiting,” whispered Heeba.


* I expected to see beady-eyed, long-bearded officials skulking around the airport, looking out for inappropriate attire or manners, but most of the staff – all male, incidentally – seemed unconcerned, a bit bored, even. They didn’t even raise an eyebrow when a gaggle of kids from the French tourists’ troupe proceeded to knock down the stands while playing a boisterous game of tag. A little reassured, I sank into the airport chairs and nodded off a bit.

Two hours later, and just seconds before the next international flight arrived into Shiraz, we were handed our passports and visas.


* WELCOME TO SHIRAZ, said the banner just above the exit.


Coming next: Day 1 - The ruins of Persepolis

Climb every mountain

I cannot remember how and when the idea of climbing Kilimanjaro took hold. It might have begun as a vague thought sometime this year, but it’s a dream that’s been taking shape for the last few years, ever since I did the high-altitude trek in Ladakh in August 2003. That was the start of the mountain madness, and the weekend treks in the mountains on the outskirts of Bombay only fuelled the mania. Moving to Dubai in 2005 put paid to that obsession, but only for a while. And now, Kilimanjaro beckons.

There couldn’t be a more curious bunch than the four of us who are doing this trip. Alpha and I have known each other for close to 4 years, through our blogs, then through emails and then the surprisingly lengthy phone calls. We’ve never met, although we’ve been in the same city on one occasion, and in the same country, another time. She’s tried her match-making skills on me a few times, unsuccessfully, I might add, and I’ve asked her for recipes a few times, which she still hasn’t parted with.

I know Pi, her husband, only through her (expectedly biased) posts, and I don’t know much about Nai, the 4th member of our troupe, other than the fact that he was Alpha’s classmate, and of good character - as I was repeatedly assured by Alpha when she tried to book us into the same room. The last ditch attempt at match-making might just have borne fruit, except that Nai’s wife wouldn’t hear of it. So separate rooms it is.

We still have about 7 weeks to go before we meet up for the first time in Nairobi. And a busy 7 weeks it’s going to be, with training, gear shopping, and of course, regular blog updates at The Kilimanjaro Blog. Your comments and encouragement, are welcome as always.

Friday Brunch Menu

1 Pajero
1 Jeep
1 UAE Off-Road Explorer
5 off-road enthusiasts who abhor wasting a Friday morning tucked under the covers
9 litres water
Miles and miles of empty roads
10 kms. of sand dunes
Half a dozen wild camels
A sprinkling of shrubs
1 destination - Fossil Rock
6-7 wrong turns
1 sweltering sun
5 lost but contented souls
1 dozen plans for the next weekend

Going, going...

Sleeping bag - check
Pullover - check
Red Devil - check
Phone - uncheck

...we're going camping.

Dibbaaaah!

Discovering Dibba

Dibba is probably the antithesis of Dubai. Craggy brown peaks every where you turn, blue green waters which sound like a thunderclap at night, a horizon interrupted only by palm trees and unpretentious buildings, and a pace of life that regards hurrying as entirely unworthy of effort. An apt example of unpretentious would be a shop sign along the way – Food Selling Grocery. As basic as that. It’s almost a matter-of-fact announcement - you want fancy, head south to Dubai.

There wasn’t enough time to soak in Dibba on a weekend packed with team games, wild revelry and other assorted madness. But one of these weekends a return trip is due…

Going with the office gang

... to a beach resort in Dibba, the north-eastern most town in the UAE. Flanked by mountains and the sea, Dibba promises some spectacular views. More, when we get back.

Hubli Diary

* The first indication that all’s not well between Andhra Pradesh and its neighbour, Karnataka, is when I start chatting with the girl seated next to me on the bus. Hailing from Hubli in Karnataka, she studies in an engineering college in Hyderabad which she describes as being located in ‘the back of beyond’. When I tell her I’d missed my bus earlier, she says disdainfully, “They’ll never tell you when the bus is leaving. At least you know the Karnataka State Transport buses will leave on time.” She goes on to say that when she got a chance, especially on the weekend, she hopped on to the first bus – the first Karnataka State Transport bus – and headed home.



* The 12-hour ride in a non-air-conditioned bus passes comfortably enough, although my neck feels like someone twisted it into a knot while I was sleeping. I reach the Hubli airport at 9 a.m. and realize glumly that I have a 3-hour wait before my friend P arrives. There’s nothing to do but wait, read and people-watch.



* I’m reading Pico Iyer’s Sun After Dark, and there’s this chapter titled ‘Nightwalking’ about his experience dealing with jet lag. ‘It’s not quite a dream state and yet it’s certainly not wakefulness, and though it seems another continent that we’re visiting, there are no maps or guidebooks yet to this other world. There are not even any clocks.’ Sitting bleary eyed outside an airport located in the heartland of Nowhere Familiar, I get an idea of what he means.

* The Hubli airport is quite unlike any airport I’ve known. It’s small, cosy and unbelievably quiet. A man stands on tiptoe and peers over the wall to check if the flight has arrived. A Buddhist monk in deep red robes arrives with a small suitcase, takes off his slippers and puts on a pair of shoes before entering the terminal. There are 2-3 security guards with the rakish-looking hats which turn up on one side, and a few more airport personnel. The sky is a gentle blue, and there’s even a mild nip in the air. It’s almost too placid for an airport.

* Two men arrive in a van and disembark with a flat, elongated package which they deposit right next to where I’m sitting. The soporific airport witnesses an unexpected burst of activity. Three airport personnel troop out, followed by three more. Even the security guards leave their stations to investigate the hubbub. “Chidiya aya?” (Has the sparrow arrived?) asks one of the airport staff. When the white wrapping is torn aside, I see a mount board with a picture of a kingfisher and the logo of the Kingfisher airlines. I notice the staff are dressed in the blue and white colours of Air Deccan, an airline that has recently merged with Kingfisher. From the ‘sparrow’ quip, I gather that the staff don’t think much of the merger.

* P finally troops out of the airport just after I’ve looked at my watch for the 5001st time. We head to the Hubli bus depot to catch the bus to Dandeli. Unlike the bustling Hyderabad bus terminus, the Hubli depot resembles a ghost town. There’s no one behind the ticket counters, and the forlorn guard shakes his head sadly when we ask him about the next bus to Dandeli. Maybe in 5 hours’ time, he says. P and I look at each other in dismay. We ask the man at the small snack shop, and he says, 15 minutes. There are two American tourists trying to get information to travel to Gokarna, and ask us if we know how to get there. We express ignorance, and later wonder if they will ever get to their destination.



* The snack shop with its array of food is rather tempting. Against my better judgment, I opt for the veg patty, which turns out to be so good that I order another. There’s a colourful sweetmeat which looks like a cross between a biscuit and a pastry, which I’m tempted to try. It’s called ‘manpasand’ and is a thin-crusted pastry filled with fruit peel and coconut. It’s a bit too sweet for my liking, but the resident canine doesn’t mind it at all.





* A red bus trundles in, and people in different corners of the depot holler out to us with a finger thrust in the direction of the bus. We take it to mean that it’s the bus to Dandeli. We gratefully clamber aboard and get ready for a long, bumpy ride.

Hyderabad Diary

* The cell phone beeps at 2.45 a.m. giving me a nervous moment. It’s an sms from the roaming service - ‘Welcome to Hyderabad etc…’ I’d reached around 3.30 in the afternoon, almost 12 hours before the welcoming sms.

* On the way to the hotel, I take in the sights and sounds. On the face of it, it looks like any other city. Like Bomay, perhaps. Populous, busy, colourful. The autos are all-yellow though, not like the Bombay’s yellow-black ones. There are film posters all over the city heralding the newest star son on the blog - Chiranjeevi's son, Ram Charan Teja.



*‘Here’s the famous Punjagutta flyover,’ announces Smiley pointing to the city’s newest attraction. A couple of days earlier, a section of the bridge had collapsed leaving 4 dead and several wounded. I glance at the fallen bridge before a person riding a motorcycle captures my attention. He’s speaking into a cell phone being held to his ear by the person seated behind him. “That’s nothing,” says Smiley, “I’ve seen someone holding a phone to the ear of another guy who was peeing.” Hands-free takes on a whole new meaning!

* I’m not much of a foodie, but I am converted in the short time I spend in Hyderabad. Midnight Biryani at the Park Hotel, steamed dosas at Chutneys served on a banana leaf, and delectable Hyderabadi Haleem from Pista House. Considering, it’s Ramadan, there’s a haleem stall almost every few paces. Mutton haleem’s most popular, I figured, followed by chicken. One place even advertised fish haleem. Even with my newfound passion for food, I’m not sure I would try that in a hurry.



* Hyderabad can rock! The moves on the dance floor at F-Bar in Lumbini Mall leave me breathless. It's a week night, but that doesn't deter the avid party goers, who look most crestfallen when the place shuts at midnight.



* Visiting Golconda Fort isn’t on the itinerary. But considering the Salar Jung Museum is shut on the very day that I am there, we head to the Fort. It turns out to be an awe-inspiring trip. Standing amid the ruins of an 800-year old fort was, one tries to imagine what it was like all those years ago. Even the ruins are spectacular. The sheer scale of the fort is apparent after one has huffed and puffed to the top. Except for a few Japanese tourists and a few Indians, there aren’t too many visitors. The fort lies tucked away in a corner of the ‘old Hyderabad’ - away from the slick IT City and other swanky constructions, indistinguishable from each other - an almost forgotten souvenir of a glorious past.



* If travelling on the interstate buses, you have to read the ticket like you would read your rich uncle’s will. Very, very carefully. The information printed right at the top is the location from where you purchased your ticket, followed by the time of departure. In a less obvious corner, is the actual departure location, which turns out to be at least 15 kms. away in the direction of rush-hour traffic. Now, if you’re the kind to speed read the ticket, you turn up well in time at the wrong location, and then make a mad dash across the city only to arrive at the interstate bus terminal where there are at least a 100 buses arriving and departing and you’ve no clue if your bus is among them.

* I miss the bus, but the resulting adventure turns out to be more fun than imagined. Getting information from the beleaguered information desk, haggling for a teeny refund, watching ticket officials wrestle with unfamiliar computerized systems and finally, getting onto the next available bus an hour later all turns out to be a memorable part of the Hyderabad experience. I am pleasantly surprised to discover there’s a ‘women’s seat’ on the bus, which means I don’t have to fret about my seatmate. It’s been a very long time since I’d done a long bus journey, and I’m glad that I didn’t take the flight.


To be continued: Hubli Diary

Back, but not quite...

Mumbai-Hyderabad-Hubli-Dandeli-Hubli-Mumbai. The last few days have been exhilarating, enervating and also, eye-opening. From a fast-paced metropolis to a small city to a wildlife sanctuary, the rapid transition has been bewildering at times, and there's a curious sensation of being jet-lagged now that I'm back in Bombay. The old seasonal allergies have also begun to rear their stuffy heads, and I'm hoping to get through the last few days without coming down with something dreadful. Updates will follow...

Going trippin'

Heading out of Bombay for a few days where there will be no net access, no connectivity (hopefully) and more wildlife than homo sapiens. Will be back on Tuesday with news and pictures.

Postcards from Oz

The posts will have to wait. Until then, some visual relief...


Skydiving over Mission Beach, Cairns.


With Brent, the tandem dive instructor


The twins who couldn't get enough of the monorail.


The lookout at Blue Mountains, Sydney.


'Cow in a tree' - quirky art at the Docklands, Melbourne


Night lights in Melbourne


The Shipwreck Coast along the Great Ocean Road, Melbourne


2007 dawns over Sydney


The Esplanade at Cairns


At 'The Marriage of Figaro', Sydney Opera House

Now, Up Above

It's bizarre and immensely gratifying to note that in the first two weeks of 2007, I've been on 3 continents.

I'm back in Dubai after 3 languid weeks in Australia and a breathless week in Bombay. Part of the silence lately can be attributed to this dashing about the place, soaking in the experience and enjoying every moment of it.

"You seem different," some tell me, referring mostly to the tan. But there are some deep-rooted alterations too, I can tell. Trips unfailingly do that to me. I'm still unravelling the experience, figuring out a way to translate it all. But before I get into all of that, some of the memorable moments...

* Snorkelling in the Great Barrier Reef (definitely one of life's highlight)

* Skydiving from 14,000 feet

* Learning to surf (one very wobbly surfer there!)

* Sampling a grill consisting of kangaroo, crocodile and emu meat

* Travelling alone to Melbourne & Cairns without a map or itinerary (and in one instance without even accommodation)

* Drinking enough wine - incredibly fine Australian wine - to fill a small bathtub

* Watching a Mozart opera at the Sydney Opera House

* Getting invited to dinner by a charming Swedish septuagenarian (I politely declined)

* Getting invited to dinner by an Aussie bush tracker who was also a digeridoo player, Japanese film enthusiast and marijuana grower! (I was too intrigued to refuse.)

* Almost losing my hand luggage, almost leaving my ticket behind, almost forgetting my phone... all of this even before the flight to Sydney took off. I guess I'm lucky I got back in one piece, minus only the camera. Sigh.


The Australia Diary continues...

Jingle Bells - Oz style

The carol singers had gathered. The guitarist strummed the opening notes of the familiar 'Jingle Bells'. I opened my mouth to sing along and suddenly found myself alone in the crowd. The tune hadn't changed, but the words jingled in another direction. Here's the Aussie-styled carol, with translations of the slang at the bottom.


Dashing through the bush
In a rusty Holden Ute
Kicking up the dust
Esky in the boot
Kelpie by my side
Singing Christmas songs
It's summer time and I am in
My singlet, shorts & thongs

CHORUS:
OH, JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS
JINGLE ALL THE WAY
CHRISTMAS IN AUSTRALIA
ON A SCORCHING SUMMER'S DAY
JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS
CHRISTMAS TIME IS BEAUT
OH WHAT FUN IT IS TO RIDE
IN A RUSTY HOLDEN UTE

Engine's getting hot
Dodge the kangaroos
Swaggy climbs aboard
He is welcome too
All the family's there
Sitting by the pool
Christmas day, the Aussie way
By the barbecue!

CHORUS

Come the afternoon
Grandpa has a doze
The kids and uncle Bruce
Are swimming in their clothes
The time comes round to go
We take a family snap
Then pack the car and all shoot through
Before the washing up

CHORUS



In the words of one of the new Australian mates: MERRY CHRISSY to all of you.


Slang translated:
Ute : utility vehicle, pickup truck
Esky : large insulated food/drink container for picnics, barbecues etc.
Kelpie : Australian sheepdog originally bred from Scottish collie
Thongs : (NOT the G-strings you're thinking of!) cheap rubber backless sandals
Swaggie : swagman, tramp, hobo

Yeeya, Down Under

The first impression about Australian currency is that it resembles craft paper – thin, smooth and colourful, with a tiny plastic window in one corner. So that when you hold it up to the light, you not only see the fearsome, handlebar-moustached gentleman on it, but can also the thin-faced, flare-nostrilled man at the money exchange counter, through it. The former gazes into eternity, the latter looks on a bit impatiently, as you pore over the notes, looking for other quaint features.

Currency apart, there’s much to marvel about Australia, as I’ve discovered in the last 2 days that I’ve been here. I’m on a 3-week vacation on the East Coast, ostensibly soaking up the summer sun. I say ‘ostensibly’ because the the summer I was told about, warned about, seems to be as much of a myth as, well, Santa Claus. As we touched down in Sydney, the pilot announced, “The temperature outside is 16 degrees, with light showers.” Having shivered through most of the 7-hour flight from Dubai to Hong Kong and the 9-hour flight from Hong Kong to Sydney, the only thought that kept me going was the toasty warmth of Sydney. I was looking forward to a ‘sunny Christmas’, and the only ‘warm’ clothing I’d packed was a denim jacket, and not a very thick one at that.

The weather may not have lived up to expectations, but the Australians certainly did. Bleary-eyed entrants to the Sydney airport were welcomed by the Salvation Army brass band playing Christmas carols. At 6:30 in the morning!

Ro, a dear old friend from pre-college days, already had her hands full with 3-year old twins. But she greeted me enthusiastically and the twins looked at me curiously. “Kirk and Jadyn, this is Leela,” she announced.

Shy smiles appeared. “Yeeya,” said Jadyn. “Yaya,” rasped Kirk, faint sounds issuing from the tube in his throat which covered his tracheostomy. His vocal chords hadn’t normalized yet, and he still needed to be fed through a tube in his stomach. But nothing stopped him from being the more boisterous of the two. Still, I couldn’t help marveling at his restraint when both were handed chocolate chip cookie, and Kirk was told gently, “Only to hold, you can’t eat it.” He wasn’t curious about eating anyway; he only wanted whatever Jadyn was being given.

Jet lag kicked in by the time we headed out to the Darling Harbour. But swiveling my head back and forth to take in the sights ensured that I didn’t nod off. Parking the car, we took the tram through stations with names out of an Enid Blyton book – Rozelle Bay, Lilyfield, Paddy’s Market...

Sitting at the Sydney Aquarium café overlooking the harbour, we noticed a well-dressed group of people – the men in black suits, the women in little black and pink numbers. The women shivered and sported gooseflesh as elegantly as possible. Some even turned a bit blue as they looked out for ‘Michelle & Vito’ – the couple who was to be married on one of the cruise boats that go around the harbour.

At another end of Darling Harbour, the Chatwoods High school orchestra performed Christmas carols and jazz medleys to a crowd of delighted children and their parents. Strollers, shoppers and tourists ambling along, spread themselves on the grass in front of the stage to watch the action. The 25-foot tall Christmas tree, aglow and animated, joined the festivities.

Day 1 in Sydney. Not a bad way to start.

The road to Jebel Hafeet

A few years ago, while on a trek in Ladakh, I stood enraptured at the Advanced Base Camp of the peak Stok Kangri. At 17,000 feet, it was the highest I'd ever been, and my quickened breathing wasn't because of the thin air alone.

Last weekend, standing on top of Jebel Hafeet, the highest point in the UAE, I felt a faint stirring of that old magic. True, the altitude bore no comparisons. At 4,000 feet, Jebel Hafeet was more molehill than mountain. Still, the thrill of feeling a step away from the sky, of being surrounded by jagged outlines of mountains, of looking down at the city with an omniscient gaze - all of it more than made up for the lack of altitude for someone afflicted by acute mountain deprivation.


"The journey is the destination," announced my philosophical friend, M, who was also the guide on this trip. M has cris-crossed the length and breadth of the UAE in his tiny but trusty Mini Cooper, and had been coaxing me to do the drive for a while. My 3-month old car was raring to get out of the traffic-clogged city limits and tear away on the highways. Things came together last weekend. When most of Dubai was napping away the afternoon heat, five of us and two cars set off for Jebel Hafeet, on the outskirts of Al Ain.



The route between Dubai and Al Ain might have been drawn using a ruler, so rarely does it meander. And that's what made it an absolute pleasure to drive on. Empty roads and a speed limit of 120 - it was everything a newbie driver hoped for. Sand dunes rose and fell like waves on either side of the 6-lane highway. The horizon was mercifully exempt from towering half-finished structures, which dotted so much of Dubai.

Two hours and a couple of rest stops later, we reached the first of the roundabouts which announced our entry into Al Ain. Some of the roundabouts seemed familiar from my previous trip to Al Ain six months ago. But the circuitous route soon turned into a maze and I lost sight of the car I was supposed to be trailing.

Perhaps it was a case of 'bringing the mountain to Mohammed' but even as I was searching for a way to retrace my steps, I saw a sign up ahead which read 'Jebel Hafeet". Quite serendipitously, I found myself at the base of, what has been adjudged, 'the world's greatest driving road'.


Photo courtesy: www.edmunds.com

The sun was beginning to set when we started our ascent. Bathed in the evening glow, the craggy, limestone rocks were a soothing sight to city-weary eyes. The AC was turned off, the windows were rolled down. Heads swiveled back and forth not wanting to miss anything. It was hard to imagine that this 'flat-as-an-airstrip' road was hewn right through a mountain. Even my car purred in contentment.



According to some estimates, there are 60 curves en route to the top, and each time we rounded a bend, the view turned even more spectacular. As dusk set in, the lamps on either side of the road lit up, turning limestone into gold. The peak now resembled a dazzling tiara. Undoubtedly, a good deal of planning had gone into this route. There were emergency parking areas after every 150-200 metres, and observation points with ample car parking at two or three places.

A cool breeze was blowing when we finally reached the plateau at the top. There were almost a hundred cars parked all around the periphery, with people spilling out of them � families with picnic baskets, kids, even a few pets. There were more hordes milling around the vapidly titled 'Top of Hafeet Mountain Cafetaria'. There was even graffiti scribbled all along the surface of the peak.





A bit of the magical spell cast by the drive up the mountain was broken. But we found a tiny quiet spot to take it all in, and to gaze at Al Ain below. The city was ablaze with lights. The snaking route below, bathed in an incandescent light seemed almost surreal from our vantage point. We took a few pictures, walked around the periphery of the plateau and then headed back.

Perhaps M was right. The journey is the destination�

A glimpse of the desert

Doing a desert safari in the UAE is a bit like getting your picture clicked at the Eiffel Tower in Paris. It’s the touristy thing to do. And like most touristy things it looks good in pictures and ranks high on the ‘been-there-done-that’ scale. But it also feels a little dissatisfying, especially if packaged tours are not your idea of the right way to experience a place.

Having said that, I quite enjoyed the all-too-brief tryst with the dunes. Dubai does a great job of camouflaging the fact that it’s actually a desert. And in all the time I’ve been here, I’ve only heard travellers’ tales of the stark beauty of the desert. It was time to make an introduction – a formal one, albeit.



Desert safari operators in Dubai are a dirham a dozen. So considering it was the month end, we chose economy over effusive claims, and signed up with Fairyland Tours for 165 dirhams per person. Mustafa, our driver, arrived sharp at 4 p.m. to pick us up, and we set off to meet the rest of the group.

One of the redeeming features of Dubai is that you can get out of the city and cruise on the open roads in less than 20 minutes. The Dubai–Hatta Road was almost deserted on a Friday afternoon and we hurriedly rolled up the windows as the speedometer touched 140. The distances between the houses on either side of the road increased until only sandy hillocks and sparse trees were visible. Sand particles flew onto the road and receded like waves as vehicles sped by. The hour passed by unnoticed.



We reached an incongruous café and souvenir shop on the side of the road. People spilled out of half a dozen SUVs parked there. This was the last halt before we entered the dunes. While some used the opportunity to buy colas, chewing gum and other essentials, the drivers of the SUVs began preparing for the Dune Bashing (as the ride on the sand dunes is popularly called) by deflating the tyres. Apparently, flattened tyres ensure the vehicle doesn’t get stuck in gritty terrain.

Suitably deflated, our vehicles climbed into the dunes, which at first glance looked rather tame. There were mild undulations in the terrain, which stretched out for as far as the eye could see, and for someone who’s been awed by the topography of the Himalayas, this was not something to write home about.



I was unmoved when Mustafa began gearing up. First he pulled out a pair of wraparound shades. Then he fished out a zutra – a traditional Arabic headgear – and performed some complicated maneuvers before patting it down on his head. Next he asked all six of us in the vehicle to wear the seatbelt. Dune Bashing, indeed, I thought, rolling my eyes and blowing on my nails. This was going to be a ride on S.V. Road in Mumbai post-monsoons.

Dune Bashing requires special driving skills. Drivers usually have to undergo basic training and need a certification for desert driving. Mustafa mostly drove with one hand gripping the handle above the door and the other hand twisting, turning and pummeling the steering wheel. There were nervous giggles and muffled screams in the back when we went into a 45 degree slant or when we careened down the dune. Interestingly, the SUVs which customarily dominated the roads with their haughty presence, now seemed like little beetles scuttling in the sand.



We rode dune after dune in this similar jerky manner, and while my heart didn’t do any somersaults, I was dismayed to note that my stomach did. I had to ask Mustafa to stop the vehicle twice, and he willingly obliged. ‘Mostly happens with Asians’, he muttered, handing me tissues, and adding to my discomfiture.

The sun was a molten orb on the horizon when we made our next halt on the peak of a dune. Surfboards were brought out and those interested could surf down the dune. My friends and I tried it before we decided it sounded more exciting than it actually was. The ride was over in less than 10 seconds and climbing back up the dune with a heavy surfboard turned out to be an unanticipated aerobic activity.



Back in our vehicle, we headed to the campsite for an experience of Arabian culture. This included smoking (or for the inept, choking) on the sheesha, camel rides, henna tattoos and even dressing up in the hijab (for women) and the kandoora (for men). UAE law prohibits non-Emiratis from donning the national costume. However, an exception is made during safaris as long as one doesn’t step out of the campsite.

The perimeter of the camp was lined with tents where people could stretch out and allow their dune-bashed innards to recover before heading for the bar or for any of the other attractions. We took our time before heading to each of the tents where we got the henna tattoo, smoked an apple-flavoured sheesha and rode a camel called ‘Jaani’. The most novel part was posing for photographs wearing the hijab. There’s a certain mystique attached to the hijab, which cloaks everything but the eyes. For the few minutes that I paraded in it, there was a sense of having a secret vantage point to the world, of being more in control than those whose faces reflected every emotion, of being able to retreat easily into an inner space. But like I said, for me it was a novelty. A person required to wear it might opine differently. Or might not.

The star attraction of the evening was the belly dancer, who took to the podium in the centre of the camp. We watched for a while, but quickly tuned off when she began inviting members of the audience to dance with her, and who proceeded to imitate her moves to dreadful effect.

Soon, we were hustled into the food tent for an Arabic barbecue along the ubiquitous Indian food. It was 9 p.m., just 5 hours since we’d left home, although it felt like ages. Mercifully, we didn’t have to ride over the dunes to get back to the highway or I might just have done my Asian roots proud again. We reached the Hatta road in less than ten minutes and were home by 10 p.m.

A fun trip, no doubt, but I have a feeling that the real desert escapade is yet to come…

Mozart, a desert safari and a heritage village

It’s been a busy month, March. But a nice kind of busy. Because it involved trips and new friends and achievements all coming together in a happy blur. And speaking of achievements, can one regard not having stepped into a mall in a whole month as a minor feat?

Mozart in the oasis

A couple of years ago, my travel wishlist had the following entry:

* Travel to Vienna in 2006 for Mozart’s 250th birth anniversary

I never really did much more than pen down that entry and entertain a vague hope. But I never imagined the universe would conspire (as Paulo Coelho would say) to bring Mozart right next door to me.

The Mozart Festival in Al Ain, Abu Dhabi, was magnificent for more than several reasons. To begin with, the setting was incredibly scenic: Al Ain is popularly known as the Garden City. But what was more enthralling was that the concert was staged at the Al Jahili Fort, which dates back to the 1890s. Listening to the Vienna Chamber Orchestra play the finest compositions of the prodigious composer who died when he was barely 35, was an experience that can best be described as magical. Speaking in a droll Japanese-Italian accent, Joji Hattori, the Japanese conductor attempted to add some humour as he introduced each of the pieces. The 1500-strong crowd tittered on cue. But the highlight of the evening was the Lebanese singer, who along with a few local musicians and the Vienna Chamber Orchestra did a soulful tribute to Mozart.

The Coffee pot roundabout at Al Ain


Al Jahili Fort


The stage is set for Mozart


The Vienna Chamber Orchestra


(Next: the desert safari)