Tokyo, Interrupted

My first impression of Tokyo is of a city straight out of a child’s toy box – block upon block of glass and concrete, packed together, competing with each other to touch the skies. After the charming houses and vibrant hues of Bangalore, the surfeit of identical skyscrapers and complete absence of greenery comes as a shock – the first stretch of trees I saw was in front of the Imperial Palace on my third day in the city!

But walk the streets and you realize that there is more to Edo than simply the race to the top. The restaurants with their brightly colored signs, the pretty lamps, and the quaint door and window curtains are a complete delight. The famous Japanese efficiency and perfection leaves you spellbound when you encounter if firsthand. But like a mature woman resplendent in her red lipstick and bright rouge, Tokyo is best encountered in the evening - with its makeup of bright lights full on to dazzle and captivate the visitor.

So here are five things about Tokyo that I liked:

1. The food, definitely. The Japanese are known for their innovation in technology, but their food is equally, if not more, creative! Most of us know Japanese cuisine by our sushi & sashimi and teppanyaki, but there is so much more the country has to offer – I sampled Hitsumabushi, an eel meal with special eel from Nagoya ; Shabu-shabu, the Japanese hot-pot; Izakaya – casual Japanese dishes, which include hand made udon (thin, grey-brown noodles) and soba (thick wheat noodles) ; Kushiyaki – meat, fish or veggies on skewers; raw chicken sashimi (I was feeling adventurous, and it turned out to be quite nice! ), Okonomiyaki (pancake stuffed with cabbage, seafood and/or meat) and its variant Hiroshimayaki; Monja – veggies in soup cooked on a hotplate at the table; Yakitori – baked chicken; and finally, Ramen – Chinese style wheat noodles in a thick broth with veggies/seafood/meat. And of course, the crowning glory – the best sushi in the world at Tsukiji fish market.

2. The technology, obviously. Simple things that amaze you – like how the radio would magically turn on the moment I’d turn on my bathroom lights. The cute little mini-projector. The little hand-held devices on which the waiter takes the order which automatically gets transmitted to the kitchen – one of the restaurants we visited had a little machine on our table through which we could directly place our request! I was also told by my Japanese colleague that technology is intensively used in agriculture – which explains how the country continues to produce amazingly fresh fruits & vegetables. Is our agriculture minister listening?

3. The efficiency and abundant display of common sense. The best example is the cafeteria at office – a lady with her small battalion of helpers would so efficiently allot tables to a patiently waiting queue of 50-100 people at peak hunger hour! For a land prone to typhoons and storms, rains are common, but that doesn’t interrupt life in any way. Each office and restaurant has a little machine into which you stab your dripping umbrella – and voila, it emerges packed in plastic so you don’t bring the rains indoors. Such simple stuff that you wonder why no one’s thought of it before.

4. The quaint little customs. It is considered rude to leave the restaurant door open after you have entered. But please don’t be a stupid foreigner as you try to open or shut your taxi door – it is remote controlled, silly! The immaculately well turned out taxi drivers in their gray coats and white shirts. The extreme politeness in official and social interactions – the most commonly heard phrases in Japan are hai (Ok/I agree) and ‘arigato gozaymasu’ (Thank you for your support) – even business leaders will start their meetings with you with the latter phrase! And it’s still fairly common to see people in offices bowing deeply and not showing their backs to people considered more senior.

5. The different faces of the city by day and by night. Tokyo early morning is best witnessed at the Tsukiji fish market – as locals and tourists head to their favorite sushi place for breakfast, then stop by at a tea shop to sip their favorite brew in pretty little saucers, stopping by on the way to pick up some colorful plates and essential herbs for the house. During the day, the city is a hub of activity as suit-clad men and women go about their business And in the evening, the bright lights and skyscrapers of Ginza, Shibuya and Roppongi dazzle and beckon the onlooker into their embrace.

Talk to a local and you will notice many similarities with India – the craving for a son in the family, the tendency to continue living and caring for your parents, the glass ceiling for women in the workplace ... In many ways, the Japanese are much more rooted in custom than the average city-bred Indian is.

The notorious quirkiness and loneliness of the average Japanese is not hard to miss as you walk the streets. Most people walk alone, with their heads bowed or buried in a newspaper – the younger set is lost in their PSP’s or music players. 15-20 hour days are common at work, which undoubtedly would take a toll on family life, especially over an extended period of stay. While I was in Tokyo, the Democratic Party ended the historic 50 year old rule of the Liberal Democrats – but my colleagues did not expect any real change and said the results just showed that the people were fed up and wanted some change – which in itself is extremely uncharacteristic of the stoic and patient Japanese. The IHT proclaimed that no government could bring about a real change till the Japanese opened their doors to foreign immigrants and allowed major reforms in their all-power bureaucracy.

Japan to my mind is at a unique crossroad– the stagnation in the economy has also raised questions about the adequacy of the traditional Japanese values of consensus, hard work, quality and team work. The political change is the first indication that their legendary patience is running out, but are they ready for the big change?

London bus rides, National Gallery and British Library

13 Aug 2007, London

A visit to London is incomplete without a ride in the red double decker buses (made more famous in India thanks to Rahul serenading Simran in one of those!). I thought it would be a good idea to see a bit of London through these buses - after all, a good traveller has no plans and is not intent on arriving!

So I boarded the Number 15 at Bond Street, went down Oxford Street, past Hyde Park Corner and onto Edgware Road, which seems to have a strong Muslim presence - there are numerous places selling Lebanese food, and there is the the Islamic Bank of Britain, Al-Mustafa, and surprisingly, Ladbrokes!

We took a left onto leafy Sussex Gardens, with shaded trees, hotels, inns and lodges. Then onto St Mary’s Hospital, to the left of which is Sir Alexander Fleming’s house, and to its right the Imperial College, London.

We went further down to reach Paddington Underground, with the Hilton Paddington next door, and further down to Eastbourne Terrace, with the old Paddington station on one side, and a dull brown, Russian looking building (London seems to have several of those!) on the other. In contrast, Westbourne Terrace further down is prettier, with pale yellow old buildings and pubs with the trademark basket of many hued geraniums hanging on the front door.

The bus ended at Old Paddington Station, which, contrary to my expectations, appears on the outside to be dingy and unprepossessing – more like a warehouse than a train station. No wonder so many of Dame Agatha’s murders were committed on trains out of Paddington!

While I was poring over the bus map to decide where to head next, No 205, which goes by the British Library, arrived. I had been debating whether I should visit the Library, and the arrival of the bus made up my mind. We rode up Liverpool Street, past the trademark London red colored houses with white windows and white arches, onto Hyde Park and then the Edgware Road Underground Station, further onto Marylebone Road.

The Marylebone Underground Station is an old building in reddish brown and skin-brown bricks with white doors and windows. Further down is the extremely old Westminster Council House, next to which are the fortress-like red and white mansions.

Further on is Baker Street, peppered with several old buildings and mansions in red brick and white trimmings. Madam Tussauds is also situated on Baker Street, close to the old building that houses the UG Station, as also is the old St. Marylebone Church.

Baker Street leads onto Harley Street, famous for its doctors and physicians. The Regent’s Park UG Station is situated here, and further north is the Portland Street – Euston Square crossing which has several modern glass and chrome structures, an aberration in London’s ancient skyline.

Euston Road is peppered with several historical structures, but the contemporary red bricked British Library, set against the backdrop of the St. Pancras Parish Church which is currently being converted into a five star hotel, is striking.

Europe, here I come!

8 Aug 2006, 5:45 am, Blore HAL Airport

So here I am – ready to board British Airways flight no BA 118 to London. Though it still hasn’t completely sunk in that I am on my way to London, France & Netherlands – I guess that will happen only after I reach Heathrow. John Steinbeck says in Travels with Charly that in long range planning for trip, there is a private conviction that it won’t happen. In my case, for some inexplicable reason, I have been almost wanting it not to happen.

Not surprising, considering that this trip was decided on an impulse, and that my travel plans have changed at least five times a day over the last ten days! Thanks to which, I am now well versed with the geography of France, Germany & Belgium – no mean accomplishment given my intense dislike for the subject.

So to begin at the beginning. Flashback to three weeks ago, sitting in P’s car, listening to her block tickets for London. She’d told me about V’s plan of picking up a BMW in Munich and driving around Europe, and while it had sounded exciting, I really hadn’t thought I would take up the offer. Now, however, the prospect of Europe on top-class BMW wheels appeared to be just the break I needed.

So tickets were booked; A, my school friend in London informed, who also decided to take a week off and join us. The question now was – should we follow V’s itinerary or plan our own? After all, I had already seen Munich, Berlin and a few other places in Germany, so it didn’t make sense to spend more time there. Anuja mentioned she had a friend in Belgium, and since it appeared to be relatively easy to get a Schengen for Belgium, we decided in two minutes to travel to Belgium. And thus began the game of musical chairs.

For I had to get to Netherlands ultimately, since I was booked on a return flight from there. The original concept of ‘BMW driving in Europe’ now put in the parking lot (I still harbored dreams of having a spin in the car), I came up with new itineraries very day, each enthusiastically embraced by A, and equally enthusiastically discarded upon presentation of the next dream route. So one day it was the Belgian village route, another day a discovery of Rhineland, a third following the German cuckoo route through the Black Forest, and so on.

Finally, we settled on a driving holiday in France. Since we were limited by geography (I had to enter from Belgium and exit into Netherlands), it wasn't too difficult to narrow our dream destination to the Normandy regions of France. So while A arranged the car, I now concentrated my energies on identiying a suitable chambre d'hote (bed & breakfast) in Normandy, with the intention of driving along the English channel for a while and then venturing further inland.

A concurred (as she had been doing to all my mad cap plans over the last week!) and volunteered to arrange the car - so now, I will be driving in Europe - DDLJ, main aa rahi hoon!

Frankfurt Diary

2 Oct 2004, 12:30 PM

So here I am. After telling Dad to take me along on an impulse, not really believing I'd make it after he said Yes, later hoping that the trip wouldn't work out (mind over impulse?), and finally getting my visa at literally the last moment (while I was boarding my flight to Delhi, with planned departure the very next day!) - I am finallydisembarking Air India's flight at the Rheine International Airport, Frankfurt. Someone please pinch me.

Of course I have butterflies in my stomach - after all, this is no client visit where I'll be escorted around, can hop, skip & jump into and out of cabs to my heart's content and have the luxury of splurging on the exotic locla delicacies (thankfully, exotic food in Germany probably means dry, dry meat, so I'm happy to pass). I am on a personal visit to earth's most expensive continent, with zilch planning or background research (I was busy winding up work you see!). It's not something I'm very comfy with, but that's what makes the trip exciting too! Achtung baby.

The airport's typically German - no frills and supra efficient. I personally believe that airports reveal the character of a country (you only need to look at IGI for verification) - here, I completed my customs clearance in a mere 60 secs - ohmigosh!

So all signs in German when we step outta the airport! Hunting for a cab (too much luggage, and Dad is paying :-)) - ah, there's a cute driver - kinda intellectual looking. The weather's nice and bright - what am I going to do with all the heavy wollens I lugged along! OHMIGOSH - the cab driver has a PALM installed next to his steering wheel. No not a tree you duh, but a palmtop - ohmigawd, ohmigawd, ohmigawd - can I swap places with you please? Ok, lets' concentrate on the view outside (envious glance back every minute at the Palm - sigh)


Hotel Intercontinental, Room 1614

Our room overlooks the Maine River and the view is breathtaking. I can see a jogging trail running parallel to the bank (of course I will plan to go jogging at 6 am, and OF COURSE I will never do it), a scating ring teaming with kids, a few cruisers and a pictursque bridge begging to be walked on. The waters are placid and clear (or is it just the '360 feet view') and the banks beyond are a lush green, but right now my soft bed beckons!

Evening

Walked to the Haupbahnof (central station) - what a pretty building teeming with life and yummilicous smells - I wander around and see all kinds of cuisines - Chinese, French, Sushi, Lebanese, Italian - yummmmy.

Walking back to the streets actoss the Haupbahnof in search of dinner, Dad recalls a good Turkish restaurant that he frequented on previous visits (every second eatery in Germany is probably Turkish).

Let's go beyond the crossing, says Dad.
H: Look there Abs, that part seems to be full of life! I'm sure your restaurant is there
D: (squirming in discomfort) No, that's where the live bands are
H: Oh really, WOW, Let's go there then!
D: (half turning away) You can go, Not me
H: (Since when did dad become such a frump?) But WHY?
D: Coz they are live bands
H: Even better, I love live music!
D: (half shouting) don't you understand - its nude shows, striptease..
H: Ohmigosh, I thought you meant people jamming away
D: (Do-you-really-belong-to-this-world look) Can we turn back NOW?

Sigh. But now I'm tempted to explore the 'live bands' (Big evil grin). We turn into a side street, and my eyes light upon an Eros Center - rooms aglow with a warm red light, the sign of a heart outside. Looks nice and cosy - not the dingy and dirty hovels we seem to have back home for these services. We continue to walk down the street, which is lined with discrete places advertising peep shows (entry free - wah, wah). But you can't see a thing or hear a sound outside - this is definitely not Patpong! There are also numerous sex shops advertising toys, aids, the works. My curiosity is piqued - I'm dying to see what's inside! Gotta come back here sometime. Sigh, wish I wasn't alone.

3rd October

Decided to take up the advice of the Tourist Info lady and walk around the city center. The streets are deserted, most shops are closed, but everything's working to Germanic precision. Ogled at the Merc showroom - took a pic of the sexy Black Beauty inside (C Class - only Euro 90K). Frankfurt has some mouthwatering cars - sexy convertibles (BMW, Merc, Jaguar), cute Opels and Audi's, sleek VW's - you name it. sigh. Wish I could marry a German. Sigh. Miss A terribly.

Walk, walk, walk...after several diversions, finally stumbled upon the Old Opera House - Alde Oper. And it's worth the 30 minute walk - a beauty that commands attention! The statues of a demonic man & woman, the beautifully carved lamp posts, the entire facade - I catch my breath. There is a fountain close by, and an open air restaurant with red seats (fitting for an opera cafe I must say!). I walk around the building, admiring the facade and the engravings. Time to capture this for posterity - ouch, my roll's reached its end, and the backup rolls are in the hotel. Bloody careless. Trudge back home.

Finally going for my walk down the bridge on the river Maine. As I wait for the lights to turn, my eyes rest upon a couple across the road - arms entwined around each other, kissing and hugging, even as the lights turn green. As we pass each other, I can't help notice the girl glowing with happiness.
Shit. I wanna go back home. Miss A sooo much. Sigh sigh sigh.

Wanderlust - the road beckons!

I'm applying for the Great Driving Challenge sponsored by Mitsubishi Cedia. Those of you who have enjoyed reading about my journeys over the past 3 years, please to show your support by voting for me at http://www.greatdrivingchallenge.com/application/Hina/

Spread the word, thanks in advance :-)

Coorg Trekking & Rafting

In a way, it was the perfect build up to a weekend full of adventure. The literally last minute shopping for clothes and floaters, the hilarious fiasco of landing up at Mainland China and almost collecting someone else’s order, only to realize that E had placed our food order with the Calcutta branch (the Indiranagar folks were kind enough to rush the food to my Bangalore address – bless them Lord with tons of food, always!), and finally, both of us getting locked inside the bathroom (and the house) exactly 10 minutes before our bus was to pick us up! The last really did frighten me – and I am eternally grateful to B for the inventive rescue.

Finally, we dawdled up to Barbecue Nation at 11 PM to catch our bus – we were on our way to Coorg, for a light trek in the mountains and white water rafting in the river KKR.

The bus was not exactly what we had anticipated (a Volvo was expected for the money we were paying!), but we were too excited about our recent and anticipated adventures to care! The jerky lamb we had devoured for dinner was soon forgotten, and we treated ourselves to Kurkere and Ferrero Rocher while we chatted and finally dropped off to sleep. I slept fitfully – the rain water was seeping in through the window and there was hardly any leg space – but some sleep is better than none! I finally woke up around 6 the next morning as the bus was navigating its way through a carpet of shimmering green. The sky was a pristine white and the air smelt of coffee and spices – we had entered the land of the Kodava’s.

Coorg Guest House was more like a college dormitory, and we were aghast to discover that nearly ten women would be accommodated in our room – which had a single loo! After a long queuing up for our bath, we made our way to the dining room for a wholesome breakfast of poha and sweet coffee. By 8 am, we were loaded into the jeeps to make our way to our trek starting point.

Giving us company in the jeep was Raju, a tall, handsome Coorgi dressed in boots and a hat that reminded one of the cowboy Westerns. It was he who broke the pleasant news that the trekking route was infested with leeches, and conversation quickly turned to the most effective means of fighting the dreaded creatures.

The sky was still misty as we crossed the stream that took us to the base of the our trekking destination. The mountains loomed large in front of us, and we had just learnt that we had to climb nearly 8 km – so much for an easy trek! In a way, we were glad that we would not walk under the exhausting glare of the sun, though the rains would make the path more slippery and treacherous.

We made our way in single file up the first hill – in all, we would scale three small hills before reaching the summit. The path for the most part was rocky but not very steep. There were frequent stops to fight off the numerous leech attacks with salt & deo, and also to take in the breathtaking views of the town below whenever we stumbled upon a spot of plain land. By about 9.30 AM, everyone was exhausted and glad to make the first pit stop – we had covered only 3 km by then! The chatter was diminishing, and it was a quieter and very exhausted group that dropped down at the second pit stop. I was grateful for the muesli bars, and somehow, the peak seemed really far away. We plodded on, however, and finally, our goal seemed a lot nearer. The last one km was the steepest part of the climb, and was made much tougher by our weakening limbs. However, it was an awesome feeling to run up the little hillock at the top of the hill and find a nice rock to seat our tired body on – we had climbed nearly 3000 feet and finally made it to the top!

We made our way back through a shorter route, and stumbled through numerous streams and pretty butterflies. The route was slippery, and I even got a leech bite towards the end of the trek as a trophy for all the exertion! We were back at Coorg Guest House by about 2 pm, and did we have a ravishing appetite!

In the evening, we were driven to Irupu Falls. It took tremendous will power for our tired bodies to climb the 100 odd steps to the fall, but the effort was well worth it. Thanks to the monsoons, the ice cold waters roared down in magnificent splendor, and the tremendous lung power could be heard miles away!

We spent a lovely hour by the Falls, hopping and skipping our way over the rocks and soothing our aches and pains in the refreshing chill of the waters. It was dark by the time we made our way back to the Guest House, and we took a quick shower to prepare ourselves for the evening barbeque. Getting to the barbeque site was a bit of a nightmare, as we had to make our way down a km long rocky path in almost complete darkness (the torch bearers did not provide any assistance!), dreading leeches and other sundry creatures of the night. Two large fires had been lit next to a large lake (Luckily, alcohol was prohibited, else many in the group would have certainly landed in the lake before the night was out!), and we were happy to note that the boys had already started barbecuing the first lot of meat.

Day two was reserved for the adventure we all awaited - rafting! Most of us had no prior experience with rafting (My rafting experience in the placid river Sita in Jharkhand hardly counted!), so we were bouncing with nervous anticipation. We soon discovered that there were only two rafts available, so we had a long break as we awaited our turn! Luckily, Prakash, the owner of the estate (http://www.coorgwhitewaterrafting.com/) has a rudimentary kitchen with a cozy fireplace close to the rafting start point, and he kept us occupied with tales of his youth to the accompaniment of endless cups of tea & coffee.

The first batch returned in a few hours, high on adrenaline and adventure, and it was our turn to pad up in the rafting gear and listen attentively to our coach’s instructions. After a few practice drills, we were ordered to jump into the water! While the swimmers dived in joyfully, the non swimmers had to be cajoled & occasionally pushed in – our shrieks for help and the later whoops of joy at our miraculous survival (or so it seemed) must surely have been heard as far as the next district.

We were now ready to push off into the waters. The first twenty minutes was simple rowing, enjoying the lush greenery, waving to our friends by the banks & oohing at the solitary kingfisher perched on a rock. Soon, the river began to open up, and we caught sight of Morning Coffee, the first rapid on our course. We braced to follow the instructions of our guide, but we needn’t have worried. Just like its name, our first hurdle was short & perky, and presented minimal challenges to us amateurs.

Our first success had us all jumping with bravado, and we whooped with joy as we successfully navigated the next two rapids - The Grasshopper & Ramba Samba. In between, we made a brief detour to a small alcove by the banks – doubtless a shelter from the storm for frequent river travelers.

We were now brimming with confidence, till our guide cautioned us about the next rapid – the Wicked Witch. It’s unpredictable and if you don’t follow my instructions, you can get caught in an endless whirlpool, he warned – and we soon discovered the truth of his words as we kept on going round and round when one of our team members mistakenly rowed forwards instead of backwards! There were a few apprehensive moments as our guide barked out commands like the rapid fire round of a game show – Forward! Right! Duck! Left…Left, Left, not RIGHT !!! - but finally, we were through and emitting war cries as though we were Hagar The Horrible’s soldiers back from massacring the English!

By now, the river had opened up to reveal vistas of dense tea plantations and mist covered mountains. The view was breathtaking - the weather just right with a warm sun creating a sheen of shimmering yellow and green against a brilliant blue sky. We would have been happy to chug along at an easy pace while soaking in the fantastic sights, but our last rapid awaited – the Big Bang. This was reputed to be the toughest hurdle on the course, but luckily did not pose much of a challenge to us veterans.

All too soon, the banks of the river were visible - our adventure was drawing to a close. The swimmers dived in for one last tryst with the blue waters, after which we dragged our water logged bodies & the rafts across the sand. We strolled along the coffee plantations & admired the brilliant hues of the greenery and the variety of flowers. The elevation afforded a superb view of the river and reminded us of our recent adventures. As we piled into the jeep for our return journey, we suddenly realized how exhausted and ravenous we were – but our dreams of a piping hot meal were interrupted by the extremely bumpy road revealing brilliant vistas, sprinkled with conversations with a 20 year old on the disastrous effects of the Nano & the Tata’s massacring of Oliver Ridley turtles. The discussion was a fond reminder of my college days when the world was painted in strong shades of right and wrong – there is still nothing more intoxicating in this world than a delightful combination of youth and idealism.

A word about the organizers – the Bangalore Mountaineering Club. Kudos to Neeraj & his team for regularly coordinating outdoor and trekking activities in and around Bangalore and bringing together a diverse set of nature lovers. I do think that there is scope for improvement in the organization – for instance, the buses & accommodation can certainly be improved upon. But I also recognize that this is not a full time job for Neeraj, so one cannot have the same expectations as from a professionally run travel outfit. I’m quite hopeful that as the club grows in popularity (and it already is!) and the founders get regular cash flow, these aspects will be looked into – it would be wonderful for Bangalore to boast of an adventure club that offers the best of the very best travel experiences in the world!

The Peach Orb

An ode to our trip to Ranganathittu - composed by Elina. Editors scouting for the next Sylvia Plath may please contact her directly.

The waterfall belonged to Gulliver’s Lilliput Land
And yet inspired a lot of freakishly frolicking folks
Who looked beyond the torn black slippers?
Bobbing along the blue green current and
The catch of the chilly marinated day!
The coracles weaved themselves
amongst the slight waves of the man made dam
And the memories of kingfisher colored children
laughing into the peach orb of a vanilla sky.

In the winding roads of an unborn morning
We had set out to meet a few birds and
And a scarcely traveled path of kindred time
And we discovered out of bounds marshes,
Amongst bound bamboo growth in definite gardens
Foxes and lions of Indian Politics, an insecure Indica
And a foreign cuisine for our north of the Vindhya tongue
And some light which fell through the
Canopy of trees and kissed our foreheads as we literally
Cooled our heels by a brook bordered by fish scales and
Love Ballads which celebrated the genre of gullible childhood.

And it is all a celebration of the times we live
Saluted by Mona Lisa smile on dark glasses
A discovery of ‘What The Point’ amidst surreal banality
And this poem to us.

More on Thailand

Unfortunately, and unlike most other countries, taxi drives in Thailand are boring. The driver doesn’t speak English, and if he does, all he wants to know is how much you earn, and hence how much he can cheat you.

So the scene for surprise and interest shifted, surprisingly, to my hotel’s elevator.

Giving me company in the elevator one day was an American man and a Chinese-American lady – they were both emerging from the excellent Spa, and the lady was passionately elaborating on spa hygiene and related horrors. As the elevator doors closed, she remarked (shouted is more like it, but I am a polite listener) – I mean, nayl fhunghus is extrehmely diffhiculht to gaid rid auf. As I was leaving the elevator, her subdued male companion remarked – anye fhunghus, for thad madder. Touche'. The brilliance of the conversation left me spell bound. I hope they saw the smile as I left. I wish they understood what it meant.

Another morning. I am heading out to work. A short, slightly plump (healthy looking?) Arab enters the elevator. He gives me a brief, disdainful glance, then settles down to admiring himself from all possible angles in the full length mirror, lingering a wee bit longer on his womanly bottom. No surprise that he got off at the Health Club – there are full length mirrors there all along the wall behind the treadmills. I suspect he didn't get much of running done though.

I guess you need a bit of madness to stay sane in this crazy country.

Holidays in Hell – Doing Business in Thailand

I blame this on PJ O’Rourke. If I hadn’t been reading Holidays in Hell in, appropriately, Thailand, I promise I would not have called out the country by name in this post. But after my third visit to this land, I am in no mood for niceties. And if Mr O-Rourke can describe hell in the beautiful city of Beirut, I don’t see why I shouldn’t spill the beans on the ‘best tourist destination in Asia’.

The stupidity starts with the visa. You can get a visa upon arrival for tourism, but you need a non-immigration visa if you are traveling on business. But that is not enough. You also need to apply for a temporary work permit after you have entered the country – the non-immigration visa is simply for you to get out of Suvarmbhoomi airport and reach your office. But officially, you cannot work at your office till you have the work permit.

No one understands English of course, even the ones who can supposedly speak it. Communication is excruciating – and this is not because of the language alone. The bigger problem is that a Thai’s comprehension level is at least ten times slower than that of an average human – and I am being polite here. Everything needs to be explained, re-explained, re-re-explained…and numerous irrelevant questions need to be patiently answered. A has to be followed by B, and if you jump to C, prepare to spend an extra fortnight to explain the why’s and the what’s.

Have you attended a meeting with over five of these blokes in the same room? It’s like playing Chinese whispers with people who are deaf, but God compensated that with the faculty of speech. First, they will look you over and discuss you loudly with each other in Thai, frequently looking and pointing at you so you know you are the object of attention. After this polite welcome, they will settle down to the bawling in Thai, with frequent looks at you to confirm that you do not comprehend a word, which being the case the decibel levels will keep on rising. The amount of noise and stupidity that goes around is enough to drown an army of Chinese pigs.

The favorite Thai word? It may be a three letter word outside the workplace, but inside, it’s ISSUE. A glow comes into their eyes when you mention this word – and they will have a two hour long meeting every two hours to discuss issues. Don’t forget to send minutes of meeting, else that will be another issue. But don’t expect them to do what you asked them to do – they wont read what you sent. You can bring it up at the next issue meeting, but in the end, it’s all your fault anyway. They are remarkably well organized that way – they will do all the shouting and cribbing while someone else will do the work.

As for Thai men in the workplace, they all appear to be the same with their soft voices and Buddha like countenance, cultivated no doubt after years of training and suffering. The women simply outnumber –and outshout – them.

Next time I hear about going to Thailand (on work), I am jumping from the thirteenth floor of my office.

Created Dec 07

The Sound of Patterns

An old unpublished post (is that an oxmoron?) - Aug 2006

A few days ago, I attended a formal office conclave to celebrate the inauguration of our new facility in Costa Rica. It was an elegant affair – about twenty of us from the office, and after a brief speech by the Costa Rican President (the guest of honor), we were shepherded into the cafeteria-turned-into-ball-room for champagne and light snacks. I noticed a pair of musicians at one end of the room, and immediately headed for that corner.

Throughout the two hour affair, which saw a score men, and a few women, all dressed in somber black and grey, network and talk shop, the man on the guitar and the lady on the flute plucked their melodies – oblivious to their audience, their bodies gently swaying with the music like soft waves – now the flautist would smile and challenge the man with a melody, now the guitarist would respond admirably and throw back the gauntlet.

What I liked best about the pair was not the music they played, but they way they played the music. Although they had been called upon to perform for an audience (albeit an indifferent one in this case), the music that they played was first for themselves – for them to create and them to savor. The artiste’s enjoyment was primary; making the audience happy was secondary.

And I think that is how any beautiful creation should be – a pure, confident and forthright expression of your heart, unencumbered by doubts and disbelief….not targeted towards the lowest or the largest common denominator, but created solely for the pleasure of creation. Like Howard Roark’s architecture in Fountainhead.

Later in the evening, the guitarist’s place was taken by a lady with a harp! I have never seen a harp before – it looks like something you would weave pretty patterns with. Come to think of it, that’s what music does too – except that you need to hear the patterns.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright...

Thank God its Thursday ! Finally, it was time for us to start our journey towards the heart of India – the Kanha National Park in Madhya Pradesh.

The excitement started in Bangalore, when we were running late for our flight and had forgotten to book a cab. In desperation, we offered an autorickshaw 100 bucks for the 4- km ride to the airport. Our man took our exhortations to drive fast quite seriously, and his manipulations of the auto as we were caught in the jam outside the airport, accompanied by entertaining commentary and expletives (aimed at the other drivers) was worth every rupee. For once, I was glad I was not driving my precious car!

After an almost-night-out in Bombay, I was ready to drop off when we reached Nagpur the next morning, but there was still the 220 km road journey to cover. The Qualis offered to us by a friend’s relative turned out to be a bit of a squeeze for seven women and their luggage, but we somehow survived the 5.5 hour road journey. The highpoint was stopping at a hand pump on the way to drink and soak our tired limbs in some refreshingly kool water!

We reached our accommodation, the MP Tourism run Baghira Log Hots, at about 4 in the evening. Not being able to take a safari at that time (we were too tired anyway!), we had a relaxing evening spent sitting outside our cottages and gazing at herds of cheetal flock past as we listened to the sounds of the jungle. The rustic resort is located in the core zone of Kipling country (the name of the resort is obviously inspired by The Jungle Book), and turned out to be a great place to enjoy the Park.

The excitement commenced right away, as we found a baby elephant caught in the grass next to our cottage (panic not - all elephants in the park are tame) and later heard a leopard hunt a deer in the park.

The main activity at the Park is, of course, the jungle safari - there are two safari’s in a day (morning 6-10 and evening 4-6). How many animals you sight depends upon the time of your visit and of course, your luck. I finally broke my jinx of no tiger sightings in several previous wildlife trips by seeing three this time! Looking at this majestic creature - the lazy and regal walk, the proud tilt of the head, the soft and shiny fur and the mesmerizing eyes – is an experience of a lifetime that sends an unmatched thrill down your spine.

The two male tigers were actually ‘sighted’ by forest guards, who then transmit this information to all safari jeeps so that the visitors can come for the ‘tiger show’. This is essentially a 2-3 minute circling of the tiger as you sit atop the park’s elephants – it may appear a bit contrived to purists but you are unlikely to ever get a closer viewing of the king of the jungle, so it is worth the 100 bucks per person. We also had the more natural ‘stumbling upon the tiger’ experience when we came across a tigress nonchalantly ramble across the road that we were driving on.

Our safaris would not have been half as entertaining without Sharmaji, our jeep driver, who, with seven women who he wrongly presumed were innocent college kids, imagined himself as Kanha’s Casanova (much to his chagrin later!). We learnt all the wrong facts about Hindu mythology from him, and even though we were left to ‘catch’ the wildlife on our own, his inimitable vignettes (Main hee who Sharma hoon joh Sita ke saath tha, mujhe zyaada bolne ki aadat nahin hai) and the laughter they evoked are unforgettable.

Though the tiger is clearly the main attraction of the park, on offer are several other wonders for a nature lover. Kanha is the only park that is home to the barasingha (12 horned deer), and our superb luck continued as we came upon a group of them sunning themselves in an open meadow, as if parading for a National Geographic photo-shoot. Other animals that you are likely to come across are various groups of antlers (cheetal, sambhar, chousingha and barking deer – the last look more like street dogs!), bisons, wild boars and of course, langurs (you can see them peering longingly at your food from outside the windows of the dining cottage). The park is also known for the nilgai, the leopard (we waited in vain to see one), sloth bear and dhol (wild dog) – we came across a pack of the last polishing off their kill a few hundred meters from our cottage.

There are also wonderful opportunities for bird lovers – some birds we sighted that you don’t see in cities were the blue jay, the rocket tailed drongo, the junglefowl (we even saw one fly!) and the brainfever bird (heard, not sighted). We also came across a kite hunt for its prey and several egrets by the ponds.

Apart from the safaris, the Kisli gate has an excellent nature’s trail that you can walk or cycle - watch our for the tiger and leopard pugmarks! A wildlife film is also screened here every evening. The Kanha museum in the middle of the jungle is an excellent source of information on the park’s inhabits.

On our second day at the Park, there was a light shower in the evening – although the thunderstorm that preceded it made us think we would be flooded in for the next week (sigh, wishful thinking). But then, every sight and sound in the wild is on a grandiloquent scale. I had a great time getting wet in the rain, trying to match step with a peacock as it strutted across the trees in front of our cottage. The thunderstorm did manage to break the park’s electricity pole though, and there was a sense of adventure in sitting out in the jungle in complete darkness with only the blanket of stars to guide you, hearing an occasional distress call from a cheetal or a leopard growl next to you (or so we imagined, as we ran into our cottage!).

The cottages are quite comfortable, given that you are located in the midst of the jungle in the heartland of India. Seven of us were comfortably accommodated in two clean and pleasant A/C Deluxe Rooms. The pricing, at a little over Rs.3,500 per person per night (Includes all meals, but excludes safari's) is quite reasonable for the peak season - the staff is also flexible when it comes to accommodating extra people in the room. They are also extremely helpful and courteous - they will entertain your requests for tea and coffee at odd hours with a smile. The manager is extremely knowledgeable about wildlife, and is an excellent source of information.

The food is definitely one of the highpoints of the resort, apart from the service and the location. The menu of simple Indian food (dal, veggies, and a non-item item) is extremely tasty and reminds you of the cooking in old Government guest houses. The only area where we could fault the cook was the deserts. There is also a decently equipped bar (they even had some red wine!) and happy hours in the evenings.

Our only grouse was with the safaris – the charges for these were higher than those published on the MP tourism website, and a lot of expenses were not disclosed upfront. Also, being the tourist season, a lot of local boys were being sent as jungle guides, instead of the trained forest staff. It would also have been nice to have a covered porch outside each cottage, especially for the hot summer months.

The best time to visit the park is the summer months, when the heat draws the animals to the watering holes. Do remember to carry comfortable cotton clothes (no denims, please), sunglasses, caps and sunscreen, and a good pair of binoculars. Our manager told us that Dec to Jan are also great for sighting the barasingha – apparently its antlers are in full splendor during these mating months (the antlers are shed every year after this season) – but the temperature touches sub zero levels then.

The Road

I really can't comment how bad or good BJP and its paraphernalia is for India, but I think they deserve credit for trying to accomplish over five years what the Congress couldn’t do over fifty – world-class roads. How many times have we rued the dismal state of India’s infrastructure, how numerous are the occasions when we have been secretly disappointed that even Beirut or Amman or Timbuktu has better roads than us! I wouldn’t DARE driving on these roads – remarked my American companion while we were coasting along in Costa Rica. Wait till you come to India – I thought, while outwardly continuing my pitch of you-haven’t-lived-if-you-haven’t visited-India.

Vajpayee’s Golden Quadrilateral appears poised to change all of that. Call it one man’s vision, but you have to also give credit that, in a country notorious for inaction, for once a grand idea was translated into concrete. I have driven with pleasure down the Bangalore-Mysore Expressway (gateway to Srirangapatna, Mysore & Coorg, amongst others) and the Bangalore-Pune highway (Mangalore, Pune, Goa,..). Two weeks ago, we decided to test out the National Highway from Bangalore to Chennai.

The drive, of course, is breathtaking. You’d think it’s just a road, but each road has a different tale to tell. The gentle cruising at 100 kmph, racing with an infinite expanse of white and blue, the many-hued flowers mushrooming in the middle of the road, the numerous shades of green, the exclamations of joy as the road plays hide and seek with you, now swerving to the left to reveal huge rock formations benevolently gazing upon you, now curving up to reveal an expanse of silken paddy fields. It is a feeling that can best be described as coming back home – joyous and unencumbered – after a long and arduous journey.

But what lends character and distinction to driving in India is the numerous sights and sounds that you encounter on the way. When you drive in other parts of the world – US, Europe, others – you are at best an observer of beauty. The landscape is like a beautiful ice maiden that holds you at arm’s length – to be admired from afar. In India, you are the actor and the spectator. You wave at the numerous children and adults cramped into a three-wheeled vehicle, and they respond with joy. You curse at the bike driving on the wrong side of the highway, but you make way for him. You recognize the right of way of the bullock cart and the odd cow. You stop for tea at Reddy’s Punjabi Dhaba, smiling at the attempt at all-inclusion. You laugh at restaurants that go by the names of Cup and Up and Roots and Shoots, and try to stomach Drive and Digest with unending glasses of fresh nimbu-paani. You smile when the chai-wala calls you back to return the 50 paisa left over from your bill of 4 rupees 50 paisa for four, steaming hot cups of delicious tea. You make a stop to take in a breathtaking sunset, and are amused to see Fair and Lovely amongst other emergency items in a small tea stall. You run around with the kids (and the goat and the dog), even as you show them ‘magic’ by opening and closing your car door from 50 meters afar.

Driving in India is not just about getting from place A to B. It is getting to know all that lies in between – the people, the places, the sounds - the good and sometimes the ugly. In a way, it is descriptive of Hindu philosophy – the journey is much more fulfilling than the destination.

Fear of Flying

I don’t know how or from where I got it, but I’ve had this mad desire to go bungee jumping for the past week. There is a spot close to San Jose – on a bridge 265 feet over a river – that is a world famous spot for bungee jumping. I made up my mind to go there this weekend and try my luck.

We reached the spot around 11 am, just in time to see a guy get strapped and stand on the narrow platform. He turned back and gave me a nervous smile, and I smiled back encouragingly. He stood for two minutes at the edge, shook his head, came back and sat down. All the while, his two friends (who were gonna jump next) were encouraging him in Spanish. I wandered around and took in the breathtaking view – lush green foliage all around, plunging into a narrow river strewn with huge boulders. Suddenly, I heard a shriek – the guy had jumped. We watched in amazement as he almost touched the river, shouting like mad all the while, and gently swayed below the bridge….there he’d be on one side, and then I’d run over to the other side of the bridge to catch a sight of him. When he came back, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat, all pumped up.

I was excited. What did that guy think as he stood on the platform, and how did he make the leap? I wanted to do this, I was gonna do this!

The second guy was cucumber kool. He’s gonna go down in a flash, without a sound – I thought. I was wrong. The moment he stood up, he started shaking his head, and after a few minutes of to-and-fro, he was back on the bridge, unstrapping his gear.

If you think too long, you’ll never jump ­– I told my companion knowledgeably, as if I’d done this all my life. I’d been chatting with the third guy, and he told me they were from Portugal. You jump? – he asked. I think so, though I’ll be shit scared – I answered. Im very scared too…the toughest part is getting yourself to make the jump. I’ve jumped from a parachute, but there was someone else who made the actual jump – I just followed him. Getting myself to jump will be tough. I nodded, mentally mapping out how I’d make the leap.

In the end, the third guy, the one who’d jumped from a parachute and who’d dragged his friends to do the bungee, couldn’t jump either.

I was next. I was cool, calm and confident, as I asked Charlie the instructor to repeat the instructions and tested out the clasp for the rope that I’d have to grasp for the return to the platform. I’d pumped myself up, and my strategy was clear – I wouldn’t look down. I’d look into the trees, stretch out my arms, and imagine that I was Jonathan Livingstone Seagull. Charlie says the women are better at this, remarked my Portuguese friend. I smiled back confidently – I wasn’t gonna prove Charlie wrong.

The moment I stood up on the platform, more than 250 feet above the river, I started blabbering, just as I’d seen the other guys do. I have to be crazy to be doing this, why am I doing this, etc. Initially, my knees were shaking, but after a few moments, I was steady. Move forward, your toes should be slightly outside the platform, commanded Charlie. Gingerly, holding the support to my left, I made my way forward. To gain confidence, I let go of the support and stretched out my arms horizontally. After a couple of minutes of nervousness, I managed to let go of the support, with my toes slightly outside the platform, and my arms stretched out. I was in position for the jump.

You’re good, now jump, said Charlie. I tried….but I just couldn’t. I closed my eyes, I thought all kinds of things to myself, I imagined myself dancing to music, but I just could not jump. I just couldn’t understand it. I was prepared for this, I had wanted to do it, I had thought about how I would do it, I wasn’t scared of death (the worst possible outcome) But the left side of my brain had sensed danger and completely taken over, and my feet appeared to be locked and glued to the spot. All the advice I had doled out to my predecessors was forgotten in a trice. I can’t do this, but I soo badly want to do this, can you push me Charlie? I asked in desperation. He wasn’t allowed to push me, but he stood behind me and gave me a countdown. Jump at zero, and he began, but the moment he’d reach two I’d ask him to start all over again.

I still believed I was gonna do it, but I think the Portuguese guys sensed otherwise. Adios, one of them called out to me, if you stand there too long you don’t make it, shouted another, echoing my thoughts of ten minutes ago.

In the end, I did not jump. As I stood there, my brain convinced me that it was not worth doing, that it was beautiful just standing on the platform with my arms stretched out (it was), what more joy could I get from jumping…the works. I still can’t believe it, for I had looked with a bit of contempt at the last two guys who did not jump. I will do it, I had told myself – I want to do it and I can do it.

But when you stand on the platform, you undergo a transformation. What I felt then can best be described as preparing to commit suicide – for that is what the 265-feet jump appears to be as you stand on the 18 inch strip of metal, the protective ropes notwithstanding. Had I been blindfolded, not known what I was going in for, I think I would have done it. Or if someone had pushed me, or if it was a situation of desperation, a last resort. But having had enough time to see what I was in for, my brain just did not let me release my defenses.

I had looked forward to the jump as a symbolic way of letting go of my fears and defenses. I tried ... but in the end, I didn’t have enough guts to leap out of my secure armor.

I still haven't given up though.

All that Jazz

My Saturday evening didn’t turn out as planned. I wanted to attend the Camerata Klaipeda by the Lithuanian group at the National Theatre, but by the time I managed to locate an ATM and then beat the pouring rains, all the tickets were sold out. Only uno – I pleaded with the lady in a mix of English and Spanish– but she shook her head sympathetically.

Disappointed, I made my way back to the Multiplaza for a late lunch. Upon entering the hotel, I bumped into my favorite Jazz band – a Cuban (saxophone), a Tico (guitar) and an American (piano). You never returned last Tuesday – exclaimed the Cuban & the Tico. I smiled apologetically – remembering my un-kept promise of returning after dinner for their music. I’ll compensate today, I promised as I settled down on a sofa close to the piano.

Surprisingly, I was the sole audience (the small area is usually packed), so I was asked for requests. Umm, play some Louis Armstrong, I said, trying hard to recall names of some famous jazz players (blush). An excellent rendering of What a Wonderful World was delivered, followed by My Funny Valentine. Inspired, I asked for Something Stupid –they didn’t have the sheet music, but the Tico knew a bit of the tune, and they made a valiant, albeit a slightly inaccurate, attempt to play it for me. Very sweet.

He sings really well – said the Tico of Mark, the pianist, as I went over to chat with them. Requests for songs followed, and Mark sang Cry me a River, Sorry seems to be the Hardest Word and a pretty song called Moon and Sand that I hadn’t heard before, to the accompaniment of the piano.

And oh yes, there was a 15 year old kid who wandered over from a party in the vicinity and stood watching Mark play for some time. You play well ­ - she told him. He smiled with evident pride. Do you play – he asked conversationally. A bit – I learnt the piano when I was 8. And then, she sat down and belted out some awesome Chopin – mindblowing. I could see Mark was humbled.

Not a bad evening at all…so what if I didn’t hear the Lithuanian band, I had a trio of artistes perform just for me. Not to mention the Chopin maestro.

And I think to myself…It’s a wonderful world.

Lessons in Language

On my flight into Costa Rica, my companion asked me – Do you speak Spanish? No, I replied. Oh well, just remember to say ‘No avayol Espanol’ – it means ‘I do not understand Spanish’.

Sage advice, as these turned out to be words I have most often used in Costa Rica in the last six weeks (apart from buenas and gracias). In a country where most people do not understand or speak English, communication is a challenge – and since no (wo)man is an island, this leads to encounters that are sometimes exasperating, sometimes touching, and always interesting!

There are tons of exhilarating moments…like the cheery ‘Comos Estas, Ina’ of the guards in office each morning and evening, and the answering smile when I manage to murmur a ‘Muy bien’ back to them. I make it a point to greet the guards every morning and evening – they are friendly, cheerful and give me the best lessons in Spanish!

Then there are the appreciations of my accent by my colleagues (hear, hear), and the gentle corrections – like with poqueeto, which I am told I still don’t enunciate correctly. This usually results in friendly banter in which I make them parrot some Hindi words (the most fun is when I ask them to say dhanyawaad)

I will also treasure the shopkeeper in Grecia who could not understand a word of English, but came running out into the middle of the street to help me when I repeatedly lost my way and drove around in circles (he finally asked for a paper and drew the map on it…..God bless him!),

Many strangers have helped me order my lunch or dinner, or make a simple grocery purchase. But my moment of pride came when I managed to get a customized meal from my favorite Mexican haunt. I wanted chicken fajitas from a combo-meal, but without the combo of French fries and Coke, and with no cheese. I also wanted to take the meal home. I managed to use broken Spanish and sign language to communicate how I wanted my food, and succeeded.
To-Go, I told the lady. Si?, she questioned. Parajevar, I said, groping for the word and hoping I got it right, but inwardly preparing myself for a series of useless gesticulations. Si, Si, To Go, Si? She smiled back, as she packed the food. Si, Si, I replied in happy exultation - I’d managed to make her speak Engles!

Some of my most frustrating experiences have been communicating with the so-called bilingual staff at the hotel. Like when I wanted to contact the seamstress, and they couldn’t understand …I used all kinds of words like tailor, repair, mend etc., till I figured out the Spanish translation (costurera). Or when I called to enquire about making a call to a local mobile phone, and they connected me to the beauty parlor instead! The morning wake-up calls are quite funny….my dreams are interrupted by a spattering of Spanish till I groggily reply ‘No avayol Espanol’ - it sure wakes me up!

Then there are times when you call up a tour operator, and in response to your hesitant ‘Engles?, no avayaol Espanol’, you hear a smattering of Spanish, followed by the phone slamming down. Or when people keep on talking to you in Spanish even after they have heard and acknowledged that you do not understand it. Sigh. Or when that guy at Subway smirked at me when I was trying to explain what I wanted in my sandwich – I could have strangulated him!

Language - communication of meaning in any way; medium that is expressive, significant, etc. No wonder the joy of getting through far outweighs the despair of incomprehension.

Food, Music and Shopping

This weekend I decided to take it easy. I mean, getting a bit tired of the 'what-I-am-doing-this weekend' planning....I just wanted to have no To-Do's for a change.

So dragged along two Ticos and a Philipino-American for some yummilicous Indian food. I was going to have Indian food after 6 weeks - so I was obviously quite excited. Went to this place called Taj Mahal which is really pretty - it's actually a beautiful house converted into a restaurant. The weather was awesome, so we decided to eat in the courtyard, dust and bugs notwithstanding. Got really excited when I saw a tandoor, and even more when the cook turned out to be from Punjab - felt so good to finally talk to someone in Hindi!

We had a complete orgy - lassi, seekh kabab, lamb biryani, garlic naan, yellow dal, mughlai chicken - all under the pretext of 'introducing' Indian food to my companions. sigh. Travelling around the world has made me appreciate better the variety and richness (literally too!) of Indian food ... I mean this place served only North Indian food and had at least 50 items on its menu! Now if you were to just add South Indian (not just idli-dosa-sambar but more eclectic stuff), Konkani and Bengali cuisine to this, can you imagine how long the list would be !! Incomparable.

Did quite a bit of shopping too - sigh. I'm a compulsive shopaholic - one of those strange creatures for whom blowing up money is a sure-shot boost of adrenalin. Aargh.

The highlight of the weekend was Sunday evening, when I headed to the opulent Nacional Teatro for a performance by eight young cellists from Berlin. What a fantastic performance - I am amazed that a single instrument can create so much beauty !! I particularly enjoyed the performances by a trio (two men and a woman), and also some of the pieces where all eight performers played together - mindblowing! Can you imagine what coordination of individual brilliance it takes to get eight different composers to create melody and harmony with one instrument? And these weren't original compositions mind you - playing anyone else's music is always moe difficult, but when it's the likes of Bach and Mozart - you get the picture.

I loved the way one of the cellists would start off in the lead, then the second would take over and the first would fade away and complement the new lead, then the third, and so on. It's magic, pure magic....a social fusion of individual expression. As I closed my eyes to soak in the performance, I realized how meaningless words are for music of this nature. A thought that seemed to be reflected in the frequent exchange of glances and smiles between the cutest couple of the group.

"Music, such music, is a sufficient gift. Why ask for happiness; why hope to grieve? It is enough, it is to be blessed enough, to live from day to day and to hear such music – not too much, or the soul could not sustain it – from time to time."

Vikram' Seth's last lines in An Equal Music could not have said it better.

Indian Salsa

Browsing through the music collection at a gift shop at the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border, I stumbled upon an album titled World Salsa Beats. Salsa music from Mexico, Brazil, Zambiar, India, Timbuctoo and Latvia (no those weren’t the exact places, but a good imagination largely compensates for a bad memory), it ran.

Indian Salsa?? I turned the CD in happy anticipation, only to be left dazed and perplexed. A Shaan remix of a forgettable Hindi oldie (I cant even recall the song now..and I have grown up listening to 60’s and 70’s music thanks to my Dad) was India’s proud representation for world Salsa. Eh??

City of Blinding Lights

So here I am...finally reached the USA !!!

Couldnt contain my excitement as the plane was landing...I was literally jumping in my seat like a little kid. The sun was just about to depart - at 7.30 in the evening! Wow looks like Im gonna have long days here.

Getting out of the Atlanta airport is a complete nightmare - in font 40, bold. You go thru the Customs check (answering inane questions, giving fingers and eye prints), wait for ure luggage to arrive, collect it, then re-deposit it (!!!), go thru ure security scan (take off shoes, laptop, blah-blah), take an airport train to reach the last stop, find ure way thru several levels to finally reach the last and the messiest stop - baggage re-claim - where you hunt for your poor lil bag amongst luggage from at least ten other flites on the same belt. Phew. They say if you can drive in India, you can drive anywhere in the world. I say if you can get outta a US airport unscathed, you can pretty much travel anywwhere in the world.

Of course the worst security check I had was at Charles de Gaulle, where the poker-faced lady asked me questions like 'Are you carrying weapons that can be used for attacking co-passengers' and 'Has your bag been used to carry forbidden substances' etc....I mean, does she really expect someone who is doing anything of that to declare aye aye !! And the building is soo ugly.. not what you'd expect from the gateway to the most romantic city in the world !

I'd asked the hotel to arrange for a pickup, and my worst fears came true when I couldnt locate him. I needed quarters to make a phone call, but no one seemed to have them! One lady helpfully loaned me two, which got quicly exhausted in a call that ended up in the answering machine. whew. finally found a cute lil kid who had tons if quarters but insisted - I can't spend my money. Finally convinced her that she wasnt spending it - she was just exchanging it for a nice, big note (my sales pitch for the crumpled dollar bill in my hand)...she finally consented after confirming with her Dad, God bless her, and keep her smiling!

As the cab drove across concrete, metal and glass buildings, I felt comfortable - as if I had come home. And I thought to myself - this is my world. This world of cars and street lights and signs in english and people and buildings all along - this is where I belong to. The mountains and the valleys and the blue skies and Spanish chivalry is good for a vacation, but I'm really an outsider out there.

Neon heart, day-glow eyes, The city lit by fireflies...And I miss you when you're not around
(Sorry U2!)

Sunset

As we waited for the elevator last evening, we saw a perfect globe of glowing amber poised over the horizon, standing out against a background of white, blue and grey. Reminded me of an ace swimmer poised to dive into the unknown deep. And just like the swimmer, the amber globe began its rapid descent, so that by the time we reached the ground floor, the sun had disappeared into the vast white-blue ocean, leaving behind only traces of golden light to remind us of its beauty, and hope in our hearts that it would be back in its kingdom tomorrow.

There is something magical about watching a sunset.

As I gazed at the white mist settling over the mountains that frame the central valley, I couldn’t help thinking that it’s like nature is retiring for the day too, settling into a comfortable white blanket to rest and recover … to leave behind all thoughts of joy and sorrow, for there is work to do on the morrow.

Tomorrow is another day...but for now it’s time to go home.

Where are the dogs?

While hunting for a Sushi place close to my hotel, I passed a huge mansion where I could hear some dogs barking. Somehow it sounded out of place, till I realized why – I hadn’t seen any dog in Costa Rica till now. And then it struck me – I haven’t heard/seen any street dogs in any of the countries I have visited (excluding Pakistan)! Let me say that again - across nine countries in five continents, I have never, ever seen a stray dog. Lots of pampered and well pruned pet dogs (though not necessarily well mannered), especially in US & Europe, but not a single stray dog.

Weird, given that you practically live with street dogs back home. I am usually greeted with at least five street dogs in my house lane, and the number multiplies after 11 pm. Several of my friends have repeatedly petitioned the government about the menace of these night creatures close to their homes – one of them carries a stick with him if he is returning home after 10. As a kid, I remember the sense of adventure in visiting my aunt’s house, because it was haunted by a street dog that would bite any non-family member who visited the house. Oh, the fun in sneaking through the back door, always on the look out for a sudden appearance of the deadly animal, and the thrill of horror when my favorite uncle had to take 16 stitches when he dared to enter the house in the dog’s presence.

Whoever said it’s a dog’s world was probably born in the sub-continent.