The Trek To Lori Berd

A long, meandering trek is my idea of an ideal pick-me-up. While studying in Pune, trekking in the Sahaydri Mountains during the monsoon season was a time-honoured tradition that was observed almost every weekend. Sometimes even during the week. After all, which classroom could match up to lush mist-soaked mountains, winding mountain paths dotted with pretty wildflowers and magnificent views from the ramparts of ancient forts? Unfortunately, after the transition from classrooms to cubicles, such treks became the exception rather than the norm. After a long, hard week of grappling with crazy deadlines, it becomes a bit difficult to muster up the enthusiasm to head out again in the weekend. But come vacation time, I am as eager as a beaver to sniff out potential trekking prospects. So, when the opportunity to go on a trek in a picturesque region traipsed by, I quickly latched on to it.

Some co-travellers and I were spending a few days in Stepanavan, a quiet Armenian town that

makes you feel you have moonwalked into the 80’s. Stepanavan is located in the Lori district, a region known for its pine-forested mountains and a climate that injects vital doses of life into sick and tired souls. A recommended activity here is the hike to see Lori Berd (fortress) - a former capital of a king from ancient times and more recently a power centre of local Armenian royal families.

It was a perfect day for a trek. Not too sunny. Not too cloudy. We crossed the city limits of Stepanavan within a few minutes and found ourselves on a road that probably thought ‘rush hour’ is an urban legend. We set a pace that allowed us to comfortably stop at every interesting looking junction. One of the first things we noticed were dilapidated shipping containers – slightly eerie reminders of a powerful earthquake that almost razed the town in 1988. Despite the widespread devastation, people refused to leave and were housed in these containers till their houses were built again. As we soaked in views of the green mountains and breathed in the crisp air, I couldn’t help but reflect upon the fragility of life.

A couple of km later, we reached a village that looked empty, except for a little girl who walked down the only lane nonchalantly. There was certain sameness to the village. More wood than brick and mortar dwellings. Long lines of clothes drying patiently in the sun. Apricot trees. Untended lawns that had so much more character than manicured city gardens. A chicken kept on crossing the road from one side to the other.  

As we strode on feeling a bit like WWII soldiers entering a deserted village, we spotted movement

on our right. We saw a group waving their arms. And just like that we found ourselves in the midst of an Armenian family reunion. Two sisters have come with their families from Yerevan to spend their summer holidays with their parents. They were very curious about us. When they learnt that we are from India, they actually sighed in delight. Chairs were quickly arranged. Cake and apricots were whipped out. The sisters were well conversant with English and so the conversation flowed thick and fast. The discussion ranged around topics such as Royal Bengal Tigers, nine-yard saris, the great Indian head shake and Shah Rukh Khan. The elderly father smiled fondly as he remembered the yesteryears superstar, Raj Kapoor.

After bidding goodbye to warm Armenian hospitality, we set out for Lori Berd again, located only a km or so, from the village. There is only one word to describe the fort’s location - grand. Built on a promontory between the gorges of the Dzoraget and Urut rivers, the fort is guarded by a massive stonewall in the front while the rear is a deep canyon. We crossed under a stony arch to an assortment of rocks in an area the size of a football field. There was a small chapel of sorts in the middle of the area. Legend has it the Mongols who were on their ‘Let’s-see-and-plunder-the-world’ tour set their sights on this fort. The defenders had implicit faith in the impregnability of the fort. They drank and made merry instead of strengthening the defence. And the inevitable happened. I made a mental note to self. If I am ever in charge of guarding a fort, I will definitely remember to keep casks of coffee handy. Rather than Armenian raki.

Stunning views of the gorge with a 14^th century bridge far below ensure no trek to Lori Berd is

complete without hiking down to the bridge. So, we clambered down to the bridge. It was an easy hike with a few tricky bits to keep one alert. The setting of the bridge was spectacular. A small waterfall and inviting pools of water necessitated the need to change into our thoughtfully packed swimming gear without much coaxing.

We decided to test the waterfall first. It was freezing cold. We yelled and shrieked like kids in a waterpark as the water pounded down on us. Feeling brave, we jumped into the pool. Into even colder water. This time, we started howling. Visions of frozen limbs being demonstrated by a crotchety doctor to a bunch of medical students swam before my eyes. ‘This my students is an acute case of Armeniatis, caused by paying scant respect to common sense.’ And then some overeager medical student thoughtfully leans forward and taps his stethoscope on the aforementioned limb emitting a metallic clink. Not liking such scenarios, I quickly scrambled up the nearest rock. Never did the warm sun feel more welcoming. And never did I feel so alive.  

After resting a bit, we decided to head to another local attraction, the Communist Caves. The

directions were vague. We decided to follow our sense of direction. And after scrabbling like goats braving thorny nettles and steep inclined paths, we realized that our sense of direction had led us up the wrong path. As evening was fast approaching, we decided being brave once a day was enough. The lost comrades shook hands, saluted each other and took the momentous decision to head back to their base.

Having survived on a strict ration of apricots and biscuits throughout the day, we were understandably quite ravenous, not to mention, exhausted, by the time we inched our way back to the top of the canyon. As we tried to mentally prepare ourselves for the 5 km hike into town, we noticed a group of rough and tough Armenians shooting the breeze over a khoravats (Armenian for BBQ). The aroma of meat being grilled over a charcoal fire wafted across and teased our olfactory glands in what we thought was karma catching up with us for some past, forgotten misdemeanor.

Maybe they sensed our hunger. A couple of them glanced in our direction and waved. We also waved back. The group then gestured to us to join them. Armenians are like that. Friendly and generous to a fault. The warm encounter with the Armenian family in the morning was still fresh. Yet, we hesitated. Conditioning, you see. This is unthinkable in cities. When was the last time a group of strangers invited you to share their meal?

Seeing our hesitation, a couple of them walked up us and shook our hands warmly and escorted us

to the shed where a table was heaped with all things, good and grilled. My companions tried to make polite conversation in English, a language that hasn’t made much inroads in rural Armenia. But if anybody was observing us from a little distance away, they could have never guessed that.

This particular group knew three words in English. Actually, make that two words and a phrase – Yes. Thank you and Ba, ba, black sheep (somebody’s daughter was studying in an English medium school, so he knew the first line of the rhyme). There was lots of laughter and bonhomie. Food would be heaped on our plates with encouraging ‘Yes, yes and thank yous’. The gentleman who knew that one complete English phrase would smile benignly, gesture to the food and say’ ‘Ba, ba, black sheep’. Maybe we might have been literally chewing away on the black sheep of his farm.

In this manner, before you could say Armenia twice, utter strangers turned into long lost brothers over some succulent grilled meat, vodka that could knock a stallion down and dancing to the evergreen Hindi song ‘Jimmy Jimmy Aaja Aaja’. Loosely translated as ‘Come Jimmy Come’ (no, it wasn’t that kind of film), this song was from the cult film of the 80’s – the Mithun Chakraborty starrer ‘Disco Dancer’. When we said we are from Indian or ‘Hind’ as the Armenians refer to India, one man exclaimed with a shout – ‘Mithun! Jimmy, Jimmy, Aaja, Aaja’ – and all inhibitions were cast aside. He quickly ran to a car parked nearby and switched on the radio. An Armenian pop song came on. But everybody was sort of trying to recreate the moves from ‘Disco Dancer’. It might have been the vodka at work too. But, yes. The Armenians really dig Hindi film stars such as Mithun, Aamir Khan, Shah Rukh and, of course, Raj Kapoor. Those were the magic words that opened doors everywhere. After a lot of eating, drinking, singing, dancing, gesturing and posing for photos, we were given a ride back into town. 

As I rested my weary but happy bones back at our B&B in Stepanavan, I couldn’t help but think that the memories of this trek will serve as pick-me-ups for a long, long, time.

Musandam photo in Lonely Planet

I took this photo during one of my our camping trips to Musandam. Often referred to as the 'Norway of the East', this mountainous region in Oman is known for its rugged beauty, fjords and a sense of timelessness. Seen in the picture is Khor Najd, the only beach in the region accessible by road - a winding 5-km long mountain pass that results in chattering teeth and white knuckles. When Lonely Planet asked readers to contribute photos that that capture the essence of a place, I quickly mailed across this photo. And was lucky that it got selected and published in the September-October issue.

The Amalfi Coast Drive

'Michael, make me an offer I can’t refuse.' I couldn’t resist saying in what I thought was my best Italian accent to Michael Rizzo, owner of Campania Car Rentals. Michael obviously had heard that dialogue enough number of times and came swiftly to the point. 'You cannot afford that 1951 Alfa Romeo convertible, even for a day. However, I do have a 2010 Peugeot that suits your budget. It’s fast enough for the drive.' Seeing my hopeful look, he further added 'And no, it’s not a convertible.' 

It was a beautiful May afternoon in Praiano, a small town located between Amalfi and Positano, the Amalfi Coast’s poster towns. I was alternating between admiring the stunning seascape and ogling at a red Alfa Romeo convertible while occasionally paying attention to Michael.

We were sitting in Bar del Sole, Praiano's favourite cafe. Located on the Amalfi Highway and overlooking the stately Church of San Gennaro, Bar del Sole is the main point of reference in Praiano. One doesn't say, 'Let's meet at Bar del Sole'. One simply states the intention to meet and expresses a time conducive to the concerned parties. And the parties will meet up at Bar del Sole. Unless one states in no unequivocal terms that the meeting should happen at the cafe at Onda Verde Hotel. Or at the Il Pirata restaurant down at the beach. So, when Michael said that he would do the necessary car rental paperwork over a coffee at 5, we had no doubts about where to land up. When you are in a village with a population of 2000 or so, you quickly get to know the local favourites.

The paperwork is completed after many queries - CDW - means if I bang into another car, crash into the rocky mountain face or decide to dive into the sea while still in the car, irrespective of the damage, all I needed to pay is 100 euros.  Valentina, the leather-clad, chain-smoking assistant of Michael handed over the keys to me.  She smiled sweetly and pointed at the little cross dangling from the key chain. 'That cross is to make sure you don't fall into the Mediterranean while admiring the beauty of our coast.' I didn't know whether she was joking or just stating a fact. But actually she had nailed the subject.

Yes. The Amalfi Coast in Southern Italy is considered to be one of the world’s most spectacular coastlines. And yes, it is considered to be one of the most hair-raising drives too. Stretching some 40 odd km from Sorrento to Salerno, this famed road winds through red-roofed villages clinging precariously to steep mountainsides with the Mediterranean beckoning seductively below. An omnipresent lemon-scented breeze removes all last vestiges of doubt about whether it's easier to hop on a coach and join other gawking tourists or think of oneself as a modern-day adventurer and salivate at the prospect of tackling hairpin bends behind the wheel of a 1951 red Alfa Romeo convertible. Fine. A 2010 Peugeot hatchback.

But the point had been made. I think.

We walked to the tiny parking lot where a magician had parked 15 cars in a space meant for 10. Michael seeing me wring my hands in a very un-alpha male manner, quickly asked for the magician who doubled as a waiter at the Bar del Sole. Times are tough after all. After a few deft turns, my blue Peugeot miraculously found itself on the road. I got behind the wheel and suddenly my long-cherished dream suddenly became all too real. I drove straight up to our home stay near Piazza Moresa. Correction. I drove half way. I found parking near the Praiano Municipal Hall. Blue lines for tourists. Yellow for residents. Parking spaces in these towns are like the perfect partner whom one knows is out there somewhere. But it’s a bit unlikely that you will find one the moment you step outside your front door. I devoted a good part of the evening to studying the details of the drive ahead.   

I woke up to a bleak sky overcast with clouds. I pondered for a brief moment whether it was an omen. But as I walked down to the car, the ever-present lemon-scented breeze whispered encouragingly in my ears. I could barely restrain myself from breaking into a jig.

The easiest part of driving down the Amalfi Coast was the directions. There is one highway - the famous SS163, or the road of 1000 bends. You just keep travelling on it, either towards Salerno or Sorrento. The villages/towns that are located high above in the mountains are also well signposted. You basically go off the SS163, snake up into the mountains, down a quick espresso, gape at the views, explore the town/village, and then drive down till you get back to the SS163. The most difficult part was, of course, the driving.

As I hit the highway, the Italian RJ chirped merrily that everything's fine with the world. Or words to that effect. She sounded so positive that she couldn’t have been talking about broken hearts or crumbling economies. On my right, a steep drop down a rocky mountain face was the deep rolling Tyrrhenian Sea, whitecaps skittering across the waves. On my left were mountains with what could be only described as luxuriant Mediterranean foliage, lemon orchards, pretty houses stacked on top of one another and the occasional shepherd defying the laws of gravity with typical Italian impudence. I rolled the windows down and tried to sing along with whatever caught my fancy. There was hardly any traffic. The tourist season was just about stirring from its long winter slumber. Come summer, the narrow road ensures traffic jams are as common as a Fellini film at a film fest. 

I quickly got used to the driving quirks of the locals. The sight of a hairpin bend means a sharp toot of the horn and sudden acceleration was in order. The prospect that a slight misjudgment might make one or two cars fly off the road and down the precipitous drop apparently doesn’t occur to the driver/s. As yet another car blasted past within air kissing distance at a bend, I started noticing the strategically placed ‘corner’ mirrors at every bend. As I approached the next bend, I kept my eyes peeled for the corner mirror. An act that revealed a massive tourist bus thundering around the corner. Forget air kisses, I mentally prepared myself for a messy coupling. With nothing to lose, I slammed on the brakes and let out one piercing blast of the horn. The bus driver saw the whites of my eyes and decided to test his brakes too. And somehow we managed to find space in that tight corner. Imagine a 6ft6 bouncer and Woody Allen inside a trial room trying on new clothes without touching each other. The bus driver shouted encouragingly as I gingerly moved inch by inch past the bus angling the car in ways I thought was not possible. I almost heard my guardian angel weep with relief as I turned the corner without scratching the car or bruising my ego.    

As I drove on merrily with newfound confidence, narrowly missing sharp corners and young daredevils with their squealing amores wrapped around them on Vespas, I came to a theory about how the highway must have been visualized. When King Ferdinand II gave the order to build the SS163, the team of engineers (all brilliant, I am sure) must have been led by somebody who had an immense love for spaghetti. Maybe in his family of 20, during hard times, whenever spaghetti was made, only a few got to eat it. Others just devoured it with their eyes. Or, maybe he had a doting mom who made the tastiest spaghetti in Italy. Anyway, when he got the brief, the first thing he must have done was to discuss matters over a long lunch where the main course was, surprise, surprise, spaghetti. As they discussed at length the vexing problems created by the invention of motor vehicles and how people for centuries had traversed this region easily by foot, donkeys and boats, the Chief Engineer noticed a strand of spaghetti lying on top of a map of the Amalfi Coast. The strand stretched from Salerno to Sorrento connecting all the places in between. And voila! The Strada Statale 163 was conceived. Everybody shook hands joyously, thumped each other on their backs (though I suspect this was more to do with the fact that a couple of them might have been choking on the excellent mozzarella) and went back to their lunch.

                                                                                                              

All this is, of course, absolute conjecture. 

This is more or less; the template of attractions of almost every town on the route, from heavyweights like Amalfi, Positano and Ravello to little gems like Praiano and Scala. Ancient churches standing aloof on rocky outcrops. Abandoned moss-covered mills that hint broadly of more affluent times. Magnificent Roman villas. Unassuming museums documenting centuries-old traditions of the coast, ranging from papermaking to ceramics. Atmospheric hotels with vine-covered Michelin-star restaurants. Bustling seafront family-run eateries serving the freshest of seafood. Octopus salad, anyone? Quirky wine and cheese bars deep inside cobbled alleys. Colourful gelato and the region’s famed lemon-based liqueur, limoncello stands. Peaceful piazzas (town squares). Grand duomos (cathedrals). Hiking trails that showcase breathtaking views of the Amalfi coastline. And tying everything together neatly is the Nastro Azzurro (Blue Ribbon) or the SS163.

The best way to explore this gorgeous stretch of coastline is to win the lottery, buy one of the houses dotting the coast and settle here forever. Failing that, you could also come for a couple of weeks and drive around the area. And while you are driving around, you shouldn’t be in any hurry to get anywhere. Only then you will be able to appreciate the beauty of Costiera Amalfitana.

And ideally do the drive in a red 1951 Alfa Romeo convertible.

                                                                                                         

Escaping Big City Lights

                                                                                    

I have always been fascinated by fireflies. I love the way they fly around unhurriedly like little airplanes with no ETAs. Fireflies represented everything good about summer during my childhood in a quiet university campus. Holidays. No homework. No surprise tests. And plenty of time to do whatever one liked to do. I would capture fireflies in a bottle and watch them flit around for hours imagining that they were sending signals to a spaceship. Of course, the moment I brought the bottle inside the house, the magic would be lost. The soft glow of fireflies is not a match for the artificial lighting inside a house. Ever since, I have had a love-hate equation with light sources that are not natural.

My city-centric profession has ensured lazy summer holidays and fireflies have disappeared from my life. Big city lights, however, are a constant presence. In an attempt to redress balance, I am always looking for a chance to escape this neon-lit environment. Being based in glitzy Dubai, this, understandably, becomes more of a pressing need than a want. Unfortunately, the lack of a driving license in the initial months of living in Dubai meant my options were quite limited. I had the option to head to the beach and stare longingly at the horizon, with the city behind me. The other option was to catch a cab to the airport and take a flight to a quiet place. No yearly subscriptions to the National Geographic or the Hound&Horse for guessing which option kept on getting vetoed all the time.

But then came the day, when I got the much-coveted driving license. And I turned into Forrest Gump, minus the historic baggage, Robin Wright and that damned CG feather. There was a huge difference though. Forrest kept on running. I kept on driving. I drove endlessly for hundreds of miles on straight-as-an-arrow roads through vast expanses of desert country. I drove up and down twisty mountainous roads that ended in verdant mangroves fringing an aquamarine sea. I drove to long-forgotten villages and crumbling forts abandoned to the elements.

Once, I even raced the setting sun along a beach road. I lost.

Having exhausted all possible options in the UAE, I trained my greedy sights on its attractive neighbour – Oman. Or the Musandam exclave, to be more precise.

Musandam is separated from Oman, by a strip of the UAE, and from Iran, by the Arabian Gulf. The border crossing is relatively easy, as long as you have the required documents, namely, passport and motor insurance. With the promise of a beautiful coastal drive with the shimmering waters of the Arabian Gulf, the craggy Hajar Mountains and small fishing villages the size of Nemo for company, drives to Musandam became a happy habit.

Often referred to as the 'Norway of the East', the mountainous Musandam region is known for its rugged beauty, mysterious fjords and a sense of timelessness. Mother Earth or to get a bit technical, the Earth’s crust had a big hand in creating this dramatic coastline. The region happens to be sandwiched between the Arabian plate and the Eurasian plate. Unfortunately, the situation is far from being harmonious. A gigantic battle for supremacy is taking place between these plates for quite some time now. And the geological fact in cold terms is that the Arabian plate is being pushed under the Eurasian plate. This not only has resulted in the earthquake-prone mountains of Iran but also brings us to a rather sobering conclusion. The Musandam Peninsula is, slowly but surely, sinking. 

The towering mountains have nothing to fear, apparently, for a million years or so. But the sea is claiming the valleys, one by one. The result of this intense subterranean drama is a region that offers one spectacular view after another. Often during my drives, I’d stop at some vantage point and soak in the peaceful atmosphere, punctuated at regular intervals by the throaty bleats of ornery mountain goats and chirpy squawks of attention-seeking seagulls.

It was during my second or third drive to Musandam, when I decided to head further north towards Khor Najd (khor- Arabic for water trapped by land), the only beach in the region accessible by road. Usually, I do some research before heading out to a destination. But then after a few weeks of dealing with people who look askance at anything that make sense and specially when every mail that lands in my inbox is marked as ‘urgent’, I tend to slip into my AdventureMan* avatar and cut loose the chains of caution with my SOA (sense of adventure) laser beam.

This was an AdventureMan trip. Which meant I had left my trusted road map back in Dubai. A              

situation that necessitated a stop at one of the two gas stations in Khasab, the sleepy capital of Musandam. I had to stock up on fuel and figure out the directions. I knew vaguely that I had to drive over a mountain to get to the beach. But that bit of information was as useful as knowing I need a lot of money to climb Mt. Everest. The cheerful attendant was quite clear in his directions. I have to drive up and down a 5-km long winding mountain pass to get to the beach. But as most locals are wont to, he made it sound like a trip to the neighbourhood grocery store.

From a distance it looked like a thin gash along the mountainside. As I got closer, I realized that’s the dirt road that will take me up the mountain. Barely wide enough to accommodate one car and probably half a cycle at a pinch, the road ensures drivers stick close to the rocky mountainside rather than tempt fate by straying too close to the sheer drop on the other side. Halfway there’s a broad leveled area that provides sweeping views of the sea encircling the mountains as well as the chance to calm one’s jangling nerves. 
The (thankfully) much broader but steep sinuous path down to the gleaming bay is a lesson in trying to look cool in front of co-explorers while attempting to disguise panicky yelps as yips of excitement. I drove steadily treating each bend in the road with the respect reserved for a Roman emperor. As I pondered about whether my white knuckles would go back to its former dusky glory, I felt the crunch of pebbles under my tyres. The gleaming blue bay was right in front. I switched off the ignition and climbed out of the car with the confidence of a man who could have done the drive blindfolded.

Later that evening, as I camped under a canopy of twinkling stars with the sea a feeble stone’s

throw away, I suddenly realized, I haven’t felt this alive in years. It might have been the drive, the location or the soothing breeze blowing across the bay. Or it might have been the fact that I was far, far, away from bright city lights.

There were no fireflies. But I wasn’t complaining.

*AdventureMan is a work-in-progress name.

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The Brahmaputra Crossing

 

No matter how often they are sighted, river dolphins, or ‘sihus’ as they are locally known, always manage to attract attention. Even the most taciturn of passengers would point a finger, albeit in a desultory fashion, towards where they were spotted. Admittedly, they are a bit difficult to catch sight of. One moment, a flash of a greyish snout, next moment, barely a ripple. And unlike their cousins in the sea, river dolphins don’t do the touristy let’s-swim-alongside-the-boat act. The murky water full of sediments also doesn’t help. Seeing me swivel around restlessly trying to catch another sight of the ‘sihu’, the aforementioned passenger nodded at me and said  ‘Sit down or you might fall into the river.’

I was atop an overladen ferry across the Brahmaputra, the only male river in India.  An alpha male river at that.

The Brahmaputra originates as the Yarlung Tsangpo in Tibet, streaks through Arunachal Pradesh as the Dihang, bifurcates Assam as the Brahmaputra, enters Bangladesh as the Jamuna and ultimately flows into the Bay of Bengal. A total distance of over 3500 km.

I was on my way to my ancestral village in Lakhimpur, a far-flung district of Assam, bordering Arunachal Pradesh. During my schooldays in Jorhat, a quiet town fringed by verdant tea estates, the annual trip to visit my grandparents in Lakhimpur was an eagerly anticipated adventurous mission. I was recreating the journey after almost two decades. Nothing much has changed. The

 trip is still very much a bus-ferry-bus-ferry affair. Bus from Jorhat to Nematighat (ghat means a river port), ferry to Majuli Island across the Brahmaputra, cross the island by bus and then another ferry ride across a tributary of the Brahmaputra to reach Lakhimpur.

Ferries are the only way to reach Majuli - one of the largest river islands in the world formed by the shifting courses of the mighty Brahmaputra and a couple of equally powerful earthquakes. The island is famous for its sattras (monasteries) established by Srimanta Sankardev, the 15^th century Assamese scholar, playwright and strong proponent of neo-Vaishnavism.  

Legend has it the great Sankardev could swim across the Brahmaputra even when it was in full spate. I guess this was the reason why the passengers waiting for the ferry at Nematighat are quite impatient. They know they cannot swim across the Brahmaputra in any season. And have to depend on the ferry every single time. Which is why the sight of an approaching ferry would be the cue for passengers and vehicles to start jostling. Cups of tea would be flung disdainfully. Lit cigarettes would be puffed out furiously. The coconut vendor would briskly scrape out the last scraps of juicy flesh from the tender coconut. Drivers would stride purposefully towards their parked vehicles. This is irrespective of the fact that, unless and until, the ferry is docked and a landing plank is flung across, nobody could board, or disembark. So, after the initial hullabaloo, in face of the irrefutable logic mentioned in the previous sentence, some semblance of normality would be restored. Albeit, a bit grudgingly. Vociferous shouts followed by muttered curses were the norm.  

The swift swirling currents are known to have swept away the strongest of swimmers. A good enough reason for me to take my own sweet time to avoid the initial rush to clamber aboard the ferry. With a couple of cars, bikes parked in neat rows on the roof and passengers everywhere, the ferry of modest dimensions now looked even more modest. I decided to head straight to the roof for the open-air experience instead of the packed environment of the lower deck or the ‘cabin’ where passengers sit facing each other on wooden benches. The luckiest ones are those who manage to get seats near the panoramic ‘windows’. The not-so-lucky ones are those who get seats opposite the lucky ones and have to endure sights such as watching a man exploring his nose at leisure with the index finger of his left hand while thoughtfully taking in the sights. The extremely unlucky ones are those who get seats near the enclosure that houses the heart of the ferry – the diesel fume spewing motor that valiantly propels the ferry surely but sluggishly to its destination. There have been instances of people turning a sickly shade of green by the time the journey gets over.

The roof, corrugated strips of iron bound together by a framework of wood, is a far more pleasant space to be in. You can take part in low-stakes card games, join an impromptu debate on which politician is the most corrupt, watch sly egrets try to steal fish from the fishermen’s baskets, look out for shy river dolphins or simply soak everything in. Which is what I did till I got a gentle poke in the solar plexus by a man who beamed at me in a friendly manner and without much ado started a conversation. Naren Bora, a lecturer in a government college in Majuli, is originally from Golaghat (another district). He was returning to Majuli after a trip home with two of his colleagues. On learning that I make my living from advertising, the trio displayed a sense of humour by cracking several jokes based on popular commercials. Quite good jokes too. It was more than a bit sobering to see how highly-acclaimed-resulting-in-gargantuan-egos commercials become fodder for jokes.  

Naren asked a fisherman intently observing a card game – ‘What fish have you got?’  The fisherman lifted the lid of his wicker basket and replied – ‘Common carp’.  Naren snorted – ‘Salani?’ The fisherman closed the basket, replied – ‘Yes’ – and got back to watching the game. From Naren’s tone, the fisherman knew he wouldn’t really buy fish that’s ‘salani’ or fish that’s imported all the way from southern states such as Andhra Pradesh. Naren explained the economics of the flourishing fishing trade in Majuli. Local fish from Majuli fetches good rates in Jorhat and then gets transported to other districts of Assam. This results in a majority of the fish being sold in Jorhat without gracing the frying pans of the locals. The fishermen than get ‘salani’ fish from Jorhat and sell them at Majuli. Fish, a staple ingredient in the Assamese diet, has to make its appearance in some form or the other during lunch or dinner. Those who can afford the Jorhat rates of the local fish grumpily pay for the privilege. Those who can’t (or won’t) pay the high rates go for the ‘salani’ option. Again, grumpily.    

Once, a herd of about 50 elephants was spotted on one of the many sandbanks that appear when the water level reduces considerably during the winter months. Apparently, an elephant herd comes from Arunachal Pradesh through an ancient elephant corridor that extends through Assam to Nagaland. One part of this hike involves swimming across the Brahmaputra, foraging for food in Majuli and taking a well-deserved break on these sandbanks before they continue on their way to Nagaland.

I really hoped to catch a sight of a herd. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that time of the year.

Almost an hour and a half later, Badatighat at Majuli came into view. People snapped out of their comatose state. Planks were thrown across and people rushed towards one of the waiting buses in a manner reminiscent of the migration of wildebeest. I never did really figure out the reason behind the rush; there were always plenty of seats. A roller coaster ride on roads ravaged by the yearly floods engineered by the Brahmaputra began. The bus journey was enjoyable. I greedily drank in views of lush wetlands, storks patiently stalking fish, swaying mustard fields, people fishing in small ponds in front of their houses, houses built on stilts – an identifying factor of the Mishing tribe - and the occasional disoriented cyclist pedaling away furiously, challenging the bus driver. The bus clattered through the island’s small towns and villages stopping at the slightest of waves of passersby. Some would climb in. Others would tell the driver that they were merely scratching their heads. Or swatting a fly.

Everybody heaved huge sighs of relief as the bus wheezed to a stop at the port at the other end of the island. The last leg of the journey is in sight. Lakhimpur is just across the river. This journey across the Luit, a tributary of the Brahmaputra, that separates Majuli from Lakhimpur, is a much shorter one though. About half an hour or so.

Once we made this entire journey from Jorhat on my father’s trusted scooter, Bajaj Chetak. We took our own time in Majuli and by the time we reached the port, the ferry had made its last trip for the evening. My father told me that when they were students, they didn’t wait for the ferry. They used to just swim across. I was at an impressionable age, but even then seeing the expanse of water, I had my reservations. ‘Were you really that strong a swimmer?’ ‘The currents look really strong.’  Hearing my slightly disbelieving tone of voice, my father had said, well, in the unlikely case of them getting too tired to complete the distance, they could always depend on the river dolphins to lend a helping fin.

There was a small country boat that was getting ready to leave for the other side. Against my better judgment, my father asked the boatman whether he’d be able to transport us to the other side. Along with the scooter. The boatman readily agreed. For a small fee, of course. I remember asking him whether the scooter will fit. Or more importantly, whether the boat will be able to bear our combined weight. The boatman smiled reassuringly and said he has transported fish on this boat that could have swallowed me in one gulp. We crossed the stretch in absolute darkness. Without making any distress calls to dolphins.

This time, I did catch the last ferry to Luit-Khabolughat, the port on the Lakhimpur side. And once again, I opted for the open-air experience. I’d recommend it any day. Chances of spotting an elephant herd are not good. Spotting dolphins, meeting interesting people and falling into the river are.

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The Charm Of Long Walks

 

I think it was sometime around my mid-teens when I discovered some truths about long walks. 1. They are enjoyable. 2. Their problem-solving reputation is a bit overrated. (They did help me to walk away from more than one problem though.)

3. You need semi-decent shoes to enjoy them.

Even though I had a cycle and an overcrowded city bus at my disposal during my school days in Guwahati, I used to prefer walking to school. Or to the inescapable tuition classes. The attractions on the way were many – Dighalipukhuri (a big pond rumoured to have an underwater connection to the Brahmaputra), Latashil Field (perfect to catch an ongoing cricket match) and my favourite, the Ambari Archaeological Site. Every now and then, on my way back, I used to casually saunter inside the site hoping that maybe a bespectacled archaeologist would find something similar to King Tutankhamen’s tomb.  And I’d be right in the midst of all the excitement. But all I used to see is a couple of labourers in grimy vests shooting the breeze and swatting flies with practiced ease beside an excavated part. An area that frankly looked more like a couple of deeper-than-usual ditches than the major excavation promised on the signboard. On one particularly memorable occasion, I spotted these two gentlemen in vests swinging their spades actively at a mound while a portly official under a black Mohendra Dutt umbrella sweated and cursed profusely. I guess they were looking for some iron treasure chest or something equally solid. Because nothing made of earthenware would have survived that onslaught. I also enjoyed experimenting with different routes, each longer than the other, to reach my Chemistry professor’s house on a hillside. One was through a well-maintained WWII graveyard. Which I used to avoid once it got dark. 

After shifting to Pune for my graduation and PG, the long walks of my school days looked like short trips to the neighbourhood grocer. The camaraderie of new friends shrunk huge distances considerably. College. Good Luck Café. Cinema halls. Especially cinema halls. We walked everywhere irrespective of the distance. The well-heeled ones biked it to the nearest movie theatre. Some of us had just about enough money for the ticket. And that meant more long walks. Watching a late-night show at Rahul Cinema or Vijay LNCM (Lok Nritya Chita Mandali), or Westend at Camp (almost 10 km one way), meant long merry hikes from our respective hostels. There was this iconic TV commercial of the 80’s – Lijjat Papad – in which an overgrown rabbit, clumsily chomping on papads, used to end the commercial with a moronic ‘Lijjat Papad…eh…heh…heh…eh…heh…heh’. The Pune Lijjat Papad office had this aforementioned rabbit grinning away on a hoarding. And this office was right on our well-trodden route. The moment we saw the Lijjat Rabbit, we’d all stand at attention and yell away ‘‘Lijjat Papad…eh…heh…heh…eh…heh…heh’.  Now that I think of it, we must have been directly responsible for the sale of sleeping pills to go up in the neighbourhood.

Working in Bombay meant one ran, instead of walking. Run to catch Bus No. 164 to the station. Run to catch the 8:57 slow. Run out of the station at Elphinstone Road to catch a cab. I did figure out a short walk to the agency through a peaceful railway colony. I kept it a secret as long as I could. I am sure if everybody in Bombay takes a week off, stop eating kacchi dabeli and build a little bit of stamina, we can easily beat the Kenyan/Ethiopian long distance runners at their game. But I had the occasional day when the urge to walk would override all common sense. I’d then dodge errant auto rickshaws, Schumi-inspired BEST bus drivers and generous loads of sputum, and march relentlessly to the rocky beach at Versova to watch the tide come in. 

Shifting base to Dubai meant my passion for long walks was reignited. Empty sidewalks. A peaceful and long stretch of beach. The atmospheric lanes leading to the Dubai Creek. Everything appealed to my walker’s instinct and I walked everywhere. Till I got my driving licence. And then I fell prey to the ‘why-walk-when-you-can-drive’ syndrome. An affliction common to the residents here. I think that day is not far when people will be able to drive straight inside their house and roll out onto a travelator that crisscrosses the house.  

Thankfully, long walks are still my (and my companion’s) preferred way of exploring a place when we travel. Long walks in unfamiliar places have helped us discover ancient mountain villages, non-touristy culinary gems, friendly apricot-gifting strangers and icy cold streams on a hot summer day.

Times may have changed. But the essence of long walks has remained the same. But yes, you still need a good pair of shoes.

Next stop: Havelock Island

The class topper in school, the ‘all-rounder’ in college or the boss’s blue-eyed wonder. Everybody gets upstaged at some point by the bigger, better deal. This is what happened when the gleaming MV Makruzz glided into the Phoenix Bay jetty at Port Blair harbour. It immediately snatched all the attention away from the hapless ‘Katchal’ the government ferry service to Havelock Island, located 57 km away. Judging by the throngs of passengers taking photographs in front of the Makruzz, the Rs. 1500 fare (two-way) is hardly a deterrent. Before the MV Makruzz, the government ferry was one of the few options to get to Havelock. You could also zip over the waves on a Pawan Hans helicopter, provided it takes off from Port Blair (apparently services are sporadic). A seaplane service has also been launched recently. A much faster and obviously, expensive option.

We (my brother, mother and yours truly) were ushered inside the Makruzz by smartly attired staff. It was like stepping inside a plane. Big plush seats with panoramic windows. Much like the business class seats I pass by on the way to economy. And with enough leg space to play a more advanced form of footsie. The excitement was palpable. Everybody was grinning at everybody. The only discordant note was four decidedly chunky moustachioed characters straight out of an 80’s summer blockbuster. For some strange reason, they were all dressed alike. In Hawaiian shirts and bush shorts. Thankfully, their wives and kids showed better sartorial sense. I immediately nicknamed this quartet ‘The Flab Four’. The Flab Four and their entourage settled in the seats behind us. They tried to outdo each other with humorous asides, which only they found hilarious. The entourage maintained a stoic silence lest they might be seen as travelling with the Flab Four. Suddenly, the 90-minute duration to Havelock looked a bit longer.   

The Makruzz glided out of Port Blair harbour leaving in its wake local intra-island ferries, a couple of gleaming yachts, and many rusting heaps of floating scrap metal – boats that were damaged beyond repair. A chilling remainder of the 2004 Tsunami. The passengers settled down to watch a promotional film on the islands. Everybody was absorbed in the film except for the Flab Four who were chattering away like a bunch of monkeys with a serious case of ADD. I amused myself with fantasies of the four of them being made to walk the plank by the captain. And everybody cheers as each one of them jump clumsily into the sea. The entourage cheers the loudest.

I tore myself away from these cheerful fantasies and started concentrating on the film. I learnt that Havelock is the largest island in the Ritchie’s Archipelago, a chain of islands lying east of the Great Andaman, the main Andaman archipelago. I also learnt that whenever footage of indigenous Andamanese and Nicobari tribes were shown, people start sniggering and the word 'savage' was liberally sprinkled. It was more than a bit disturbing. A man in a recording studio located thousands of miles away tried to describe the charm of these islands in his best baritone. I must admit, he tried his damnedest. But it was a no contest from the very beginning. What would you look at? Images of beautiful islands on a TV screen. Or just glance out and see the same islands floating serenely past your window.


A brilliant expanse of green rainforest encircled by achingly white sand that flowed gently into a cerulean sea came into view. It wasn’t hard to fathom why Havelock Island has been earmarked for tourism. My soul skipped out and did a merry dance on the glistening sand.

As the Havelock jetty came into view, the slightly comatose crowd roared into action. In time-honoured fashion, everybody rushed to the exit. After a few minutes of confusion, in which announcements were made that nobody would be kept behind on the boat to work as unpaid deckhands, we managed to disembark. I was just happy not to breathe the same air as that of the Flab Four.

Havelock’s beaches were named with great imagination. The jetty was at Beach No. 1. Our resort was at Beach No. 3, there was Beach No. 5 and one of Asia’s best beaches is Beach No. 7. Thankfully, better sense prevailed and the beaches soon came to be known by names that had decidedly more character than numbers.

We passed paddy fields with somnolent cows and lush banana plantations on our short drive to our resort. Located on Govindnagar Beach (Beach No. 3), the resort had cosy wooden cottages set amongst swaying palm trees. It was an inviting sight. Ranjan Biswas, a hospitality veteran who wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Satyajit Ray masterpiece, escorted us to our cottage. In an attempt to make small talk, I asked him about Havelock’s numero uno island status. And in a manner befitting a Satyajit Ray masterpiece, Ranjan spoke with great feeling. “Before the tsunami, forget the firangs, even Indians didn’t know much about these islands. Now, everybody is heading here.” I murmured something to the effect that doesn’t necessarily sound too bad. I just managed to stoke the flames higher. "Who says, it’s bad? It’s not bad at all! But you should come only if you can appreciate the beauty of this place. It’s frustrating when people come here and list out one complaint after another – the internet connection is too slow, there’s no Wi-Fi, why there’s no butter chicken on the menu and my personal best, a family complained that it’s too quiet! The only people who enjoy coming here are the divers and the few who genuinely enjoy peace and solitude. I am afraid a few years from now, this will become another Goa or Phuket."

Ranjan’s worries are not unfounded. But then that’s the curse of tourism. I just hope good sense would  keep these islands maintain their idyllic status.

“Very good lobster...try some?” The young man held out a massive claw of a lobster which could have persuaded a New York mugger to hand over his wallet. I declined politely but couldn’t help wonder what it would have tasted like. Especially the way it was cooked on a bed of glowing coals right on the beach. My brother had no such reservations and immediately got busy coaxing the juicy flesh out of the claw. He gave me a look of pity. I turned my attention to the young man, Shubho, a third generation ‘local’. Shubho’s grandfather had escaped to India from East Pakistan during the Bangladesh Liberation War in 1971. He along with other refugees were given the opportunity to settle in the Andaman Islands. A choice they were not really happy with in the beginning. After escaping the wrath of the Pakistani army, they had harboured hopes of settling in Calcutta, but instead they were sent to a remote area. Shubho’s grandfather landed up in Havelock and immediately realised that they could not have got a better deal. The fertile land yielded them good harvests of paddy, betel nut and coconuts. And with tourism taking off, most of the locals are now being employed by various resorts and tourist agencies. Shubho himself runs a home stay (right next to our resort) where divers come and park themselves for months on end. Shubho likes divers. No Wi-Fi. No 50” TV. No room service. All they need is a basic bed raised some inches off the ground (the slithery denizens of Havelock have right of way), good home-cooked food and the sea, a soft whisper away.

Simple and uncomplicated. Just like life should be.

From the time we landed at Havelock, I have been asked at least half a dozen times whether I have been to Radhanagar Beach a.k.a Beach No. 7. One lazy afternoon, we trained our sights on this beach which was ranked by TIME in 2004 as one of the best beaches in Asia. Radhanagar Beach effortlessly lives up to all the hype. The beach stretches for a good 2 km from one end to another. A thick forest of tall mahua trees stand firm as sentinels guarding it. As we ambled around, we came upon a creek flowing languidly into the sea. A little raft made of empty plastic bottles was bobbing nearby. I waded knee-deep into the creek to get to the raft and do a spot of creek-rafting. My brother gently reminded me that this was the beach where an American tourist caught the fancy of a heavyweight saltwater crocodile while snorkelling in the clear waters. I reined in my inner Indiana Jones and waded out as fast. Crocodile attacks are rare. There have been about 25 attacks in the last 24 years. But somehow I didn’t feel like challenging the odds.

 We watched the sun sink gently into a bed of melting copper. A lone seagull cried plaintively as it flew across a sky awash with crimson and gold. I made myself comfortable on the soft powdery sand and tried to eavesdrop on the furtive murmurings of the waves.

It's a routine I wouldn't have any qualms getting used to.

Andamans Ahoy!

The naked man stared at me unblinkingly. I tried to stare back but was slightly disconcerted by the fact that he was holding a spear which was pointed straight at my heart. A deep breath later, I took a step back and started reading the inscription at the bottom of the grainy black and white photograph. It simply stated - A man from the Jarawa tribe. Location South Andaman.

For a tribe who has inhabited the islands for thousands of years, I thought that the information was a bit inadequate. But also quite telling of the way they are perceived by the modern world. I spent some time looking at other photographs representing various other tribes of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands– the Onges, the Shompens, the Andamanese and the Sentinelese. Each of them followed a pattern similar to ‘The man from the Jarawa tribe’. A group in one. A couple in another. With a terse line describing their antecedents. There was no worry of information overload.

My mother always wanted to visit the Andaman and Nicobar Islands but somehow a trip had never materialized. So, my brother and I planned a vacation. After a flurry of emails flying back and forth between my brother, various hotels, tour operators, we finally landed at Port Blair on a sunny afternoon. We were received warmly by Appa Rao, our travel associate who promptly whisked us away to our hotel. Where I came face to face with ‘The man from the Jarawa tribe’ at the hotel lobby.

This densely forested island archipelago floating in the Indian Ocean, more than 1000km away from mainland India has always fascinated me. I think it was in a 7^th grade geography text book when I came across a photo of a group of men standing at a beach. Armed with bows and arrows, everybody in the group was scowling at the photographer who was also quite obviously armed with a telephoto lens. I remember reading about the hunter-gatherer tribes of these far-flung islands who haven’t yet been ‘civilised’. It so happened around that time, I had read the Sherlock Holmes adventure ‘The Sign of Four’, where one of the pivotal characters, 'an Andamanese savage' made quite an impression on Dr. Watson.

‘‘Never have I seen features so deeply marked with all bestiality and cruelty - his thick lips were writhed back from his teeth, which grinned and chattered at us with half animal fury."

Looking at the fine-boned Negrito features of the Jarawa man, I could only laud Mr. Doyle’s eloquent imagination that could turn man into beast so easily.

Port Blair, the administrative capital of the Andaman andNicobar islands is a pretty little town without any pretensions.

A town where palm trees sway flirtatiously with every passing breeze and winding roads indulge in playful banter with the sea at every opportunity. A few centuries ago, it wasn't this peaceful though. 15^th century sailors, 17^th century pirates and 19^th century convicts approached these islands with a sense of dread and trepidation. They knew fatal bouts of malaria or aboriginal arrows would welcome them.

As I looked out from the bay windows of the hotel room into landscaped gardens that sloped down gently to a beach, I couldn't help think; 21^st century travellers to these islands sure have nothing much to worry other than whether they will get that much coveted sea-view room.

A former penal settlement, Port Blair is more than a footnote in India’s tumultuous period in which daring souls armed with nothing more than unconditional love for their nation took on the might of the British Empire. The 1857 Mutiny saw the first batch of political prisoners transported to the Andamans or kaala pani. Heavily shackled prisoners were made to clear roads through dense forests and marshy lands. The tales of immense atrocities still rebound from the walls of the most famous jail in Indian history, the Cellular Jail. The son-et-lumiere recreates the heartrending events in the jail - the daily floggings, torture methods designed for the systemic breaking down of spirits and above all, the prisoners who always walked with heads held high. We walked out of the jail premises and encountered a man who stood with a placard held high above his head. ‘Fight corruption’ it said in stark bold letters. Everybody gently skirted around him. I guess fighting an Empire that assumed the sun will never set on it was easier.

‘Sir, Corbyn’s Cove is a must-do.’ Appa Rao insisted (he had picked up ‘must-do’ from an American tourist and never missed an opportunity to use it – Cellular Jail - must-do. Dinner at Lighthouse Restaurant – must-do.) I looked up at an overcast sky and then asked the wholly unnecessary question about whether it might rain.

Appa Rao quickly shrugged off the question with the ease of a seasoned weather forecaster.

‘Sometimes with clouds like these , it rains...but sometimes, it doesn't.’ We drove a short distance away from Port Blair on a picturesque coastal road to reach Corbyn’s Cove - a pretty beach liberally dotted with palm trees and the occasional bunker, a not-so-pleasant memory of Emperor Hirohito’s presence during WWII. We barely walked a dozen paces when turgid drops of rain started pelting down. Thankfully, there was a shelter nearby. A little hut on stilts, open on all sides and with some chairs thoughtfully thrown in. It was almost like somebody waved a magic wand. We spent an hour in companionable silence listening to the symphony of a tropical thunderstorm with the sea as a backdrop.

Corbyn’s Cove. A must-do. Just ensure that it’s raining.

One of my last minute purchases before leaving Dubai was a tripod for my camera. A reason for which I almost missed my flight. Having noticed an interesting house on a hill near our hotel, I took out my camera gear and set out for a post-dinner walk to shed off the omnipresent extra calories and hoping to have a session of night photography. A brisk 20-minute walk later, I found myself on a desolate stretch of road looking up at the house.

A stiff sea breeze resulted in miffed waves crashing impatiently on the shore, just below the road which I couldn’t see but could definitely feel. Add to this the silent house on the hill staring ominously across the dark sea and suddenly everything started feeling a bit eerie. I fixed the camera on my tripod and started experimenting with various exposures. As I trained my lens on the house for the umpteenth time, I suddenly felt a soft tap on my shoulder. I literally froze. And then I felt it again. Unmistakably. A gentle one, but nonetheless, a tap. A thousand visions skittered through my mind – a long-dead pirate curious to know what I doing in his territory, maybe an angry East India Company officer who just couldn’t come to terms with the loss of the empire. I took a deep breath, calmed my jangling nerves, turned around and came face to face with a man, who having at last got my attention beamed and uttered a cheerful ‘Good evening, myself Yesudas, what’s your name please?’

In a country where petrol prices go up every second week, one takes advantage of roads that slope up and down. And the reason why Yesudas spooked me out of my skin was this.

He had switched off the engine of his bike and was silently cruising down the road when he saw me hunched over something. Thinking I was in need of some help, he had cut short his petrol-less cruising and stopped right behind me.

Yesudas looked after the upkeep of a couple of churches in Port Blair. His grandfather had come from Tamil Nadu as part of a road building team and had stayed on. Talking to a second generation local was quite insightful. Like many regions in the world, tourism-induced development in the Andamans was also a double-edged sword.

More hotels meant more employment avenues but at the same less supply of water for the local communities. More tourists meant more waste. More tourists also meant big hotel chains with the ‘greasing’ ability to get permissions to build fancy resorts in places where they are not supposed to be built.

Thankfully, there are some strong local watchdogs who are quite vigilant and don’t let things go out of hand. But there are serious concerns as to how long they can hold out against the might of mass tourism. I asked him how the indigenous tribes are perceived by the ‘locals’. Prompt came back the reply. ‘They live in the jungles, eat whatever they find and keep to themselves. They don’t want to do anything with us.’ Which I thought was the smartest thing to do since the numbers of these tribes had greatly dwindled when they came in touch with the outsiders and were exposed to various ‘imported’ diseases that proved fatal to them.

Yesudas insisted on dropping me back to the hotel on his bike. As he stopped outside the hotel gates, I asked him whether he ever considered moving to ‘mainland’ India, apparently a strong attraction for many islanders. Not for Yesudas though. He had been to Chennai once. ‘Too many people. Too many cars.’

I just nodded my silent acquiescence.

Appa Rao was a bit disappointed at our decision to give most of the attractions in and around Port Blair a miss. We did make it to Mount Harriet, the highest point in Port Blair (365m). The views are worth the somewhat long drive by Port Blair standards. There are a couple of museums, Samudrika Marine Museum and Anthropological Museum that provide a lot of information on the amazing geographical, geological and cultural aspects of these islands. I really wanted to visit Jolly Buoy Island, Red Skin Island and Ross Island. The last mentioned is an abandoned propah British settlement with a bakery, a ball room, swimming pools, tennis courts, etc. The only thing missing probably was the 6:40 to Paddington. It now has a haunted look as thick forests have completely claimed back their territory. Quite fascinating. And it was just a short ferry ride away.

However, time constraints made it impossible. The reason behind this perplexing decision to miss out on these stellar attractions was that Port Blair for all intents and purposes was actually a stopover on our way to Havelock Island, located 57 km away.

As we headed to the jetty to board the ferry to Havelock, I couldn’t help but say. ‘Port Blair. It is definitely a must-do.’

Under a Roman Spell

‘Three days in Rome! Isn’t that one day too many?’ I spoke with what seemed like conviction. The better half, replied (quite assertively, if I may add) that there’s a saying that even a lifetime won’t do justice. And at that precise moment, I receive a barrage of mails espousing Rome’s many attractions from my other travelling companions. Three days, it is then. It seems I was the only one who’s yet to fall under Rome’s spell. Don’t get me wrong. Like the rest of the world, I hold the Eternal City in high regard. But my main overwhelming reason to visit Italy was to head to a region that has captivated me for more than a decade – the glittering stretch of coastline in Southern Italy known as the Amalfi Coast. Since we were landing in Rome, I thought we’ll quickly pop over to the Vatican, say hi to the Pope and then hit the road to Amalfi. 10 days in Italy with two days in Rome and the remaining days in sun-soaked Amalfi sounded fine to me. But as they say, the best laid plans don’t always go in the desired direction.

It was a fine morning when we drove out of the Leonardo Da Vinci Airport in a cab driven by an elderly gentleman who I think was driving undercover. He dressed like a professor. He spoke like a professor. He paused mid-sentence like a professor. After being confined in a flying aluminium tube for so long, we were not really in the mood to enjoy the cab’s AC. So we asked him whether we can lower the windows and breathe in some of the air that people are supposed to breathe. His answer was that we can do that but we might catch a cold as it was a bit chilly. And he's not interested in catching one either. So, there it is. He even said ‘no’ like a professor. I am sure he was driving the cab for some academic research on say why passengers at airports always wear the same I-know-I-am-new-to-this-country-but-I’ll-outsmart-the-locals expression.

As we hit the highway to Rome, we realised not all roads lead to Rome after all. They also lead to Florence, Siena and Naples. As we entered Rome, the city was stirring to life. Smartly dressed people waiting at bus-stops. Smartly dressed people driving to work. Heck! Smartly dressed people everywhere. We definitely felt a little under-dressed for Rome.

55 Euros later we were at Albergo Lucia. A homely little hotel within shouting distance of the Stazone Termini – Rome’s major transport hub (my companions had done their homework). Easy access to wherever we wanted to go. And there was no way that one could have got lost. Ah! You lost? Where are you staying – near Termini. Well then, hop on this bus/tram/metro. The last stop is Termini.

I immediately liked the neighbourhood. A motley collection of brick-red buildings with shiny shingles advertising various hotels. A tram trundled along sedately. Cafes with bright awnings advertised the day’s menu. There was a nice buzz about the place. The kind of buzz that says ‘Hey, we’re busy but you’re on holiday. So just take it easy, ok.’ I like places with this kind of buzz.

First stop, The Vatican. As we walked down a busy thoroughfare, I tried to remember long-forgotten history/geography lessons. The few facts that I could dredge up was that it is the world’s smallest country, the pope waves from a pulpit every Sunday and for some strange geopolitical reason, it is guarded by Swiss men dressed as if they are going to a pyjama party in Hawaii. Thankfully, the trusted Lonely Planet was at hand to fill in the gaping holes.

Awe-inspiring. There is no other word to describe Piazza San Pietro or St. Peter’s Square. Most guidebooks describe it as one of the world’s great public places. As one stands in the middle of the square, it’s hard not to feel a bit insignificant. Not that I feel very significant at any time. I doffed an imaginary hat to Bernini, the creator of this magnificent square.

As it turned out, I spent a lot of time doffing imaginary hats during the rest of my stay in Rome. To the grandest church of them all – St. Peter’s Basilica. To the incomparable art collection at the Vatican Museum. To the charismatic Trevi Fountain. To the lively Spanish Steps. To the lush Borghese Gardens. To the captivating cobbled alleys of Trastevere. To the grandeur of the Pantheon. To the opulence of the Palatine. And of course, to the biggest power statement of the ancient world – the Colosseum.

Rome symbolises art, culture and well, everything in between. I can’t claim that I am an expert on things that qualify as art and culture. Ok. I am being polite here. And maybe, just maybe, that was the reason behind my initial plan of ‘doing’ Rome in 48 hours. I sincerely believe Rome is for people who can nod knowingly on the nuances of Byzantine art versus Romanesque or can debate for hours on the influence of High Renaissance on Baroque architecture. And here I am, an absolute philistine staring open-mouthed at some of the most grandiose works of art. I mean I could appreciate that what’s before me has been created with great skill, labour and yes, copious amounts of love. But not to the extent that the couple next to me did. ‘Greg, isn’t this a fine example of Romanesque?’ And Greg replies, ‘Yes, Audrey, but you know, give me Imperial any day.’ I slowly walk away before Greg thinks about asking me for my opinion.

But the beauty of Rome is that anybody can ‘feel’ it. The city seeps atmosphere. From every single pore. The sense of beauty and history is overwhelming. Walk over a beautiful bridge over the Tiber. And one is informed that it is the Ponte Sisto Bridge built between 1473 and 1479. One cannot but stop and admire it from every angle.

And it wasn’t all about past glory. One morning, we made a delightful little discovery. Thanks to Adam, a content editor who also works as a walking tour guide. A young man with a studious air, Adam kick-started our tour from the Piazza Del Popolo, an erstwhile site for public executions. No, that wasn’t the delightful discovery. Adam literally took us off the beaten track and we ended up in Cento Pittori Via Margutta, a street dedicated to artists. Or rather, a street that has been a sanctuary for artists since WWII. A street where quaint and quirky pieces of art nestle comfortably amongst traditional watercolours. It was somewhat refreshing to find this quiet little corner which wasn’t weighed down by expectations that come with the usual marquee names associated with Roman art.

And then there’s that oh-so-casual yet stylish appeal about Rome. The bustling cafes where espressos are downed with flair by people wearing snazzy suits and cool sunglasses. The centuries-old piazzas where good-looking people come to watch other good-looking people. The street performers who pluck roses out of thin air or play jazzed up versions of old Italian classics. Cobbled alleys that whisper enticingly about hidden sensory delights. The lovers lost in an embrace in the middle of a busy street. The cheerful cries of the waiters as they move expertly between tables serving seductive gastronomic experiences. Pastel-hued Vespas that scoot merrily around corners.

I drank in everything hungrily. And felt myself thirsting for more.

The allocated three days in Rome came to an end. As we started looking up train timings to our next stop, Naples, it was with a shock that I realised that I am already missing Rome.

Well, I did ensure that I will visit Rome again by throwing a coin in the Trevi Fountain. But I really wouldn’t have minded a few more days to savour Rome.

Or maybe even a lifetime is not enough.