It was a day so pleasant that birds sang their heart’s out. A day perfect for a long drive to lofty heights. Where one can listen to an unbridled rendition of nature’s symphony at Chelela Pass (3,998m), Bhutan’s highest motorable road. The stiff breeze rifling through the thousands of prayer flags. The sharp afternoon shower bouncing off the tiny tin-roofed shed. The cheerful yelps of a band of dogs being fed by a little girl. Her lilting laughter fading into thick rolling carpets of mist. A lone biker appearing as if by magic through the same cover of mist, the roar of his bike muffled by the wind.
To soak all this in, just find a patch of grass. After all, that’s why you came to Bhutan. To lose yourself in the life-affirming embrace of nature.
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
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 14th 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
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.
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.