Tales from the Gael

I am sore this morning. My upper arms have had a work out for the first time in about ten years. At dawn yesterday we were driven to the Cotigao Wildlife Sanctuary, about nine km east of Palolem. We arrived just after the dawn with the most disinterested taxi driver in the history of tourism. Anthony’s only contribution to our trip was ‘I don’t know’. He took us deep into the virgin forest, thick with lianas, loud with bird song (‘I don’t know’), and then parked the car. We were ushered on to a trail, and dressed totally inappropriately in a long dress and flip-flops; I soon understood why you should NEVER enter a tropical rainforest in flip-flops.

I stopped to snap an elegant spider’s lair,

when suddenly my feet were moving in giant ants and I was bitten ferociously. I believe in Africa, boys are supposed to put their hands into an ant’s nest to prove their manhood; well’ all I can say is that I totally failed the womanhood test. The pain was red hot and went on and on and on. Anthony knowledgably informed me, ‘ants’.

So much for staring around for a sight of possible leopards, cobras or monkeys. All I saw was the forest floor and leaves and twisted roots and fallen branches.

After about a mile and a half we reached a clearing and a giant tree that had an iron ladder leading straight up 100m to a bird/animal watching lookout tower. Anthony told us to ‘get up there’. We did. Two elderly folk (!), and it was like climbing up to the Big Top in the circus.

The ladder went on and on, and I just concentrated on one rung at a time.

At the very top, it went totally vertical and then suddenly we were on the top of the canopy and the forest stretched on for miles.

I thought of David Attenborough communing with nature up so high, and I felt frustrated that we didn’t have a good guide like Shiva who would have identified the animal calls and point out elusive feathers hiding in the leaves. We have been spoilt with such a good teacher, and I missed him dreadfully.

Needless to say we got down after seeing nothing. All the monkeys and blazingly plumed birds were invisible, only the distant cries let us know they were there. I got two more vicious bites on the way back from the marauding armies of ants.

After two weeks here in Benaulim, we were getting restless. So, we packed our little bags and headed south to Agonda. It was fun, like going on holiday! We booked into a charming room high up in the palm trees, and discovered the most beautiful horseshoe beach fringed with coconut palms.

It was quiet, and we settled down on our recliners to read. I was quite disconcerted to see the lady next to me suddenly stand on her head, legs splayed, deeply into her yoga. It would have been fine, if she hadn’t been wearing a thong.

Later we walked along the inevitable street with the same jewels, the same scarves and dresses, and the same strident commands, ‘Come and look, look inside, cheap as chips,’ as we see everywhere.

The one different thing was a restaurant shack with the name: La Dolce Vita. Oh my, after five weeks of curries, it was heaven on earth to taste garlic and basil and olive oil! We gorged on bruschetta and pizza.

Later as the sun set we stopped on the beach at a shack for a Honeybee brandy and a G&T. We were attended to by Lilat: ‘It is completely my pleasure to serve you’.

We asked if we might have some cashews (Goa being the main grower of the nut) and he said he would check the price and tell us as they might be expensive, so John said not to bother. Lilat then began to sweep the beach. He smoothed it until it was immaculate, rather like himself. He was tall and slender with bookish glasses. I asked him where he was from and he was delighted to tell us, but only after serving the cashews, which had been pan fried so were hot and delicious. Lucky he did bother after all!

This was Lilat’s first foray into the tourist business. He is from the far north of India, in Ladakh, way up near the Himalayas. Due to an accident in the family that happened in Gujerat (he didn’t go into detail) he is being forced to seek employment. But his real hopes lie in the application he has sent for becoming a health coordinator. A job in government service would be his ideal. Meanwhile it has begun to snow in his village, he informed us, and he will work in the Agonda beach shack until March when he will go home and arrange his son, little Shiva’s first birthday party. 1500 people will attend, so there is much to see to. Not only all his village are coming but all the neighbouring ones as well. John and I were suitable impressed and were secretly wondering if we were in the company of a prince.

Lilat had an arranged marriage, but he told us that he is truly blessed with his wife, who is very able and manages everything, and ‘I am very humble to her’. They had nine hundred guests for their wedding. When we left him, sweeping his portion of the beach, other customers were afraid of spoiling the smooth sand, but Lilat just smiled and welcomed them in, knowing that his broom will soon smooth away their footprints.

From gentle Agonda, we made for Palolem, and suddenly it was as though we had been kick-started into the holiday mood. Young people were everywhere, dreadlocks, tattoos, bikinis, and backpacks. Palolem’s street vendors were neck by jowl selling pleadingly, ‘Please look, come inside, just looking, why don’t you – cheap as chips’.

We stayed in Ciarin’s hotel, set on the beach, with pretty little huts dotted under palm trees, around a lush garden. I fell asleep in a hammock all afternoon,

before exploring the beach, which was alive with the Christmas rush of holidaymakers, busy with boat hiring and Frisbee throwing. It was hectic, touristy, but not so charming.

John took a snap of one young yoga boy, busy meditating in the middle of a football game.

We walked to the end of the crescent bay and watched the sun turn peach and purple and the rocks and palms were just black and ancient and timeless.

In the evening we sat by candlelight and listened to a young lad serenade us on his guitar. Guests sat in sarongs with bare feet.

Today it is good to be back to the calmness of Benaulim. Here we are treated more kindly on the beach. We are served lime sodas, offered sun shades, and there is less of a frenetic feeling.

We only have a few days left, so a walk up the beach to have grilled snapper is a must, a haircut for £5 for me is a must, and I am just thrilled to bits with my new crown to my front tooth, which is just perfect and cost £100. I sat in the chair as she drilled, listening to ‘We three kings’, and ‘Come all ye faithful’. In the dentist’s sitting room John was seated next to a flashing Christmas tree. My tooth is perfect.

By chance we came upon Shiva, the great Bird Watcher Extraordinaire, as we stepped out to have dinner. We ‘high fived’ about a million times and he coaxed us to have one last foray out at dawn to see the birds. How could we resist?

As the dawn streaked the sky, we passed the Tamarind tree and a bush that provides a tincture of iodine;

we were already being treated to the great teacher’s knowledge, and it was lovely to hear the nightingale and the shrike (difficult to ‘suss’, apparently).

For the first time we saw minute flowerpecker birds,

like large bumble bees, flitting in the branches, and Shiva gave us a short definition of happiness.

‘When you are with someone you like, and they like you, you feel as though you have come home.’

And he went on, ‘You are happy as and when. You freeze with excitement at a wonderful sight, like a rare bird, seldom seen, but then it flies away – and you move on. You just get moments of happiness in a sea of sorrow.’

Shiva was very intent on telling me that John is a true gentleman. ‘Birds and insects fight, not like John – he is a gentleman.’ We heard that the common crow is a vehicle of the god, Saturn, and they are renowned for taking away the souls of the dead. In all cultures they are depicted with death, and I seem to remember O Henry writing a story about a raven (member of the crow family), and there were a flock of crows gathering around the death scene of Zorba the Greek. But here in India I associate them with fun, with lovely skipping jumps around the tide line, their funny poses on flag poles. Mind you, just the other day we watched a flock bring down a kite, chasing it relentlessly for a fish it had caught.

We saw so many birds, including a family of peacocks, and many that we had seen before. Pippets, white bellied sea eagles and marsh harriers, large pied bush chats, red wattled lapwings and the yellow banyan weavers.

I saw again two golden orioles, black whiskered bulbuls  and a white rumped munia.

But it was the birds that were here for their holidays that I was amazed with. We saw starlings and larks, but the large pied wagtail was the star,

it had flown 8300km from the Khasak Republic and had flown all the way from the Steppes of Europe. It sang like a bush chat.

So cormorants, egrets, mynahs, bee eaters and white ibis. All the beautiful creatures and Shiva knew them all; he could identify them by their songs and it was truly like being on a higher plain. We followed behind him, and looked through our binoculars, and followed the flock of blue rock pigeons, metallic purple in the sunrise, and Shiva shouted, ‘You know these? They shite on statues in the cities, big problems, just shite, shite and shite!’

Gentleman John and I just looked at each other and tried not to laugh.

And the sun rose in all its splendour.

Today, John is off at the Men’s Salon again, for a haircut and wet shave. Sadly our time is nearly over and we shall have to say goodbye to samosas for breakfast, and this beautiful garden that we look out upon. We shall miss the fishermen bringing in their nets and the flower seller in the street.

It has all been so colourful, and every time you blink you record a memory.

I am again saying Farewell to India, but who knows?

It is hard to leave.

The last time I wrote I looked down on the twinkling lights of this hill station, and in the morning I woke to a view that was just beautiful.

Pockets of mist soon dissolved and the contours of the Western Ghats stretched ahead, pleated with coffee and tea plantations. I could see why the British, wilting from the heat of the plains, decided to build their summer residences up where the air is cut with the smells of pine and eucalyptus.

Sadly the town itself is not what it was must have been like, way back then. It was a sprawl of shacks, some gaudily painted pea green or hot pink, but mostly we saw tumbledown shop-houses selling cheap plastic, and the inevitable rubbish was strewn around like a squat. It was a blessed relief to take the Toy Train for a trip to Coonoor.

It is quite amazing, built in 1899, and it chugs along at 2193m above sea level. We gazed at the tea and flowers and marvelled at the high bridges we crossed. It was nice seeing the ladies in their saris and salwar kumises with bobble hats and cardigans. Some of the men were in thick padded jackets, for the air was cool, and I was glad of my fleece as well.

I did enjoy the mountain viewing and the tea factory visits, and bought lovely oils and potions.

We meandered through the very English Botanical Gardens, and loved the Italian garden created by prisoners of war brought over especially.

Not a bad way to serve your time. I loved the notice, and thought of those Italian men, creating their pretty classical designs.

The evening was spent with the group, drinking beer in the conference room, out of sight of the hotel staff, who charge a small fortune for Kingfisher beer. I stupidly ate some chilly nuts and the result was the first bad tummy of the holiday.

The drive from Ooty was terrifying. We hurtled through zig zag bends, and people were throwing up into plastic bags that they then swung from a hook on their seats. John went deathly pale at one point and I did have visions that we too might have had to use the horrid plastic bags that we had all been given. Some poor Indian ladies had to stop and hurl out their regurgitated breakfasts in the true style of ‘Keep India tidy’ – bags were left draped on branches by the side of the road. Why am I not surprised? Anyway, John cheered up a bit when we passed through the tiger reserve and everyone’s eyes were peeled. I thought of the lady I met at Port Kochi who had spent three weeks in a tiger reserve and they had seen six tigers. The last one came dangerously close as the guide had managed to get his wheels stuck on a tree root. The tiger came closer and closer, too close for comfort.

Anyway we just saw spotted deer, wild pigs and monkeys. We stopped at some Godforsaken place for lunch, and ordered coke only. Avril offered me a wine gum; I accepted, and suddenly, I felt a sharp thing on my tongue and half of my second-from-front tooth had broken off (not done by the fabulous Doha dentist I might add). I was SO upset. When the others in the group saw what had happened they reeled back in fright as though I had sprouted the fangs of a cobra. Not good for my self-esteem.

We left Tamil Nadu and arrived in Karnataka state, and the city of Mysore. The capital is actually Bangalore (IT capital of India), but Mysore is the cultural capital and boasts palaces galore, and a real maharajah, though with no power, but he is to be married next year, so I imagine it will be quite a lavish Bollywood extravaganza.

We saw his palace, and although grand and imposing and picturesque, with so much glass and columns in gold and turquoise (stained glass came from Glasgow, plus the floor tiles) I couldn’t help thinking that, from outside, it reminded me of a railway station, the kind the Victorians built to reflect their civic pride.

That evening I was rushed off in a tuk-tuk to go to a dental hospital, to see if they could glue up my tooth. John and I had a private hour of sheer terror as we whirled around roundabouts, up alley ways, missing busses, nearly killing jaywalkers, and inhaling lungful’s of black exhaust fumes. All to no avail. They shut up shop at 4 p.m. so we hurtled off again with our kamakazi driver to find a private dentist, only to find he had gone to dinner. I decided to persevere with my cobra fang and wait till Goa. Maybe there, I will find someone to restore my happy smile.

I will always associate Mysore with tuk-tuks. On each one was a message written boldy above the driver’s window, such as ‘Jesus is my Daddy’ or ‘The Lord is my Shepherd’ or ‘Rose of Sharon’. Perhaps it made them feel protected. I wish it made us feel safer.

I  did like the painting on the back of this bus.

The next morning we were off again on a safari up the Chamundi Hills that overlook the city. Seventeen kilometres up we came to the towering Sri Chamundeswari Temple,

and the representation of Shiva’s bull, Nandi,

which was carved from a single piece of rock in the 17^th Century.

All that was fine, but it was the colour that was so amazing, the temple flowers, the pictures you could buy, the annoying hawkers, the beautiful saris, and the crazy statue of a demon with our funny guide Tinu.

Later we careered down the 1000m into the hot hustle and bustle again, and visited an incense workshop and a silk shop.

Mysore is famous all over India for its silks; beautiful whimsical washes of colour were spread over the counter. They were hard to resist. The other great export from Mysore is sandalwood. We did buy some oil and soap, so I feel we have some memories of this hectic town. Finally before we left we took a trip to the fruit and vegetable market and my photos just do not do it justice. The colour and busyness, the noise, the precision of the arrangements of apples and fruit were better than anything you could get at Harrods. A pure joy.

And finally the night train.

We boarded and settled for the night. John and I were in a compartment with a lot of Indian travellers. It was fine. We all slept and amazingly we were treated to new blankets. This morning we arrived in Hospet and got a taxi to Hampi. The guide book tells me that between the 14^th and 16^th centuries, Hampi was once the powerbase of one of the largest Hindu empires in Indian history. At its peak it was the size of Rome. Today it is in ruins, but I haven’t seen them yet. John is asleep on a hammock. I am sitting in a wooden hut beneath an attap roof. Everything is basic like an African mud hut. We drove past the most idyllic rice fields, and huge piles of boulders, rivalling mountains. It is as though a giant had tipped his dumper truck full of rocks and driven away.

I am looking out at a harvested rice field, and beyond is a river, where the crocodiles come out at 11 a.m. apparently. It is now 11.35, and all is quiet. Only birds and crickets can be heard. I am in a hippy world of peace, pure paradise for the weary traveller. Later we shall explore but for now I shall have a banana and relax.

I am actually sitting in a dank hotel in a place called Mamallapuram, two hours from Chennai and on the shores of the Bay of Bengal. We arrived yesterday, and landed amazingly in the biggest monsoon downpour they have had in years. Busses were up to their middles in dirty water and after a lot of phoning about, we got a taxi to take us to our hotel. The guy was quite reluctant, but got us in the car and then we noticed he could hardly walk, he was barefoot and had a sore on his foot.

Here we are. The rest of the tour hasn’t turned up yet, planes have been redirected, and goodness knows when we will see them. Everything is wet, even the pages of our books are damp, and the air is thick with moisture. More rain is on the way.

Mumbai seen from this small hamlet is a paradise. Last night we walked up the street and found people sheltering under awnings and cows sheltering in the doorways of buildings, it was all so wet. Still a Kingfisher beer and a chicken curry did the trick and somehow we both slept like logs.

It was wonderful to return to India. Arriving at dawn in Mumbai, the streets were clear and we made an easy trip right to the heart of the city, and our taxi drew up in front of the famous Taj Mahal Palace Hotel.

It was amazing, and so full of history. John Lennon, Alfred Hitchcock, Barack Obama and so many more have stayed there. It was easy to remain inside, eat breakfast looking out at the Gate of India, and watch the crows and kites wheel about in the skies above.

We lay by the pool, protected by a shimmering spiders-web-like netting to keep the birds out.

We did look at the city tours on offer, but apart from the famous Victoria Station that we had passed coming in, we decided we wanted to see something different.

We joined Arish on a Reality Tour of the Dharavi Slum.   It is the biggest slum in India, third biggest in the world and home to a million people. 50% of Mumbai lives in slums, which by definition means ‘built on government land’.

Within this particular slum are factories conducted in tiny houses. We watched the mighty bags of plastic that are brought in by the ‘rag pickers’ (the women and children);  men and boys sift through the piles, sitting on the floor organising and selecting and classifying. The pieces are washed, dried, crushed, cut and finally made into something else and sold. They say the annual production is US$650 million.

Paint tins are scoured and cleaned and refilled, aluminium is burnt and soldered and reused. When I saw the textile workers in Varanasi earlier this year I was appalled at their tiny houses, single light bulb and incredible work load, but here in the slum we saw a whole different picture. On the other side is the residential area, and we threaded our way through rooms that hold families, through tiny walkways, dirty and wet, yet inside, from what I could see, the floors were spotless, delicious smells of cooking came, and children were playing hopscotch. I had to laugh at one man, he saw us watching some plastic workers and he came out of his ‘office’ and started polishing his windows. Pity he couldn’t have hosed down the street while he was at it!

It was a revelation; cultures live side by side, in peace. There was a strong feeling of community. I could understand why people don’t want to leave.

We passed the dhobi ghats where all the communal washing is performed, and sheets, towels from all the hotels are uniformly scrubbed and beaten on the slabs and somehow returned pristine and beautiful. It is a miracle and especially as Mumbai divides its water rationing to two hours either in the morning or afternoon. We also passed the Indian Wall … goes for miles and each block has its share of graffiti, a little tired, but still worth a look.

On the way back our driver, who was also a Reality tour guide, told us that he had lived all his life in Dharavi. He had entered the workshops offered by the NGO Reality, and learnt English and went to school and now was a really educated guy. He told us about the filming of Slumdog Millionaire and how impossible it was for the producers, with so many people all wanting to be in the shot!  They had to do some on location but some in the studio. We passed through Crawford Street, the red light district where girls are trafficked from all over India. It is locally called The Cages, as the girls wait behind the windows. Outside tawdry imitation carriages are lined up. They are cheap sad copies of the bridal carriages tethered to white horses, used to take brides around the romantic spots of the city. Our guide said clients of the cages sometimes take the girls for a trip to Chowpatty beach. The silver of the carriages looked as tired as old crumbled chocolate wrappers.

We passed Malabar Hill, Mumbai’s most exclusive neighbourhood of private palaces. Here is where the MOST EXPENSIVE house in the world is. It is owned by the Ambani family, which now consists of two brothers. They own the Reliance Company, which has tentacles in all parts of the city and India. Our slum guide gave us such a good biography of the father, who epitomises the rags-to-riches tale, and gives Mumbai its meaning, this City of Dreams, where people can come and become so rich and famous. Daily they pour out of the trains, seeking work, and seeking their fortunes.

Our hero, Mr Ambani, was from the merchant caste and his father was a school teacher. He was a terrible disappointment to his father as he became a 10^th grade drop out. At sixteen he went to Yemen and got a job pumping gas. Within a year he was made a supervisor, which was extremely unusual, as it normally takes 7 years. He came back to India and started a garment importing company. In the 1970s India was still very socialist, so Mr Ambani was quite revolutionary in that he made speeches, persuaded people to invest in his company and buy shares on the stock market. It was completely unheard of then, for working class people to invest in the stock exchange but they did, and he grew richer and richer and diversified. There is a book about him, called The Polyester Prince, which is banned in India but available on Amazon.  I was intrigued about his house, this amazing place, but our slum guide said it was nothing special, just a 27 storey building and looks like an office block. Only six of the family live there but with six hundred staff. OK. I think National Geographic did a spread about it.

We were dropped off by Leopolds’s Cafe, where we had lunch.

It was just as it was described in the book Shantaram, only now it is so popular that people are queuing to get in. The food was good, so we went back at night for dinner. Outside were the beggars, the homeless, the constant noise and colour and hooting. When we finally entered our hotel there was a hush – a tinkle of piano music, soft voices, and a proud lift attendant ushered us up to our floor. Our room was festooned with rose petals, and there was a copper footbath ready with special salts and creams. It was heaven on earth.

Later we watched the news, and from this wonderful hotel that had suffered such carnage in 2008 at the hands of terrorists, we heard the dreadful news of the carnage in Paris.

And now, here in Mamallapuram, the rain has ceased for a while. We may go and explore a little and see if we can find the sea. John is also keen to get a haircut and shave by the trusty barber shop guys. More adventures await.